by Lucy Parker
The guy actually took a step back, to his own immediate, visible aggravation.
Sylvie tilted her head. After a considering moment, she said, “That’s okay.” She didn’t look at Darren; only at Dominic. The dimple beside her lips peeped out. “I can handle myself.”
His mouth lifted. “I never doubted.”
The server came around the counter with two trays of drinks. “Here you go.”
“Thank you so much.” Sylvie took them. “I have two new sweets going into production next week. Clearly, your lonely brain cell is incapable of any original thought, Darren, so why don’t I just type out the recipes and email them straight over. Save you the trip. Little early Christmas present.”
Even the Duchess of Albany would fail to find fault with the way she exited the café.
Amusement becoming an outright grin, Dominic followed.
Outside in the bitter cold, he stood in a circle of warm light reflecting from the café windows and took one tray of drinks from her. “Such a spineless, retiring mouse.”
Sylvie huffed a half laugh. “Even the confrontation-averse have their breaking point.”
“Thanks for the drinks.”
Her fingers folded tightly around her own tray. A thick strand of lavender hair fell across her eyes before she shook it back. “You’re welcome.”
A few snowflakes drifted down over his shoulders, falling to melt on the wet stones.
Sylvie’s eyes searched his as their arms touched. When Dominic leaned in, her lips trembled under his as he kissed her. It was a lingering caress, light, gentle—until she pushed up on her tiptoes, pressing into him. They breathed each other in, the kiss deepening.
Her tongue had just stroked his, sending a pleasurable shock straight to his groin, when his phone rang.
He lifted his mouth with a muffled groan, and she dropped her head to rest briefly on his shoulder.
“I was expecting to come out of this experience sleep-deprived and hopefully many pennies wealthier,” she said into his coat. “Not internally sobbing from sexual frustration.”
Ruefully, she stepped back. “Answer it.” She took back his tray of drinks to free up one of his hands.
Dominic straightened, breathed deep. Joking comments aside, he got the frustration. His body was taut with aborted sensation, his skin prickling as if it had stretched too tight across his bones. In just a few seconds, he was infinitely more aroused than he was comfortable with on a public street, relatively deserted or not.
With a jerk, he pulled his phone from his coat pocket, checked the screen. He swiped to answer. “Liam, I hope you’re clocking out.”
“Nobody is clocking out.” Liam’s voice shot down the line. “We’ve got a problem.”
His movements stilled. “What’s the matter?”
Sylvie had been kicking her feet along the ground, also keeping moving to stay warm. She looked up swiftly.
“Last month, when Aaron was still . . . preoccupied, he took an order from Grosvenor Park Hotel.” Paper rustled. “Twelve dozen cupcakes, six hundred chocolates. Mostly Pointillist Caramels.” Their most time-consuming sweet, which had to be produced and consumed fresh. “And a five-tier cake. He forgot to record it.”
Foreboding was a hard pulse in Dominic’s blood. “And when is the delivery date for this order that we haven’t started yet?”
Sylvie came close, obviously concerned.
Liam dropped the expected hammer. “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Fuck,” Dominic said emphatically.
What’s wrong? she mouthed, and he grimaced.
“Who’s still there and who’s prepared to stay?” he asked Liam. “Triple pay.”
“Everyone here is staying. Regardless of overtime pay,” his friend said firmly. “You’re a bit of a dick sometimes, mate, but we’re all pretty loyal to our boss, you know. Go team.”
His boots squeaked over the falling snow as he turned with a small sound of amusement, but the sincerity behind the words didn’t pass unnoticed. Or unappreciated.
“But we’re already short-staffed because of the flu bug. Pete left early for a dental appointment and his phone is off. Lizzie’s on annual leave as of this afternoon and is probably at the airport by now. And we still have to finish the remainder of the Farquhar’s order for tomorrow afternoon.” Liam had earned his position at the salon through finely honed talent and years of hard work—and because he was routinely unflappable. Right now, he was flapping. “There’s no way we’re going to finish this on time. It’s intricate work, and we don’t have enough hands.”
As Liam added each dire pronouncement to the situation, Sylvie had put down her armload of drinks and extracted Dominic’s car keys from his pocket. Taking the slices of cheesecake from him, she beeped the lock on the car and put the boxes and trays on the back seat, coming back to touch his arm.
And in a moment of stress and bone-deep tiredness, on a freezing-cold street outside the tackiest establishment in London, he realized that for the first time, his instinct when things went wrong really was to reach out, metaphorically and physically. After years in sole charge of every aspect of his life, of feeling the honor and the weight of so many livelihoods standing on his shoulders, he put out his hand and Sylvie took it in hers without the slightest hesitation.
