No wonder I felt such attraction to Lucas. From what I had seen so far, he was a man who was kind for the sake of being kind, with no ulterior motive. Maybe he was part unicorn.
The tension in my shoulders eased as another thought registered. If I made a mistake, Lucas wouldn’t yell at me.
“Have you made cannelés?” he asked, already pulling fresh pans and bowls onto the workstation.
I nodded with as much confidence as I could muster, knowing the full and true answer wasonly once. “Of course.”
His cheek twitched with the hint of a smile, either pleased with my response or seeing straight through me. “Traditional cannelés have a crispy caramelized exterior and a soft custard center. They’re tricky. We don’t want to overcook the outside while getting the silky interior texture correct.”
I recalled from class at the club that cannelés originated in the Bordeaux region of France. The pastries were small and cylinder-shaped with depressions at their tops. The ingredients list was very straightforward: eggs, milk, butter, sugar, flour, salt. Then a flavoring of some kind, usually vanilla. I preferred rum. Baking at a high temperature was key, as was keeping an eye on the process.
As I mentally ticked through the steps involved, Lucas gathered everything we needed from the refrigerator and nearby shelves.
“Anything else?” he asked, head tipped toward the workspace.
I scanned the materials. “Salt.”
He produced a small container from his apron pocket. “Correct.”
“When did you put that in there?”
He grinned. “What now?”
“Prep the batter, let it rest overnight,” I said. “Pick up where we left off tomorrow.” Would I be here tomorrow?
He waved a hand toward the workspace, and I stepped forward to begin.
I’d only worked with fresh vanilla a few times, but I put my chin up and sliced the dark beans down their centers, then scraped out theircontents. The rest of the process came naturally, despite my limited experience with this particular recipe. I added ingredients to a pot on the nearby stove and adjusted the gas flame.
Lucas leaned closer, peering into the pot as I sank a wooden spoon inside and stirred. “Tell me more about your training.”
I tidied up the space on autopilot. His word choice rattled my confidence. Baking lessons at the country club hardly counted as training. The bulk of my recipe research involved YouTube, and I’d honed my techniques through trial and error.
The urge to make my training sound like more than it was swelled in me, but I put it aside. I’d hidden so many truths over the years. About my feelings. My side hustle. My intent to leave my husband. But that wasn’t who I was anymore, or at least it wasn’t who I wanted to be. I didn’t want to hide. “I took some classes and workshops at my old country club.”
Lucas furrowed his brows, then turned a puzzled expression in my direction. “A country club?”
I carried the mixing bowls to the sink and started the water. “I suppose it’s still my country club, at least until it’s time for next year’s dues.” I glanced at Lucas as I rinsed the bowls. “Until very recently, I was a housewife with an overbearing husband who liked me to play a certain role.”
“You’re divorced?” he guessed.
“We’re in the process. Not to be cliché, but it’s complicated,” I admitted. “I moved out in June. The lawyers are lawyering, but the process is slow.” And might get even slower if Robert emptied the accounts to the point I couldn’t pay my attorney. The thought jarred me, and I considered sticking my head under the water so I could scream. Surely, even Robert wouldn’t do that.
“So, he used you and your skills to impress his guests,” Lucas said.
“He treated me very well when others were watching.”
Lucas’s external smile fell, and emotion flashed in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve had plenty of years to accept it. Now, my daughter, Camilla, is grown. She’s a remarkable human with a big heart and good head on her shoulders. I’m proud of that, and I’m starting over the way I should have long ago.” I dried my hands, feeling self-conscious. “Sorry. That was too much information.”
I returned to the stove and extinguished the flame, then placed a lid on the pot. Before I said anything more to ruin my hands-on interview, I cracked eggs into a bowl, added sugar, then began to whisk.
Lucas moved a cup of flour in my direction, and I sifted it into my mixture.
We worked quietly together as the busy kitchen clanged and bustled around us.
When we finished, I dragged my gaze to meet his.
