Bittersweet Sim-Phony (Behind The Lens)

1. Charming Chocolatier

Chapter one

Charming Chocolatier

Albany

H is ass looks exactly like the strawberry I saved for last.

My mouth floods with the memory of crisp, cold, dark chocolate and firm, succulent, sweet flesh as I swallow. I ate a whole tray of Claree’s Berries last night. Alone in my pajamas, I was curled up beneath my favorite dachshund blanket, a ragged scrap of polar fleece with three giant holes Sparks had chewed in it when he was a puppy. The final berry sat in the far corner of the tray, revealed in the last row as I slid the tray out from the gold foiled box. A metaphor that drew me back to bittersweet things I’d loved and lost. Thank God I’d had my headphones on. Taunts and teases from my team dragged me back, so I slapped the berries on a tray, along with my shaker of protein-packed frosted strawberry lemonade and got back in the fray. I played my favorite video game with every intention of eating each one of those fancy-ass fruits, not caring one whit that the chocolate would give me raging heartburn.

Until my teeth snapped the layer of chocolate. Sinking into the firm meat of the massive piece of fruit took my mind off the game and back to my seventeenth summer. To the three glorious months I lived in the center of Jacob Harmon’s heart.

“Psst. Hey, Albie. Quit daydreaming!” A coffin tipped nail pokes me in the side, drawing me back to the present. I blink, turning to the sound of my hissing friend. Her eyebrows are straining past the middle of her forehead as she jerks her head to the front of the class.

I clear my throat, stuttering a bit as the weight of every pair of eyes in the room settles on my frozen form. “I…I apologize,” I manage to garble out, my cheeks flaming as my voice comes out entirely too loud. “I got…lost in a memory,” I finish lamely, realizing after I’ve spoken that nobody here gives a fuck why I’ve interrupted the class.

The man at the front of the class smiles, nodding to the class before continuing because he doesn’t give a single sugared fuck that his ass reminds me of ripe berries or ex-boyfriends. Full lips part over straight, white, orthodontically aligned teeth that are so aesthetically pleasing they should be getting paid. His nose is straight and refined, yet masculine, without a single large pore or red patch, nestled in the middle of a five o’clock shadow that looks professionally edged. Piercing green eyes fringed with inky black lashes reside a golden ratio distance apart under an expertly styled modern pompadour. His black, double-breasted chef’s jacket is embroidered, the words Sweet Alchemy flowing around a bright red maraschino cherry. It’s an interesting logo for a fancy-ass, professionally trained chocolatier with a resume like his. He bends down to put his trays of finished chocolate bars in the fridge. After shutting the door he asks, “Can anyone in the class tell me why we are going to use dark chocolate today?”

A muted snort erupts on my left. “Bitch, you better get your act together. Turn your fucking burner on!” Piper steps to the side and leans over my table, pushing in and turning the knob. The propane burner wooshes to life as the warm scent of summer sun and beach wafts over me. She leans in and whispers, “You wanted to take this class. Shit, if I wanted a chocolate statue, I’d call a player over and melt me a bag of chips.”

“That’s right, Waverly, dark chocolate has no milk solids.” Somewhere behind me, to the right, a girl titters. “What does less milk solids mean when sculpting?” He claps his hands, a slight frown marring his features as his eyes track Piper moving back to her station.

I lift a hand to cover my snort, easily seeing my statuesque best friend in her uniform painting one of the giant basketball players she cheers for in melted chocolate chips. I hate that my stool is so far from hers. No one makes me smile like Piper. She’s beautiful and driven. She works toward her goals with unerring focus and the kind of energy that makes me wonder if her mitochondria are powered by nuclear fusion. “Albany? You,” his eyes land on mine as he turns his body toward my station. “Can you tell us why having less milk solids in your chocolate is better for sculpting?”

“Yes, do tell.” Piper turns to me, crossing one arm over her stomach and grabbing her other elbow to prop up the hand that’s clasping her chin. One eyebrow is hitched up, her head tilted as she mocks Mr. Clyburn, our Advanced Placement Chem teacher from Maple Ridge High.

“Um,” I choke. Don’t look at Piper. Don’t look at Piper. Don’t look at Pip—

My eyes slide to the left. Fuck. Piper’s face is contorted, her upper lip pinched and bowed over her top teeth. Her lower lip is pushed up under her top teeth. Her nostrils are flared, and her chin is pulled back until she’s got at least two tiny rolls bunched up like a saggy diaper. She looks ridiculous.

And exactly like Mr. Clyburn when any of his students gave a wrong answer. Which is why we provided all the incorrectness.

“It’s because chocolate with less milk fat gives more stability,” I squeal through a laugh before I fall over my table, shoulders shaking. My elbows land on the beautiful cutting board top of my station. My hands cover my face as I vibrate with laughter. “I’m sorry,” I mutter through gasps, struggling to get ahold of myself.

