Chapter 3
One afternoon, Bea heard voices in the front of the shop, and then the bell ringing as the door closed. She heard Ivy cross to the doorway to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock, Bea guessed it was the last customer of the day, the reliable Mr Marley.
“Ivy,” she called out. “If Mr Marley is gone, close up the…” Bea trailed off.
It wasn’t Ivy in the doorway.
She knew it was him, though she knew nothing of Mr Forrest. He was rather tall, perhaps six feet.
But his thin frame made him look less substantial than he ought to.
His coat hung a bit loosely. His left hand rested on a brass-topped cane, which was not an affectation.
(Among other tidbits of information gleaned from Mr Marley, Ivy had informed her that Mr Forrest had been injured and almost died during the war, and that was before he’d been captured and imprisoned by the British forces.)
But none of that could take away from one central fact. Mr Forrest was gorgeous. His dark hair was worn a bit longer than was fashionable. He was clean shaven, perhaps because there was no reason to hide such an irritatingly perfect jawline. And then his eyes…
He had unfairly beautiful eyes, a shade of brown so light it almost looked like gold. And worse, there was something soulful about them, as if he saw much more than most people. Beatrice didn’t want to think about what he might see in her.
Beatrice swallowed painfully. “Mr Forrest, I presume.”
“Miss Holliday,” the man said.
“I don’t allow customers in my kitchen,” she said finally, alarmed at how fragile her voice sounded.
Ignoring that, he stepped in, looking around with considerable interest. “You work in here alone?”
“Ivy helps, and I hire a girl to clean and wash up. Where is Ivy, by the way?”
“She’s on a short walk, escorted by Mr Marley. Don’t worry, she locked the front door before she left.”
“How reassuring,” Beatrice said dryly.
He was still looking around. “Large kitchen for one person.”
“It’s a business, not a home.” She spoke stiffly, already anticipating…well, she wasn’t sure. But she did not like Mr Forrest being here.
He shifted his attention to her. “You don’t want to speak to me. Why?”
She felt her skin warming uncomfortably as she recalled she had flour on her nose, raspberry preserves on her apron, and that a curl of hair had escaped her cap. “It’s nothing personal.”
“It feels quite personal. Do you think me presumptuous?”
Beatrice retorted, “You did stroll into my kitchen uninvited.”
“Ah, there’s the truth,” he said. But before she could respond, he asked, “Where did you learn to bake?”
“Paris. I worked under several chefs of considerable repute.”
“Why?”
She blinked in confusion. “Why? Because one ought to study under the best possible teachers, and that means one goes to Paris to cook!”
“I meant why did you choose to learn a trade like this?”
Beatrice took a steadying breath, then said in an even voice, “I like good food.”
“Who doesn’t?” His gaze was keen, questioning. “But it seems rather unusual for a lady of your class, isn’t it?”
She frowned, not at all comfortable with the turn in conversation. “I thought no one in the States cared about class,” she said.
“Is that why you came here? To get away from all that?”
“I came here to start a business, a business with which you are currently interfering, Mr Forrest. It would be best if you left now.”
He raised one eyebrow. “You treat all your customers like this?”
“Only the ones who invade my kitchen.”
He lifted one side of his coat away from his body, showing his frame (or as much of his frame as the linen shirt allowed).
“You might not believe it, but I’ve filled out considerably since I first ate your food.
My doctor sends his thanks as well. Nothing he recommended worked. I wanted to thank you personally.”
And by refusing his invitation, she’d made this war hero come all the way to town to do so.
Did she want to lose a customer, a good customer?
What sort of businesswoman was she? She took a steadying breath, then said, “I am reclusive by nature, Mr Forrest. There’s a reason I hired Ivy to work the front while I stay out of sight.
Today must be quite disappointing for you. ”
“I’m not disappointed at all,” he said with an expression that was harder to read. “Though I’ll let you return to your work. What are you making next?”
“I must prepare an order for a party. I have to make the pastries for the cream puffs and then the filling for the raspberry tarts, and after that the maple buttercream to fill the chocolate bonbons.”
“All of that sounds magical, but I like the marzipan best,” he said with the air of confessing a great secret. “That was the first one of yours that I tasted. I couldn’t believe it was real.”
She felt a little glow at the acknowledgment. Her marzipan was very special. “Marzipan is made on Tuesdays.”
