AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’ve never heard him talk before, not up close, and his voice is as deep and sweet and delicious as his custard tarts. There’s a Southern tang to his accent, and it’s rough around the edges. Gravelly.
I shiver in my thin cleaner’s dress.
“Those people are idiots,” I say flatly, scooping up their cutlery and tossing it into the allotted tray. I don’t know what I’m thinking, speaking to the Head Baker like this, but his chuckle makes my heart go crazy. Pitter-pattering at double speed in my chest. I duck my head and keep working, both hoping for and dreading the moment that he leaves.
“Doyoulike my food, Zoe Martel?”
His question makes me pause, but not because I have to think about the answer. Because I had no idea Chef Ballard knew my name.
Does he know all the cleaners’ names?
Does he look at the others like this too—intently, like he’s committing every detail to memory? Like he couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried?
“I, um.” It takes a second to find my voice, but I get there eventually. “Yeah, of course I do. Your food is…” I trail off. How am I supposed to do this man’s food justice?
I don’t have the words for it. That’s why I painted a mural instead.
“Your food is art,” I finish hoarsely.
His chest rumbles in response, and his voice drops even lower. “Ain’t that fine.”
My movements are clumsy as I finish up with the cart, scrubbing down the surfaces and checking there’s nothing I missed. Normally, I’m pretty good with my work—quick and efficient, with everything second nature by now.
But feeling the baker’s eyes on me… it makes me nervous. Flushed hot and trembling. Why is he still here?
I want him to turn away.
I want him to step closer and keep saying those low, rumbly things in my ear.
“Which is your favorite, Zoe?”
His question makes me jump, and I scrub the cart harder with the cloth to cover it. “Favorite what?”
“Favorite thing that I make.”
From someone else, that question might sound arrogant. Like they were fishing for compliments. But Chef Ballard is not that kind of man, and when I risk a glance at him, his expression is open. So heartbreakingly earnest that I feel a throb deep beneath my rib cage.
“Well, um.” I wet my lips, a nervous tic, and his gaze zeroes in. Follows the movement, and I flush impossibly hotter. “I haven’t tried that much of your stuff. Obviously.”
He nods, gesturing for me to go on. He doesn’t hold it against me. He knows his food is beyond most cleaners’ budgets.
“I liked the croissant best,” I admit at last, my voice barely more than a whisper. He leans closer to hear me, his shoulders blocking out everything else, and suddenly it’s like we’re tucked away together in the corner of the kitchen. Away from the bangs and hisses and sounds and smells. Somewhere intimate. Somewhere private.
“The almond one?”
He’s so close now his arm brushes against mine. I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “Uh-huh.”
Chef Ballard’s smile spreads like honey over his face. “You got a sweet tooth, Zoe?” He asks it quietly, like it’s our little secret. Like he’s tucking it away—private knowledge of me, to be kept safe under his stiff chef’s jacket.
I laugh weakly. “Yeah. I do.”
When he grins, my knees go weak. I’m lucky I don’t melt into a puddle. “Me too.”
Chef Ballard straightens up and steps back, and though I’m disappointed, at least I can breathe again. I suck in deep lungfuls of steam-filled air as he frowns back at his abandoned pizza dough, like he’s annoyed he has to go back to work.
“What are you making right now?” It’s obvious, but I guess I’m not ready yet for this to be over. For this conversation to finish, and for us to go back to strangers.
“Pizza,” he murmurs, then glances at me wryly. “It’s no almond croissant, that’s for sure.”
