Chapter 6 Enter Nana
Enter Nana
Hazel
When crafted from a Swiss meringue buttercream, an elderflower petal tended to protest. The delicate curve wanted to collapse under its own weight.
The ruffled edge threatened to smooth itself into mediocrity if I so much as breathed wrong.
It required patience, a steady hand, and absolute concentration.
I had none of these things.
“Focus, Hazel,” I muttered. A delicate petal emerged from my piping bag. It was pale yellow, architecturally sound, delicate enough to survive until Saturday’s wedding.
Except I didn’t want to cook for weddings. I wanted to cook for Barnaby, and I wanted to see Brok again.
My piping hand trembled. The next petal came out slightly lopsided. Damn it!
“Stop,” I told myself firmly. I scraped off the petal with my offset spatula and started again, forcing my attention back where it belonged.
My cheeks felt warm. I blamed the ovens, even though they weren’t on.
I needed to get it together. This was unprofessional. Brok was a client. Well, his brother was a client. Brok was just the large, intense, impossibly gentle…
Oh for heaven’s sake!
The bell above the door chimed, snapping me out of my fugue. It was a single, precise ding. Authoritative. Expensive. Ominous. If I didn’t squirt buttercream all over my carefully crafted cake, it was because I knew that sound all too well.
I looked up, already knowing my day was about to get worse. I was right.
Standing in the doorway was a woman who had just stepped out of a Vogue editorial specifically about aggressively wealthy grandmothers.
She wore a Chanel tweed suit that probably cost more than my delivery van.
Her hat featured an entire fruit basket, yet somehow managed to look chic.
When she pulled off her designer sunglasses, my stomach dropped.
“Nana.” I set down my piping bag and forced myself to smile. “What a surprise.”
“Is it?” Nana Beatrice swept into my shop, her heels clicking against the tiles. Suddenly my warm, vanilla-scented bakery smelled like her signature perfume, something French and expensive. “Surely, you must have known I’d visit.”
I’d known no such thing, but maybe I should have. After all, she dropped by whenever she damn well pleased. I’d just forgotten, too lost in my whirlwind… whatever I had going on with Brok.
Behind Nana trailed Hunter, her current ‘Personal Assistant’.
He had the jawline of a Greek statue and carried four shopping bags from boutiques I couldn’t afford to walk past. His polo shirt stretched across his chest. His smile suggested he’d never experienced an anxious thought in his entire life. Or possibly no thought at all.
He waved at me. I waved back, feeling increasingly ridiculous.
Nana cleared her throat, and I obediently turned toward her. “Dear, you look busy.” Her eyes swept over me, taking in the organized chaos in my kitchen. “Should I come back later?”
There was only one good answer to that. “Of course not, Nana. You’re always welcome here. You know that.”
She was. Mostly. She’d practically raised me after my parents had decided to dedicate their lives to a whirlwind trip around the world. But even after all this time, I had problems with her… quirks.
Before our conversation could escalate into unwanted territory, a high-pitched yip echoed from the bag on her arm. A small Pomeranian emerged from inside and tossed her head, as if trying to shake off sleep.
Fifi weighed less than one of my sourdough boules and had a better grooming regimen than I did.
Her fur looked professionally blow-dried.
She had the attitude of a tiny, furry dictator, but always slept through Nana’s shopping sprees.
To cater to her whims, Nana had ordered a custom purse that was less a handbag and more a carry-on nest.
It was excessive, but Fifi didn’t seem to mind being taken along on shopping trips with her owner. So what did I know?
“Hello, Fifi.” I petted the already excited dog and smiled. “It’s nice to see you too.”
Fifi licked my hand, then gave me an expectant look. I seized the excuse to move, escaping around the counter to reach for the jar on the lower shelf. Inside were hand-dried strips of duck breast that I made myself. “Here you go, you little tyrant.”
I offered Fifi the duck, and she took it gently, her tiny teeth barely grazing my fingers. Nana huffed under her breath. She might dislike my business, but never when it involved feeding her dogs.
“So what brings you by, Nana?” I asked as Fifi finished her last duck strip. “I’m in the middle of a wedding commission. The bride wants sixty individual desserts, and I’m behind schedule.”
Nana’s gaze swept over my work surface—the half-finished cake, the organized chaos of piping bags and spatulas. “How ambitious of her.” She picked up one of my business cards from the holder, examined it as if checking for typos, then set it back down. “I’m here about the Gala.”
I barely managed not to flinch. “The Gala? It’s now?”
