Page 7 of The Baker and the Wolf

“Very well.” He pulls up a chair and sits, near enough for observation but distant enough to be out of my way. His presence should annoy me, but I find it strangely pleasing. “You might try rolling some of this foolscap paper into a cone for me,” I suggest.

He quickly proves himself adept at rolling a piping bag around a metal tip and obligingly holds it for me while I scoop batter from the pan. Cooking, mixing, and piping choux pastry is already second nature to me, yet I quickly adjust to the convenience of his help—particularly with adjusting oven heat—and find myself enjoying the company. Before I know it, the éclairs are beautifully baked and the first batch of chouquettes is in the oven. I whip caramel-cream filling, take advantage of his help to fill a fresh piping bag, and ask, “Aren’t you bored of all this?”

He smiles. “Not at all. Watching an artist at work is fascinating. However, I would enjoy hearing about your family while you work. If it won’t distract you.”

I give him a look. “Why would you want to know about my family?”

“I wish to know more about you.”

“Why?” My gaze narrows.

He quirks a brow. “Is it so unusual for a man to wish to know you better?”

“Your question doesn’t answer mine. Why do you want to know about me?”

“You intrigue me.”

At a loss for a response, I manage to fill the pastries without spoiling one. Then I prepare a ganache. His eyes follow my every move, and he appears genuinely interested. But . . . why? This extended silence is unnerving.

He pulls his chair closer and props his elbows on the table. “How many more pastries must you bake today?”

“As many as will sell.”

I make the mistake of glancing his way, and his eyes twinkle at me. “Secret of the trade, I suppose.”

I glare down at the glossy glaze. “At least I have a trade,” I growl. “Yours seems to be loafing about.”

“What better place to loaf than a bakery?”

My lips twitch. Wait! Was that the beginnings of a smile? Startled, I jerk up one hand to check and smear ganache on my face.

My wide-eyed gaze meets his. He chuckles, flashing those strong white teeth, and my heart nearly turns inside out. “I think I prefer you without the little mustache, yet this look has its charms.”

No! I scrub the chocolate from my face with my apron and resolutely regain control before another smile forms. He is a mage. A dangerously attractive mage. And men are never interested in me. A gorgeous foreign man like him wouldn’t even see me, with or without my cape. Something more must be going on here . . .

Fine. I will talk about my family if that’s what he wants.

Once I begin, words start pouring out. “I have a mother and two married sisters, who each have a child. Suzette, my older sister, will soon have another baby.”

His brows rise, but he merely asks, “And your father?”

“He died when I was seven.” Telling him this is a mistake: my own words trigger the fear and loss I can never escape. As always, I control it behind a veneer of calm. “He went off hunting alone, but his body was never found.”

“I’m sorry.” To my surprise, his sympathy seems genuine.

I swallow hard. “Mama remarried a few years ago.”

“Any stepsiblings?”

“Three, but I never see them. They weren’t pleased when their widowed father remarried. Papa Louis-Baptiste is twenty-three years older than Mama, but she seems fond of him.”

“Do you like him?”

I dip an éclair in the ganache, then shrug lightly. “I’m glad he makes my mother happy. I seldom see him, but then they’re usually entertaining or dining out by the time I get home from work.”

“Does anyone in your family have magic?”

“My mother does . . .” My mind won’t quite focus there, so I move on. “I remember Papa doing fun tricks to entertain us, but his main magic was communicating with horses. He trained them and worked as a farrier.”

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