“Nana.” I set down my piping bag and forced myself to smile. “What a surprise.”
“Is it?” Nana Beatrice swept into my shop, her heels clicking against the tiles. Suddenly my warm, vanilla-scented bakery smelled like her signature perfume, something French and expensive. “Surely, you must have known I’d visit.”
I’d known no such thing, but maybe I should have. After all, she dropped by whenever she damn well pleased. I’d just forgotten, too lost in my whirlwind… whatever I had going on with Brok.
Behind Nana trailed Hunter, her current ‘Personal Assistant’. He had the jawline of a Greek statue and carried four shopping bags from boutiques I couldn’t afford to walk past. His polo shirt stretched across his chest. His smile suggested he’d never experienced an anxious thought in his entire life. Or possibly no thought at all.
He waved at me. I waved back, feeling increasingly ridiculous.
Nana cleared her throat, and I obediently turned toward her. “Dear, you look busy.” Her eyes swept over me, taking in the organized chaos in my kitchen. “Should I come back later?”
There was only one good answer to that. “Of course not, Nana. You’re always welcome here. You know that.”
She was. Mostly. She’d practically raised me after my parents had decided to dedicate their lives to a whirlwind trip around the world. But even after all this time, I had problems with her… quirks.
Before our conversation could escalate into unwanted territory, a high-pitched yip echoed from the bag on her arm. A small Pomeranian emerged from inside and tossed her head, as if trying to shake off sleep.
Fifi weighed less than one of my sourdough boules and had a better grooming regimen than I did. Her fur looked professionally blow-dried. She had the attitude of a tiny, furry dictator, but always slept through Nana’s shopping sprees. To cater to her whims, Nana had ordered a custom purse that was less a handbag and more a carry-on nest.
It was excessive, but Fifi didn’t seem to mind being taken along on shopping trips with her owner. So what did I know?
“Hello, Fifi.” I petted the already excited dog and smiled. “It’s nice to see you too.”
Fifi licked my hand, then gave me an expectant look. I seized the excuse to move, escaping around the counter to reach for the jar on the lower shelf. Inside were hand-dried strips of duck breast that I made myself. “Here you go, you little tyrant.”
I offered Fifi the duck, and she took it gently, her tiny teeth barely grazing my fingers. Nana huffed under her breath. She might dislike my business, but never when it involved feeding her dogs.
“So what brings you by, Nana?” I asked as Fifi finished her last duck strip. “I’m in the middle of a wedding commission. The bride wants sixty individual desserts, and I’m behind schedule.”
Nana’s gaze swept over my work surface—the half-finished cake, the organized chaos of piping bags and spatulas. “How ambitious of her.” She picked up oneof my business cards from the holder, examined it as if checking for typos, then set it back down. “I’m here about the Gala.”
I barely managed not to flinch. “The Gala? It’s now?”
Nana adjusted her hat and narrowed her eyes at me. Never a good sign. “Two weeks from Sunday. You remember. I chair the event every year. This year we’re adding the baking competition. I expect you to attend. And compete.”
“Nana, I really can’t,” I tried to protest. “Sundays are my prep days. I have three birthday cakes due that Monday—”
“You’ll make time.” Nana inspected a tray of macarons through the display case glass. “This is for the Foundation, Hazel. Besides, Mr. Gray specifically asked if you’d be there.”
Oh, God. This was exactly what I’d been worried about when she’d come in. “Gray? I’m sorry, who is that?”
“That’s right. Ignatius Gray.” Nana’s entire face brightened. “He’s an attorney. Senior Partner at Gray & Associates. He’s been absolutely invaluable to the Foundation. Sharp as a tack. Runs marathons. Excellent teeth.”
“Teeth?” I repeated. Was this one of her standards in men nowadays?
“Strong jaw. Good genes.” She beamed as if what she’d just said made complete sense. “More importantly, hetasted your cooking and seemed impressed. I mentioned him to you, and well…”
Oh, Nana. No. “Please don’t tell me you’re matchmaking again.”
“I’m not matchmaking.” She adjusted her bag on her arm, making Fifi throw her a disgruntled look. “I’m simply facilitating an opportunity for two successful professionals to meet at a charitable event. What happens after that is entirely organic.”
“The last guy you ‘facilitated’ tried to sell me cryptocurrency during appetizers.” And that was only one of the many issues I’d had with him.
“Derek was forward-thinking.”
“He had charts, Nana. Laminated charts.”
“Ignatius is different,” Nana insisted. “He’s cultured. Successful. Established. The kind of man who knows what he wants. And apparently, he wants to meet the chocolatier who charmed his taste buds.”
