“Not bad,” he said. He strolled around the cake, hands clasped behind his back. “A little dramatic, perhaps, but otherwise a fine showing.”
Damien, the bakery clerk, poked his head into the kitchen. “Monsieur Clement is here,” he whisper-yelled. He gave Robin a pointed look and a thumbs-up before disappearing back through the door into the front room of the shop.
Robin ran her palms down the sides of her pants. The man who could make her dreams come true sat on the other side of that door.
Just as she reached for the handle of the wheeled cart, Victor tapped her arm. “Allow me,” he said. He must want to present her to the judge too—a prize-winning cake made by his prized pastry chef.
One of her coworkers held open the door, and Victor pushed the cart through, head held high. Robin followed close behind.
In the tiny dining room, barely a hundred and fifty feet square, sat the judge. Damien was in the middle of telling him a story, his arms making wide gestures.
“Damien.” Victor cut him off. “I think our guest has had enough.”
Damien gave a quick dip of his head and retreated back behind the till.
“Monsieur Clement, I present Castle in the Clouds.” Victor bowed and held his hand palm up to gesture to the cake. He took a step back as the judge rose from his seat and walked a full circuit around the confection.
“Very pretty,” Mr. Clement said. He walked back to his seat. “Of course, the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. As you know, taste is also a factor in this competition.”
Victor waved a hand at Robin, shooing her back into the kitchen. “You heard him. Get something to cut this cake.”
Earlier that day Robin had set out a cake knife, a wedge-shaped server, and a real china plate and spoon. She grabbed the stack and hustled back out to where the men were chatting. She heard Victor answering some questions about the construction of the cake as well as the flavors.
She waited for him to call on her to answer the judge’s questions, but he never did. His smooth voice gave a reply to everything asked of him, sometimes getting the information wrong. She tuned him out, concentrating on cutting the perfect slice from the edge of the castle, coming back to the conversation in time to hear him tell the judge that the filling for the cake featured vanilla custard.
“Excuse me, Victor.” She hoped her French didn’t fail her now. “I think you mean mascarpone cream.”
The look Victor shot her, his back turned to the judge, was heated. She had a sudden urge to step in front of the cake to prevent the frosting from melting.
“Thank you, Robin.” Victor’s voice was a hiss. “Of course I meant mascarpone cream, sweetened with vanilla.”
The judge looked between them. Then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Robin handed him the piece of cake. Her hands shook, and she slid them into her pockets, then took them back out again. Too casual. She finally settled for knotting them behind her back.
Mr. Clement tasted a tiny bite of the cake, measuring out a small amount of the frosting and filling. He closed his eyes briefly, then took a second bite. “Who is responsible for this creation? We will need your photo.”
Robin’s heart was a runaway freight train. Now was the moment Victor would introduce her.
Victor took a step forward. “I am.”
What? Her heart plummeted to somewhere near her knees. “But I—”
Victor cut her off with a harsh movement of his hand. A quick chop through the air that was unmistakable. She opened her mouth to speak again. To defend herself. Victor held up one finger. She crossed her arms. Fine, if that’s how he wanted to play it. As long as he followed through on the promotion and the spot in the Cup, she’d happily stand aside now.
The judge snapped his fingers. She realized then that there was a photographer standing in the corner taking candid shots. The judge moved toward the cake, extended his hand to Victor. Victor nudged her out of the way as he posed in front of her cake, shaking hands with the contest judge and smiling widely.
The rest of the event passed in a blur as the judge interviewed Victor, and the photographer took shots from several angles. Eventually Robin found herself back in the bakery kitchen, serving slices of her cake to the staff who were still on duty.
When Victor went to his small office off the kitchen, she followed him. She popped her hands on her hips. “What was that in there?”
“What was what?” He sat in his swivel chair and began moving it left and right in tiny movements.
“Why didn’t you tell him I was the pastry chef on that bake? I should have been in those photos, not you!”
“Eh.” He raised one shoulder. “My bakery, my glory.”
“Are you kidding me? After all the hours I put into winning this contest? You’re going to cut me out?”
“Robin, I paid you fairly for your hours. No one promised you more than that.” He crossed one slim leg over the other.
