Page 1 of Cookies & Kisses

Madeleine

There’s nothing better thanthe smell of freshly baked cookies.

Scratch that.

There’s nothing better than a gorgeous man carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies. Ones that he’s made with his own two hands.

Mason Bond, the man with the cookies, sets the tray down on the counter and looks me up and down with his intense, deep brown eyes. His chocolate brown hair flops over his forehead as he assesses me.

I wonder if hesmellslike chocolate, too. But I don’t think sniffing my potential boss is a good way to start off this job interview.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

I clutch my sparkly pink recipe notebook a little tighter. “Uh, yes. I’m Madeleine?” Why did I ask it as a question? Probably because I’m so thrown by his confusion.Bring on the confidence, Madeleine. Pull it together.“I’m here for the interview.”

He shakes his head slightly. “What interview?”

I swallow hard. What in the world? “Um, the bakery assistant position? I was contacted by…” I pull out my phone and double check the email. “Monica Bond.”

He grunts. “Please wait a moment.” He stomps through the swinging door that separates the front of the bakery from the kitchen.

I take a moment to gather myself and recover from whatever just happened there, looking around the bakery he created called Cookies. That’s it, just Cookies. Not super creative. Maybe if I get the job, I can convince him that he needs a catchier name.

I peer through the glass display cases at the intricate cookie creations. Sugar cookies, macaronsandmacaroons, chocolate chip cookies, butter cookies, and even my namesake—Madeleines. Just looking at them makes my mouth water.

I straighten and walk around the lobby, assessing the minimalist decor. A couple of mirrors line the mint green walls, and I take advantage to check my appearance: my makeup is still bright around my blue eyes, my blonde hair still curled neatly over my shoulders, and my blouse and skirt look professional.

”Itoldyou I don’t need an assistant!“ Mason’s voice sounds loudly from the kitchen, and I have to wince.

Well, this is embarrassing.

“I’m not drowning,” he continues. “Things are picking up. That’s a good thing.”

He waits a moment, and I realize he’s on a phone call, listening to the other person on the line. “Well, I would have liked some kind of heads up about this.” Another pause, this time a littlelonger. “You did?” Another pause. “Okay, fine. I see the email now. I guess you did.”

After a few more words that I can’t hear clearly, he reemerges. I’m struck again by how handsome he is, but his demeanor is so unwelcoming. “Looks like my mom is the one who set up the interview,” he says to me, but he won’t meet my eyes. He runs his hand through his hair, and I swear the scent of chocolate comes wafting toward me. “I don’t really need an assistant though, you understand? But I’m going through with this interview to make her happy.”

I don’t know what to say. As uncomfortable as I feel right now, I need to get my foot in the door. And this bakery is the best place to start. There aren’t a million other bakeries to choose from—Brookhaven is one of the smallest towns in California, let alone the United States– and my parents said there are only two other bakeries in town. One specializes in bread and has been running smoothly for the last twenty years; the other specializes in wedding cakes and cupcakes and is owned by twin sisters who are ultra-exclusive. This is my one opportunity, and I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers.

So I nod. “Sure, I understand.” Even though I don’t.

He sighs, then lifts up the countertop so I can come back into the kitchen with him. “I have an office back here where we can conduct the interview.”

I follow him through the door to the kitchen, admiring the gleaming stainless steel appliances, and breathing in the scent of butter and vanilla. Heaven. Way in the back, I find a tiny office with a tiny desk and two chairs.

“Who’s managing the front?” I ask.

He points to his computer screen. “I have a camera set up here so I can see if someone comes in.” He points to another TV monitor in the kitchen above the counters. “It shows there, too.”

“So…wait. You don’t have anyone who runs the front on a regular basis?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes my mom stops by when it’s really busy, but otherwise I can handle it.”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur. Now I see exactly why his mother contacted me.

He sits in the chair behind the desk and gestures for me to take the seat across from him. I smooth out my skirt and sit down, clutching my recipe notebook in my lap.

“What’s your name again?” he asks.

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