Chapter 9 Summer
SUMMER
“You know, when Mercer told me we would be allowing another business to operate out of the patisserie for the foreseeable future, I thought— finally . He has made such a monumentally dumb decision, he is a lost cause. I can quit and leave him to this mess with a pure conscience.”
Mercer had told me his sous chef, Camille, had attended the same pastry school in France as him and graduated the year after he did. He’d hired her at his very first New York pop-up, and she had helped him open all his other stores since.
He failed to tell me she didn’t stand for any of his shit and was an absolute delight.
“Tell me how you really feel, Camille,” Mercer deadpanned.
Camille ignored him. Ten feet of personality in a five-foot-one package honed in on me. I braced for impact.
Instead, her expression went sly beneath her blunt-cut bangs.
“But now I have met you. And it all makes sense,” she said serenely.
“I told you I had no choice!” Mercer insisted.
Camille blocked his view of me like a tiny, frightening eclipse. “Did he have a choice, Summer?”
“Yes. I specifically told him he didn’t have to do this.” I was certain she could detect lies so it was better to tell the truth.
Mercer was rubbing his temples, no doubt questioning his life choices.
Camille looped her arm through mine. “Well, you are here now. Let me find you a space to work and we can look at the production schedule together.”
“I can do that,” Mercer cut in.
“ You .” Camille wielded her index finger like a rapier. “Have done enough.”
I was led away with the strength of a team of horses.
“I pay your salary!” Mercer called after her.
“You should also pay my therapy bill!”
The rest of Mercer’s staff was lovely. All Starlight Grove locals—like Graham, who was fresh out of high school, and Inez, wanting something flexible after having a baby last year.
They wore crisp uniforms in L’étoile’s signature blue and made me question whether I should’ve thought about uniforms for Suns Out.
I smoothed the creases from my linen apron.
Didn’t really make much sense when it was just Alvin and me and I had to manage my budget carefully.
But gosh, it did make them look more professional.
Camille was making careful notes of when I would need the oven, slotting it into their existing spreadsheet. Even though she had seemed fine enough with the situation to tease Mercer about it, I still wanted her to like me.
“I’m sorry that I’ve made more work for you,” I said quietly, out of earshot of everyone else.
Camille studied me shrewdly. “How long was your bakery open before the accident?”
“Less than three months.”
She tsked sympathetically, her concerned smile reminding me a lot of my sister. “Barely got started, didn’t you? This business can be rough, and we need to look out for each other. Chin up. Your time here will be a blip on the horizon.”
Shit. I was supposed to keep to myself, put my head down, and work. Not cry. I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat and continued listing out all of my baking times and temperatures.
“Also, sorry if my singing in the morning has been too loud for the staff,” I said sheepishly.
Camille’s nose scrunched in confusion. “What singing? Once all the equipment here gets going, I can barely hear myself think.”
Fascinating insight. I carefully filed that away in case I ever needed leverage against Mercer.
My game plan today was prep, playing catch-up after yesterday, and getting my bearings in the new space.
The countertop oven I used to prepare my meats was thankfully unaffected, and Camille had made space for it near my station.
I already knew I wouldn’t be offering my full menu and was intimidated by the thought of competing with Mercer’s delicate pastries.
Every single caramelized, candied, crisp detail shone with technique.
I stuck on my headphones and got to work. Marinating my pork and chicken. Julienning carrots and daikon before pickling them in vinegar and sugar. I was conscious of cleaning down my countertop thoroughly and labeling everything clearly in the fridge.
I could sense Mercer watching me. Like one might observe a new pet in their home, not wanting to spook it. But when I moved on to the sweets, I didn’t want the attention.
“Mercer, if you want to steal my proprietary secrets, just ask,” I called out tartly.
“I’m not—”
He came over to my little corner of the kitchen. By now Camille had gone home and the remaining staff members were all front of house.
“I’ve never seen pandan prepared before.”
I was in the middle of straining blended pandan leaves through a muslin cloth. The jar beneath slowly filled with a deep herbaceous liquid as I squeezed.
“I have to order the leaves through a specialty supplier, but I prefer making the extract myself.” I added some to my cake batter so Mercer could see it turn a rich, warm green. “See? The artificial stuff doesn’t come out like this.”
“I bet.” Mercer nudged the bowl. “Let me try some when you finish.”
I didn’t know if I was ready for him to judge my food yet. Little ol’ self-taught me next to Mercer and his years of training. “Do I get to try anything of yours?” I deflected.
Bewilderment crossed his face. He swept his hand outward. “Take anything you want.”
“Anything?” I said archly.
“Of course,” he said impatiently. “Chefs try each other’s food all the time. That’s the fun part.”
The realization that he saw me as a colleague—an equal —floored me. How could that possibly be? Opening my bakery still didn’t feel real, yet here he was, acting like it was what I was supposed to be doing all along.
