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My mom spits out her wine. “You gave her an EXAM?!”
“It was only fifty questions!”
“Fifty!” She sits back in her seat and fans herself. “I have to call her and apologize myself. Do you understand that this is an insult to her training and background?”
“I understand that I cannot allow someone to come in and mess up everything I’ve worked so hard for!”
“Both of you, hush!” my dad hisses at us. “You’re airing out all our dirty laundry for the entire town to hear.”
I take a sip of water to calm myself down. It may have been five years ago, but the sting of Natalie’s betrayal hasn’t dissipated. And yes, it’s made me more paranoid and possessive of my kitchen. But I thought my parents would understand, not try to hire someone who would make things more complicated.
“You’re drowning,” my dad says firmly. “You need help in the kitchen, whether you want to admit it or not. And this girl has the experience to give you that help.”
I clench my jaw, but there’s no use fighting anymore. “Fine. I’ll consider it.”
My parents visibly relax. We each take a couple more bites and sips of wine and whiskey.
“She’s very pretty, too,” my mom says quietly.
I glare at her.
“There’s no need to get so upset, Mason. I’m just commenting.” She innocently sips her wine. “Maybe that’s why you’re so flustered.”
“That’s not—” I shake my head and stand. “Thank you both for a frustrating dinner. I’m glad you’re home, but I need some space. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
They’re not angry; if anything, they’re amused. “We’ll see you later,” Mom says, and my dad waves me out.
If there was ever a time I needed to clear my head in the kitchen, it’s right now.
I unlock the front door of the bakery, inhaling deeply. The scent of butter and vanilla instantly calms me. I stand in the front entrance, closing my eyes and centering myself.
Until I hear something that sounds like French café music coming from the kitchen.
Blood starts pumping through my veins. Am I being robbed? But why would they play French music in the background of their thievery?
Then I hear a loud, female squeal and a crash.
I rush through the swinging door to the kitchen and find Madeleine, blonde hair piled up in a bun and blue eyes wide, covered from head to toe in flour.
She smiles weakly. “Hey, Mason. I, uh, thought you were at dinner.”
“I was. Now I’m here.” My eyes scan the room, noting the dozen dirty mixing bowls in the sink. The oven is on, too, and it smells like my vanilla cookies but…different. “What are you doing?”
She clears her throat and tries to dust the flour off her clothes. Warmth rises in my chest. She’s adorable. She mutters something under her breath, then meets my eyes. “I was baking.”
“Clearly.”
She squirms under my gaze. I have to work so hard not to smile at her, or even worse, kiss her.
Kiss her?
Oh, jeez. I’m turning into a mess.
She sighs and crosses her arms. “Fine, okay? Fine. I know I’m not supposed to be back here, but I’m dying to bake something! My parents’ kitchen is tiny, and you have this incredible space, and then I saw you on the monitor and I dropped my bowl and—” She’s cut off by the beeping timer. “Oh! The cookies are ready.” She rushes over to the oven and uses an oven mitt to pull out a tray of cookies.
“Are those vanilla cookies?” I ask, stepping closer to her. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, if it’s the insinuation that I need help or my mom commenting that Madeleine is “pretty,” but I feel the need to be next to her. To feel her presence close by.
“Yes.” She sets the tray down on the counter.
