3. Madeleine
Madeleine
“Good morning!” I say cheerfully, entering Cookies on Monday morning for my first day of work. I’m determined to be professional. Two days ago, I was cradled in Mason’s arms, and it took too many minutes for my heart to stop racing. That’s not what I’m here for. I need to get a job—a BAKING job, and that doesn’t include daydreaming about kissing my boss.
Mason is nowhere in sight. I head through the swinging door into the kitchen, expecting to see Mason working on a batch of cookies, but I still can’t find him.
“Mason?” I call out.
He pokes his head out of the office, his hair mussed and his expression frazzled. “I’ll be out in just a minute. You can wait in the front and I’ll bring your first test.” And then he disappears again.
I heave a sigh, wishing he weren’t so handsome. Back at the front, I stand behind the counter, trying to find a way to keep busy. It’s only eight in the morning, well before the bakery opens for the day, so I don’t have much to do. The napkins look like they could be rearranged, so I start working on those.
“Here we go,” Mason says proudly, emerging from the swinging door. In his hands is a stack of about ten sheets of paper. He sets them down on the counter with a flourish. “Your first test,” he says, waving his hand over the sheets.
“What…what is this?”
“Your first test,” he says slowly.
“It’s…an exam ? Am I back in culinary school?”
He shrugs. SHRUGS. “You said you wanted a test, so here it is.” And with that, he spins around and pushes the swinging door, disappearing into the gorgeous kitchen that is just barely out of my reach.
There’s nothing to do besides take this stupid exam. I’ll show him.
Twenty minutes later, I shove the swinging door open with a bang. Mason startles, standing by the giant mixer.
“Done!” I announce.
“Already? With all fifty questions?” His eyebrows are knit together.
“Mm-hm.” I strut over to him and hand him the exam. “Feel free to grade it now. I’m sure I aced it.”
“There’s no way,” he says to himself, turning off the mixer and walking back to his office. He doesn’t invite me, but I follow him anyway. He takes out a sheet with answers and lays it next to my exam, then takes out a pencil to grade.
With each correct answer, his handsome face gets more and more stern. I can’t help the grin that grows on my face. Who knew making a gorgeous man angry would make me so happy? Oh, but it does.
He reaches the final question, not making one mark the entire time. I expect him to look furious, but when his eyes meet mine, there’s a mixture of admiration and surprise.
“I guess you do know some things,” he says.
“So that’s it? I can work in the kitchen?”
He huffs, his expression changing back to chagrin. “I didn’t say that. There’s still more you need to prove.” And he exits the room, leaving me to wonder what on earth I’ve gotten myself info.
I’ve been working at Cookies for two weeks, and I still haven’t been allowed in the kitchen.
I also haven’t convinced Mason to change the name of the bakery.
I also haven’t gotten over my attraction to him.
On my second day, he asked me the difference between baking powder and baking soda. I almost didn’t want to answer, because I was so insulted. But that didn’t keep me from creepily watching him roll out the cookie dough that morning, a smile on my face at the flour that dusted the piece of brown hair that swooped across his forehead.
The day after that, he asked me what variations I would need to bake in high altitude. And then I spied on him scooping the cookie dough onto a tray.
And on and on and on.
Every day, a new test. Some question he wants to ask, something he thinks is going to stump me. And every day, I answer the question correctly, then fight my attraction to him, spying on what he’s baking.
He’s all professional now. Gone are the adorable smirks from our interview, and the small moments of kinship we shared at the festival.
And he still won’t let me in the kitchen.
Trust me, he could use me. Some of these cookies need a little something special. His vanilla cookies are pretty bland. I’d love to throw in some caramel, and maybe even Earl Grey tea. He’s also working on gluten-free chocolate chip cookies, and I hear him constantly grunting about the flavors being wrong. Besides improving his recipes, I’ve been dying to play around with Luna’s family recipe for oatmeal cookies with chocolate covered raisins. They’re pretty good the way they are, but I’d love to experiment with some variations.
But I’m not allowed in the kitchen. And outside of the bakery, I live with my parents, who rent the TINIEST apartment I’ve ever seen. Their kitchen is almost non-existent. So I haven’t baked in two weeks, and instead I’m scribbling like a madwoman in my notebook, writing any ideas that pop into my head. Some are recipes to try, others are ideas to help Mason improve his bakery overall, whenever he decides to trust me and let me in.
At least this town is adorable. We might be in California, but I feel like I’m in a fairy tale land. The main part of town is all cobblestones, and everyone walks to the different shops. I spend my lunch breaks at the fountain, watching all the people and children walk by. It fills my heart with joy that I didn’t know I was missing.
I can’t figure out what Mason is waiting for, even though I’m acing his quizzes. Today, the question was the ideal temperature for dry active yeast to proof and multiply, and when I said 105 to 110 degrees, he just threw up his hands and stormed back into the kitchen. I wish I could say I was smug or proud, but I’m frustrated that he won’t accept the fact that I know baking.
I can distract myself with the customers, though. Right now, I’m helping Christine and Kirsten, a mom and her four-year-old daughter, pick out some sprinkle cookies.
“I don’t know which color I want,” Kirsten says.
“Hmm, that’s a hard choice,” I agree. “But do you want to know a secret?”
Her eyes widen and she nods.
I drop to a whisper. “The rainbow sprinkle cookies turn into unicorns in your tummy.”
Her mouth drops open. “Mommy, I want the rainbow ones!”
“Sounds good,” Christine says, winking at me. “We’ll take a dozen.”
