I gave the sign a closer look when I reached the window. No further explanation was available. No small print suggesting I inquire within, or one of those QR codes that seemed to facilitate everything these days. Apparently, I had to ask for more information.
I squared my shoulders, pictured my emptying bank account and inherited money pit. Then I opened the door.
A dozen possible interview questions immediately flooded my head, and I wondered why I didn’t take five minutes to prepare before entering. I addedoverexcitableto a growing list of things I was learning about myself. If only I knew my five greatest strengths and weaknesses, I’d have a far better chance at passing this interview. Did everyone who walked in get an interview?
I stepped inside and my chaotic mind quieted as I inhaled the delicious scents and tuned in to a soft accordion melody.
Hopefully no one asked where I saw myself in five years. “On the street, without this job” seemed like the wrong answer.
My gaze traveled the dining room. Was this a fair representation of restaurants in France? Had my mother eaten somewhere like this during the summer she met my father? Did he visit a place like this today?
An avalanche of more questions crowded my head. Where was Sébastien Allard? How could I find him? Would he want to meet me? Better yet, was I sure that was what I wanted?
An equally poignant thought presented itself unbidden. What if Sébastien was as big of a mess as my mother had been? Did I really want to know that?
“Ah! She returns!” a male voice bellowed.
I spun in search of the vaguely familiar sound and smiled when I met Lucas’s eye. “You remember me.”
“Of course I remember.” He frowned. “I’m not as old as you think I am.”
“I’m forty-six,” I blurted, though he did not ask. “You can’t be older than that.”
“Can’t I?” He clasped his hands and grinned. “Back for more crepes?”
My cheeks heated for reasons I couldn’t imagine. “No, but thank you,” I said. “For lunch that day, and the take-home crepes. They were perfection.”
He tipped his head, interest brewing in his warm brown eyes. “What can I do for you today?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m here about the sign in the window.”
His brows rose. “You know a French pastry chef?”
“I know an excellent baker,” I said. “She’s really good, a quick study, and probably wouldn’t break your bank.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, bumping into the welcome desk between us. “Is she looking for work? How can I get in touch?”
I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, again.”
“No.” He dragged the word out for several amused syllables. “You?”
I nodded.
“You said you don’t cook,” he accused. He certainly had a good memory.
“I don’t, at least, not well.” I lifted one shoulder toward my ear. “I bake.”
Lucas dropped forward, pressing both palms to the stand. “Tell me more.”
I searched my brain for things I wanted him to know, and those I didn’t. Then I told my overexcitable tongue not to say more than absolutely necessary. This job might be mine to lose.
“My mom was a novice baker. I grew up watching her. When I became a mother, I found joy in baking too.”
He straightened and crossed his arms. “What do you know about French pastries?”
I smiled. “A little.”
“Do you think you can manage the dessert list on our menu?”
