Chapter Nine
Lily
I t’s been three days since Graham told me—challenged me, rather—to bring a plus-one to Sparrow and Rafe’s wedding. My stomach is in knots. I’ve eaten two croissants this morning and five macarons but drank only one cup of coffee. In short, I’m clearly ill. Even my “pain of chocolate” apron (a snarky spin on pain au chocolat) isn’t motivating me to work.
I don’t want to ask anyone to go with me to the wedding. I don’t need anyone. They’re my best friends, for crying out loud. I’m irritated by his challenge and irate that I’ll have to see him with someone else. While we satiated the wild children in this town by handing out chocolate bunnies, I thought for a moment that we might be able to work side by side. Surely, we could form a type of truce, if you will. But his challenge has completely wiped me of any hope for reconciliation. He clearly wants us to move on. He’s probably trying to get me to go out with someone else so that I drop my crusade to run him out of town. I should’ve expected it, prepared for it .
Wrist-deep in my last batch of pains au chocolat for the day, I’m taking all my frustration out on this dough, and I know it. My apron is plastered with chocolate from the day’s work, accompanied by sugar and flour smeared across it as well. While I’m typically covered in chocolate, spring is the time I’m bathed in it. At Christmas, there’s an uptick, but it’s just the prelude to the season. From Christmas onward, I spend hours and hours making chocolate hearts, boxes, and roses. Then, I’m hit with Easter and spring wedding orders. Plus, ever since I was a teenager, I have made chocolate treats to give to some of my favorite people in town. At Easter, I’ll usually donate a bunch of my handmade creations to surrounding homes and pretend that the Easter Bunny brought them.
After everything that happened with Graham during my brief stint in LA, you’d think I would be a little opposed to chocolate, but I crave it even more now. Graham used to watch me practice melting and making decadent chocolate creations in his gorgeous LA kitchen. He’d sit on a stool and watch me, a comforting presence, even if he was working on a case. Though we’ve been apart a long time, there have been moments when I’m melting chocolate, and I can almost hear his steady encouragement. Now, the scent of warm chocolate unlocks memories of laughter and love. If I loved chocolate before, he made me love it more. And I think, in my mind, I’ve been trying to transport my way back to those moments ever since.
Hence, why I’ve been spending even more time locked away in the bakery’s kitchen, making every chocolate delight I’ve ever learned—except for the one I’ve pretended hasn’t existed for the past couple of years. No matter how much I longed to recreate it again, I wouldn’t let myself. Now, at Sparrow’s request, today is the day I have to put my emotions aside and try to convince myself it’s “just cake,” even though, to me, it’s anything but.
Despite how much I work with it, the running joke is that chocolate hates me. I must admit, it does seem that way. But I don’t let it win (except when it does). I have a huge passion for utilizing the potential of chocolate to create the most delectable baked goods and sweets possible. I may not have ended up traveling around the world, making things out of chocolate, but I’m doing my darndest to be the greatest chocolatier Birch Borough has ever heard of. I expect my mastery of the chocolate arts to take me years, but I’ve already invested so much. Leaning into my passion is what this town, Sparrow’s family legacy, and, quite frankly, I deserve.
The swinging door whines. I look up to find Sparrow standing just inside the doorway with a flush on her cheeks—and not the kind she has when she’s seen Rafe.
“Um . . . Graham is here,” she says quietly, as if she didn’t just gut me with this announcement.
I’m still not used to him coming into the bakery. It’s enough to deal with him in town, let alone having to see him in my space too. This is my chocolate cave, and I am the clever troll who guards its entrance. Despite my internal protests, though, in some small and hidden way, I want him to witness this special part of my life that he missed by not being part of it. He has been in possession of every other area of my heart before now. Might as well let him see this part too, on his farewell tour.
“Send him back here,” I finally manage to say .
“Are you going to be nice?”
I barely hold back the roll of my eyes and focus intently on whisking chocolate and cream for a silky-smooth ganache. I made and frosted a cake earlier this morning. I have been waiting until this moment to pour the final drips of chocolate goodness over the top as the finishing touch.
After the heavy cream and chocolate melt together in a pan on the stove, I stir and stir. My thoughts swirl like the mixture coming together before me. This ganache has to be the best one I’ve ever made. It just has to be. With a final flick of my wrist, I shut off the stove and set the pot on the industrial counter to cool before turning back to Sparrow.
