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A tingle runs down my spine at the thought of baking. I can’t wait to dig my fingers into some dough and taste the delicious, buttery goodness.
I bide my time the rest of the day, narrowing down the recipes I want to try and nearly drooling at the thought of tasting the treats. Mason pops in and out with trays of cookies, and I arrange them nicely in the display, then manage customers.
At four thirty, Mason reappears, his signature flour dusting his hair but his apron left behind. “I have to leave early. I’m getting dinner with my family. Can you lock up tonight?”
It’s a pivotal moment. He hasn’t trusted me to lock up once. Am I making it worse by betraying his trust and working in the kitchen?
No. I’m a trained, professional baker. It’s his fault that he won’t let me back there.
“Sure!’ Tone it down, Madeleine. Don’t sound so excited. I clear my throat and try again. “I guess that should be fine. Everything’s done in the kitchen?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Yes. Everything’s done.”
I nod once. “Sounds good!”
He lets out a sigh, then waves goodbye and walks out the door. The minutes can’t pass quickly enough. I’m counting down every second until the clock hits five.
4:58.
4:59.
5:00.
With a squeal, I turn the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED, then hightail it to the kitchen. I don’t bother with an apron, because it’s just more evidence. I turn up some music and get to work.
Chapter Four
Mason
I wish I could say I’m enjoying my filet mignon and broccoli au gratin, but my mind is back at the bakery. Even though Madeleine would have locked up an hour ago, I keep thinking about being there with her.
My parents are my biggest supporters, and I really should be paying attention to their description of their trip to Paris. But I can’t seem to concentrate.
“How’s the bakery?” my dad asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“Busy. But good.” As my financial backers, they have multiple reasons for their interest in my business. But aside from the finances, they’re great parents who truly care about me.
“Your mom told me about your assistant,” Dad continues.
I nod. “She’s been helpful with offloading the other pieces of the business.”
“She sounds pretty accomplished herself.” He looks over at my mom, who nods encouragingly. “The Culinary Academy, working for high-end clients in New York and Canyon Cove—”
“I don’t need help in the kitchen,” I insist.
“Hmm, I don’t know about that,” he muses, taking a sip of his drink. “I’ve heard that your vanilla cookies are a little bland.”
I drop my fork. “Where did you hear that?
But I know exactly where he heard that. It was on Brookhaven Buzz, the community app for Brookhaven. And after Gary and Renee Flynn’s latest anniversary party, the boards were full of comments about the catering, the cake, and, of course, my bland cookies.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mom finally says. She reaches across the table and holds my hand. “We want what’s best for you. And we really think Madeleine is what’s best.”
“Well, it’s like I told you. I’m testing her.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. What exactly does that mean?” She lifts her glass of red wine, taking a dainty sip.
“Just…little things. A few questions here and there…” I scratch the back of my head. “I gave her an exam on her first day.”
