Page 9 of The Baker and the Wolf

“So do your lips and cheeks.” In my peripheral vision, I see his head tip to one side. “Your hair is always tucked beneath your cap. I should very much like to see it.”

As if to illustrate his point, my cheeks burn. And yet, although the comment about seeing my hair was rather personal, I can’t feel offended even when I try. I don’t remember the last time a good-looking man showed interest in me. I manage to retort, “Never while I’m baking.”

After a pause, he asks, “Why does your stepfather not send a servant to escort you to and from work?”

“I doubt he has ever thought of it.” A fleeting memory of last night’s terror makes me shudder. I try to hide it by working faster.

“Any father figure worth his salt would think of protecting a beautiful young woman.”

“Perhaps if I were beautiful, he would have thought of it,” I toss back, attempting to joke.

Once again, it falls flat. Why do I even try? I’m not funny.

My visitor is silent. Without a glance his way, I slide trays of éclairs into the ovens and begin to fill the display case with finished pastries. But his presence is impossible to ignore. “Why are you interrogating me?” I ask. “Are you a lawman? Do you suspect me of a crime or something?”

“I find your situation interesting.”

My situation. Not me. I huff a humorless laugh. “Then you must suffer a terrible dearth of entertainment. My life is dreadfully dull.”

That came out sharper than intended, and he doesn’t respond. Suddenly afraid that I’ve annoyed or insulted him, I offer him a slightly imperfect chouquette. “Taste test?”

His face lights up. “My pleasure.” He pops the entire puff into his mouth, closes his eyes, and savors it, chewing slowly. A most gratifying response.

But I want to hear him say it. “Well?”

His eyes open like a sunrise. “Exquisite. I am honored.”

“A taste tester is worth his hire.” I meet his gaze and again feel a tremor in my facial muscles along with an almost giddy lightness in my chest. For the second time today. Why? I haven’t felt like smiling in . . . I can’t remember how long.

My gaze shifts to the front windows. How quickly the hours passed! I tuck a few loose hairs under my cap and rub my hands down my apron. “It will soon be time to open the shop, and I must finish the éclairs and clean up this mess . . .”

Although the brownies would do it, I don’t feel right about leaving my messes to them. I’ve been told they work for the joy of it, but I don’t want to take advantage. Sometimes I leave fruit and other little gifts for them. They always give me something in return—hand-knitted mittens or socks—which sort of defeats the purpose.

“Let me help.” He rolls up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

My heart pounds like a drum, and I don’t even try to refuse the offer.

While I finish filling and glazing the last batch of pastries, he sweeps the floor. I’d half expected him to use magic; instead, he works hard. I catch myself sneaking glances at him. He is lighter in build than my brothers-in-law or co-workers; he strikes me as more masculine, more vital—almost radiating physical energy.

“Is ‘Barbaro’ your name?” The question escapes before I think twice. But why not ask? He’s behaving like a friend, and I have too few of those to quibble over details like magic and mystery and . . . Okay, fine. He’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, let alone met. Far and away.

He keeps sweeping, and I wonder if he heard my question. But when I look his way, he meets my gaze. “No, but I am most often called by that name.” His expression is closed. “It suits me. I belong nowhere.”

Barbarosounds like . . . itmeansbarbarian, I realize. His voice is heavily accented, and his skin is too brown to be merely tanned by the sun . . . especially in this region in autumn. But his manners and speech are impeccable. Far from barbaric.

I can’t think how to respond so simply ask, “Is that what your friends call you?”

“I have no friends.”

“None?” I blurt. “But . . .” A sense of outrage for him sweeps through me, swiftly followed by realization. “I don’t either,” I say quietly.

His gaze cuts back to mine. “Why not?”

I shrug as I display the finished éclairs. “Like I said, my childhood friends all left the area, and I have no time to form new friendships. My employees hardly count, since they’re obliged to be around me.”

He glances toward the front window, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “Same with my coworkers.”

“Monsieur LeRoy is a good man.”

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