Complete silence and the judgmental gazes of my twelve classmates burn a hole through my skull, sobering me right up. I clear my throat. “I apologize,” I say, lifting myself off the table. I reach up and scratch my hairline under the cap tied tightly over my white hair. Chef Pagliano presses his full lips into a thin line. His eyes skate over me. Praying he can forgive my rudeness, I drop mine, the picture of contriteness.

“Correct. Now class, if your water is boiling, drop your couverture in your bain-marie.” He watches as the class busies themselves with their chocolate. I hustle to unwrap mine and follow his instructions.

“Alan, why do we not want the water to touch the bottom of the inner pot?” I follow Chef’s gaze to a tall, balding man a station in front of mine. Alan shrugs. Chef glances around the class. Hesitantly, I raise my hand. “Albany?”

“Chef, there are a couple of reasons. The steam can get into your chocolate, causing lumps. Also, your chocolate can lose its shine.” I bite my lip, mad at myself for not remembering exactly why that happens. Chef Pagliano smiles, and it feels like he’s blessed me with a sunny ray of forgiveness for my earlier interruption.

“Correct,” he shouts enthusiastically. There’s a low, respectful buzz in the classroom as the noise levels pick up. People are chopping blocks of chocolate, chocolate is being dropped in pans, and folks are stirring. “What is the process of melting chocolate called?”

He points at Piper. Her eyes roll wildly to me. “Tempering,” I quickly hiss-whisper.

“Tempering, chef,” she shouts.

“Excellent. Well done, Piper,” he praises, sneaking a glance at me.

“Did you hear that?” Piper asks, shimming her shoulders and jerking her eyebrows up and down as she drops chunks of chocolate into her double boiler.

“Wait, did you check the temperature? The chocolate isn’t supposed to get over 120°. Make sure it isn’t a rolling boil; just the steam is supposed to hit the bottom of the pan.” Desperate for Piper to enjoy this and continue taking the class with me, I know her success today is a key factor. I also know her busy ass did not have time to read the prep material beforehand.

“Bitch, you are so annoying.” She bumps me with her elbow, smiling. “Still working that ass hard to be teacher’s pet,” she says fondly, turning her burner down.

A hand claps my shoulder briefly. “That’s correct.” My head whips around, catching the flash of Chef Pagliano’s blinding smile before he moves on. His comment paralyzes me. Does he agree with Piper?

She stops stirring, gripping the edges of her station as she bends over and howls. “He meant about the chocolate, not how hard you kiss teacher ass.” I stir absently as I watch him walk between the stations, giving each student encouragement and tips. His passion for chocolate is infectious, and the way he teaches is endearing. A low buzz builds, carried throughout the space by the scent of our expensive Belgian chocolate melting.

“Stir, stir, stir!” he instructs loudly over the excited chatter. “Now, grab your thermometer, aim it at your chocolate, and pull the trigger. If your chocolate is one hundred and twenty degrees, turn off your burner and remove your inner pot. Set it on the counter. If it isn’t, keep stirring and recheck. Those of you who are off the burner, open the refrigerator under your station and take out the metal bowl.”

A pleased smile lifts my cheeks as my thermometer hits one hundred and eighteen degrees. Good enough, from my research. “Those of you still heating and stirring, do not let your chocolate get over one hundred and thirty degrees. Also, do not fear failure. We are here to learn and enjoy the journey. If we do not,” he pauses and turns back, looking expectantly at me for an answer.

I open my mouth to fill in the term he’s looking for, but Waverly beats me to it. “Temper, Chef!” she shouts. In her excitement, she lifts her rubber spatula out of her bowl and flicks it as she shouts. As I’m turning to see who stole my thunder, chocolate arcs over her station, over the space between rows, and splats.

Frozen in place, I watch the mixture hurdle toward my face in slow motion. I close my eyes. Hot, thick liquid splashes across my face. Like a rope of cum , I think dazedly. At first, it’s just warm. Pleasant. And then it begins to sting. My eyes begin to jerk, my nystagmus ratcheting into overdrive from the adrenaline and stress.

“Burner’s off,” Chef calls out. His arm slides underneath mine, trapping my arm against him. Long fingers curl around my wrist. “Walk with me,” he murmurs.

“It hurts,” I whimper quietly. But I’m walking with my eyes closed. The room is silent, eerily so. So quiet that the scent of melted dark chocolate both in the air and burning through my skin is overwhelming.

“Turn left. Piper, could you please go turn on the sink? Fill it with cool water.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to be okay. Let’s get some cool water on that and get the chocolate off your face. Is there anything about your skin I need to be aware of?”

The class has fallen silent. “Not for this kind of burn,” Piper tosses over her shoulder, answering his question as he leads us to the back wall of the room. Countertops and sinks are interspaced for washing up after class.

Chef Pagliano hands me off to Piper. “Splash your face with cool water. I’ll go get a new washcloth and some ointment.” He squeezes my shoulder, a kind gesture that conveys his worry. “Class, please resume. Transfer your chocolate to the molds and pop them in the coolers under your stations.”

