Page 31 of Cross the Line
‘That’s the one.’
‘Huh,’ he murmurs, looking back at the road. ‘I didn’t know you liked those.’
‘Probably a little too much,’ I confess. ‘Their location in New York closed for renovations, so I haven’t had them in a while. I tried to make them myself but that, um, that didn’t go so well.’
‘Isn’t baking a stress reliever for you?’
‘Never said I was good at it.’
He frowns thoughtfully for a second, then nods, his lips lifting into a small smile, like he’s picturing me burning desserts. ‘Touché.’
It’s a quiet five minutes before we pull up in front of the lilac-painted building. The name is scrawled in beautiful cursive script emblazoned across the plate-glass windows. Everything about Stella Margaux’s is a whimsical, pastel dream, from its display cases decorated to look like the macarons are floating on clouds to the Michelangelo-esque paintings on the ceilings.
According to several human-interest stories, the murals in each store are painted by marginalized artists from the local community, and a portion of the stores’ sales goes to supporting arts education in public schools. In addition to making the best macarons in the world, Stella Margaux herself is a gem of a woman, the exact kind of person I want to be.
Too bad my baking skills will never live up to hers.
‘What are your favourite flavours?’ Dev asks as he ushers me inside, holding the door open.
‘I love their summer peach and vanilla,’ I answer as the sweet sugar scent hits me square in the face. This is my happy place. ‘They also do an amazing lavender and honey, but all their classic flavours are fantastic too. I’ll get you a pistachio to try. You’ll love it.’
But before I can make my way to the counter to order, Dev is gently shouldering me out of the way and smiling at the woman in a puffed-sleeve pink dress behind the counter. She blinks rapidly at the sight of him, a hand fluttering to smooth down her already perfect hair. I can’t even blame her for reacting like that.
‘Yeah, hi,’ he greets, skimming the display case before bringing his focus to her. ‘Can I get ten of every flavour?’
‘Dev,’ I blurt, blinking at him in horror. ‘That’s, like, two hundred macarons.’ I’m not saying I have the entire menu, seasonal flavours included, memorized . . . but I have the entire menu memorized, and that’sa lotof macarons.
‘Any particular boxes you’d like?’ the woman behind the counter says without hesitation. She waves her hand delicately, motioning to the display of beautiful boxes in front of us.
Dev’s smile widens, and I swear she swoons. ‘Surprise me.’
‘Dev,’ I say again, this time grabbing his elbow. ‘What are you doing?’
He shrugs, pulling his wallet out and slipping a black credit card from one of the slots. ‘Business expense. You’re on the clock. Besides, I want to see what the hype is about. I’ve seen these stores all over the world, but I’ve never gone in.’
‘We can’t eat all of these!’
‘We’ll share with your family,’ he says with a shrug. ‘And if Mark asks what I ate this week, we lie. You’ve got my back, right?’
‘Of course I do,’ I reply. I always have. Still, I scoff. ‘You’re out of your mind for doing this.’
‘Hey, you said you liked them, right? Why wouldn’t I do something that makes you happy?’ He drags a hand through his hair, his focus trained on me. ‘You’re doing me a huge favour, so this is nothing in comparison.’
Howam I supposed to respond to that? Another woman at the register is already tallying up our total, so I press my lips together and watch as he hands his card over and makes upbeat small talk with the employees. All the while, my stomach twists and turns, battling the fresh influx of butterflies.
I’m handed bags upon bags several minutes later, from pale pink to buttercup yellow, filled with boxes of my favourite dessert. I’ll admit, I once ate fifteen in a sitting – a record that had me riding a massive sugar high for hours – but this is beyond excessive. Dev once again holds the door open as we exit, and then he helps me gently load all the bags onto the back seat of the SUV.
‘I should take a picture of this haul and send it to Mark,’ I threaten weakly, but my brain is too busy repeatinghe bought two hundred macarons because you said you liked them.
Laughing, Dev opens the passenger-side door for me, but not before he sneaks a box out of one of the bags. ‘I dare you. He’ll yell at you too for bringing me here.’
‘Okay, fine. Your secret’s safe with me,’ I concede as I climb up into the SUV. Mortifyingly, the breeze lifts the hem of my flimsy dress before I can make it into the seat, and my face flames at the idea that I might have just flashed Dev. I’m wearing bikini bottoms, thankfully, in case I had to go into the water, but the knowledge does little to settle my embarrassment.
His expression is just as light as it was before, giving nothing away as he holds up a sunset-orange box and raises a brow. ‘You wanna eat these with me? Or are you going to be a tattletale? Because snitches don’t get macarons.’
I offer my pinky. ‘I promise, no snitching.’
Our eyes meet the second his pinky hooks around mine. The contact sends sparks arcing between us, stealing my breath away. It feels dangerous. Like a warning shot I should heed. Except the shot thrills me instead of scaring me off. It makes me want to slink closer, makes me want to push the limits. It makes me want to buck my promise to always be careful – with my body and my heart – and do something undeniably careless.
