Rafe leads me to a table with eight slices of cake arranged in a row. We take our seats behind it, and I spot several gleaming silver forks on a white napkin.
The photographer gets into position, and Wren takes a seat directly opposite us. Seems like she’s the one in charge of the situation.
“The first cake you’re trying is…” She looks at her clipboard. “The blackberry mousse.”
I look at Rafe. He’s resting a hand against the table, hislegs stretched out. The picture of polished relaxation. But I know he doesn’t do things like this. Raphaël Montclair is a deeply private man. All of the Montclairs are. He’s given very few interviews, just like his father did, and he only talks about Maison Valmont and business. Never family.
“Ladies first,” he says.
I reach for a fork and slice through the dark-red cake. It cuts easily through the sponge, and it tastesdelicious.
“Okay. This one is the winner,” I tell him.
His lips curve. “You can’t say that after just one cake.”
“But it’s fantastic. Try it.”
He reaches for a fork of his own, and I watch his jaw work as he chews. “It’s good,” he says. “I’ll admit.”
“The winner,” I say, my smile widening. We have an audience. It feels like I can hear them all breathe, standing around us, watching us. Wanting to see us interact.Click, click, click,the camera goes.
“No, we have to keep going,” he says, and his arm drapes around the back of my chair. “What’s the next one, Wren?”
“Excuse my pronunciation, sir, but it’s?—”
But Rafe has already pushed his fork through the pale-yellow slice. “Zuger Kirschtorte,” he says. “Wow. Chef Chiara has done her research.”
“What did you call it?” I ask.
“It’s a Swiss cake,” he says, and takes a significantly larger bite than he did from the first one. I look at his expression and the trace of delight in his eyes.
I don’t want to see Rafe Montclairdelighted.
And I don’t want to see pleasure on his face.
So I distract myself by taking a big bite myself. It’s nutty and cherry flavored at the same time, with soft sponge. “Oh. This is pretty good.”
“It’s a classic.” He looks over at the chef. She’s standing in the far back, behind assistants and the photographer, wearinga chef’s jacket. He calls out something in Italian and winks at her.
Hewinksat this legendary chef.
She beams. That’s the kind of influence he has. I know that, but seeing it now, and how everyone in his orbit wants to impress him…
“What do you think, darling?” His hand brushes my left shoulder. “Is that the winner?”
“We still have six more to go,” I remind him, “and we have to keep going.”
He reaches for the next one. “Ah, and the classic millefoglie.”
We try that one too. It’s delicious, all meringue and cream, and I lean in to whisper in his ear. The camera smatters again. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask.
He turns, his cheek brushing against mine. “Worst time of my life.”
“You didn’t answer my email yesterday.”
“I started to,” he says, “and didn’t finish.”
I reach up to brush a tendril of his hair back. It’s surprisingly soft, and in the distance, that sound again.Click, click, click.“Is that a common problem for you?”
