more in love with that man if I tried. I also couldn’t be more stirred up at the thought of all the erotic things we’re going to do, but I manage to contain my arousal beneath my anticipation.
The wait, I know, will be
so
worth it.
Still humming, I go through the swinging doors to the kitchen and get another tray of brioche. The owner of La Première Moisson is a gruff, older fellow from Lyons who thinks
“zee Ahmericans ruin zee good cuisine with zee fast food.”
The man does know how to make a spectacular croissant, though, so I forgive him his pretensions. Plus, he might be right about us.
“Hey, Gustave, do you know how to sing?” I ask him as I slide the tray of golden-brown bread onto the counter.
“Zing?” His brow furrows. You would think I’d just asked him if he knows how to yodel.
“Yeah. Like Edith Piaf.” I clear my throat and warble,
“Je ne regrette rien…”
Gustave looks as if I just spit in his vat of butter. I stop singing.
“Only curious.” I dump the brioche into another basket.
“I do not zing.” Gustave returns his attention to shaping baguettes. “Neither, apparently, do you, Oleevia.”
I grin and head to the front counter with the basket. After getting the displays filled, I unlock the doors at seven and help the customers who come in for coffee and breakfast. It’s busy for the next couple of hours, with hardly a lull until around nine.
When the crowd finally dwindles down a bit, I restock all the baskets with fresh pastries, clean the counters and floors, and get ready for the second morning rush.
I’m dipping almond cookies in chocolate when a familiar, deep voice rumbles over my skin.
“Medium coffee, please.”
I turn, my heart leaping at the sight of Dean standing on the other side of the counter. His dark eyes crinkle with warmth as he looks at me, a smile tugging at his mouth. He looks gorgeous, all rumpled masculinity in a sweatshirt and jeans, his hair disheveled by the breeze. If I stepped close to him, I’d smell shaving cream and fresh spring air.
A thousand memories wash over me of those early days when he’d walk in the door of Jitter Beans and our eyes would meet with sparks of electricity. How wonderful to feel that happy excitement again.
“Coming right up.” I turn to the coffee dispenser. “Room for cream in your coffee, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
I pour the coffee and slide the cup across the counter. “Can I interest you in a fresh croissant or brioche?”
“Sure. You pick for me.”
I select a buttery, chocolate croissant for him and slip it into a bag, then ring up the purchase.
“See how I’m moving up in the world?” I ask. “From Jitter Beans to La Première Moisson. Ooo la la.”
“Indeed.” He returns my smile, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “You always did have that
je ne sais quoi.
”
He glances behind him to ensure there’s no one else in the shop, then leans across the counter to press his lips against mine. A hint of eucalyptus and fresh air fill my nose.
I fall into him, melting like sun-warmed honey. He cups my chin and angles my face to his in exactly the right way. I slide my hand around the back of his neck, rising up onto my tiptoes to increase the pressure of the kiss.
“You smell amazing.” He trails his mouth across my cheek to nuzzle his nose against my hair, his lips seeking my ear. His voice is a husky whisper. “Just want to back you up against the wall, lift your skirt, and spread your pretty legs.”
A shiver rocks me to my toes. “God, Dean.”
“Every time you say that…” he pulls away with a soft mutter, “…my self-control slips a little more.”
“God, Dean.”
He laughs. I smile and reach out to tweak his nose.
A Gallic-sounding grunt breaks through my pleasure. Gustave approaches, bearing a tray of éclairs. He puts the tray on top of the cold case and glowers at me, jerking his thumb toward the éclairs.
“Consider it done, monsieur.” I hurry to arrange
The wait, I know, will be
so
worth it.
Still humming, I go through the swinging doors to the kitchen and get another tray of brioche. The owner of La Première Moisson is a gruff, older fellow from Lyons who thinks
“zee Ahmericans ruin zee good cuisine with zee fast food.”
The man does know how to make a spectacular croissant, though, so I forgive him his pretensions. Plus, he might be right about us.
“Hey, Gustave, do you know how to sing?” I ask him as I slide the tray of golden-brown bread onto the counter.
“Zing?” His brow furrows. You would think I’d just asked him if he knows how to yodel.
“Yeah. Like Edith Piaf.” I clear my throat and warble,
“Je ne regrette rien…”
Gustave looks as if I just spit in his vat of butter. I stop singing.
“Only curious.” I dump the brioche into another basket.
“I do not zing.” Gustave returns his attention to shaping baguettes. “Neither, apparently, do you, Oleevia.”
I grin and head to the front counter with the basket. After getting the displays filled, I unlock the doors at seven and help the customers who come in for coffee and breakfast. It’s busy for the next couple of hours, with hardly a lull until around nine.
When the crowd finally dwindles down a bit, I restock all the baskets with fresh pastries, clean the counters and floors, and get ready for the second morning rush.
I’m dipping almond cookies in chocolate when a familiar, deep voice rumbles over my skin.
“Medium coffee, please.”
I turn, my heart leaping at the sight of Dean standing on the other side of the counter. His dark eyes crinkle with warmth as he looks at me, a smile tugging at his mouth. He looks gorgeous, all rumpled masculinity in a sweatshirt and jeans, his hair disheveled by the breeze. If I stepped close to him, I’d smell shaving cream and fresh spring air.
A thousand memories wash over me of those early days when he’d walk in the door of Jitter Beans and our eyes would meet with sparks of electricity. How wonderful to feel that happy excitement again.
“Coming right up.” I turn to the coffee dispenser. “Room for cream in your coffee, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
I pour the coffee and slide the cup across the counter. “Can I interest you in a fresh croissant or brioche?”
“Sure. You pick for me.”
I select a buttery, chocolate croissant for him and slip it into a bag, then ring up the purchase.
“See how I’m moving up in the world?” I ask. “From Jitter Beans to La Première Moisson. Ooo la la.”
“Indeed.” He returns my smile, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “You always did have that
je ne sais quoi.
”
He glances behind him to ensure there’s no one else in the shop, then leans across the counter to press his lips against mine. A hint of eucalyptus and fresh air fill my nose.
I fall into him, melting like sun-warmed honey. He cups my chin and angles my face to his in exactly the right way. I slide my hand around the back of his neck, rising up onto my tiptoes to increase the pressure of the kiss.
“You smell amazing.” He trails his mouth across my cheek to nuzzle his nose against my hair, his lips seeking my ear. His voice is a husky whisper. “Just want to back you up against the wall, lift your skirt, and spread your pretty legs.”
A shiver rocks me to my toes. “God, Dean.”
“Every time you say that…” he pulls away with a soft mutter, “…my self-control slips a little more.”
“God, Dean.”
He laughs. I smile and reach out to tweak his nose.
A Gallic-sounding grunt breaks through my pleasure. Gustave approaches, bearing a tray of éclairs. He puts the tray on top of the cold case and glowers at me, jerking his thumb toward the éclairs.
“Consider it done, monsieur.” I hurry to arrange
Similar Books
