A Bunny for Easter
Chapter One
Easter
“ U hm…I’m here about the…the position. For the holiday help?”
For fuck’s sake. What was supposed to be an easy task—hiring some extra help in preparation for Easter—has turned out to be a full-time shit show. Just my luck. I guess I just have to buckle up and work extra-long hours the weeks before the holidays. Yeah, well, it isn’t exactly like I have places to be or people to see, anyway. Might as well just work myself into an early grave like my mum predicted.
‘You’ll work yourself into an early grave, Easter. When are you going to find a nice young girl and settle down?’
Cut to ten years later and I’m still single; no nice young girl—or boy, actually—in sight. My small business in rural Kent, which I started from scratch ten years ago, has become my only accomplishment in life, to my mum’s eternal regret since she always envisioned a wife and kids for me. Even now, when I’ve reached the ripe old age of thirty-four, she won’t let it go.
“Sorry. The position’s been filled,” I groan, brushing at the permanent fuck my life frown between my eyebrows. I swear, I wasn’t born this way—this people-loathing , I guess you could call it. I think I used to be a happy kid and a somewhat agreeable teenager. I mean, I used to have friends, right? Boyfriends even.
‘You’re such a self-entitled prick, East. You’re just so…argh! Fuck it! Fuck you, East! It’s like talking to a wall. There’s just…nothing!’ Yeah, well, maybe not. Maybe if I were to go by my latest in an endless row of failed relationships, I really just am an arse, plain and simple. At least, there wasn’t the slightest trace of doubt in my ex-boyfriend Jude’s eyes just before he slammed the door behind him. Prick. Yep, might as well just call a spade a spade, right?
“Oh…o-kay,” a frail voice drifts through my small chocolate shop, East of Eden . Yeah, I know, pretentious much? But you might as well go big or go home, right? The young man in front of me shifts on his feet, his gaze drifting to the shelves behind me as he squeezes a crumpled piece of paper between his fingers compulsively. Bollocks, he looks like he’s going to tip over at any second. Great, just what I need! Some… kid fainting in my shop when I’m already so far behind on my orders. The phone’s been ringing on-off for most of the morning, one retail store after another asking when they can expect their delivery. Let me just check for you, madam… Ah yes, in the month of never in the year 2000 and a fat chance.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snap, my voice reaching a new level of pissed off with a generous dash of unfriendliness that’s harsh even for me.
“Uhm…do you…?” he mumbles, his flickering gaze coasting along the half-finished Easter display in the front window, a string of pastel-coloured Easter eggs looking sad and lonely against the grey sky. A few rays of frail sunlight reveal how the nasty spring weather has left its mark on the glass, reminding me I really ought to call my window guy, Steve. Only, after that awkward hand job in the storage room last time he was here, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. I don’t think I can face Steve the Squealer again anytime soon.
“What do you mean?” the kid near-whispers, the puzzled softness of his voice tugging at something inside of me that has lain dormant for a decade or two.
“You look like you’re about to have a seizure or something,” I sigh, that blasting headache starting to show its face again.
“Oh, no sir, I’m just…” he pauses, turning his head in my direction, a pair of pale greyish-brown eyes connecting with mine. His curious stare tracks my hand as I rub it against that pounding spot in my forehead, right between my brows. Small beads of perspiration dot his forehead like tiny crystals, strands of damp chocolate-brown hair stick to his temples, and his cheeks painted a crimson red. He looks like he’s run a fucking marathon in the desert at high noon. “Do you think I could have a glass of water before I leave, please?” He swallows audibly before licking his dry lips. “It’s warmer outside than I thought and…” he drifts off, scrunching his nose, his eyes lingering on something on the wooden counter. “Is that…” he sucks in a clipped breath, an expression of awe on his face, light flashing through his unique eyes, his eyelashes fluttering in… ecstasy? “Are those porcelana ?” He points a slim, pale finger at the bowl of cocoa beans displayed on the counter, his voice vibrating with a misplaced excitement that, for some reason, goes straight to my balls.
