4. Mason
Mason
My body may be in Chez Louis, the only fine dining restaurant in Brookhaven, but my mind is back at the bakery. Even though Madeleine would have locked up an hour ago, I keep thinking about being there with her.
My parents are my biggest supporters, and I really should be paying attention to their description of their trip to Paris. But I can’t seem to concentrate.
“How’s the bakery?” my dad asks, taking a sip of his whiskey. He must have noticed my distraction.
“Busy. But good.” As my financial backers, they have multiple reasons for their interest in my business. But aside from the finances, they’re great parents who truly care about me.
“Your mom told me about your assistant,” Dad continues.
I nod. “She’s been helpful with offloading the other pieces of the business.”
“She sounds pretty accomplished herself.” He looks over at my mom, who nods encouragingly. “The Culinary Academy, working for high-end clients in New York and Canyon Cove—“
“I don’t need help in the kitchen,” I insist.
“Hmm, I don’t know about that,” he muses, taking a sip of his drink. “I’ve heard that your vanilla cookies are a little bland.”
I drop my fork. “Where did you hear that?”
But I know exactly where he heard that. It was on Brookhaven Buzz, the community app for Brookhaven. And after Gary and Renee Flynn’s latest anniversary party, the boards were full of comments about the catering, the cake, and, of course, my bland cookies.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mom finally says. She reaches across the table and holds my hand. “We want what’s best for you. And we really think Madeleine is what’s best.”
“Well, it’s like I told you. I’m testing her.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. What exactly does that mean?” She lifts her glass of red wine, taking a dainty sip.
“Just…little things. A few questions here and there.” I scratch the back of my head. “I gave her an exam on her first day.”
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!” 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 a robber 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, but there’s no way she can even make a dent. What did she do, dump a bowl of flour over her head? Warmth rises in my chest despite myself. 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, but 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.
“ My vanilla cookies?”
“No. They’re better than yours.”
I can’t help a smirk. I love this feisty side of her. “We’ll see.” I move closer, one step after another, and she sucks in a breath. If she can be feisty, I can be bold. She’s covered in flour, but her blue eyes are bright and challenging. I stop with less than a foot between us, letting my eyes move from Madeleine to the tray of cookies. I study them, trying to figure out what she did to make them, as she claims, better than mine.
“Vanilla bean?” I ask, noticing the specks.
“That’s one thing.” Her voice sounds slightly shaky, and I can’t deny that being this close to her is affecting me, too.
“What else?”
“You’ll have to try one and see.” She grabs a spatula and starts moving the cookies from the tray to the wire rack.
I watch her smooth movements, clearly second-nature, and I have the urge to take a seat and watch her work.
“You don’t have to stare. I know I look like a flour-covered mess.”
I chuckle. “It’s not that. I just like watching you work.”
She whips her head over to me, blue eyes wide. Her lips twist into a playful grin. “Maybe you should let me in the kitchen more often.” She looks back to the tray before I can react, which is probably for the best. Because this woman is pushing my resolve out the window.
She finishes transferring the last cookie, then turns and leans her back against the counter. “How was dinner with your parents?”
“It was…frustrating.” Although the reason for my frustration is staring me in the face, and now I’m wondering why I was so opposed to the concept of Madeleine in my kitchen. I’ve been around plenty of beautiful women bakers, but Madeleine is mesmerizing.
Maybe I was right to keep her out of the kitchen. I’d never get anything done.
“I’m sorry it was frustrating. Your mom seemed really nice, if not a little…involved.”
“Well, she has every right to be. It’s technically her bakery.”
She nods, so I guess my mom filled her in on our general situation. Did she tell her about Natalie, too?
“It must be nice to have the support, though,” she says. She turns, sets a new timer for the cookies to cool, and picks up the empty tray, carrying it over to the sink.
Something about that topic sent her away.
Don’t ask her. Don’t get close.
