Page 48 of Forbidden Heart

“Maybe we should order?” I quickly change the subject, before he can give me hope I don’t deserve.

Charles looks like he’s going to protest, but then seems to reconsider. “All right, let’s. What would you like, Roonie?”

“What would you recommend?” I ask, belatedly realizing I might end up with one of the pastel pastries.

“The chocolate croissants here are delicious,” Charles says to my complete relief. I follow his gesture toward the shelf in the pastry display case. My gaze lands upon a delicate golden bundle of flaky layers rolled expertly around a core of milky chocolate.

“I’d love to try one,” I tell him, trying to sound enthusiastic. And not like the failure who didn’t get into college and lasted less than an hour at the only job she’s ever had.

Charles waves Nigel over and places the order entirely in French. French French French French French French. I catch the word croissant, and of course, macaroons.

“Which color macaroons are your favorite?” I ask. “Or do they all taste the same?”

“Macarons,” Charles gently corrects me. “Not macaroons.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” I frown.

“Certainly not.” Charles stiffens as if vaguely insulted. “A macaron is a French delicacy; a confection made from whipped egg whites and almond flour. A macaroon is an entirely different dessert. They are clusters of coconut and egg and sweetened condensed milk. They look, taste, and feel absolutely nothing like macarons.”

Charles takes out his phone and shows me images of colorful macarons and beige macaroons. “So does each color taste different?” I repeat my question.

“It does.” Charles nods. “Raspberry’s my favorite, but I also like lemon and pistachio. I ordered extras, in case you’d like to try them.”

As if on cue, Nigel pops up with a silver tray that’s teeming with goodies.

He sets a steaming cup of tea in front of me—exactly the same as the one Charles had brought to the park on Friday—and I inhale as curling wisps of steam rise, carrying its scent to my nose.

The pure white cup sits on a matching saucer. Nigel grabs a plate from his tray again and serves me a chocolate croissant, warm from the oven. The tantalizing smell mingles with the scent of freshly brewed tea in the air, sending me to a sensual heaven.

I place my hand near the croissant. It’s too hot to eat just now. It will be perfect in a few minutes. Gently, I press into the croissant’s golden exterior with the tip of my finger. The outermost layer of pastry dough flakes away, leaving a darkened golden indent that shines with butter.

Nigel then places a tiny bowl in the middle of the table. It is filled with chilled foil-covered mini cups of milk and cream. Next to it goes a dish of single-sized packets of sugar. I have never seen tea served in such a fancy way before. Judging by the calm look on Charles’s face, this is a regular occurrence for him.

Charles is served his tea, followed by a plate of macarons. They are round and perfectly symmetrical. The outsides are smooth and slightly glossy and they curve down into rings of delicate bubbles, which Charles explains are called feet. The shells are a deep purply red color, radiant and evenly blended. They are all the more beautiful in contrast to the pale pink cream that was expertly piped in the center, holding the shells in place. Charles eyes them fondly. Admiringly. Longingly. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have Charles look at me that way.

I blush at the errant thought and focus on the food. I am overwhelmed by the beauty of these delicacies. I want to save them forever, take a million pictures, maybe come back here every single day. If I’d gotten the LUV Academy scholarship I’d applied for, and a part-time job to go with it, this could have been my life.

“Try one,” Charles lifts his plate of macarons and extends them toward me.

So I let myself pretend that this is my life, even if just for an afternoon.

I carefully pick up the top macaron and carry it over to my plate. I don’t dare put it down. I don’t know if a delicate macaron would be harmed by touching the buttery goodness of a chocolate croissant.

I bring it to my lips and close my eyes. I want to block out all my senses except for taste and smell so as to maximize this experience. The scent of raspberries perfumes the air directly in front of me. Gently, I let my teeth break the macaron’s shell. It crackles, softly giving way to a chewy, fluffy interior. I bite down. The raspberry cream within floods into my mouth and dances on my tongue. The delicate flavors swim through my soul.

“Oh, wow!” I sigh, leaning back in my chair.

Charles groans.

My eyes snap open and he’s staring at me, his own eyes heated... and glued to my lips. I’m reminded of the last time we kissed. Of the way he set my body on fire with just his lips. And suddenly, I wish I was alone with Charles. I wish—

“What are you thinking about?” Charles asks, taking a sip of his tea, pinky finger extended.

The heated look I thought I saw is no longer there. Like I imagined it. Just like I imagined I could get a job and turn my life around. Like I imagined being a student here. Like I imagined being a princess.

“Roonie?” Charles presses.

My cheeks flush, and I blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Macaroons.”