5. Madeleine
Madeleine
Mason has been flavor-testing me for a week, and I’m doing just as well as I bragged I would. The first day, I could smell the cayenne pepper in the chocolate drizzle on his orange cookies even before I took a bite. The next day, he put potato chips in his banana bread cookies (I was not a fan). My favorite was the lemon pudding cookies. He was so sure I wouldn’t figure it out, but I knew instantly. You can’t hide pudding flavor.
There’s been a huge shift in the way he interacts with me now, too. I don’t know what got into him that night at the bakery, but I know he was thinking about kissing me. And I wasn’t about to push him away. If that timer hadn’t gone off, I might have initiated a kiss.
He hasn’t tried again, but he pops into the front area at least once an hour, testing me on flavors or asking my opinion on something new. It’s like he actually enjoys being around me now. And his attitude is completely different. Where he was once cold and aloof, now there’s a playfulness that I absolutely adore.
I’m falling.
Hard.
I’m slowly adding little touches here and there around the shop to improve business. I brought in a few sunflowers in mason jars that I’ve set on the windowsills. I even bought some decorative chalkboards and watched a few YouTube videos from Amy Carter’s calligraphy series so I could make cute signs for the daily cookie special. Mason assesses all the little changes, but he doesn’t comment on them. He hasn’t told me to stop, though, and the customers seems to be loving the new decor.
And every evening, we work together in the kitchen. Sometimes we listen to my French music, a habit from working at Petit Fours, and sometimes we listen to his choice, Jim Croce. I’ve worked on Luna’s family cookie recipe and experimented with my own creations that I’ve been imagining for the last few weeks. While we talk occasionally, usually when one of us is waiting for our cookies to bake and cool, other times it’s comfortable, companionable silence.
Last night, I tried out my latest creation: sweet potato cookies with a maple glaze and candied pecans. I wanted something that felt like autumn but was a little different from the stereotypical pumpkin spice. After a couple batches that weren’t quite right, I finally nailed it. Mason was quietly scooping chocolate chip cookies onto a baking tray, and I bounced over, holding one of the warm cookies out to him.
“Try,” I commanded.
He looked over at me, his chocolate brown eyes full of warmth, and took the cookie from my hand. I could feel where his fingers had grazed mine, still alight with fire. He took a big bite of the cookie, his eyes locked on mine, and chewed.
“This is amazing,” he said.
“Right?” I squealed.
“I think these would be perfect to sell here.”
I sucked in a breath. He had never said anything like that to me, never any implications that he considered letting me produce anything to sell. “Really?”
“Really.” He smiled widely, then raised his brows. “We’ll just have to see how the rest of your tests go.”
I rolled my eyes and walked back to my area, but a rush of excitement flowed through me, knowing that he was finally considering my future here.
So this morning, I set my sweet potato cookies out in the display. I didn’t tell Mason, but I’m sure he won’t be upset when someone buys them. After all, he’s the one who gets the money from the sale. I haven’t had any takers yet, but it’s only mid-morning. I’m watering the sunflowers in the windowsill when Mason emerges with another cookie.
“There’s no way you’re going to figure this one out,” he says, his eyes bright with excitement.
I smirk at him and hold out my hand. But instead of giving me the cookie, he comes closer and holds it up for me to take a bite. I’m unsure if that’s what he wants—it seems awfully forward—but the glint in his eyes spurs me on.
I sink my teeth into the chewy goodness, taking an extra moment to lick my lips from the sugar. I don’t miss Mason’s eyes following my mouth’s movements, and for the life of me, I can’t remember why he’s having me try this cookie.
The bell on the front door rings, and in walks Suzette, the breadmaker’s wife. Mason and I jump apart, but we’re too slow.
“Oh! Would you like me to come back another time?” Suzette raises her eyebrows under her mass of blonde curls and smirks at us.
“No, of course not,” I say quickly, wiping the crumbs off my lips. “How can I help you?”
“I want to order some cookies for our annual Autumn festival.” She wanders over to the glass display case, her skirts swishing around her plump frame.
“Champagne,” I whisper to Mason, then head back behind the counter to help Suzette. When I look back at him, he’s still standing by the sunflowers in the window, shaking his head slightly with a soft grin on his face.
“I’m going to stump you one of these days,” he says playfully, then heads back into the kitchen. I can’t help the smile on my face, and Suzette takes notice.
“So, you and Mason, huh?” She asks, straightening and looking me in the eyes.
“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” I say. But I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here, and I don’t think I’m convincing Suzette, either.
