Page 2 of Delicious
After signing in with the registrar, I go down the hall and enter the large teaching kitchen, which has a raised table for each student and a smart board at the front.
There are still a few empty seats—apparently I have an American thing about being on time—and the teacher isn’t here yet. I let out a sigh of relief.
The teacher’s name is Jacques St. Pierre, and he’s one of the most well-known pastry chefs in the world. He recently finished a residency in Las Vegas and has only now returned to Paris. Millions of people follow his Instagram account, where he posts mind-bogglingly fanciful pastry creations, like delicate phoenixes made with pâte à choux dotted with praline crème. While some famous chefs are enfants terribles, he’s known for being a kind but exacting instructor. I’m expecting to fail spectacularly, because I know he’ll be kicking everyone’s ass with his innovations in form and flavor and technique.
I’ve never wanted to get my ass kicked more than I do right now.
I stride to the front of the classroom and sit on one of the last remaining workstation stools before turning to watch the final students arriving. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I’m looking forward to learning something, and I just hope I can keep up.
While we’re waiting for the professor to show up, a handsome man with dark brown hair and eyes and dark tan skin set off by the white chef’s coat walks through the door and I do a massive double take. Because he’s familiar.
Fuck. No way.
But I’m good with faces, and I recognize him instantly, although he now has stubble on his face and is wearing sexy studious glasses. Ben Diamond. I haven’t seen him in ten years—since we were in high school.
I remember him well, because the last time I saw him, I kissed him.
CHAPTER2
Ben
I’m late to the first day of pâtisserie and viennoiserie class because I spent an hour trying to get content for my travel blog uploaded over the spotty Wi-Fi at my fancy hotel. At a certain point, I had to cut my losses and run for it. Sweaty and frazzled, I check in with the registrar and see I’m the last student to show up. When I get into the classroom, I’m grateful to have beaten the professor here. But then I look around and see a face I thought I’d never see again.
Mason Gray, the only boy I’ve ever kissed.
Of all the pastry classes in the world, he has to end up in mine.
While on some level I’m aware there are other people in the room, he’s the only one I see. His eyes are locked on mine. I swallow hard and try to get my racing heart and thoughts under control. Does he remember me? Do I acknowledge him?
I decide to be brave and wave at him, certain I look as surprised as I am. I’m happy that he smiles back, though he seems a bit bewildered.
Which is how I feel, too.
I set my bag down at the only open stool and start over to say hello to him, but M. St. Pierre walks in just then. I give Mason an apologetic shrug and take my seat.
While I need to pay attention, because the lecture is in French—and I should be taking notes for my blog—I’m transported back ten years to high school, when I got my first and only kiss from a boy.
I’d started prep school in LA that fall because my dad had taken a job there. Even back then, I was already living a pretty nomadic lifestyle.
My father is a high-level efficiency and productivity consultant. Ironic, since I tend to be neither. He’d go to one city and do his job, then travel to the next. Meanwhile, I’d just be on the cusp of making friends when I’d be yanked away to another place. Oh, sure, I’d text or whatever with kids from the school I’d left, but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t have deep connections with any of them. And eventually I always lost the tentative friendships I’d forged because out of sight, out of mind.
My time in LA was very short. But it was extremely memorable, since Mason Gray was my sexual awakening.
He was a ray of pure sunshine, enthusiastic about everything. A bouncy, shaggy puppy in human form. Mason’s always had the qualities of a golden retriever. At least, he did the few months Istalkedknewwent to school withhim.
I had one class with him—French—and he’d always be the kid in front with his hand up, participating. He wasn’t obnoxious. The other kids liked him as much as the teachers did.
But from the moment I saw Mason, something stood out about him. Maybe it was his happy green eyes that flashed with humor. Or his golden hair that was just a shade or two darker than his golden skin. Whatever it was, I couldn’t take my eyes off him in class, and I found myself looking for him throughout the day—in the hall and before or after school.
While he always had people to talk to, he had a scrawny dark-haired kid as a sidekick. Back then, I thought they were just friends. Now, I wonder if they were something more.
As M. St. Pierre introduces himself and outlines what we’ll be learning over the next few weeks, I find my thoughts drifting to PE a few days into my first week of high school.
I got to the locker room early, and Mason was already there, changing. He played soccer and had that lean, athletic physique—strong legs, toned torso, narrow hips. He had his shirt off and was bending over to pull up his shorts. And my mouth went dry.
He was utterly beautiful, and I wanted to run my fingers over all that soft-looking skin.
I didn’t, of course. I forced myself to look away before it got weird, but Mason saw me and smiled. He came over to me, shorts low on his hips, and held out his hand to shake mine. “Hey. I’m Mason. We have French together.”