“Yes. How do you…?” I look at him, stupefied that this… kid … would know a cocoa bean from a kidney bean, let alone recognise one of the best cocoa beans in the world. I get them directly from the farmer, Juan, in a small village in Northern Venezuela—a place I’ve visited numerous times over the years. I don’t want to rely on any middlemen. If you want the best quality, you have to go directly to the source. Twelve years in this business, first as the youngest chief chocolatier ever at the Lanesborough in London, and then on my own, have taught me that, amongst other things. Besides, this way Juan gets all the profit. “How do you know they’re porcelana?” I counter, failing to hide the hint of admiration in my voice. Could be he’s just name dropping for all I know. The young man looks at me timidly, a trace of guardedness in his eyes.
“Uhm…it’s the colouring and the…the structure, sir.” He wets his bottom lip, the tip of his pink tongue sweeping along its plumpness as he takes a careful step towards the counter. As he steps into the sparse light from the window, his flowy hair becomes alive, the richest, most chocolatey brown I’ve ever seen, with flecks of auburn in it, shimmering in the sunlight. For some reason, I gulp, my stomach doing a weird twirl. Nodding at the bowl, he murmurs, “Sir, may I?” I nod slowly, curious where this is going. For all I know, he could’ve read on my website that most of my chocolate is made from the exclusive porcelana bean .
Reaching the counter, he leans in over the bowl and inhales deeply, closing his eyes in the process, his eyelashes fluttering like the wings of tiny brown wrens. His nostrils flare briefly, a near inaudible sigh leaving his lips. “Sandalwood,” he whispers, and I instinctively lean in closer to catch his words. “Just a hint of tobacco,” he mutters to himself, scrunching his button nose, a few scattered freckles dancing across the ridge. “And…” he hesitates, the air positively sizzling with anticipation, “patchouli. ”
Patchouli. Never in a million years have I considered the word patchouli, its elusive meaning escaping me every time I’ve tried to describe the scent of this treasured bean. Sandalwood, yes. Tobacco, of course. But patchouli? Never has my mind gone in that direction, but there it is. As clear as fucking day, spoken by a… a kid , like it’s the best-known truth in the world, when to me, it’s a goddamn epiphany. Pat-fucking-chouli. Hallelujah.
“Patchouli,” I repeat lamely, completely blindsided at ten-ish on a Tuesday morning on my own turf.
“Patchouli,” he breathes, opening his eyes and brushing his index finger along the edge of the cream-coloured bowl. “Porcelain for porcelana ,” he blinks at me and the seductive way that his tongue wraps around the letter P sends fire racing down my thighs, licking at my skin. Holy fucking fudge filling. “It… fits ,” he concludes, leaning up again. It fits. The words echo through my chest, accompanied by the frantic thump, thump, thump of my heart. “Thank you for your time, sir,” he interrupts my thoughts, looking at me as if I somehow hold the answer to every question he’s ever had. And I have… nothing . Absolutely nothing. My mind has gone entirely blank. It. Fits. “I’ve already taken up more than enough of your valuable time.”
As he turns towards the door, his slim shoulder briefly brushes against my chest, and I’m awoken from my stupor like someone’s just poked me with a stun gun. Like an idiot, I blink my eyes a couple of times before nodding at the paper that he’s still clutching furiously in his right hand, his knuckles white.
“Let me see that,” I blurt gruffly, nodding at the paper. He freezes on the spot, looking down at his hand as if it isn’t even a part of him, his eyes mirroring confusion .
“But…I thought…” he gasps, his eyelids blinking rapidly.
“Call it a momentary lapse of… something ,” I murmur, my voice softening just a tad as I brush my fingers along the wrinkled paper, taking it from his hand. Turning towards the counter, I gesture at him to follow me, and he trails after me reluctantly. Smoothing the paper out against the plain surface of the dark cherrywood counter, I take in the handwritten lines in front of me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a handwritten CV, a simple pencil, such a foreign concept to this generation of TikTokkers and digital delinquents. There’s something delicate—endearing even—about the slope of the individual letters, an almost juvenile dedication in every syllable. In places, the pencil has almost pinched a hole in the paper as if he has used excessive force—or passion perhaps—writing the CV. Fuck. Me.
Benjamin B. Sable it says at the top of the paper, the B slightly tilted as if his hand slipped writing it. My cock throbs and I just manage to suppress a whine of what I’m sure would have been pitiful at best.