“Hmm.” To my relief, she looks back at the cookies, analyzing her options. “I’m not sure if any of these fit with the theme.”
“What’s the theme?” I ask.
“Autumn,” she deadpans.
Well, yeah, I got that.
“Pumpkin is so overdone,” she continues. “I was hoping for something a little more original.”
Yes! This is my chance! “We actually have a new cookie right here. It’s sweet potato with a maple pecan glaze.” While we is technically me , I’m not trying to take the credit for it. It’s Mason’s bakery, after all.
“Oh, that sounds perfect! Can I try one?”
“Of course.” I pull a cookie out and anxiously await her reaction.
She takes a dainty bite, and her eyes widen as she absorbs the flavor. “These are incredible .”
“Thank you.”
She arches a brow. “Are they…yours? I heard you have quite the culinary background.”
“Well…yes, they’re my recipe,” I say slowly. I do deserve some credit, after all.
She finishes the cookie, murmuring all along about how delicious it is, and Mason reappears.
“Hey, Madeleine,” he says with a grin. “Can you check—“
“Oh, Mason,” Suzette interjects. “Madeleine’s cookies are just divine. I’m so glad you brought her on.”
“Madeleine’s cookies?” He asks, looking at me, then back at Suzette, his brow furrowed. The confusion disappears from his face as he controls his expression. “Yes, of course. She’s an incredible baker.”
My heart starts racing. Because I know Mason well enough at this point to read between the lines.
And he’s not happy.
“Do you think you could make two hundred of these for the festival?” she asks.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say. “Let me get you an order form.” I reach under the counter for the forms and catch the faintest glimpse of anger in Mason’s eyes before he storms back into the kitchen.
I hand Suzette the form and give her a pen, then excuse myself and head into the kitchen. Mason is rolling out a batch of sugar cookie dough, and I don’t think it requires that much force.
“Hey,” I say softly. He doesn’t look up. “Is everything okay?”
“Not really.” He keeps rolling.
“I think you can stop now,” I say, edging a little closer. Maybe he needs a little humor. “The dough is a little thin.”
He doesn’t stop. “Is it?”
“Uh, yeah. Unless you’re making sugar cookie crackers.”
“Well, it’s my bakery. If that’s what I wanted, that’s what I could do.” He stops rolling and sets the pin aside, finally looking me in the face. “You put your cookies out there.”
I nod.
“You offered your cookies to Suzette.”
I nod again.
“Don’t you see a problem here?”
I pause, trying to decide how to best handle this. Because, no, I don’t see a problem here. But clearly, he thinks I overstepped some boundaries. I have to balance his ridiculous tests and conditions with the fact that he’s my boss, so I choose my words carefully. “I was just trying to help.”
“ Helping is working the front. Boxing orders. Talking to customers. Not undermining my bakery by selling your own creations.”
“No!” I can’t help myself. As much as I want to be respectful, I won’t sit back and let him make me feel guilty. “ Helping is making a sale, whether that comes from your recipe or mine.”
“I won’t go through this again,” he says, raking his flour-filled hands through his hair. “I won’t lose my bakery.”
“Lose your bakery?” I exclaim. Then I remember that Suzette is still in the front and remind myself to be quieter. “Mason, I want to work with you and for you. I have no ambitions of taking over.”
“That’s what she said, too,” he mutters.
“I’m not Natalie,” I say firmly but quietly. “And I’m sick of being treated this way. All these tests, and for what? Nothing! I set out one of my cookies and secure a giant order, and you’re upset.”
He has the decency to look ashamed, but it’s too little, too late.
“I deserve more than this,” I continue. “I’m a great baker and an honest person.” I take a step toward him, less than a foot of space between us now. “And I thought…there was something between us, too.”
He swallows hard, his breathing shallow.
I don’t wait for him to confirm or deny. I take a step back, gathering myself. “But I can’t be with someone, let alone work with them, if they can’t trust me.”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off.
“I quit.”
“Madeleine—“ he starts to say, but his eyes dart from me to the swinging door.
“All done!” Suzette’s voice rings through the kitchen. “Do I need to—“
“You’re all set,” he says. “I’ll take care of it from here.”
“Wonderful!” Suzette leaves.
I take his last statement as an acknowledgement of my resignation. There’s no reason to stay here anymore. I turn around without another word to Mason. Hot, angry tears start forming behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.
I have no idea what I’m going to do now. All I know is that my future cannot depend on Mason Bond and his ridiculous tests.