I lean over the sink and begin scooping cool water up to my face. The chocolate has already hardened enough that I have to pick it off my skin. Piper leans against the counter, watching me anxiously as I hiss. “That’s red as hell. What are you going to do for work?” she hisses in a low, concerned whisper.

I roll my eyes at her. “I have plenty of makeup. I’ll be fine. It just startled me. You know what a ginormous wussy I am.” I hold my hand out, and someone puts a dry towel in it. “It was an accident. No big deal. But I’m sad my chocolate is probably ruined at this point.”

I feel the burned spots, confident most of the chocolate is gone, and pat my face dry, pressing the towel against my angry skin. “I’ll make it up to you. Can you come back another night this week? I’ll give you a private lesson after my scheduled classes. I feel terrible this has happened.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell the handsome chocolatier that a private lesson isn’t necessary, but a breathy female voice fills the space I was about to speak into. “Oh, Chef, I didn’t know you gave private lessons. Where can I sign up for those?” I remove the towel, my eyes widening at the sight of Waverly hovering over our small group.

Piper crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you come over here to apologize? Because I can’t see any other reason for you to leave your station and insert yourself into what’s going on back here. Chef gave orders, Wantonly.”

Waverly’s chin jerks back, but she doesn’t correct Piper. Good God, the over-exuberant chocolate flinger is so hot for teacher she wants him to process the insult Piper tossed as truth. Chef clears his throat. “I do not give private lessons,” he informs Waverly curtly. “Please return to your chocolate.” He turns his back to her, sparing himself from her sulky return.

My hand is already on his forearm, squeezing him through his jacket before I realize I’ve touched him. “That’s very kind, but it’s not necessary.” I yank my hand back, swallowing the urge to apologize for touching him without his permission.

“It is necessary,” Piper interjects. “She’s been talking about this class for weeks. She’ll probably be a much better student privately. She does her best work that way.” I shoot Piper a glare. She smiles innocently, suddenly interested in one of her nails. “I think you owe her a drink, too,” she says, waiting a beat.

My cheeks flare, the heat rushing to my face hotter than the splatter of chocolate that had sailed off the end of Waverly’s spatula. “You don’t owe me anything.” I search his face, telling myself I’m nuts, that the intense set of his brilliant eyes means nothing.

“Friday night. Chocolate bars, then chocolate martinis,” he announces. His voice is low, gruffer than normal, the scent of him stronger than the rich cocoa permeating the room. “I’ll clean your station up. Go home. Take care of your face. If you need to see your doctor, I’ll pay the bill. Meet me here at seven, Friday evening.” Each sentence is short, fired off like commands.

I shift my weight, shocked that I want to obey his orders. “Friday night it is,” Piper states. “I’m sorry, Chef P, but you’ll have to do my station, too. I’m her ride.” She grips my arm, steering me to the front. I can feel Waverly’s narrowed eyes follow our progression out of the cooking room like a laser until the double doors swing closed behind us.

The soft swish of the doors isn’t enough to hide Piper’s whistle. “Damn!” She lets go of my arm and fans herself. “The tension. The intensity! He is dying to get to the creamy center of your candy, bitch.” She hands me my purse. “You need to plan a chocolate making scene for work. I might log in and watch that one myself. That shit is going to be hot.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I argue faintly, following her out of the building. The evening air has just begun to cool. Heat from the day radiates from the asphalt and cement sidewalks. The area has been remodeled, the storefronts updated into a chic, modern look with touches of wrought iron and redwood-stained cedar. Pots of flowers hang from Victorian streetlights, and boxes of mixed blooms with trailing greenery give windows a bright and cheery vibe. To the west, the sun is setting in brilliant shades of orange, lavender, and dusky rose. “I can’t go out for martinis with him Friday night. I have to work.”

“So, reschedule,” she replies, digging through her purse for her keys. Her Audi discretely chirps when she hits the unlock button. The baby blue car was a gift from her father when she graduated, and she refuses to get a new one. She says driving an older model will help her look humble when she applies to the DA’s office. But I know she keeps it because he gave it to her.

“I can’t reschedule. Unlike you, my career has an expiration date. I need to make all my money when I’m young.”

“And I have to make mine before I drop dead of a massive heart attack,” she fires back, opening her door.

“Piper. I didn’t mean it that way,” I say, stricken at my insensitivity.

“I know.” She pauses, one long, satin leg already in the car. “I’m just fucking with you. Get in the car. I’m sleeping over so we can have wine and Google if getting a huge chocolate dildo shoved in your cooch will give you an infection.”

My burns heat up. “You’re nasty, Piper Renee Reynolds.”

“Yes, I am,” she agrees, sliding in the vehicle. I follow suit. “One day, I’m going to sue you for all the set ideas I’ve tossed your way.”

“Screw you. No one’s going to vote for a district attorney whose best friend is a cam girl.”

“They will if you do the entertainment at my campaign dinners,” she says with a laugh, completely dismissing any thought of my career affecting hers.

We spend the ride home laughing, just like best friends are supposed to; the handsome chef pushed onto my list of things to deal with tomorrow.