17. Serena
Serena
“Dazzling,” the man next to me says, a tiny chocolate tart held in his plump hands. “Simply dazzling.”
I hope, for Ryan’s sake, this man is a reporter or food journalist and not just an interested fan. Dazzling is definitely what Ryan was going for.
The new bakery he’s opening is jewel-themed.
The ceiling is studded with a million tiny diamonds—which I hope are fake—and the pastries are all arranged in a case like fine jewelry, resting atop food-safe pillows.
When you approach the counter to purchase one, the attendants talk you through your options, hold them up to the light, and let you examine the shine before buying.
“We all know about engagement rings,” Ryan says from the front of the bakery, grinning widely in that slightly lopsided way of his, “but what about birthday croissants? Anniversary tarts? With Perle, we hope to introduce you to a new way to celebrate the special moments. A handcrafted bakery item to add to those days you never want to forget.”
I have to hand it to him—every item on the menu is lavish.
Every drink is rich and tasty, the lattes topped with a thick foam and dusted with some sort of thick edible glitter that makes them shine in the light.
The décor is impeccable, and the employees are all standing at attention with white gloves.
Maybe some of the critics here today will come away from the experience with words like gimmick and tacky. But, if that were me, just seeing the genuine joy on Ryan’s face would change my mind.
I capture everything. The joy of trying one of the pastries for the first time. The expression on a guest’s face when they cross the threshold into the space, their faces lifting up to take in the ceiling before they gasp.
Even though this place is super fancy, I have to admit I like Eorna more. Earthy, earnest. Here, everything feels as if it were placed with a pair of tweezers.
A few hours into the grand opening, I’m entranced by the windows outside the bakery.
Rather than just looking out into the street, the windows themselves act as a sort of terrarium for rare flowers.
The noise of the room falls away as I take in the rare blooms and read the descriptions.
A coral flower with yellow fringes, named the porcelain rose, a tropical flower with a waxy bloom. It’s dramatic, gorgeous.
Then, an orange firework pincushion with a hundred tiny feelers reaching out. The plaque tells me each petal is actually an individual flower.
There’s one that looks like a shell, or a made bed. Scooping and odd, I can’t stop myself from lining up the shot. Jade vine from the Philippines, a brilliant turquoise mirrored in the color of a pastry inside. Bleeding hearts—which I have seen before—but just as beautiful to me as the others.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Oh—shit,” I stand up, heart racing, bumping into Ryan, who laughs and steadies me at the elbow. “I’m getting lots of good shots, I just?—”
“I know,” he says, his eyes sparking when I look up and into them. The expression on his face flutters in my chest, then sinks down into my stomach. “Send me the flower pictures, too, please.”
Jesus.
When I say nothing, Ryan holds out a sample to me. “Thought you might like a taste.”
The thought is sweet, and I take the sample of croissant rubis in a tiny, crystal cup.
The flavor unfurls in my mouth like one of those compact sponges that say just add water.
It’s every red berry I’ve ever had in my life, something deep, something fresh and sumptuous at once.
I thought I’d had a croissant before this. Turns out, I was wrong.
Ryan’s smile spreads over his entire face, and it’s better than the pastry. “You like it.”
My mouth is still watering when I frown at him and lower my voice, “Now I’m going to be hooked on this stuff. And it’s probably like, fifty bucks a pastry.”
He’s clearly surprised, but recovers quickly. “For you?” he’s flirting again, leaning in, tucking a stray strand of hair over my ear. “It’s always on the house.”
“Huh.” It’s all I can manage in response to that.
“Let me buy you a drink after this.” He jerks his chin toward the door, and I nod before I fully realize what I’m doing.
Ryan walks away, melting back into the crowd, and I raise my camera to take a photo of him just before the moment he disappears.
“Welcome to Chez Ryan, where all your dreams will certainly come true.”
“Really?” I ask, tilting my head and peeking around him, into the first room—which is, of course, a huge kitchen. “Are the northern lights in here?”
Ryan’s smile doesn’t falter. “Is that your dream? To see the northern lights? We can certainly make that happen.”
Following his lead, I kick off my shoes by the door, feeling suddenly vulnerable in my socks. For the shoot, I wore a pair of plaid slacks and a black blouse. My socks are black, too, and I’m glad he can’t see the tiny hole on the bottom of the left foot.
Maybe I should use some of the money from these big jobs to invest in new socks.
“It’s one of them.” I shoot a sly smile at him and follow him into the kitchen.
The lights flicker to life automatically when we enter, and I roll my eyes at the show.
When I stop awkwardly at the threshold, he comes close, placing his hands on my shoulders and steering me to a stool along the breakfast bar.
“You’ll sit here,” he says, as he pulls his hands away and rounds the breakfast bar into the kitchen. “I’ll make you a drink, and you can tell me about all those other dreams.”
“Why, are you in the market for some?” I raise an eyebrow and set my camera on the counter next to me, within reach. My hand itches to rest on it, but I tuck them both in my lap so I don’t look like a protective freak.
“What?” Ryan laughs, turning around, unloading ingredients from the fridge onto the counter. “I’m already living my dream, baby. This is everything I ever wanted.”
That baby should not flutter through me like it does.
Not for the first time today, I think of Travis. Then I think of him leaving me in that hotel room, leaving the country. Maybe it wasn’t just to put space between us, but it sure feels that way.
I’m just saying—this obviously isn’t serious, Serena. We can’t… date.
We can’t date. It’s not serious. I need to get that through my thick head.
Travis is probably off wherever he is right now, enjoying a different woman in his hotel bed. There’s no reason I should feel bad about having some fun, too. It’s not like I belong to him. And he certainly doesn’t belong to me.
“What are you thinking about?” Ryan prompts, and I clear my throat, shaking my head, not wanting to talk about Travis. It might be good to get the man out of my head.
“I’m hoping that has nothing to do with the drink you’re making me,” I say, nodding at the eggs he’s dropped next to a pound of butter. Every ingredient he produces looks like he’s just plucked it from a farmer’s stand, unlabeled and impossibly fresh.
“Oh, no,” he chuckles, sliding the flour and milk to the side. “That is for the dream. This is the drink.”
For the next five minutes, Ryan tells me about his foray into functional mocktails as he crushes berries and brews chamomile. “My best friend is really into health stuff, but he doesn’t care about flavor. I really don’t understand it.”
“Like, the kind of guy who forces down a kale smoothie in the morning?” I laugh when I ask the question, but internally curse the fact that I’m back to thinking about Travis.
“Exactly,” Ryan mutters, shaking his head and glancing up at me. “It’s like—newsflash. Things can be tasty and good for you at the same time.”
I accept the drink and turn it side to side, examining how the foam floats at the top and how a single blueberry, impaled on a fancy toothpick, makes it look chic.
Without fully realizing what I’m doing, I’ve pulled my camera out. Standing, I line up a shot of the drink with the Manhattan skyline in the background. When I surface from the pull of the viewfinder, Ryan is wiping the counter and giving me a strange, soft look.
“Don’t smile,” I joke, acting on instinct to harden the moment. “I’m charging you for that.”
He laughs, and I could easily become addicted to the sound.