Tasty Tentacles (Tinsel and Tentacles 3.0 #11)

Chapter 1

ORION

“Hey handsome!” Albert calls from behind the bakery case. “I have something new for you to try.”

It’s so nice, just for a moment, to feel handsome.

As I walk to the counter, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Only one of the half dozen tables is occupied, and the artsy-looking woman sitting there is engrossed with her laptop, typing furiously.

No lines, no waiting, no unwanted attention.

I’ll be able to get in and out quickly, so I’ll have no problem holding them back.

I take another deep breath, savoring it this time.

There’s nothing like the aroma of Baker’s Basket, the best bakery in town, and the flavors, well, they’re in a class all by themselves.

Albert pulls out a golden pastry, something quite different from the cinnamon rolls and eclairs on display.

I see defined layers, like puff pastry, and a shiny glaze.

My deformities twitch in anticipation, begging to get a taste, but I keep them tucked safely out of sight.

Later, I promise, just cooperate and don’t embarrass me for a few more minutes.

“They look delicious,” I say, meaning every word.

“It’s a French pastry called kouign-amann. My hubby and I discovered them in October during our vacation in Vermont, and I had to try to recreate them. I’m still working on the caramelization in the center, but I think I’m ready for my favorite taste-tester to give them a whirl.”

“Thank you, Albert,” I say. “I’m happy to help. I’d also like the sourdough today…”

“...and some treats for Jake. I guessed as much, so I have it all packed up for you, ready to go. I know you have a busy schedule, and I see your pup is waiting anxiously outside.”

“Thank you, Albert.”

“When you get a chance, let me know what you think of these new pastries. You have my number, so you can text over a review. And mum’s the word—these are still experiments, so they’re for your lips only.” He taps a finger to his lips to emphasize the point.

I don’t quite know what to say to this. Is he flirting with me? He always flirts with me…and maybe that’s why I keep coming back. It’s so nice, for these few short minutes, to feel like I’m worth the flirting.

“Thank you, Albert,” I say again. I want to say a lot more. I love your pastries. Your beard looks nice today. Yes, I’d love to have a latte with you and hear about your trip to Vermont. But I don’t say anything more, since they always get excited with that much talking.

“My pleasure, Orion, and you really must start calling me Bertie. All my friends do. It’s not hard to remember: Bertie Barber bakes beautiful bread.”

All those lip-puckering Bs! My deformities would love that, but I don’t dare. It’s hard enough to keep them in check as is, in normal conversation.

“Thank you, Bertie,” I say, and sure enough, they start to tingle, so it’s time to leave…quickly. “I’m looking forward to trying your new pastry.”

With this, I flee to the door before they make an unwelcome appearance.

Jake is waiting patiently on the sidewalk.

This is no surprise, because we’ve been coming here since he was a puppy, and he fully understands what a visit to Albert’s bakery means.

I fish out one of the treats and he accepts it with grace, or rather, barely resists taking my hand off at the wrist. He’s such a good doggy.

I can’t keep my deformities at bay for another second, so I duck into the driveway three doors down (like always) and slip on my mask.

I’m careful now, after that run-in with the crowd at the bus stop, and always find somewhere sheltered to mask up.

I don’t blame the people who gave me nasty looks—putting on a mask after leaving the bakery looks suspicious, and I should have been more careful.

But Albert—Bertie—likes my beard, so it’s worth the risk of exposing my deformities.

No, call them what they are: my tentacles.

He’s bound to notice them someday, but not today.

For now, I still have a friend who thinks I’m handsome.

They’re much happier after I get the mask situated.

As always, I feel vaguely guilty about the mask, hidden in plain sight, since the pandemic has been over for years.

Masking is a rarity, so I must stand out in a crowd, even though I’m trying to hide.

It was so much easier during the pandemic when I blended in with all the other masked people.

With that thought, I feel truly ashamed of my selfishness.

The pandemic was a tragedy, not something to make my life easier.

I reach up, pretending to reposition the mask, letting my tentacles extend and relax, finding a comfortable position.

I breathe a quick sigh of relief—they’re happy now that they’re not tucked uncomfortably under my chin, masquerading as a normal beard.

If only I had a normal beard, like Albert’s lush beard…

wouldn’t that be wonderful? To walk down the street like a normal person instead of a Cthulhu horror freak?

“Bertie Barber bakes beautiful bread,” I whisper, and just as I expected, my tentacles do a little happy dance.

They like all those Bs. I pretend to reposition my mask again, so nobody will see them trying to escape.