Nana adjusted her hat and narrowed her eyes at me. Never a good sign. “Two weeks from Sunday. You remember. I chair the event every year. This year we’re adding the baking competition. I expect you to attend. And compete.”
“Nana, I really can’t,” I tried to protest. “Sundays are my prep days. I have three birthday cakes due that Monday—”
“You’ll make time.” Nana inspected a tray of macarons through the display case glass. “This is for the Foundation, Hazel. Besides, Mr. Gray specifically asked if you’d be there.”
Oh, God. This was exactly what I’d been worried about when she’d come in. “Gray? I’m sorry, who is that?”
“That’s right. Ignatius Gray.” Nana’s entire face brightened. “He’s an attorney. Senior Partner at Gray & Associates. He’s been absolutely invaluable to the Foundation. Sharp as a tack. Runs marathons. Excellent teeth.”
“Teeth?” I repeated. Was this one of her standards in men nowadays?
“Strong jaw. Good genes.” She beamed as if what she’d just said made complete sense. “More importantly, he tasted your cooking and seemed impressed. I mentioned him to you, and well…”
Oh, Nana. No. “Please don’t tell me you’re matchmaking again.”
“I’m not matchmaking.” She adjusted her bag on her arm, making Fifi throw her a disgruntled look. “I’m simply facilitating an opportunity for two successful professionals to meet at a charitable event. What happens after that is entirely organic.”
“The last guy you ‘facilitated’ tried to sell me cryptocurrency during appetizers.” And that was only one of the many issues I’d had with him.
“Derek was forward-thinking.”
“He had charts, Nana. Laminated charts.”
“Ignatius is different,” Nana insisted. “He’s cultured. Successful. Established. The kind of man who knows what he wants. And apparently, he wants to meet the chocolatier who charmed his taste buds.”
I grabbed a kitchen towel and started wiping down the already-clean counter. “That’s nice, but—”
“You need to get out of this kitchen occasionally.” Nana’s voice took on that particular tone—the one that meant she was building to her main point. “You’re always working, darling. Always hiding behind your mixers and your ovens. Getting too… comfortable.”
She reached out and poked my hip. The touch was light. Quick. But the meaning landed heavy.
“I’m not hiding.” The words came out sharper than I meant them to. I threw the towel into the laundry bin and turned to face her directly, not bothering to hide the anger in my stance. “I’m working. This is my business. My career. And I’m perfectly happy with my weight, Nana.”
“I didn’t say weight.” Her eyebrows rose with practiced innocence. “I said comfortable. But since you brought it up yourself…”
She let the sentence hang there between us.
I grabbed my piping bag from the counter and squeezed it once, pretending to test consistency. The buttercream didn’t need testing. My hands needed something to strangle that wasn’t my grandmother. “What about it?”
“Ignatius is very fit.” Nana adjusted one of her rings, the diamond catching the light. “Disciplined. He runs marathons, as I mentioned. Five of them last year alone. Perhaps spending time with someone so focused on health and vitality could be… inspiring.”
I squeezed the piping bag harder. A blob of buttercream oozed onto the parchment paper like my self-control leaking out. “I don’t need inspiration.”
“Of course not, darling.” She stepped closer, her perfume intensifying. “But still, it wouldn’t hurt. The Gala is in two weeks. It’s just one morning. Hunter is making his signature punch. You’ll meet someone interested in you. Is that so terrible?”
Yes, I thought. But before I could say it out loud, the door flew open with such violence that the bell screamed. The hinges protested. A gust of cold air swept through my shop, ruffling the display napkins.
Barnaby burst in. Pulling his hoodie over his head, he moved with the frantic energy of a man fleeing a crime scene. Or possibly his own execution.
“Hazel!” He dove behind my carefully arranged display of macarons without slowing down. “Is he coming? Tell me he’s not coming!”
Nana blinked slowly. She turned to stare at Barnaby as if she’d just discovered a raccoon in her rose garden. “Who is that?”
Hunter leaned over the counter, his face lighting up with fascination. “Is he a spy?”
Barnaby ignored them both. “I can’t face him! Not today! Not after what I did!” His stage whisper carried across the entire shop and probably into the street.
I stepped around the counter, moving carefully in the suddenly-too-small space. “Barnaby? What are you talking about?” He and Brok had reached an agreement. Surely, he wasn’t terrorizing poor Barnaby again.
“He appears unwell.” Nana took a deliberate step backward, putting her closer to Hunter and farther from Barnaby. “Hazel, really. Your clientele has become remarkably… eclectic.”