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If she ever married, he would hear the worst of it first or not at all.
She wanted both halves of herself: lady and baker. French and English. Pepper and Lady Barbara.
She could not choose one and bury the other. Not again. Especially not with Papa coughing in the kitchen so much that she went to the counter—something she rarely did lest someone recognize her, even though it was unlikely that the ton bought their own pastries or ever looked at what was under the bonnet of the working woman at a shop.
Now she stood behind the glass counter, skirts neatly pinned out of reach of sugar, her weight set with care—left sure, right careful on the ankle the fever had never quite forgiven—and the bell over the door chimed in the shop at the front of the building.
A customer entered.
The room narrowed.
This wasn’t just any customer. It was… a man.
What a man.
He stepped in alone. Tall, exact without seeming vain, in a navy coat that made the silver of his buttons look brighter. He removed his hat and the morning seemed to pause, as if the scent of butter and orange wished to greet him first.
“Good morning,” he said—low, unpracticed for flirtation, unforced for charm. His voice resonated through Pepper’s bones. How did he do that?
She might have greeted him politely, or maybe not. She wasn’t sure at all.
He went to the mille-feuille and studied the layers with a thoughtful frown, as if they had spoiled his plans.
Pepper’s breath misfired; English slipped; French waited, but it shouldn’t when she was at the bakery. Here, she was Pepper. Calme. She lifted a plate.
She tried for sir and found only a nod.
He indicated a sugared puff; she, without thinking, countered with the mille-feuille. He considered her, then the pastry, then her again. A small line creased between his brows—amusement or curiosity, she couldn’t tell.
He agreed with the faintest incline of his head.
She packaged two in brown paper. Fold, press, tuck—her father’s exactitude now hers. When she handed the parcel, his gloved fingers brushed her own.
Heat. Clean, startling, like striking a flint in a dark room.
He held the parcel a moment too long, as if listening to the space between them. Then he opened it. Vanilla rose warm and honest. He lifted one slice and offered it across the counter.
“For you.”
“Pourquoi?” she blurted out before she could catch it. Then, softer, “Why?”
“You pointed to your favorite,” he said, not lowering his hand. “And I thought… you might not always eat what you sell.”
He sees that? Too true, but likely not for the reason he suspected. It wasn’t the access to pastries that kept her from eating them but her mother’s insistence that she preserve her figure to catch a husband. She took the slice; the layers yielded against her fingertips.
He bit his.
Pepper winced. “Non.”
His mouth paused. “No?”
“You must take the layers together,” she whispered, urgency slipping past polish. “All at once. Not from above. Or you will miss the crisp with the cream.”
A corner of his mouth acknowledged her certainty. “Show me.”
She did, a careful bite: top crackled, custard pressed, bottom held—harmony caught and kept. She swallowed, oddly breathless. “Ainsi.” Like this.
He watched her, then tried again, gentler. “Better,” he said quietly. “You’re right.”
