“Traditional choices are traditional for a reason,” I countered. “Vanilla appeals to most palates.”
“Most boring palates,” he muttered, but his eyes twinkled. “Like missionary position for desserts. Gets the job done but nobody’s writing home about it.”
I choked on my cake and had to take a sip of the champagne. The bubbles didn’t help much. “Please refrain from comparing cake to sexual positions in front of the baker.”
“Would you prefer I compare it to other things?” he asked innocently. “Because we could move to anatomy.”
“No,” I said at the same time Eloise whispered “yes please,” under her breath.
I rolled my eyes. “I’d prefer you focus on selecting a cake flavor rather than creating your next stand-up routine,” I replied licking my fork. His gaze followed the movement.
“Whatever you say, darling.”
I kicked him under the table. “Ms. Marcel.”
With his focus still on my mouth, he responded, “Yes, ma’am.”
Eloise brought over the next sample before I could kick him again. “Lemon cake with lavender buttercream.”
I took a bite. “Interesting combination. The floral notes might be overpowering for some guests.”
“The lavender is too dominant,” Callan agreed. “It should complement the lemon, not overwhelm it. They need to reduce the lavender extract by about a third and increase the lemon zest.”
I stared at him. When had Callan Burkhardt become a cake expert?
Eloise looked equally surprised. “That’s... a very precise observation, Mr. Burkhardt.”
“Try the cardamom-honey next,” he suggested. “I’m curious how it pairs with the different frosting options.”
Eloise brought over two more samples, and Callan sampled each.
“The cardamom-honey pairs better with the rosewater buttercream than the vanilla,” he declared. “The floral notes inthe rosewater enhance the honey without competing with the cardamom.”
“How do you know that?” I blurted, unable to contain my confusion. This was like discovering your accountant was secretly a champion bullfighter. A complete identity crisis.
“Know what?”
“About flavor pairing and extract ratios and... all of this.” I gestured to the elaborate notes he’d begun making on a napkin. “I thought your food preferences consisted entirely of ‘expensive’ and ‘more expensive’ with the occasional ‘served on a supermodel’s bare back.’”
He laughed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ms. Marcel.”
“Apparently,” I agreed, still baffled by this unexpected facet of the man that looked like just another rich playboy. “Next you’ll tell me you knit or rescue orphaned kittens in your spare time.”
“Only on Tuesdays,” he replied with perfect seriousness. “Mondays are for overthrowing small governments.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I baked with my grandmother growing up,” he admitted after a moment, his voice softer. “Every Sunday. It was our thing.”
“You baked?” The image of little Callan in an apron, standing on a stool to reach the counter, was almost too adorable to bear. My ovaries practically squealed.
“Still do,” he said, looking almost embarrassed by the admission. “When I can find the time. I make her birthday cake every year, no matter how crazy my schedule gets.”
“That’s... surprisingly sweet,” I said, meaning it.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he replied with a mock-serious expression. “Bad for my cutthroat CEO image. I’m supposed to eat the hopes and dreams of my competitors for breakfast, not homemade cinnamon rolls.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured him, fighting a smile. “Though I might need photographic evidence. For verification purposes only.”
“Verification purposes,” he repeated skeptically. “Not blackmail?”
“I would never.” I placed a hand over my heart. “Though I’m sure the business tabloids would pay handsomely for shots of Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor wearing oven mitts and covered in flour. ‘Breaking News: Billionaire Burkhardt Batters Batter.’”
