Page 3 of Demolishing with the Mountain Man
“You studied in France? No way.” Marlowe’s eyes widened. “Tell us everything.”
“Yes! I want to know all the details. Did you fall madly in love in Paris?” Genevieve echoed, the two women staring at me with delight on their faces. I expected more questions about my skill level, but I didn’t mind telling my story. They were both younger than me and had recently opened their bakery, but age didn’t matter. Both of them were talented bakers and I couldn’t wait to learn from them, as my training was all classical French.
“Not exactly,” I chuckled. “Honestly, the prestigiousness of it all, the strict detail of it, it became too rigid for me. I felt smothered creatively, if that makes sense.”
Both nodded and I continued. “But it took me a while to actually make the leap and give it all up. I’d always loved baking since I was little, and my parents fostered it. I was their only child, and they loved seeing me happy. By the time I wasin my teens, I was winning competitions, and unbeknownst to my family and I, scouts from various pastry schools attended. Several approached me and France was the most interesting. So off I went. Worked under some of the best pastry chefs and ended up with a job at a very fancy restaurant, first as a pastry chef, and eventually becoming head pastry chef. But after six years of studying, and another fourteen at the restaurant, I was done. I wanted less pressure and more freedom. My parents aren’t happy, but I couldn’t do that hoity toity life any longer.”
“Fourteen years?” Marlowe gasped. “I thought you would say four or five. How are you not in your twenties still?” Marlowe waved a hand towards me.
I threw my head back in laughter. “That is very sweet of you, thank you.”
“She ain’t lying,” Genevieve smiled. “You must teach us all your tricks.”
“I’d be happy to. We can trade baking secrets, too.”
I recalled the conversation as I whipped up the pastry cream and monitored my eclairs in the oven. Once the cream was in the fridge, I started on my ganache, my mind drifting to this morning and the unexpected hot neighbor.
I hadn’t met any of my neighbors yet, considering I hadn’t been here long, but I’d seen a few in passing, mostly older people. But Zale…oh no. There wasn’t anything old about him. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his late twenties at most, and all man. I mean, the man was built like a damn tree. He towered over me, sported muscles on every part of him, and had a smile as bright as the sun. Not to mention his dark features and full, thick beard.
When he offered to mow my lawn, my heart tripled in speed. I couldn’t get away fast enough, afraid I might say something stupid or start something I couldn’t finish. But inside, I watched him from the window. My eyes stayed glued to his sexy frame,his muscles flexing as he turned the lawn mower around the edges of the lawn.
After he finished and left my yard, I scrambled into my bed like a horny teenager, grabbed my vibrator in my nightstand drawer, and flicked it on.
Not even a minute later, I came hard while thinking only about the hot as hell mountain man.
“Are you happy there?”My mom asked me over the phone a few days later.
“So far, yes. My cabin is nice, despite a few repairs, and I’m enjoying my job. They’re letting me put together my own dessert menu for their bakery.” I gushed into the phone, hoping she would grab onto my happiness. But nope. It did nothing.
Mom sighed. “You created your own menu at the restaurant too, darling. I don’t understand why all of a sudden you want to settle for something so beneath you. Even Dad agrees.”
My face flushed hot, and I put the knife down on the cutting board, the strawberries all sliced. Blood roared through my ears. “It’s not beneath me, Mom. Don’t be that way.”
“What way?”
I rolled my eyes. She loved to play dumb.
“You know what I mean. What’s so bad about wanting a career that’s less pressure and more freedom. Maybe I want to finally find a husband and start a family. Do you want grandkids?”
“Well, sure, I do, but I want your career to come first. You need to be secure in case something was to happen. A divorce, a loss, whatever it may be.”
“I made my career first now, for years. I’m done. I’m moving back home to Vermont.”
“You’re going to regret it.” Her voice steely, cold.
“No, I won’t. Besides, I’ve been smart with my money. I’ve saved and invested. I’m prepared. You’ve taught me well.” She also taught me to be ready to stand up to her. Because she seemed to love to argue with me about anything and everything. She claimed she wanted only the best for me, and this is how she showed it. But all I felt was emptiness.
“We’re still disappointed in you, Taelyn. You had the best of the best and you walked away from it.”
“I don’t see it that way.” The timer on the oven rang. “Listen, I gotta go. Love you, Mom. Bye.”
I ended the call before she could say more and held back my tears as I grabbed my tart shells from the oven. Why couldn’t she just be happy for me? I felt like a kid all over again.
On top of a couple of potholders, I placed my sheet pan down and inspected my shortcut pastry. It was the perfect golden-brown color, and they held their shape inside the mini tart tins using my pie beans. As they cooled, I made my vanilla pastry cream.
The wind howled outside, tree branches and leaves blowing about. I couldn’t wait for the fall season, all cozy and warm in my cabin. My black cat, Petal, meowed at my feet before jumping onto the windowsill of the kitchen window above the sink to watch the storm. I found her one day in Paris roaming the streets, tiny and helpless. I scooped her up, and she’d been mine ever since.
As I assembled my tarts with pastry cream on the bottom and then an arrangement of fruit including kiwi and all the berries, the last step was melting down some apricot jam and making a glaze for the fruit tarts.