“I’m not going to commit a crime. Don’t worry. I like Rafe too much for that. Plus, can you imagine me in a jumpsuit? No, thank you.” I give her a grin, but my heart isn’t in it. Instead, I’m thinking of all the ways I’m going to attempt to hide Graham’s effect on me and still avoid touching him. I’m thinking of how my heart and my hope are about to collide because of a cake. My “famous” chocolate cake, which is waiting in the blast chiller behind me for its final cascade of rich ganache.
And before you question whether it’s worthy of the title, trust me, it is. I came up with this recipe when I was a teenager. Sparrow has asked me to make and sell them in the shop, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it quite yet. Making this monumental cake when I feel like it is one thing; having to make it on the regular is another. I want it to be special and something people look forward to seeing when I can’t resist the urge to make it.
There aren’t many things I can confidently make on my own without the recipes Sparrow’s parents left behind, but my chocolate cake is one of them. Sparrow insists this is the cake she wants to serve at her wedding. She doesn’t want a fancy cake made by a stranger or even another bakery in town. She has been determined from the beginning to have her wedding cake made by me. And because I’ll do anything for her, I agreed.
“I just want today to be a happy day.” My friend looks at me with expectation written across her face.
“I’ll attempt to behave. Scout’s honor.” I smirk in her direction.
“You were never a scout, Lils.”
I grab a stray piece of chocolate and chuck it in her direction without a word. Sparrow simply laughs and ducks as the flying candy whizzes past her head.
Today, Graham is under the impression that he is just here for a cake tasting. It’s a common enough duty when you’re part of a wedding, albeit it is a little strange for the best man to tag along. Rafe hasn’t ever experienced my cake yet, so Sparrow and I asked him to stop by and taste it to make sure he’s on board. Since she is so nice, the bride-to-be invited Graham too. Little does she know he’s already tasted it.
Over two years ago, I made it for him. When he took the first bite, I thought he was going to cry. He was in love with it. I’m not sure if it was the chocolatey goodness or that we were so lost in each other, but I haven’t been able to make the cake since. I remember too clearly the smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, a hint sticking to his upper lip in a way that should be illegal. I remember his eyes widening and then closing when I told him I made it from scratch. And I remember the way he bit his lip before asking if he could have more.
At that time, we had been seeing each other for about a week when I decided to make my famous chocolate cake to impress him. Looking back, I recognize it as a sign from early on that I would dream of being with him for the rest of my life. Some men might have been intimidated by such a gesture. Graham, however, was immediately smitten.
Sparrow doesn’t realize what asking me to make this cake again means. Graham doesn’t know what he’s walking into today. If there’s any trace left of the man who used to watch me practice my chocolate-tempering skill, telling me that I melted him too, then I know the memories will hit him. The good ones. Memories you want to live in and still miss because they are so beautiful. I just hope I haven’t done so much harm that they’ve been wiped away too.
“Where’s Rafe?” I continue, noticing that I don’t hear his laugh or the strumming of a guitar anywhere—the usual signs of his presence.
“He’s on his way,” Sparrow replies with a lovesick smile.
It’s a good thing she is distracted by love. I’m praying neither Rafe nor Sparrow notice how trapped I feel from the choice I made. I’d give anything to be back in Graham’s LA kitchen just to experience those days again. Sparrow disappears through the swinging door and is back within seconds, no doubt with Graham in tow.
I hear him before I see him. The timbre of his voice carries through the air and hits me right in the heart, like my ribs are a dartboard, and my heart is the bullseye.
“Thanks, Sparrow. I haven’t been back here yet.”
Refusing to turn around, I keep busy washing dishes, doing my best to ignore the scent of his cologne creeping into my space. It mixes with the aromas of chocolate and melted butter and is enough to make anyone swoon on the spot. I grit my teeth and keep scrubbing.
“Lily.”
I hear Graham’s voice behind me. I know he nodded in my direction like the gentleman he is. But I can’t look at him yet. Not when I know what’s coming. “George,” I reply sharply.
Sparrow launches into small talk, and they discuss Liam’s newest video of his cat, which has already gotten over 1.5 million views on social media. They chatter about how Rafe is feeling since he is heading to Nashville next week to co-write with a well-known French singer who is trying to break into the music industry in the US.
