“Time’s up,” he said.
My heart sank. What did that mean? I tucked my proverbial tail and reached behind myself to untie the apron strings. “Well, thank you for—”
He opened the oven, and the rich scent of chocolate lifted into the air. “Ahh.” He breathed the word, clearly impressed.
The soufflé was perfectly risen.
Pride filled my chest and split my lips into an open-mouthed smile.
Even if I didn’t get the job, I’d made a gorgeous soufflé, and a popular local French chef bore witness.
“Exquisite,” he said, moving the pan to the counter. “I’ll finish up the filling for the cannelés and start on the dough tomorrow.”
I nodded, honored to have had a hand in the process.
It was amazing, really. I’d walked in off the street, on a whim, and had the opportunity to make French desserts with a French restaurateur, chef, and baker. That sort of thing never happened in my previous life. Being spontaneous and brave proved far better than remaining small and unnoticed.
I addedbraveto a new list of ways to view myself.
“Same time?” he asked, removing his apron, then accepting mine when I passed it to him.
“As what?”
“To work,” he clarified. “I’ll add this hour to your first check. You did beautifully today, and if you’re open to learning more, I’d love to show you.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re hiring me?”
“Let’s call it a trial basis. We can finish the cannelés ahead of the lunch rush.”
I forced my arms to my sides so I wouldn’t hug him.
“I don’t suppose you know someone who makes a decent éclair or macaron,” he said, brow wrinkled as he looked at the empty bakery case. “My breakfast crowd likes sweets to go, and it’d be nice to contract with a local small business instead of buying from a wholesaler. I’ve considered hiring someone directly, but the added overhead makes that a no-go. Health care, training costs, insurance—” He rolled a hand in a circle between us. “It’s a twenty-hour-a-week job all by itself.”
I bit my lip, contemplating. “How many hours a week is the pastry-chef position?”
“Thirty,” he said. “More around holidays, less when you need a break. Tell me in advance and we can prep and freeze inventory before you’re away.”
I smiled. “Very flexible.”
He grinned.
“Have you heard of the Invisible Baker?” I asked, looking away as my cheeks heated under his gaze.
“No. Why?”
I examined the empty bakery display and wondered if I’d inadvertently hit the jackpot by walking into Chez Margot. “They have a social media account with photos of pastries like the ones you mentioned, and I think they’re local.”
“I’ll check it out,” he said. “You turned out to be exactly what I needed today.”
Lucas held my eye contact a beat longer than necessary, and my toes curled inside my sneakers.
When he walked me to the door, he carefully peeled the sign from the front window. Chez Margot was no longer in the market for a pastry chef.
I’d fibbed a little about my baking company, but I’d added at least one new income stream to keep my life afloat. I couldn’t be upset about that.
Now, I just couldn’t mess it up.
Chapter Sixteen
