Chapter Sixteen
I returned to Chez Margot just before it opened the next morning, dressed in dark pants and comfortable shoes, much like what the other employees wore in the kitchen. I coiled my hair into a tight bun and chose a basic white collared shirt. Simple. Classic. Professional.
Lucas spotted me outside as he unlocked the door. He wore a similar outfit to my own, but his hair was mussed and damp. “Punctual,” he said. “I like that.”
“I hope you’ll also like this,” I said, passing a bakery box into his hands.
He stepped aside to let me in, and I inhaled the clean scent of his shampoo and bodywash as I passed.
The restaurant was still and sleepy, the space quiet and dim.
“What is this?” he asked. He carried the box to the welcome desk and lifted the lid. “The Invisible Baker,” he said, reading the business card taped inside.
“I thought about what you said and placed an order,” I lied.
After thinking it over for most of the night, I’d decided maintaining my anonymity was the best course of action.
I feared Robert would demand a portion of my wages if he knew the Invisible Baker LLC existed, or he’d start an online smear campaign to ruin it.
Maybe both. I wouldn’t put anything past him, and we’d start mediation soon.
Plus, I didn’t want to mess up my new job offer by asking for more than the job he’d offered me.
First I’d prove myself to Lucas and become an integral part of his team.
Then I’d confess that I was the Invisible Baker and see what happened.
If he didn’t want me to continue baking for the display case, there was a chance I’d get enough new business from the exposure to keep the company going in my spare time.
And if I was being honest, I wasn’t ready to come out of my box just yet.
The Invisible Baker was mine, and only mine, and no one could touch it.
The company had been a life raft when I desperately needed one and became a beacon of hope for me.
Telling anyone who didn’t already know felt like poking a needle into my favorite balloon.
“I love pain au chocolat,” he said, lifting a pastry for inspection. “For me?”
“For you,” I agreed.
He bit into the flaky dough without hesitation. His eyelids fluttered closed, dark lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. “Magnifique.”
I felt his compliment in my chest and fought the urge to thank him.
He offered the box to me, brows high.
“No, thank you.” I’d had two with my morning coffee before packing his box.
“All right.” He finished the pastry, then stowed the box beneath the counter. “To the kitchen. Right side goes in,” he said, holding the door so it couldn’t swing. “Left side is out. Always enter on the right.”
“Got it.”
“Tell me more about the Invisible Baker,” he said. We moved to the workstation where we’d prepped the soufflé. “I didn’t make it to the website last night.”
I pursed my lips, considering my words. “According to their posts, the company bakes, anonymously, for people who want to impress others with their baking but don’t actually want to bake, or don’t have the time to.”
He laughed, and the sound came from somewhere deep in his core. “Very clever. How did you get the pastries? A storefront?”
“They deliver,” I said.
I realized belatedly that I was the delivery person.
“The pain au chocolat was incredible. If their other products are of equal quality, I’d be remiss not to ask for a quote.”
I smiled and Lucas echoed my expression.
“With a little luck, we’ll be the talk of the town this fall.”
I hooked an apron over my head, unsure what he meant. “What’s happening this fall?”
“I’m making changes,” he said. “I want Chez Margot to be a casual bistro by day, and something more upscale and decadent at night. Black tie, refined menu, reservations only. The whole nine yards. First, I have to build clout so people will come.”
“Those are big plans,” I agreed. “The people will come, and it will be amazing.”
He appraised me. “Let’s hope. The dream begins with my new pastry chef. Decadence is all about the dessert.”
“Oh, jeez.” I laughed. “So, no pressure, then.”
“None at all.” He moved a clipboard from a hook on the wall to the counter.
A list of prep steps was centered on the top page in bold.
“First this,” he said, tapping a fingertip to the print.
“Then this.” He fanned through the sheets of recipes.
“The breakfast crowd is leisurely, except those on the hunt for coffee and sweets. They grab and go. The lunch crowd is always in a hurry. They dine in, then take desserts to go, sometimes by the dozens. So, every morning we bake in bulk. Make sense?”
“Got it.”
Together, we prepped a half dozen pans of chouquettes, then lined them up for their turn in the ovens.
Around us, the kitchen slowly came to life. Lucas introduced me to each staff member as they arrived to begin their day. All were friendly. All were curious. I was an awkward mess. I was out of my element. They were at ease and clearly a family.
