“Holy shit,”Banks says beside me. He’s rubbing the palms of his hands together like a child in a candy store. The factory is all polished wood and glass, pristine white floors that look almost out of a modern Wonka movie set. The air is thick and heavy with chocolate, and it’s overwhelming, to say the least.
We’re led through a private entrance, past a wall-sized fountain of molten chocolate that has my cousin grinning like a kid. I mean, everyone is, because this is just a level of extra that lots of money can buy.
Employees dressed in crisp white outfits and chef hats press tasting squares into our hands at intervals: dark with hints of orange, milk filled with praline, white flecked with crushed freeze-dried raspberries. The group chatters about favorites, tosses out jokes, compares notes.
Manuela takes a bite of one of the squares and closes her eyes. “This should be illegal.”
“Probably is somewhere,” I say, watching the way her tongue darts out to catch a smear of chocolate at the corner of her lip. I force my eyes away before I do something stupid like wipe it with my thumb.
We follow the sommelier-like guide through the atrium, Jack bouncing on his heels like he’s about to offer to buy the whole factory as a wedding present to Elle. The guide, a stern-looking woman with perfect posture and an even more perfect British accent, is talking about the process at the front of the group, but I can’t focus on anything but Manuela.
She walks just ahead of me, hair tucked behind her ear, tilting her head at the displays we’re passing as though she’s cataloguing details no one else sees. Her fingers trail lightlyalong the edge of a glass case filled with wrapped truffles, her nails painted the faintest neutral pink. I want to reach for her hand and lace my fingers with hers.
“This is the heart of our process,” the guide explains, straightening her spine as she stops around a wide window where a chocolatier pours melted chocolate into molds. “Precision and patience. The Swiss way.”
Patience. The word almost makes me laugh. Last night, with her pressed against my door, patience didn’t stand a chance.
Jack elbows me. “Remember when you guys swore off chocolate for that keto thing?”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah,” I try to say lightly, forcing a smile. “Didn’t last long.”
Eventually, we are led into a long hallway with multiple doors on either side. Sterile white walls are lined with old black-and-white photos of men in chef’s hats pouring chocolate into massive molds. The air grows sweeter the deeper we go until it’s almost overwhelming. At the end of the hall, double doors open into the tasting room for lunch: high ceilings, rows of wineglasses glinting in the light, and platters of chocolate arranged like jewels on marble stands.
“Too much?” I murmur.
She startles, then glances at me, her lips parting like she wasn’t expecting me to speak so close to her ear. For half a second, her hand brushes the edge of my sleeve—barely there, but I feel it like a jolt.
Her smile flickers. “Depends. You mean the sugar or the theatrics?”
“Both,” I admit, tipping my head toward Jack, as he’s already hamming it up with the sommelier, trying to out-charm her accent.
She huffs a laugh, soft, private. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel it in my stomach, an immediate tightening that has me catching my breath before I can stop it. “Definitely both.”
We sit, and the first course is served—tiny portions of cheese, pears, and chocolate paired with a dry Riesling. The guide explains notes and origins, and Jack and Elle ask questions. Hannah and Amelia are sitting at the end of the table, snapping photos of the dishes as they come, and the more we get into the meal, the more chocolate is served with the food.
The meal is long, just like that first day, everyone enjoying the conversation and the drinks.
Once, under the table, our knees knock and neither of us moves, and I’m tempted to place my hand on her thigh, possessively, like she’s mine.
Finally, what feels like hours later, we’re shepherded down another long corridor towards the demonstration kitchen for coffee. The group surges ahead, drawn by the smell of caramelizing sugar and the promise of truffle samples. Manuela lingers, pausing by a display of antique molds shaped like flowers. I stop beside her.
“They’re kind of creepy, right?” I whisper, leaning in.
She tilts her head, a grin tugging at her lips. “My grandmother had one like that one, see?” She points at one in the far corner. It’s rusted and old and looks like a Thanksgiving cornucopia. “My sister always thought it was creepy. And no one seems to know where it came from.”
“Was it haunted?”
“Maybe, but she baked the best cakes in it, so I’m not complaining.” Her laugh is soft, caught in the low hum of the ventilation overhead. She shakes her head but doesn’t move away. And that’s all the invitation I need to shift closer, just enough that the warmth of her arm grazes mine.
“Connor,” she says, warning in her voice, though the corner of her mouth betrays her with a smile.
“You weren’t in my bed this morning.” My hand hovers at her waist, careful, waiting for any sign I’ve gone too far.
Manuela’s eyes flick toward the hallway, where the rest of the group’s voices echo faintly. Then back to me. “Do you want to get caught?”
I shake my head, leaning in just a fraction. “No. But I hate pretending I don’t want you.”
Her expression flickers, just for a second, like she wasn’t expecting this level of honesty. She presses a palm to my chest, firm but not pushing me away. Her eyes spark, amused and sharp, and they drag all the way down to my lips. “Well, I care. No one needs to know our business, Connor.”