I think Albert does it on purpose—all those Bs do magical things with his lips and his bushy brown beard.

“Bushy brown beard,” I say. “Bertie Barber’s bushy brown beard is bodacious.”

I have to laugh at myself for this foolishness, and my tentacles coil and roil right along with me, safely hidden from sight.

Getting home, they allow me only enough time to give Jake another treat and let him out into the backyard. I settle at my chipped Formica table and give them what they want.

Albert packaged three of his new pastries (three!) in a small pink box for me. This is such a special treat. I scold my greedy tentacles: just one for now, and we’re going to eat it slowly, savor it, so no grabbing.

My mustache tentacles dance over the top of the confection, caressing the clear glaze.

Sweet, smooth, buttery, with just a hint of, what, cardamom?

My lower tentacles explore the bottom, teasing their way through the flaky layers and crunching through the hard caramelization.

Side tentacles follow inside, finding a smoky burnt butter depth and just a hint of the bitter taste of rye flour.

The texture is light, exciting the tips as they explore through the layers.

“My god, Orion, could you put those away? I don’t think I can face them this early in the morning.”

Enzo is in the doorway in his boxers, and he’s a sight to behold.

Dark and swarthy, with inky black chest hair that pulls my eye, as it always does, to his inviting treasure trail.

He’s not a morning person, even though it’s nearly 10:00 AM, and his hair is a mussed mess, but somehow that makes him even more enticing.

My tentacles, suddenly distracted from the pastry, yearn to travel that trail again.

I take a quick bite from the pastry and set it down, then fold my creepy deformities back into their public-friendly positions, tucked out of sight.

“Those look tasty,” he says, taking one of the pastries from the box. “Is there coffee?” he asks between bites.

“I’ll get it started,” I say. My boyfriend always has the best ideas. Coffee will contrast perfectly with the delicate pastry: hot and bitter against light, sweet, and flaky layers. My tentacles try to dance at the thought, but I keep them tightly leashed.

As the coffee machine is pumping away, he snags the last pastry. I walk over and grab the remains of mine and slip it back into the box, closing it up for later. One will be plenty to give Albert his review.

I ask, “May I get you some breakfast?” He often forgets to eat when he immerses himself in his work, so I do my best to keep him fed.

“Fine, but it needs to be quick. Gotta get to a rehearsal, and I still need to shower.”

“I’ll make you something you can take along. Go get cleaned up.”

I’ve done this many times, so it all goes like clockwork. Two generous slices of the fresh sourdough, lightly toasted, egg, prosciutto, some arugula, and a mild aioli (nothing too spicy this early). Just how he likes it.

He emerges from the bedroom as I’m filling up his travel coffee mug, looking like a sex god wet-dream-come-true. Even though he’s only wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, he makes it look like he’s just stepped off the runway.

On his way to the door, he says, “Remember, you have your appointment this afternoon. Like we discussed.”

“Of course. I cleared out my schedule.”

“Send me a text when you get some answers. I’ll be rehearsing all day, then I’m out with the guys this evening, so I’ll be late.”

When I have the place to myself, I retrieve the rest of my pastry, make myself a coffee, and settle down at my graphics suite.

The deadline for designing the GenSystems annual report is staring me in the face, and I need to finish my holiday card and send it to my client list and family, but I’m determined to squeeze in a few minutes to start some decorations.

Christmas is rapidly approaching, and I want to put up the tree this year before the season slips away.

Mom always had ours up weeks before this, and some holiday spirit is just what Enzo needs to take his mind off his busy rehearsal schedule.

I let my tentacles break off another piece of the pastry, sitting back to enjoy the sensation.

They love the textures and there’s so much to explore—layers to tease apart, leading to tender buttery crevasses and hard burnt sugar.

Would these pastries be good for our Christmas dinner?

This will be my first holiday celebration with Enzo, so I want everything to be perfect.

Maybe not…they seem more like a breakfast treat, not a formal dessert.

I’ll probably fall back to my standby: one of Albert’s bourbon pecan pies. Can’t go wrong with that!

Which reminds me, I need to get a headcount from Enzo. He’s been vague about how many of his friends are joining us, if any. They all know about my deformities, but they may not want to deal with them during their holiday celebration.

But that will all have to wait—there’s work to do before decorating, and a doctor’s appointment, and a walk in the park.

I feed the last piece of pastry to Jake. He’s such a good boy and I value his opinion, so I ask, “What do you think, buddy? Is it a winner?”