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“Fine.” I spit the cookie into a napkin. I hope that’s not appalling to her. “Two more weeks of tests. At the end of that, we’ll decide if you can be a full assistant in the back with me.”
She watches me carefully, and I can tell she’s deciding if she wants to agree.
“What do you have to lose?” I ask.
“Nothing, I guess.” She pauses, then sighs. “Fine. It’s a deal.”
I put out my hand for a shake, because I have to be professional, boss Mason again. She puts her hand in mine, and the warmth that flooded my body the first time we touched is back again.
“It’s a deal,” she says.
We’re on.
Chapter Five
Madeleine
Mason has been flavor-testing me for a week, and I’m doing just as well as I bragged I would. The first day, I could smell the cayenne pepper in the chocolate drizzle on his orange cookies even before I took a bite. The next day, he put potato chips in his banana bread cookies (I was not a fan). My favorite was the lemon pudding cookies. He was so sure I wouldn’t figure it out, but I knew instantly. You can’t hide pudding flavor.
There’s been a huge shift in the way he interacts with me now, too. I don’t know what got into him that night at the bakery, but I know he was thinking about kissing me. And I wasn’t about to push him away. If that timer hadn’t gone off, I might have initiated a kiss.
He hasn’t tried again, but he pops into the front area at least once an hour, testing me on flavors or asking my opinion on something new. It’s like he actually enjoys being around me now. And his attitude is completely different. Where he was once cold and aloof, now there’s a playfulness that I absolutely adore.
I’m falling.
Hard.
I’m slowly adding little touches here and there around the shop to improve business. I brought in a few sunflowers in mason jars that I’ve set on the windowsills. I even bought some decorative chalkboards and watched a few YouTube videos from Amy Carter’s calligraphy series so I could make cute signs for the daily cookie special. I see Mason assessing all the little changes, but he doesn’t comment on them. He hasn’t told me to stop, though, and the customers seems to be loving all the little touches.
And every evening, we work together in the kitchen. Sometimes we listen to my French music, a habit from working at Petit Fours, and sometimes we listen to his choice, Jim Croce. I’ve worked on Luna’s family cookie recipe and experimented with my own creations that I’ve been imagining for the last few weeks. While we talk occasionally, usually when one of us is waiting for our creations to bake and cool, other times it’s comfortable, companionable silence.
Last night, I tried out my latest creation, sweet potato cookies with a maple glaze and candied pecans. I wanted something that felt like autumn but a little different from the stereotypical pumpkin spice. After a couple batches that weren’t quite right, I finally nailed it. Mason was quietly scooping chocolate chip cookies onto a baking tray, and I bounced up to him, holding one of the warm cookies out to him.
“Try,” I commanded.
He looked over at me, his chocolate brown eyes full of warmth, and took the cookie from my hand. I could feel where his fingers had grazed mine, still alight with fire. He took a big bite of the cookie, his eyes locked on mine, and chewed.
“This is amazing,” he said.
“Right?” I squealed.
“I think these would be perfect to sell here.”
I sucked in a breath. He had never said anything like that to me, no implications that he was thinking about letting me produce anything to sell. “Really?”
“Really.” He smiled widely, then winked. “We’ll just have to see how the rest of your tests go.”
I rolled my eyes and walked back to my area, but a rush of excitement flowed through me, knowing that he was considering my future here.
So this morning, I set my sweet potato cookies out in the display. I didn’t tell Mason, but I’m sure he won’t be upset when someone buys them. After all, he’s the one who gets the money from the sale. I haven’t had any takers yet, but it’s only mid-morning. I’m watering the sunflowers in the windowsill when Mason emerges with another cookie.
“There’s no way you’re going to figure this one out,” he says, his eyes bright with excitement.
I smirk at him and hold out my hand. But instead of giving me the cookie, he comes closer and holds it up for me to take a bite. I’m unsure if that’s what he wants—it seems awfully forward—but the glint in his eyes spurs me on.
I sink my teeth into the chewy goodness, taking an extra moment to lick my lips from the sugar. I don’t miss Mason’s eyes following my mouth’s movements, and for the life of me, I can’t remember why he’s having me try this cookie.
The bell on the front door rings, and in walks Suzette, the breadmaker’s wife. Mason and I jump apart, but we’re too slow.
