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‘How come you’re in New York?’ I ask her.
She dips her little finger in the mixture and sucks. The things that action does to me have nothing to do with friendship. I force myself to look away. When she starts whisking again, she replies, and I finally brave facing her.
‘I worked for Edmond in his London restaurant.’ She shrugs and stares into the bowl. ‘A job came up here and… I mean, Edmond works here in New York, mostly. What an opportunity, right?’
I nod, wondering why her expression tells me there’s more to this story. I say nothing.
‘So.’ She plants the bowl on the counter, and her contemplative look switches to a smile. ‘I thought, why not?’
‘That’s it?’
There’s a slight pause that doesn’t escape my attention before she says, ‘That’s it. Here I am.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘The kitchen?’
‘The kitchen. New York.’
‘I love working for Edmond. The pastries I get to make are amazing. But one day, I’d like to have my own place. A patisserie, not a restaurant. Something quaint. A place where I have regulars and I know their names and which cakes their kids and wives and husbands would like for their birthdays.’
‘You’re a family person?’
She shrugs and casts her attention back to her bowl. ‘I guess. There’s something about the idea of a family looking out for each other. It’s… special.’
‘And New York?’
She scoffs, and her momentary melancholy lifts. ‘Well, so far I’ve met a lot of arrogant people. You know, specifically at bagel carts. It seems arrogant men in suits hang out there, and they just latch on.’
I’m laughing again as I suck chocolate from my fingers. ‘Latch on?’
‘Yeah, kind of like ticks. They get under your skin, uncomfortably so, and they won’t let go.’ Her smirk breaks into a giggle, but all I heard was that I’m under her skin. Yeah, well, that makes two of us.
‘Hey, why am I doing all the work here? Get over here and help.’
Now it’s my turn to raise a brow. ‘You want me to make cakes with you?’
‘Oh, come on, it’s half past five in the morning and there’s no one here to see you.’
As tired as I am, I slip off my suit jacket and roll my shirt sleeves up my forearms. After being told to wash my hands like a boy who’s been playing in dirt before dinner, I’m on the other side of the counter beating cake mix in a bowl.
‘Which chocolate is your favorite so far?’ she asks.
‘I think the one with the purple stuff inside.’
She’s beating her own mix beside me and rocks into my side. ‘Thatstuffis blackberry. And I don’t think that one will be your favorite. Look out.’ She puts a hand on the small of my back to nudge me out of the way and leans across the counter to pick up a chocolate. Her hand is warm through my shirt. As I’m thinking that, she leans further, and her ass moves dangerously close to my crotch. I’m staring, unashamedly so, and I’m pretty damn sure she catches me when she turns around. She’s now facing me, close enough I can smell the sweet scent of shampoo or soap on her hair and skin. Vanilla. Coconuts. I fight the urge to press my lips to her skin and taste her.
Too much coffee and sugar, that’s all it is. Coffee and sugar.
I set the mixing bowl on the bench and in doing so, I bring us closer together. My lungs force my breaths to come quicker and shallower. Jesus, I’m fifteen again.
‘Try this one. This will be your favorite,’ she says. There’s a huskiness to her words I haven’t noticed before. She lifts the chocolate, and my lips part as I get lost in her. In her beauty, her scent, the pheromones that ooze from her and infiltrate my mind.
Then I remember where the hell I am and jolt back from her. She drops her hand in response. ‘Sorry, I, ah, here.’ She takes my hand and puts the chocolate into my palm, then slips away from me.
My breath seems to remember its natural rhythm. I put the chocolate in my mouth. As soon as I crack the bitter dark chocolate shell, there’s a rich, sweet burst of flavor. Not too sweet. Just sweet enough for me.
‘Well?’