“I’ll be sure to order more on Wednesdays, then.” His smile came slowly, but with enough warmth to melt even the iciest demeanor. “What smells so good?” He pointed to a pot on the stove that was nearly bubbling over.
“Ah, that’s lemon curd. I use it in some pastries and cakes.” As she spoke, she reached over to stir the pot, and the thick, silky curd clung to the wooden spoon. “Oh, it’s done. You nearly distracted me, Mr Forrest.”
“And thus nearly ruined the batch? That would have been a hanging crime.”
He sounded so sincere that she couldn’t stop a smile. “Would you like a taste?”
“Please.” His eyes lit up at the prospect.
Beatrice scooped a small portion of the lemon curd onto a bit of vanilla cake that she’d prepared, spreading it over the top with the back of the spoon.
She offered it to Mr Forrest, and as he took it, their fingers touched.
Even that brief contact gave her a strange jolt of pleasure.
Or was that just due to watching him enjoy the taste of lemon and sugar and vanilla swirled together?
His eyes closed as he bit into the treat, and a look that could only be described as bliss spread over his face. He chewed and swallowed, then said, “Marvelous.”
“It is,” she agreed.
“I meant you’re marvelous, Miss Holliday. I could consume that whole pot.”
“You’d make yourself sick!” she said with a laugh. It was nice to hear praise for her work.
“A challenge I’m prepared to accept. I could eat that with anything.”
Beatrice was still laughing. “Don’t be absurd. Lemon wouldn’t pair well with most flavors.”
“I could eat it with anything, Miss Holliday,” he repeated with more intensity in his eyes.
It seemed that in wakening one sense in him, she’d also stirred another.
And worse, she’d woken it in herself too, because she suddenly wanted to indulge in tasting all manner of things she should not… namely, him.
And the way he was sucking the last traces of lemon curd off his finger wasn’t doing anything to calm her down. Just looking at his lips circled around his finger made her want to lick her own lips.
He caught her gaze and stopped in the act, his own eyes widening for moment. He seemed to realize all at once that he wasn’t exactly behaving according to expectations. He pulled his finger out of his mouth, looking abashed. “Sorry. Forgot my manners.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” she replied, thinking of children pressing their faces to the glass of the shop, but also more distant memories of certain men who put pleasure over propriety.
“I didn’t come to steal samples, I promise,” he said, now looking everywhere but at her. “You’ve refused when my secretary asked, so I thought I’d try a more direct plea. Would you come to Northwind?”
Beatrice instantly felt her guard go up. “For what purpose?”
“To cater a Christmas party, of course,” he replied with just enough surprise in his tone to make Beatrice embarrassed that she’d even thought he’d intended some sordid purpose…
such as one that involved a bed, for example.
He went on, “I mean to say, my household staff is competent when it comes to typical dishes, but in terms of fine desserts, their skills are nowhere near yours. When I host something, I want to do it properly. Christmas should be…magical. Like your creations.”
“Oh.” Beatrice felt the shame creeping up her face as she realized that she’d completely misread the man. “Yes. I would do that. Or Ivy would.”
“You. I mean, both of you,” he said immediately. “It would be a large affair.”
“How large?”
“However large it needs to be to require you both to be there.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. Mr Forrest had an answer for everything.
Recalling how she ought to be behaving, she pointed to the doorway and ushered him out into the front of the shop. “This is where customers belong, Mr Forrest. If you hadn’t let your man abscond with Miss Shepherd, I’d have her take down the details of your event so we could plan for it.”
“It was not difficult to get her to go,” Mr Forrest admitted. “And I must say Mr Marley has been quite enthusiastic about buying the chocolates, not complaining once about being sent so often. Miss Shepherd must be the reason.”
“She has certainly made quite sure that the shop remains open until he arrives.” Beatrice sighed. “I suppose I am going to lose her soon, if this courtship continues apace. Young women always have their heads in the clouds when it comes to romance.”
“You don’t approve of romance?”
“Oh, it’s fine for Ivy,” Beatrice clarified, even as she wondered how they’d started talking about catering a party, yet now they were discussing romance. “She’s young and beautiful and she’s meant for marriage.”
“You speak as if you are not.”
“I am neither of those things, sir. I am twenty-eight, I know what I look like, and I have more scars than skin, thanks to my work in kitchens.”
Mr Forrest gave her a long, considering look, and then said, “You will permit me my own opinion, Miss Holliday.”
“As you like, sir. Now I must wish you good day.”