“Sable?” I repeat aloud, feeling his soft breath against my chin. In my newfound appreciation of good penmanship, I hadn’t realised that he’s come to a stop unbelievably close to me, leaning in over my shoulder, observant of my every move and action.
“Yes,” he nods eagerly, a rebellious brown curl bouncing against his forehead. This close, I notice his coat is worn to the point of threadbare and someone has attempted to repair it in places with rough, irregular stitches. It feels wrong somehow, perhaps even a mockery, that someone this pretty—because Benjamin B. Sable is very pretty, no doubt about it—should wear something this old and worn. “Like the rabbit, sir,” he continues, completely oblivious as to what he’s doing to me with that recurring sir .
“The rabbit?” Sweet baby Jesus in a chocolate fountain.
“Yes, the rabbit breed. Sable.” Fuck, the way he pronounces the word. So breathy and… sultry, almost. There’s a strange seductiveness about his voice that entirely contradicts the plain innocence of his appearance. His beige cable-knit sweater peeks from behind his coat and equally worn grey woollen pants. His sensible brown leather boots. His light lavender scarf, wrapped neatly around his slender neck, is the only thing adding a hint of colour to his attire. As his lips curl into a pout at the end, a strained rumble grows in my throat, and I quickly disguise it with a small cough.
“Of course,” I sigh, shaking my head. I continue reading, painfully aware of the proximity of this Benjamin B. Sable person. “What does the B stand for?” I feign indifference when, really, I’m dying to know. Like my future happiness depends solely on that B and what it means.
“I…I don’t know,” he squeaks, shifting next to me.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I ask, my patience wearing thin, that tempting breath of his coasting across my chin, making my body recall all sorts of long-forgotten sensations. Standing this close, I’m painfully aware of the delicate slope of his chin and the pink hue to the tip of his right earlobe, the pink starting to bleed further down his neck. I did that. I made him blush. A ridiculous, immature sense of pride courses through me, and I quickly collect myself.
“No one ever told me, sir,” he states matter-of-factly. “And I never asked.” He shrugs, his gaze downcast as if he’s almost waiting for me to disapprove of him or tease him about it. An unfamiliar feeling of unrest rises inside me. For some reason, I suddenly feel angry, and I don’t know why or at whom. I’m just angry. No one ever told me. Shit. I continue reading, trying to focus on the words in front of me.
Date of Birth: April 15th, 2001.
“You’re an Easter baby,” I blurt, my mouth going all rogue on me. Easter baby? For the love of God, pull yourself together, East.
“Yes,” he nods. “Easter Sunday, sir,” he adds, his voice quivering. “It was quite… inconvenient …” he trails off, avoiding my stare.
“Inconvenient?” I repeat brusquely. I really am an old arsehole.
“Yes,” he nods solemnly. “I shouldn’t have come around until after the holidays,” he says. “So, as you see, quite inconvenient, sir.” He articulates every syllable carefully, almost as if they carry some sort of special meaning to him. Perhaps they do. I just feel increasingly angrier, my fingers threatening to tear his CV apart. Inconvenient. How can a child be fucking inconvenient? That’s a load of bollocks. Unexpected houseguests are inconvenient. A fucking blizzard or a delayed train, yes. But a child? Although I don’t have nor do I particularly want some of my own, I am, however, of the firm belief that you should only acquire a child if you truly desire one. Taking a deep breath to stave off the anger that’s slowly but steadily turning into wrath of biblical proportions, I read on, the letters dancing in front of me.
Skills and Qualifications:
1. Easter specialist
2. Vast knowledge of cocoa beans
3. Online Master Class completed in tempering chocolate
4. Extensive knowledge of fillings and decorating techniques …
Jesus fucking Christ, why am I even contemplating this? This… inconvenient kid, this Benjamin-I-don’t-know-what-the-B-stands-for has disaster-waiting-to-happen written all over him. He may as well have a big fat NO! stamped on his forehead. And yet, I find myself carefully folding the paper together, placing it in the front pocket of my charcoal linen apron, and speaking the words I would least expect, “So, Benjamin B. Sable, when can you start?”