Arthur continued. “I only ever serve these at special occasions. It seemed fitting that I bring them here today. Because purchasing this business has certainly proven to be special so far.” He paused to clear his throat. “Mr. O’Connor, since you took the time to educate me on the types of presses you have here over the weekend, I thought that you should take the first one.” Balancing the tin in his left hand, Arthur pointed to the pastries on one side with his right index finger. “Right half is vanilla. Left is almond.” He lowered his voice so that only Jesse could hear him. “Almond is better.”
Jesse fumbled to find his handkerchief in his front pocket and swiftly wiped the ink from his hands, both of which had started to tremble. Fighting to keep a neutral face, Jesse reached for oneof the almond pastries, and when he locked eyes with Arthur, the man mouthed “take two.” Jesse plucked a second one from the tin.
“Be back in a few,” Arthur whispered before turning to serve everyone else in the shop.
Jesse simply stood frozen, the heaviness of the two pastries in his hand somehow making him feel as though he himself had become weightless enough to float up to the clouds. After everyone else had taken a pastry, Arthur came back. He set the mostly empty tin on the closest workstation table and chose one of the pastries, taking his first bite before even turning around.
“God, I luff these,” he said, shielding his mouth with one of his hands, his words slightly garbled from the half-chewed food.
Jesse’s stomach tumbled. He was still too flustered to speak. Instead, he lifted one of the pastries to his mouth and took a bite. Almond-flavored custard erupted onto his tongue, and Jesse nearly let out a moan when he tasted its sweetness. He had never tried ones with this kind of cream. Only vanilla. Arthur chuckled.
“I knew you’d like them,” he said. “Gertrude—my maid and cook and an incredibly lovely woman—found the recipe for these in one of her books. I believe they’re called éclairs.” Arthur said the name with a long “A” like ay-clair, which made Jesse smile. “I have no idea if I’m pronouncing that right. Anyway, they’re popular in France.”
Jesse nodded a few times. He took a second bite and wondered whether or not he should correct his friend. Hopefully Arthur wouldn’t think he was rude for it.
Jesse said, “Éclair,” emphasizing that the first letter was, in fact, pronounced with a long E, and speaking the word as a whole with a French accent. He couldn’t resist the urge to impress Arthur a little more, too. “Je suis désolé de vous corriger.”
Arthur’s eyes widened.
“Mr. O’Connor, you speak French?”
Jesse’s stomach fluttered. It was exactly the reaction he’d foolishly hoped for.
“Not fluently. But I learned a little in college,” Jesse said, though the wordsfrom a man named Percy Vernestayed back in his throat, forming a lump of regret and shame and other terrible things.
“Oh my, that’s impressive,” Arthur said, a hint of wonderment in his tone that made Jesse’s cheeks tingle. Arthur’s compliment seemed to be sincere. “I learned a bit of German myself, but none of it ever really stuck.” He shoved the rest of the pastry into his mouth, smearing a bit of custard on cheek in the process. After swallowing, he said, “In the book, it said that the name of the pastry—éclair—means something like ‘flash of lightning.’ Is that right?”
“Yes,” Jesse said. “It is.”
Percy had told him the meaning once, too.
“Oh, my, Ilovethat,” Arthur said, his voice so full of passion and excitement that Jesse was suddenly finding it a little hard to breathe.
Arthur was so different from Percy Verne. And Jesse felt his resolve wavering.
Arthur nodded toward Jesse’s remaining pastry. “Little bolts of excitement. Of electricity.” He paused to look into Jesse’s eyes. It was no ordinary look, either, but one heavy with unmistakablewant. “I thought that they would be theperfectthing to serve.” After a pause, Arthur leaned in close. “Don’t you agree?”
Jesse’s heart slammed into his rib cage. After two more violent beats, he managed a nod. Arthur was the most blatantly flirtatious man that Jesse had ever met in his life. He prayed that no one else was listening to their conversation, hushed though it may have been. Because there was no way that the others wouldn’t have sensed the extrasomethingin Arthur’s words. Scrambling to recover from Arthur’s comments, Jesse took one more bite of thepastry, but now his stomach was turning so much that he found it hard to swallow.
A knock on the front door of the shop startled Jesse and Arthur both, and they looked over to see Mr. Stevenson welcoming someone inside—a tall, thin man with a thick mustache. Jesse couldn’t remember ever having seen him before. Beside him, Arthur sucked in a short breath. Before Jesse could ask who the man was, Arthur began to whisper in Jesse’s ear.
“Oh, God, that’s Mr. Russell. He’s one of the men helping Mr. Burnham. I thought that he’d be here much later than this.”
Arthur straightened his posture and brushed his hands over his suit, smoothing out the fabric while whisking away any crumbs. He started toward Mr. Russell and Mr. Stevenson. After he made it a few paces, Jesse suddenly remembered the custard on Arthur’s cheek. Silly man.
“Wait, Ar—” Jesse began to call out, but caught himself. Still, it had been enough to catch Arthur’s attention.
Arthur turned back toward him, and Jesse tapped his own cheek. Arthur’s eyes widened with realization, his eyebrows shooting up in tandem. He hurried to wipe his face with his hand. Then, Arthur mouthed a very exaggerated “Gone?,” and Jesse nodded, warmth bubbling in his chest. Silly, silly man. Arthur smiled and mouthed a fast “Thank you.” Jesse nodded once more.
Whirling back toward the front of the shop, Arthur spouted a booming, “Mr. Russell! Good morning! I hadn’t expected you to come by so early. Do you want the tour now, or should we head to the office? Chat about the types of presses we have here and what I could bring to the exhibit?”
Mr. Russell replied, but his words were muddled, his voice sounding far away as Jesse let himself retreat into his own mind. He shoved the rest of the pastry in his mouth and then turned back to the press. He continued to smile to himself as the residualtaste of the sweet pastry lingered on his tongue and the even sweeter sounds of Arthur’s happy voice echoed in his ears. Arthur may have planned to come by the shop to meet with Mr. Russell, but Jesse knew that those treats—those thoughtful, wonderful treats—had been for him. He was certain of it.
And he was certain of one more thing, now, too.
He really, really liked Arthur Hughes.
Chapter Seven
