Cookies & Kisses (Once Upon a RomCom)

1. Madeleine

Madeleine

There’s nothing better than the smell of freshly baked cookies.

Scratch that.

There’s nothing better than a gorgeous man carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies. Ones that he’s made with his own two hands.

Mason Bond, the man with the cookies, sets the tray down on the counter and looks me up and down with his intense, deep brown eyes. His chocolate brown hair flops over his forehead as he assesses me.

I wonder if he smells like chocolate, too. But I don’t think sniffing my potential boss is a good way to start off this job interview.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

I clutch my sparkly pink recipe notebook a little tighter. “Uh, yes. I’m Madeleine?” Why did I ask it as a question? Probably because I’m so thrown by his confusion. Bring on the confidence, Madeleine. Pull it together. “I’m here for the interview.”

He shakes his head slightly. “What interview?”

I swallow hard. What in the world? “Um, the bakery assistant position? I was contacted by…” I pull out my phone and double check the email. “Monica Bond.”

He grunts. “Please wait a moment.” He stomps through the swinging door that separates the front of the bakery from the kitchen.

I take a moment to gather myself and recover from whatever just happened there, looking around the bakery he created called Cookies. That’s it, just Cookies. Not super creative. Maybe if I get the job, I can convince him that he needs a catchier name.

I peer through the glass display cases at the intricate cookie creations. Sugar cookies, macarons and macaroons, chocolate chip cookies, butter cookies, and even my namesake—Madeleines. Just looking at them makes my mouth water.

I straighten and walk around the lobby, assessing the minimalist decor. A couple of mirrors line the mint green walls, and I take advantage to check my appearance: my makeup is still bright around my blue eyes, my blonde hair still curled neatly over my shoulders, and my blouse and skirt look professional.

”I told you I don’t need an assistant!“ Mason’s voice sounds loudly from the kitchen, and I have to wince.

Well, this is embarrassing.

“I’m not drowning,” he continues. “Things are picking up. That’s a good thing.”

He waits a moment, and I realize he’s on a phone call, listening to the other person on the line. “Well, I would have liked some kind of heads up about this.” Another pause, this time a little longer. “You did?” Another pause. “Okay, fine. I see the email now. I guess you did.”

After a few more words that I can’t hear clearly, he reemerges. I’m struck again by how handsome he is, but his demeanor is so unwelcoming. “Looks like my mom is the one who set up the interview,” he says to me, but he won’t meet my eyes. He runs his hand through his hair, and I swear the scent of chocolate comes wafting toward me. “I don’t really need an assistant though, you understand? But I’m going through with this interview to make her happy.”

I don’t know what to say. As uncomfortable as I feel right now, I need to get my foot in the door. And this bakery is the best place to start. There aren’t a million other bakeries to choose from—Brookhaven is one of the smallest towns in California, let alone the United States– and my parents said there are only two other bakeries in town. One specializes in bread and has been running smoothly for the last twenty years; the other specializes in wedding cakes and cupcakes and is owned by twin sisters who are ultra-exclusive. This is my one opportunity, and I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers.

So I nod. “Sure, I understand.” Even though I don’t.

He sighs, then lifts up the countertop so I can come back into the kitchen with him. “I have an office back here where we can conduct the interview.”

I follow him through the door to the kitchen, admiring the gleaming stainless steel appliances, and breathing in the scent of butter and vanilla. Heaven. Way in the back, I find a tiny office with a tiny desk and two chairs.

“Who’s managing the front?” I ask.

He points to his computer screen. “I have a camera set up here so I can see if someone comes in.” He points to another TV monitor in the kitchen above the counters. “It shows there, too.”

“So…wait. You don’t have anyone who runs the front on a regular basis?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes my mom stops by when it’s really busy, but otherwise I can handle it.”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur. Now I see exactly why his mother contacted me.

He sits in the chair behind the desk and gestures for me to take the seat across from him. I smooth out my skirt and sit down, clutching my recipe notebook in my lap.

“What’s your name again?” he asks.

“Madeleine,” I reply. “Madeleine Sweet.”

He arches a brow. “Seriously?”

I shrug. “It fits.”

He nods and rifles through some papers, finding something else to occupy his attention. “So, why are you even interested in becoming a bakery assistant?”

