Page 18 of Love Bites

“Good on you for having such a fine eye.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Now that you’ve checked on the enrober, tasted my nuts, and surveyed what you wish to own but do not, you can head back to the inn to dream of whatever it is moguls dream of.”

“Tasting your nuts has been the highlight of my day,” he countered smoothly then glanced down at the recipe. “As for what moguls dream of I’m sure its conquering China.”

“Seriously?”

He chuckled. “Hmm, is this a new creation?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure I can get it perfect though.”

“Perfection is very often unattainable by mortal men and so is best left for the gods,” he said gently while bending over to read my scribbles. “If you don’t get it right simply sell the batch as seconds.”

“No, no, I can’t do that. It has to be perfect. I’m Capucine Aubert’s grandson.”

He turned to study me, his brown-green eyes intense. “Surely your grandmother does not hold you to such ridiculous standards?”

Something about the tension in his tone whispered to me that he may have some knowledge of being subjected to rigorous expectations by an older family member. I had a damn good idea who that might be. King Toad.

“No, it’s my own ethics.” I plucked the recipe from his well-manicured fingers and read it over. Again. For the ten billionth time. This damn recipe haunted me. Poking at me with the smell of something brilliant that might turn my business around if I could just get the recipe beyond reproach.

“I see, well, speaking from a purely business point of view, every tray of confections that you throw out is money wasted. Are you in any place to toss cash into the waste basket when you could earn a few dollars by selling them as sweet seconds?” He asked but already knew the answer. I’d not been shy about my situation. Also. Fuck him. How dare he come into my shop and tell me something that I already knew but couldn’t bring myself to do? “Of course, the fate of Harmony Chocolates is in your hands. Shall we play with this recipe of yours?”

He made himself at home as I sputtered at him. Within ten minutes he had shed his corduroy coat leaving his upper half-hugged sensually by a thin turtleneck. He’d found a green apron, tied it on, and had even pulled a net over his neatly combed hair. Despite my weak protests he even located the old CD player sitting on a shelf above my well-used industrial dishwasher. With the sounds of Latin-infused tunes from the 80s—Crocus did love him some Menudo—Phillip started searching through my kitchen for ingredients to make my recipe. The gall. The cheek. The ass. Fuck sake, an ass like that should be illegal. Did they not have a law in Germany against displaying such delicious cake in well-fitted pants? Seemed people could get into a wreck on the Autobahn seeing all that junk in his trunk.

“So, are you going to stand there staring at my ass or are you going to try to learn how to make chocolate correctly?” He asked as he nudged the door of the huge silver fridge closed with his hip. I felt my cheeks grow hot.

“You can fuck all the way off.” I stormed over, yanked the pound of butter and half gallon of cream from his hands. “You’re an assistant in my kitchen.” I pulled an apron over my head then tugged a net over my curls as some old Julio Iglesias song played.

His smile could have melted the thick ice build-up in my freezer upstairs. “As is fitting. Why do you not wear chef’s white and a toque blanche while in your kitchen?”

“We’re in Caldwell Crossing not Paris or Brussels. I’ve no one to impress by stamping around in whites.”

“Munich and Cologne, do not forget, also have good candy.”

“As if you would let me forget.”

“True.” I began warming sugar, corn syrup, and some water over a medium flame on my six-burner range while he gathered the other ingredients I would need. “Wearing the tuque is a symbol of your seniority, a sign of prestige, as you work among your employees.”

I shrugged. “I have nothing to prove to anyone here.”

“As you wish, I was just wondering why is all. Personally, I find it a crime to have to contain those expressive curls of yours in any manner.”

Expressive curls. What nonsense. I snickered at his foolishness as we worked side by side to create a pan of caramel with just a dash of dried sumac. I tasted and tasted and tasted until I was happy with what I had created. Once the caramel was up to temp I poured it onto a parchment-lined pan to cool as Phillip browned the sea salt in a dry frying pan over a medium flame. The man may have been Mr. Corporate but he knew hisway around a kitchen. I was buzzing with nervous energy as I slipped the tray into the fridge to cool for a bit.

The kitchen was a fright. Cream, sugar, spatulas, confectioners’ sugar, and vanilla were dribbled over the counters. Phillip leapt in to clean up, rolling his sleeves over his elbows as he rinsed and then loaded the dishwasher. His forearms were works of art. Muscular with a nice peppering of dark hair.

“The caramel should cool overnight,” I stated as my gaze lingered on his arms before moving to that tempting ass. “But we can sample a bit after we get cleaned up.”

“Perfect.” He closed the door to the dishwasher, turned it on, and then removed his net from his head. I did the same. “Oh, now that is even more perfect. Was für schöne Haare du hast.”

“I don’t speak German,” I whispered. Something in the tone of his voice had made my pulse kick up slightly.

“Sorry, I said you have beautiful hair.”

“Thanks.” I blushed again, like a teenager, and searched for something to say that didn’t have to do with my hair, his ass, or the fact this food prep area was filling with so many sex hormones the browned sea salt cooling on the stove would be coated in pheromones. Not a bad selling point. Eat this caramel and get lucky tonight.

I was about to say something, anything, when “Conga” by Miami Sound Machine exploded out of the boom box. Phillip gave me a wink Satan himself would be proud of then flung his dirty apron into a hamper beside the door to the gift shop. He held out his hand. I gaped like a carp out of water at his palm.

“You’re stupid,” I shouted then for some reason I untied my apron, threw it over the handle of the fridge, and slapped my hand over his. “Do Germans know how to mamba? I thought you only knew the knee-slapping dance.”

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