I box up her cookies and ring her up, then wave good-bye. I start stacking napkins for the tenth time today when the bell at the door rings, and in walks a beautiful, classy woman with her brown hair tied up in a French twist and big sunglasses on her face.
“Hello, welcome to Cookies!” I say with a smile. “How can I help you?”
She takes off her sunglasses and smiles warmly at me. “You must be Madeleine.”
I tilt my head. “Yes, that’s me. Have we met?” The town of Brookhaven is super small, but I’m still new and trying to learn everyone’s names.
“Not yet. I’m Monica.” She puts out a hand, and I finally see the similarity between the woman in front of me and her son—Mason.
“Monica!” I shake her hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“You, too.” She sets her bag on the counter. “Mason’s father and I just arrived from our trip to Paris, and I wanted to stop by and see how the bakery is running.” She looks me over and seems pleased. “I was so grateful to find your profile online. You have such an incredible background. I hope you and Mason have been working well together.”
I shrug. “It’s going well.”
“How do you like the kitchen? Mason and I spent a lot of time handpicking each piece of equipment.”
“Oh, really?” I ask. Mason hasn’t talked much about how the bakery came to be. It’s just a quiz, then straight to work. “It’s beautiful.” And that’s all I can say truthfully, because Mason hasn’t let me do anything back there.
She tilts her head to the side. “Haven’t you been…working with Mason?”
While I don’t want to disparage my boss to his mother, she asked a direct question.“If by ‘working with Mason’ you mean standing up here, speaking to clients, and boxing up orders, then yes. I’ve been ‘working with Mason.’” I even use the finger-quotes.
“But…” She peers around me, even though the door to the kitchen is closed and she wouldn’t be able to see Mason. “That’s why I wanted you. You have experience. You can help balance him out.”
I snort. “That’s not how Mason sees it.”
She presses her lips together. “So you’re basically just working the front.”
“Yep.”
She sizes me up one more time, then pastes a smile on her face. “I think I’ll go see Mason and say hello. After all, I am the owner of the bakery. I’ll speak with you later, Madeleine.”
She’s the owner? Well, shoot. I’m half anxious, half excited that she’s going to have some words with Mason. But hopefully it doesn’t get me in trouble with him. He’s the one I really deal with every day.
I hear a muffled exclamation from Mason, which sounds like excitement at seeing his mom. As much as I’m dying to eavesdrop, I try my best to stay professional.
Try being the key word here.
I edge closer to the swinging door, pretending to rearrange the cookies that happen to be right within earshot.
“Why isn’t she working in the kitchen?” Monica asks.
“I don’t know if she’s ready.”
Monica scoffs. “I’m sure she told you her background. What more are you looking for?”
Thank you, Monica.
“I’m working on…testing her.”
“Testing her?!”
Yes, Monica! This has been ridiculous!
“I don’t want to end up in the same situation as I did with Natalie.”
His mom pauses. And my mind starts racing. Who is Natalie?
“Those were unusual circumstances,” she says.
“Yeah, well, look where it got me.”
“It got you your own bakery!” she exclaims.
“Under your control!” he shouts back.
I definitely shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. Unfortunately, I don’t make it away from the door in time, and Monica bangs it open, slamming right into me.
Which knocks me to the ground, with a tray of Madeleines landing on top of me.
“Oh, Madeleine! Are you all right? And all the…Madeleines…” Monica’s voice turns from sympathetic to amused, and she has to cover her mouth with her hand to hide her giggles.
Mason bursts in and surveys the scene. But instead of laughing, he just scowls.
“It’s Madeleine,” Monica says between giggles, “in a pile of Madeleines.” And then she erupts into full laughter.
Mason’s expression softens, and I swear I almost see him crack a smile. But joining in with our laughter would be too much for him, and he turns and storms back into the kitchen.
Monica finally realizes that I’m still lying on the floor and holds out her hand to help me up. The cookies go everywhere, but they’re ruined anyway. I’ll have to clean them up later.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I should have opened the door more slowly.”
“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have been standing right there.”
“I suppose you heard some of that.” She winces. “I don’t know how much you know about the background of the bakery.”
I shake my head. “Nothing, honestly.”
She sighs, then speaks in a whisper. “Mason opened a bakery with his girlfriend of the time, Natalie.” A wave of jealousy passes through me, but I tamper it down. He’s hardly spoken to me in the two weeks since I’ve worked here, and now I think I have some kind of claim to him? Get a grip! “Mason taught Natalie everything he knew. It was supposed to be a partnership.” She pauses and glances at the door again. “But Natalie went behind his back and forced him out of the business. Mason was out of money and work…and he was betrayed by the woman he loved. So his father and I funded this new bakery.”
“I guess it does explain why he’s so possessive,” I say.
“But that’s why I picked you. Someone with baking experience, who could be a partner with him.” She sighs. “I’ll try to talk to him tonight. We’re having dinner together.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
She smiles warmly at me. “I like you. And I think you’ll be good for Mason.” She softly touches my cheek with her hand, a sweet, maternal gesture. And I have to wonder if she means more than just business. She lowers her hand and clears her throat. “I’ll see you around.”
I wave as she walks out the front door, another jingle marking her exit. Maybe she really will talk some sense into Mason.
But something else she said pricks my subconscious. Most nights, Mason is here late, prepping for the next day. But if he’s having dinner with his parents tonight…this might be my chance to finally use the kitchen. I’m very neat and organized. He’d never know I was back there. I could bake a few things, get it out of my system, and tomorrow act like nothing happened.
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.