At least that’s an easy question, and one guaranteed to get him curious about me. “Well, six years ago, after I graduated high school, I moved to New York City and attended the Culinary Academy. I fell in love with pastry and worked at Petit Fours in Manhattan for two years after that. I wanted a change of pace, though, so I moved to Canyon Cove, in Orange County, and spent some time working their high-end events with a bakery there.”

I don’t miss the way his eyebrows raise slightly with each piece of my story. But I especially don’t miss the way he perks up when I mention Canyon Cove.

He sets down the papers and leans in, settling his elbows on the desk. “Did you get to meet anyone famous while you were there?”

“Where, in New York?”

He shakes his head, an eager glint in his eyes. “Canyon Cove.”

I’m surprised by his interest in the small, coastal town in southern California. It’s about four hours south of here, and pretty much only known for one thing—the True Trophy Wives reality TV show. “Uh, yeah. A few.”

“Like who?”

“What, are you a closet Trophy Wives fan?” I ask.

He shrugs, then settles back in his chair, lifting his hands and folding them behind his head. Hello, biceps and forearms. Holy cow. “Maybe.” A sexy smirk dances across his face.

I swallow hard, then remember I’m on a job interview. What was the question again? Celebrities. “Yeah, we did the cake for Ethan and Thea Taylor’s wedding. It was pretty short notice, since they had a quick engagement. But his mom Rhonda was there, and so were Lucas and Amy Carter.” I don’t mention that my best friend is Luna Jones, whose sister, Ivy, fainted on one episode of True Trophy Wives, but he seems impressed enough.

“And why are you here, in Brookhaven?”

“My parents moved here after I graduated from high school.” I smooth my hands over the cover of my notebook, trying to find the balance between oversharing and giving enough information. “They heard about this storybook town and decided it was perfect for them.”

Mason nods, like this isn’t so unusual.

“They had me later in life, so they’re a little older. I wanted to come live with them, so I could spend as much time with them as I possibly could.”

He watches me carefully again, and I try to sit still and keep my composure. I don’t know what he sees, or what he thinks, and he’s not giving me much indication. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I sigh. My one shot at baking in this town, and the interview was a bust. What a disappointing waste of time. “I know, and I’m sorry about the mixup—“

“No,” he says, cutting me off. “I wasn’t expecting someone who was actually so…accomplished. You seem so young.”

I shrug. “I’m twenty-four. And you’re only, what, early thirties?” I know exactly how old he is: thirty-one. I did my research before coming on this interview. But it would be creepy to say that. Just like it would be creepy to say that he smells like chocolate and has the physique of Chris Hemsworth.

“Something like that,” he says. And just like that, the smirk is gone, his hands are back on the desk, and he’s all professional again. “I suppose I could use someone to work the front. But I don’t want anyone messing with my baking.”

I frown. I’m not here to be a receptionist. I want to help in the back, learn what I can from his experience, and maybe show him how much I know. I really want to hone my skills and take my baking to the next level.

Instead, he’s treating me like I have zero baking experience and need to run a cash register for him.

But maybe I can slowly convince him that I’m worth more than that. If I can just bake a couple things for him, or take over small things in the kitchen, then maybe he’ll slowly trust me more.

“Do you accept?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

It’s my turn to study him now. This gorgeous man in front of me is about to be my boss. Is that a good idea?

But what other option do I have?

“I accept, under one condition.”

He raises a brow. “And what is that?”

“I want to work in the kitchen. I don’t want to be stuck in the front, working the cash register like someone who doesn’t know butter from margarine.”

The smirk is back. “And I don’t want some inexperienced baker messing with my recipes.”

“Inexperienced?!” The word flies from my mouth before I can hold it back.

“Just because you worked for a few months making fancy cakes for celebrities doesn’t mean you have the finesse it takes to work here.”

“Oh, really?” I cross my arms and sit back in the chair. “I’ll prove it.”

He blinks a few times. “What does that mean?”

“I can prove that I know what I’m doing. Test me. Do whatever you need to convince yourself that I know how to bake. Because I know that I’m the real deal.”

I can see him clench his jaw, then he nods once and stands up. With one hand extended toward me, he simply says, “Deal.”

I look up at his offered hand, telling myself I’m up for this challenge. I stand up and put my hand in his. Wow. Just this simple touch sends warmth throughout my body. I hope my cheeks aren’t burning as red as they feel. Rein it in, Madeleine! I look him in the eyes, shake his hand once, and say, “Deal.”

It’s on.