In my peripheral vision, I follow Graham as he walks toward me and sets a to-go beverage cup on the counter. I turn my head a little to see what it says, and my heart flips over in my chest. The side of the cup reads: “Vanilla Chai—Almond Milk—Lily.”
He remembered.
It takes a superhuman effort to will myself to keep my emotions in check. Did the man I secretly still love not only bring me something but my-favorite-warm-drink kind of something? I barely manage to get out a squeaky, “Thank you.”
Graham nods in acknowledgment, never breaking the flow of his conversation with Sparrow. Seeing him with my friend in our kitchen makes me want to curl up like a cat by a warm fire and purr with contentment before the reality of how far Graham and I are from where we started sets in. Knowing I must move to keep the emotion at bay, I walk to the other side of the work area.
I sense Graham tracking my movements as I pull out the cake from the blast chiller and gingerly bring it toward them. Despite how many times I’ve rehearsed this scene in my mind all morning (hence, the many apologies I made to the croissant dough), my hands are trembling. I set it on the counter in front of them, focusing on every detail of the frosting, the cake board, the tick of the clock in the corner, and wait for the moment he recognizes what I’ve made.
“Absolutely. I know this will be good for him . . .” He pauses and stares at the cake. “Is that what I think it is?” The force of his question proves that any previous attempts I’ve made to put a chink in his armor have boomeranged back to me.
“It’s chocolate cake.” My voice is small and distant.
“Your chocolate cake?” he asks, a hint of something in his voice I haven’t heard since those moments in his LA kitchen.
“Yes, I made it.”
Sparrow clears her throat to stop me from staring, and I remember I must stir the ganache or pour it before it cools too much. I manage to hold the saucepan steady, willing my hands to stop shaking as the melted goodness coats the cake and drips down the sides in the most satisfying way.
Nobody says a word. I know Graham and I are silently somewhere else right now. We’re caught up in countless unspoken memories. When I sneak a glance in his direction, he gives me a resolute nod. I may try to put up a good front, and I may be an expert at holding my ground, but from the beginning, Graham has always been able to see me to my core .
Sparrow has every right to ask for this cake, yet briefly, I almost apologize for taking us back to the moment I first made it for him. It was a good one. He ate a generous slice of cake, and then we shared a kiss so intense it would melt glaciers. He tasted of chocolate and a hint of the latte he sipped while enjoying it. He tasted of mocha and . . . Graham. To be honest, that is the most potent and visceral memory of them all. It was then he told me he loved me for the first time. And I knew that he meant it.
I clear my throat and watch the ganache set as it meets the coolness of the air and the cake.
“Rory, would you do the honors?” I turn to Sparrow. I don’t trust myself to hold out a serving knife without my nerves revealing themselves, so I nod toward the utensil, grabbing some of our pastry bags to use as makeshift cake plates.
She cuts into the layers, making a sound of delight as the cake proves to be soft inside, the buttercream and freshly poured ganache stretching a bit and swirling with the cake crumbs. I absolutely hate the M word when it comes to describing cakes, so I can’t even think of it, but if any cake matches the word, this one is it. It’s so soft and fudgy inside that it shines.
Graham takes a fork from the pile on the counter and stretches his neck side to side like he’s about to go to war and not dig into a baked good.
Sparrow is already two bites in, her eyes wide with appreciation, and I can’t help but laugh. The joy of her delight overtakes some of the pain that pulses through my fingers from clenching them so tightly.
“You really want this as your wedding cake?” I ask her. I still can’t believe, out of every single French patisserie item and baked good we could make, this is what she wants.
“One thousand percent. No question. This is it.” Her mouth is still full of cake as she nods enthusiastically. She’s almost done with her piece, while Graham has yet to take a bite.
“And do you want cupcakes, small cakes, or a big one to cut into?” I’m speaking way too quickly, and Sparrow catches it, her eyebrows rising as she looks between Graham and me. I don’t slow down, continuing without pause. “I’m going to make you a small one too, and I’ll frost it with vanilla meringue icing so it looks like a wedding cake. You can keep it for your first anniversary and cut into it . . .” Finally, I trail off.
“Yes, all the things. Yes.”
I flash a genuine grin before allowing myself to look at Graham. He is still staring at the cake like it personally offends him. I think, in a way, it does.
