38. Chapter 38
Chapter 38
Duncan
E lsa was in a mood, which led to me being in a mood, which led us to having an argument. There was a lot of yelling in French (by her) and condescending statements in English (by me).
I didn't mind a good fight because we always had good makeup sex. That was not easy to do with a wife who was thirty-eight weeks pregnant, ornery as hell, and constantly saying, rather angrily, "I want this baby out of my body, now ."
She was miserable, and I felt like I needed to make a grand gesture to make her feel better. Now, maybe I shouldn't have listened to Thierry, who convinced me to embrace a unique French tradition, which I was pretty sure he'd made up to fuck with me because Google hadn't heard about it.
"Thierry, are you sure about this?" I asked, eyeing the array of ingredients spread out before me. "This seems...complicated." Immensely complicated and hard as fuck.
Thierry grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Absolutely, Duncan. In France, this is tradition. When a man wants to show his undying love for a woman, he bakes her a croquembouche ."
I stared at the towering cone of pastry puffs in a picture he showed me, each puff delicately filled and stacked into a beautiful but seemingly impossible masterpiece.
"A croquembouche ? That's more than a little ambitious," I confessed. Fucking hell. How did one make this monstrosity?
Thierry clapped me on the back. "Exactly! The more challenging, the better. It shows your dedication. Elsa will love it."
Elsa will think I want to poison her!
I sighed and rolled up my sleeves. "Alright, let's do this."
The process was chaos and comedy. Flour flew through the air, sugar spun into burnt caramel, and more than a few pastry puffs met an untimely demise. Thierry was the worst kind of teacher, guiding me through each step with enough sarcasm that I had to restrain myself from slamming my fist into his face.
Between making the profiteroles for the croquembouche ; letting them cool, making the custard, filling them with said custard— it took all fucking day. This was not an exaggeration.
"Careful with the caramel, Duncan. It's hot!" he warned as I attempted to glue the puffs together.
"I know, motherfucker." I had learned the hard and painful way that you didn't taste caramel with a finger, which now had a water-proof bandage over it.
Elsa had told me she was spending the day reading and lying in bed and wanted me gone, but as soon as I left, she began texting me.
Elsa: Where are you?
Me: Working, baby. All okay?
Elsa: I want this baby out of me.
Me: I know. You just need to be patient.
Elsa: Middle finger emoji
We had several text exchanges of a similar nature. Whenever I asked if she wanted me to come home, she told me to stay away.
Finally, the croquembouche stood proudly on the counter, albeit lopsided and not at all as elegant as the picture.
Thierry looked at it with a satisfied smile. "Well done, Duncan. It's not perfect, but it's made with love. And that's what counts. I asked Elsa to come down; she's going to—"
As if on cue, Elsa walked into the bakery, her eyes widening at the sight of the croquembouche . "What on earth...?"
"I made this," I said proudly, pointing to the pastry tower with my now bandaged finger, which had third-degree burned marks from the caramel-tasting-incident.
She looked at the croquembouche , then back at me. "You made this?"
"Thierry said it was a French tradition and," I paused because she was smiling, and I loved that, "I knew he was fucking with me, so I thought I'd humor him and you."
Her expression softened. "Oh, Thierry, that was so sweet of you."
"I am full of sweetness," Thierry agreed.
"Hey, I made this fucking monstrosity." I winced as soon as I said the words because one profiterole moved , and the whole tower shifted a la Tower of Pisa.
Elsa laughed and put a hand on her chest. "But the proof is in the cream puff."
She pulled one off the top and I had to hold the rest of the tower from breaking apart. My caramel skills had not been airy enough and stuck to the tower in globs instead of delicate skeins.
"Not bad," Elsa said as she chewed. "Thierry?"
"Fuck no. I saw him make it. I'm never eating that stuff." But even he took a cream puff and announced that I should keep my day job.
"It's very nice," Elsa protested.
I laughed, pulling her into a gentle hug, careful of her growing belly. "I'm glad you think so. It was definitely a labor of love."
She looked up at me, and my heart skipped a beat. Seeing her smile, I knew this was just the start of many more moments like this—full of love and laughter.
Chapter 39: Elsa
We were still making fun of Duncan's croquembouche when a sharp pain shot through my abdomen. I clutched my belly, laughter dying on my lips.
"What the fuck?" Thierry barked.
"Elsa?" Duncan cried out.
I watched as water gushed out of me and onto the floor of the bakery. God, I was glad the cleaning crew would be here later in the evening; otherwise, this would be… Merdé! But this hurts!
"I think it's time," I declared.
Duncan's eyes widened in panic. "Time? You mean—"
"Yes, Duncan," I gasped as another contraction hitting me. "The baby is coming!" It was too fast. It was supposed to start slowly. That's what the midwife had told me.
"Thierry, get her bag from her apartment. It's in the closet by the front door." Duncan put an arm around me as he pulled out his phone. I heard him ask his driver to get the car to the bakery, and it sounded like Guillaume had been waiting for the call because he said he would be at the bakery in less than five minutes.
Thankfully, it was late in the evening and the hospital wasn't too far, so I hoped traffic wouldn't be an issue.
But what if we couldn't make it? What if I had to give birth on the road and—.
"Breathe, my love," Duncan whispered. "It's all going to be great. We're going to meet our baby girl today."
I gave him a withering look. How the hell was he so calm? But I was glad he was; that one of us was.
The ride to the hospital was a blur of contractions and hurried reassurances. By the time we arrived, I was in full labor. I was rushed into a delivery room. Duncan stayed by my side, staunch in how cool he stayed even when I told him that he was the asshole who knocked me up because the pain was really, really bad.
Now, I wished I'd agreed to an epidural.
But as soon as I thought about it, I felt calm. No, I wasn't going to take any drugs. This was going to be fine. I just had to….
" Mon Dieu, ?a fait tellement mal!" I screamed as I crushed Duncan's hand in mine. My God, it hurts so much!
"You've got this, ma douce ," he said, holding my hand. "I'm right here with you."
Tears streamed down my face. The pain was intense, but having Duncan there, being my rock gave me the strength I needed and a nice punching bag when I wanted to blame someone for my pain.
In the delivery room, the nurses and doctors buzzed around like a well-oiled machine, their calm professionalism that soothed my frayed nerves. Duncan stayed close.
Each contraction felt like a showdown, but I powered through, fueled by the thought of our little girl making her grand entrance.
Outside the delivery room, I knew my makeshift family was waiting. Duncan told me Angelique, Thierry, and Dean, who was in Paris for a short visit, were all demanding regular updates.
After what felt like an eternity, the doctor finally said, "Okay, Elsa. One more push."
I gathered all my strength and did as my doctor asked, a primal scream tearing from my throat. And then, I heard the sweetest sound in the world—our baby's first cry.
"It's a girl," the doctor announced, holding up the tiny, squirming bundle.
Duncan cut the umbilical cord, and I began to laugh. I'd never been this happy in my life before.
Tears of joy and relief flowed freely as they placed our daughter on my chest. She was perfect, with a shock of dark hair and tiny fingers that curled around mine. "Hello, little one," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. "Welcome to the world, Solène Marcella Archer."
Duncan kissed our daughter's cheek. "I love you, baby girl."
Then he dropped a kiss on my mouth. "Thank you, ma douce , for making my life so fucking sweet."
I grinned despite my fatigue. "I'm a baker, mon chéri ; that's what we do."