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I straighten and walk around the lobby, assessing the minimalist decor. A couple of mirrors line the walls, and I take advantage to check my appearance: my makeup is still bright around my blue eyes, my blonde hair still curled neatly over my shoulders, and my blouse and skirt look professional.
“I told you I don’t need an assistant!” Mason’s voice sounds loudly from the kitchen, and I have to wince.
Well, this is embarrassing.
“I’m not drowning,” he continues. “Things are picking up. That’s a good thing.”
He waits a moment, and I realize he’s on a phone call, listening to the other person on the line. “Well, I would have liked some kind of heads up about this.” Another pause, this time a little longer. “You did?” Another pause. “Okay, fine. I see the email now. I guess you did.”
After a few more words that I can’t hear clearly, he reemerges. I’m struck again by how handsome he is, but his demeanor is so unwelcoming. “Looks like my mom is the one who set up the interview,” he says to me, but he won’t meet my eyes. He runs his hand through his hair, and I swear the scent of chocolate comes wafting toward me. “I don’t really need an assistant though, you understand? But I’m going through with this interview to make her happy.”
I don’t know what to say. As uncomfortable as I feel right now, I need to get my foot in the door. And this bakery is the best place to start. There aren’t a million other bakeries to choose from—Brookhaven is one of the smallest towns in California, let alone the United States– and my parents said there are only two other bakeries in town. One specializes in bread and has been running smoothly for the last twenty years; the other specializes in wedding cakes and cupcakes and is owned by twin sisters who are ultra-exclusive. Cookies is my one opportunity, and I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers.
So I nod. “Sure, I understand.” Even though I don’t.
He sighs, then lifts up the countertop so I can come back into the kitchen with him. “I have an office back here where we can conduct the interview.”
I follow him through the door to the kitchen, admiring the gleaming stainless steel appliances, and breathing in the scent of butter and vanilla. Heaven. Way in the back, I find a tiny office with a tiny desk and two chairs.
“Who’s managing the front?” I ask.
He points to his computer screen. “I have a camera set up here so I can see if someone comes in.” He points to another TV monitor in the kitchen above the counters. “It shows there, too.”
“So…wait. You don’t have anyone who runs the front on a regular basis?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes my mom stops by when it’s really busy, but otherwise I can handle it.”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur. Now I see exactly why his mother contacted me.
He sits in the chair behind the desk and gestures for me to take the seat across from him. I smooth out my skirt and sit down, clutching my recipe notebook in my lap.
“What’s your name again?” he asks.
“Madeleine,” I reply. “Madeleine Sweet.”
He arches a brow. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “It fits.”
He nods and rifles through some papers, finding something else to occupy his attention. “So, why are you even interested in becoming a bakery assistant?”
At least that’s an easy question, and one guaranteed to get him curious about me. “Well, six years ago, after I graduated high school, I moved to New York City and attended the Culinary Academy. I fell in love with pastry and worked at Petit Fours in Manhattan for two years after that. I wanted a change of pace, though, so I moved to Canyon Cove, in Orange County, and spent some time working their high-end events with a bakery there.”
I don’t miss the way his eyebrows raise slightly with each piece of my story. But I especially don’t miss the way he perks up when I mention Canyon Cove.
He sets down the papers and leans in, settling his elbows on the desk. “Did you get to meet anyone famous while you were there?”
“Where, in New York?”
He shakes his head, an eager glint in his eyes. “Canyon Cove.”
I’m surprised by his interest in the small, coastal town in southern California. It’s about four hours south of here, and pretty much only known for one thing—the True Trophy Wives reality TV show. “Uh, yeah. A few.”
“Like who?”
“What, are you a closet Trophy Wives fan?” I ask.
He shrugs, then settles back in his chair, lifting his hands and folding them behind his head. Hello, biceps and forearms. Holy cow. “Maybe.” A sexy smirk dances across his face.