I did my best to concentrate on my work and look more confident than I felt.
I failed, comically, and often. Jumping at the loud clang of pots and pans.
Shivering at the scrape of metal spatulas on hot grills.
The sharp chop! of knives on cutting boards didn’t help my anxiety, but I locked in on the tasks before me, and I persevered.
Soon the sweat on my brow made its way toward my eyes, and I paused to wipe the drops away.
I plucked and fanned the material of my shirt, attempting to circulate the steamy kitchen air.
A dozen voices morphed together as cooks and waitstaff interacted with one another, each hustling to keep up with demand.
People zipped past my workstation in all directions as I pulled soufflés from the oven with shaky hands and a prayer.
The frantic pace of the lunch rush frayed my nerves. I’d never worked so steadily or for so long without a break. At home I had endless pleasant distractions, coffee and water breaks, doorbells and phone calls. In the kitchen of Chez Margot, there were only more orders.
“Time!” someone called. “Time!”
I looked up from my mixer to see a cook pointing frantically at the oven beside me. My timer featured a series of red digital zeros. “My soufflé!”
I abandoned the mixer and yanked open the door with a towel in my grip.
A dark curl of heat rose from the dessert’s puffy top, and panic washed through me.
“Don’t be burned. Don’t be burned,” I chanted, reaching for the tray.
The tips of my fingers met with the rack in my haste, and I screamed as a perfectly rounded soufflé top sank like an overbrowned puddle.
“Damnit!” I yelled, frustrated as I jerked away.
“Behind!” someone called, but it was too late.
I stepped backward into an incoming server. The young woman screamed and the tray in her hands went flying.
Our calamity rang through the kitchen, reverberating from the floor to rafters.
Meat bits and jus splattered over the tile and up our pant legs.
My ears rang, and my heart pounded. “I am so sorry,” I gasped. “I burned my fingers, and I didn’t mean to—”
The look on her face brought tears of humiliation to my eyes, but instead of accepting my apology, she walked back through the swinging doors.
I hurried after her. “I’m sorry!” I repeated.
“Whoa!” Lucas’s voice reached my ears before he crossed the threshold to the kitchen. “What’s happening and how can I help?”
The door swung sharply inward and connected with my face.
The force knocked me backward and rattled my brain. Shock and pain radiated through me, but words wouldn’t form.
“Hey!” Lucas steadied me with a grip on my forearms. Then he pulled me against him as hot tears rolled over my cheeks. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
I wrestled free and ran.
I passed the server I’d collided with on my way to the ladies’ room. She pushed a mop and bucket on wheels toward the crash site, but all I could think about was escape.
I dragged my shirtsleeve under each eye, struggling to pull myself together as I locked the restroom door. I couldn’t afford to lose this job on day one. I liked working here and being a part of something bigger.
I hated that my instinct was always to hide.
Two soft thuds rattled the door a few moments later. “Sophie?” Lucas asked. “Are you okay?”
Leave me alone to die of humiliation, I thought dramatically, but I pulled myself together and unlocked the door.
Lucas held out a pile of clothing.
“What is that?”
“A uniform,” he said. “I should have offered it when you got here. Then your clothes wouldn’t be ruined right now.”
My clothes? Who cared about those when I’d upturned someone’s meal and flattened someone else’s dessert?
“How’s your burn?” he asked.
I followed his gaze to my hand. I’d nearly forgotten about my throbbing fingers. “Fine.”
His smile was small and sad. “Why don’t you change, then I’ll treat the burn? It won’t take long, and I think you’ll feel better in fresh clothes.”
I looked down at myself, stained with mashed potatoes and meat sauce. “Okay.”
When I opened the door again, I found Lucas waiting outside.
He peeled himself away from the wall and gave me a thorough once-over. “Better.”
My eyes were red and swollen from crying, but I nodded.
Lucas led me to a small employee lounge with a metal table, chairs, and a kitchenette. He opened a cabinet and removed a first aid kit.
I sat at the table and waited.
My neck and shoulders ached with tension.
If Robert were here, he’d lose his shit and berate me for my lack of attention to detail.
For not hearing the oven’s timer, for not putting the oven mitt on properly, for backing into someone who was doing their job correctly, and for not using the swinging door in the way I was clearly instructed.
On top of all that, I’d let my emotion get the best of me and left someone else to clean up my mess.
And I’d gotten hurt to boot.