“Oh, Graham—I’m so sorry. Do you not like chocolate?” Sparrow asks.
He lifts his head, a polite smile creeping over his lips.
“Oh gosh, are you allergic? I didn’t even ask!” she continues, and I’m just waiting to see what he’ll admit to in this conversation.
“No, and no,” he replies. His eyes lift slowly from the slice of cake, trailing over the counter and up, up, up, until they laser into my own. “I love it.”
Heat crawls up my neck from the admission and, no doubt, from the reference to our shared memory. I don’t know whether to give myself an award for knowing him this well or to cry at the smoldering gaze he is serving me. Even though I know it’s against his will, it is mixed with enough tension and heat that I could’ve baked this cake without an oven.
The bell over the front door rings. Sparrow rushes through the swinging doors to greet whoever just stepped in, leaving Graham and me to each other.
“Do you remember?” he asks as soon as it’s just us.
I nod.
“And you made it anyway?”
“Sparrow asked me to.”
He clears his throat lightly and looks toward the counters full of chocolate-covered pots and utensils.
“It was a challenge to bring myself to do it,” I admit because I can’t seem to ever fully shut him out.
“I love a good challenge,” he says with a hint of authority in his voice that grips my attention. He leans over the counter toward me for the last part of the sentence, close enough that the edges of his beard brush against my cheek before he straightens back to his side. Graham has several inches on me, even when I wear high wedges, so I know his move is on purpose. And I remember, on one of our last nights together in LA, when I confessed feeling like a challenge to most people, leaning in close and murmuring sweet things in my ear as his beard brushed my cheek had been his response. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but can’t find my voice.
With an intensity only he can pull off as effortless, he scoops up a huge bite of cake and slowly puts it into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with me. My stomach swoops low, and my lungs constrict when I spot it—the same dab of chocolate that once graced the edge of his perfect mouth is there again. Chocolate from the same cake that got me a declaration of love the first time he tasted it. And he’s not moving to wipe it off.
“What is it?” Graham says with a deep, gravelly tone in his voice that I shouldn’t like so much. “Something on my face?” Instead of using a napkin, he has the audacity to stare at me while he brushes the back of his hand across the side of his mouth. It does nothing but smear the chocolate, though he even pulls his lips with his teeth to ensure he got it all. I can’t speak. The man who knows how to use every single piece of silverware on a fancy table and has a whole drawer full of pocket squares (he told me once) just used his hand instead of a napkin, and darn it, if it’s not one of the most attractive things I’ve seen him do. One point: Graham.
“Hallmark Hot G!”
I glance away from Graham quickly, torn by wanting to continue watching him eat but also grateful for the interruption. Rafe rushes in, calling out the ridiculous nickname he has given Graham, a huge smile on his face and his fingers entwined with Sparrow’s. Someone once thought Graham could be in a Hallmark movie as the lead (he totally could), and Rafe won’t let him hear the end of it. Frankly, I find the nickname downright delightful. And even though my heartbeat still feels like it’s ricocheting throughout my body, it’s for reasons like this that the Frenchman has worked his way into my heart as a dear friend. He’s just kooky enough to keep up with me.
Sparrow follows behind her fiancé, free hand over her lips, telling me that they must’ve snuck a kiss before they made their appearance.
“Yes! I can’t wait to try this!” Rafe yells, a forkful of cake appearing in his hand. The man has a sweet tooth that is at my level. His taste is more to just eat all the things instead of ninety-nine percent chocolate, which is my ratio.
“ Ouais, ouais, ouais ,” Rafe says, and I can’t help but laugh. The word sounds like “way” but is the French equivalent of “yeah” in English. And darn it again, if Rafe doesn’t keep doing things to make me like him while also making me grateful for the hint of levity he adds to the moment.
“C’mon, darling.” Sparrow nestles under his shoulder. His arm wraps around her effortlessly while he continues to shovel cake into his mouth.
“So. Good,” Rafe murmurs.
“Yes, I know.” Sparrow laughs and gives me a wink. “This is the cake!”
I smile and try to be happy. I get to make a wedding cake for my best friends, and it should have me over the moon. Instead, all I can focus on is the feeling of Graham looking at me, a faint smear of chocolate still near his top lip, and the way I hear him say, “It certainly is.”