“Is that not how things are with your parents?” Smooth, Mason. That’s the opposite of not asking.
She turns on the water and starts washing, keeping her back to me. “It’s not that they’re unsupportive. They’re kind and encouraging. But…” She hesitates, squeezing soap onto the sponge. “They’re older. And their health isn’t great. Neither are their finances. So I’m kind of on my own. Whatever I want to accomplish, it’s all on me.”
I nod, even though her back is to me and she can’t see. But it explains a lot: her feistiness, her determination to prove herself and her worth, and her independence, traveling to New York and Canyon Cove, before landing here.
“They must be proud of you, though,” I say over the noise of the running water.
“They’d be prouder if I wasn’t just a receptionist.”
Ouch. Talk about adding more layers to the situation.
I close my eyes and brace myself for what I’m about to say. But everything—the conversation with my parents, my overwhelm at running the business, and my physical reaction to Madeleine—is a neon sign blinking the word idiot over my head.
I walk over to Madeleine, stopping only when I’m right behind her. I reach around her body and shut off the faucet. She whirls around in surprise, trapped between me and the sink.
“Maybe you should be more than just a receptionist,” I say softly.
“Oh?” Her breaths are shallow.
“Maybe. We’ll have to see how those cookies taste.”
She licks her bottom lip, and now I’m wondering how her lips taste, instead of those cookies.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose.
I smirk. “Did you just smell me?”
Her eyes flutter open. “What? No! That…would be weird. So weird.” She giggles and looks around the kitchen.
“You did,” I press.
She looks back into my eyes. “I did,” she whispers. “I always thought you smelled like chocolate, but I haven’t been close enough to know for sure.” She winces. “That’s not very professional.”
“I’m not being very professional, either,” I say in a low voice.
“So, you’re not going to fire me?” Her feisty grin is back in place.
“As long as you don’t file a complaint,” I say.
Her eyes dart from my eyes to my lips, then back up again. She sucks in a breath. “I’m not complaining.”
I lean in, dipping my face closer to her, and then…
BEEP!!!
“The cookies!” she exclaims, dashing back to the wire rack.
I groan inwardly and take a moment to gather myself, then follow her to the cookies. She picks up one of the cooled vanilla cookies and holds it out to me. “Try it.”
I take the cookie from her and try a bite. Closing my eyes, I savor the flavors, an explosion in my mouth. This is nothing like my cookies, the ones that apparently the whole town calls “bland”.
“What is in these?” I ask, finally meeting her gaze.
“It’s vanilla bean paste. And I used powdered sugar inside, then rolled them in granulated sugar.” She points over at the end of the counter, where a pile of at least four dozen more cookies sits. “I’ve tried almond extract with the vanilla, lavender, caramel drizzle…”
“This is incredible.” I step over to the cookies and take a bite of the lavender one. I look over at Madeleine. “You’re incredible.”
She beams. “Thank you. I have a knack for picking out flavors.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking a bite of the caramel cookie.
“It was kind of a game at the Culinary Academy. People would try to hide flavors in their bakes, and I would figure out what they were.”
“And you were good at this?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, a smug smile on her face. “I was always right.”
I chew slowly, an idea forming in my mind. “Then I propose a test.”
She groans. “Another test? Come on, you know I’ve passed everything you’ve wanted.”
“You’re right, you have. So for now, I’ll allow you back here in the kitchen, but only after hours. And each morning, I’ll bring you a new treat, and you have to tell me what’s in it.”
“And when is the test complete?” she asks. “Because that’s the question I should have asked two weeks ago.”
“You’re right.” I take a bite of the almond cookie and unexpectedly gag at the flavor combination. “That’s not very good.”
“I didn’t say they were all good,” she says with a wicked grin.
“Fine.” I spit the cookie into a napkin before I realize what a turn-off that must be. “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.
She blinks at me. “Nothing, I guess.” Then she sighs. “Fine.”
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.