Chapter One
It’s hard to find a good baker. And harder still to find one with a flair for cream puffs. The pâte à choux —otherwise known as cream puff dough—has to be baked just right, not soggy in the middle, and the tops not overbrowned. And the filling—ah, the filling—has to be lickably, creamy rich, sweet, but not gummy. Finding a chef who can create a cream puff to make every taste bud in my mouth sing an orgasm is trickier than finding a man who doesn’t cut out after the first blind date. In my experience, putting your trust in pastry is the safer bet.
Of the four pastry shops in town, two focus on cookies, one on artisan bread, and another on Mexican delicacies. Not exactly my style. So I headed out to a Chamber of Commerce after-hours event to check out the town’s newest hotel and its new pastry chef’s abilities. The event flyer promoted him as a “European-trained master of desserts,” which boded well. But I’ve been the victim of false advertising before, my taste buds hastened to remind me.
Just in case, or maybe just because I was super excited at the prospect of finding a competent chef and a tasting a fabulous dessert, I went all out, putting my red panties and matching push-up bra and thigh-high nylons on under my favorite little black dress. Well, “little” is a loose term. Nothing about me could be misconstrued as “little.” Size sixteen to eighteen girls are more curvy, more round. We have hips, and we have breasts. We’re not starving fashion models.
I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, focusing on my hair and my eyeliner instead of Mom’s voice in my head. “You eat too much, Violet. That’s why men don’t stick around.” Inwardly, I scowled at my mother’s disapproving visage hovering in my memory and reached for the car keys. It’s my first night out in forever, and I refused to let her ruin this treat.
From the fourteenth floor of the Olympian Tower Hotel, the glittering lights of the city shone like a gazillion tiny candles in the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the view was just as fantastic. Piled high on platters atop white table-clothed rounds, sat an ocean of the finest desserts I’d seen in one place in a long time. I greedily filled my lungs with a deep breath of sugary air and stood there gaping at the scene, wondering where to begin my evening. Mouth already watering, I set my sights and worked my way toward the nearest table.
Irish Cream caramel cheesecake. I licked my lips and studied with intense interest the chocolate-graham cracker crust and the glossy beauty of the smooth caramel topping. The urge to glide my finger through the sticky sweetness and test its consistency beckoned, but I resisted in favor of seeing what the other trays held.
The next table presented strawberry-kiwi tarts. The one next to it, miniature lemon soufflés. The next, gâteau riche . Then things got interesting. Toward the rear of the room were clustered an array of high-tiered tables bursting with pastries fit for a king. Surely, there must be cream puffs in residence. I took off at a brisk pace, letting no one delay my mission.
From five feet away I inhaled, and the ambrosial scent transmitted tingles of anticipation all the way to my toes. Where to start when faced with veritable paradise? I smothered a hysterical sugar-induced giggle and headed for the table nearest the bank of windows.
I veered past the crowded display of Cannelés Bordelais and hovered over the classic French Napoleons. My tongue ached to lick the thick cream from between the layers of puff pastry and test its flavor. I reached out to snatch up a plate and paused as I caught something out of the corner of my eye that made me squeal with delight. The people around me raised their eyebrows, but I didn’t care. I barreled toward the adjacent table full speed ahead, the promise of ultimate fulfillment in sight.
There, sitting majestically by themselves, proudly
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