“Here.” Mercer plucked a cloudlike choux pastry off a tray and tore it in half.
He dolloped on Chantilly cream and balanced a couple of strawberry slices on top before holding it out to me.
I eyed it like an uneven game of Jenga for a while before giving up trying to take it from him.
His eyes widened as I ate it right out of his hand.
“Mmm…ohmygod.” It was somehow light and delicate yet rich and undeniably moreish at the same time. But nowhere near as addictive as seeing Mercer’s reaction. That breath hitch and inky black expansion of his pupils.
“That’s dangerous.”
“What is?” Mercer rasped.
“Saying I can taste whatever I want in here.”
I gazed at him through lowered lashes as I carefully swiped cream from the corner of my lips and sucked it off my fingertip.
My hormones were in the driver’s seat, and I liked seeing him squirm. Sue me.
But Mercer didn’t squirm. All he did was lean back against the counter next to me.
That easy, familiar smile. His chef whites were the only refined thing about him, barely containing his chest and shoulders.
Scruff bursting at the seams. Hair that wouldn’t lay flat, a dusting of freckles strewn along his skin, stubble he would swear he’d shaved that morning.
His eyes flickered with humor, sparks in a rolling storm.
“It would have to be an even exchange,” he mused.
Now I was the one struggling to form words. “What do you mean?”
I was woozy from the cocktail of his salt-rimmed, citrus-squeezed scent. I thought beta scents weren’t meant to be strong? It was right between his brothers yet entirely his own. I caught a whispered hint of basil like a secret.
A turn of his head brought his lips close to my ear.
“If you’re tasting mine, then I’m tasting yours.”
I lost all rational thought. Fixated instead on calculating the distance between his lips and mine. How many sharp, shallow breaths it would take to close the—
“Summer,” Graham called from the front. “There are people here asking for you.”
Mercer smirked and walked off, leaving me fighting for air in the vacuum he’d left behind. I’d misjudged him, thinking I could run circles around him without realizing he could do the same to me.
I checked my wavy reflection in the metallic sheen of the fridge—red and sweaty enough to look like I’d run a marathon, perfect—and made my way out of the kitchen.
“Dì Dì!”
Fwomp . Winnie threw herself at my leg with all her might.
“Today I climbed really high and then went on a big slide,” she informed me.
“Did you? I’m so jealous. I had to work.” I blew a big raspberry, and Winnie squealed with laughter.
Má was right behind, still wearing her giant neon-yellow visor to protect herself from the sun.
Mabel was plonked in her stroller, doing her utmost to eat her entire foot.
I eyed the two shopping bags Má had tucked over one arm.
My parents were distressed over not being able to take me in so she was probably about to give me a whole bunch of things they thought I needed.
“Summer. I have some things for you.”
See?
“What is it?” I took the bags from her, making sure not to bump Winnie’s head. There were several take-out boxes, a hand-picked selection from the veggie garden, and for some reason, a box of laundry powder. “Má, I can take care of myself, you know. You should save some for you and Ba.”
She pushed it back toward me. I should’ve remembered it was pointless to fight. “Whatever you don’t eat today, put in the fridge,” she instructed, as if she thought I would gorge myself on five dinners in one afternoon. “You can freeze the soup,” she added.
“And the laundry powder?”
“It was on sale.”
Obviously she had to get me some. I bet Lina got a box, too.
My mom clutched her handbag a little tighter, shifting her weight hesitantly.
I was pretty sure I knew what she was going to ask me.
Ever since Lina became a mom, helping my parents navigate paperwork fell to me.
They had done their best to learn when they immigrated here, but conversational spoken English and formal, written English were two completely different skills.
I know they tried, but we had fallen into this pattern growing up and it just… stuck.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself I needed to be patient with her.
“What is it?” I prompted.
A letter emerged from her bag. It was folded several times and crinkled. I wondered how long it had sat there until she’d finally gathered the nerve to ask. “We got this from the bank,” she said apologetically, not meeting my eyes.
I scanned it quickly. “You don’t have to do anything, Má. They’re updating their privacy policy and they have to let customers know.”
“Cam on, con,” she thanked me gratefully, taking back the envelope.
“Here.” I lifted Winnie onto my hip and headed over to an empty table. “Why don’t you sit down with the girls and I’ll bring you something to snack on.” I’m sure Mercer would be fine with me stealing a couple of pastries. He had so many.
I extricated myself from Winnie’s grasp with a double pinky promise I would be right back. I was surprised to find that Mercer already had a selection on a plate waiting for me.
“Go sit with them. Get off your feet and take a break.”
“But—”
He nudged the cinnamon swirl cruffin. “Your niece will like this one.”
My heart was more than a little wobbly as I took the plate over and sat down with my family.