There was nothing wrong with a solitary life. In fact, even if you didn’t intrinsically want a solitary life, there were still times when it was fucking bliss to spend long hours in your own company. Essential. Bonus points if the cat was upstairs in his own room. However, the feeling of absolute faith that when the cracks started to appear, someone else would be crouching at your side, helping to bail out the water, and that you could do the same for them—
Pretty indescribable.
He rubbed warmth back into her chilled fingers. “Start the mixing,” he said crisply to Liam. “We’ll be there in fifteen.”
“‘We’?”
The surprised query was cut short as Dominic swiped his thumb, ending the call. He looked down into her questioning face. “Sylvie,” he said. “I need help.”
She looked back silently.
And her fingers moved to interlock with his.
De Vere’s
And, temporarily, quite a lot of Sugar Fair.
“Duck,” Sylvie sang out, swinging a tray of chocolates out of the way as Dominic’s sous-chef Liam slipped past her holding a huge bowl of Vienna buttercream.
“A word from you that sends shivers down my spine.” Dominic was transferring the final cake layer onto the racks to cool. The moment it was secure, he turned back to the conveyor belt of chocolates, picking up a mold. As Sylvie took three seconds to roll out her shoulders and neck, she watched him hand-painting the multitude of tiny dots that would form the crisp surface of De Vere’s Pointillist Caramels. Several of his team had already completed trays of these and done so adeptly, but as soon as the brush was in Dominic’s hand, it was as if the universe had a hit a fast-forward button. He was working so quickly she couldn’t even catch the individual techniques.
Now that the more irritating parts of his personality were dramatically losing the battle against his reluctant and increasingly overwhelming good side, she could appreciate his skill without prejudice.
However, they were on the clock here. This was not the time for musings as to whether her more sensitive patches of skin would tolerate chocolate paint.
“Last time, it preceded a fairly dramatic explosion,” he murmured, setting his brushes in their stand and pouring molten chocolate into the mold. He tipped and rolled the mold, coating each casing in a thin layer of chocolate.
“Well, fortunately this is one of your cakes.” Sylvie eased around another of his team with a polite “Excuse me” and set a large pot of sugar syrup on the stove. “And the only soulless robotics involved with a De Vere’s commission”—she clicked on the gas and turned to smile blandly at him—“are the clientele.”
At the cupcake station, a grinni
ng Liam made a hissing sound between his teeth. “Bit unfair,” he said over his shoulder.
“Farquhar’s?”
“All right. Fair.”
Dominic joined her at the stove with another pot. The moment they stepped foot in a kitchen, regardless of whose name was above the door, they were both in their professional zone, concentrating on the task at hand. But as he turned to meet the teasing glint in her eyes, out of the others’ sight and for the merest flicker of a moment, he angled his head as if he were going to whisper in her ear—her ultimate weakness. His lips touched the hollow beneath her earlobe. The tiniest butterfly nuzzle. He was gone and back to work before the last shiver had skittered down her spine.
The man didn’t make a practice of spontaneous physical affection. Clearly, he was one of those people who excelled at literally every bloody thing they tried. If she weren’t thoroughly enjoying the near-constant sensual annihilation, it would actually be quite annoying.
With a mostly steady hand, she stirred the sugar solution and adjusted the temperature, then joined Liam and the rest of the staffers spinning out cupcakes. Most of the team were Dominic’s, but a number were her own people. The rivalry between the two bakeries extended right down the staff line, but every member of her team who’d been about to pack up this evening had taken up the offer of overtime. They’d dashed across the street to help, with no more than lighthearted jabs.
She wasn’t in the least surprised. She and Jay hired for skill—and they hired for integrity.
Even Mabel had agreed to lend a hand and was currently using a lethal-looking syringe to shoot filling into chocolates. Naturally, she’d made a beeline for the sharp and pointy.
And frankly, the whole night would be worthwhile just for the first meeting between Mabel and Dominic.
Her assistant had marched her diminutive self into the kitchen as if she owned it, cast a disparaging look around, criticized his choice of lamps, and skewered him with a comprehensive stare. “I’m Mabel,” she’d said. “Those of my choosing call me Mabs.” Another pointed sweep up and down his body before she reached her verdict. “You can call me Mabel.”
Sylvie hadn’t missed the immediate acquisitive gleam in Dominic’s eyes. She saw it again now as Mabel finished a row of chocolates almost as quickly as Dominic himself.
When he walked past the cupcake station, she caught hold of his belt and leaned close. “If you try to headhunt my Mabel,” she said, incredibly silkily, “the next balls floating in my cocktails? Will not be made of sugar.”
He raised a brow. “I’ll pay her more.”
“She’s very well paid and will shortly be getting a large Christmas bonus. You can try to coax her away.” She smiled at him. “She’ll never come. She loves me.”
They both looked over Mabel, who was—with an air of extreme martyrdom—helping Dominic’s apprentice Aaron to correct his technique. The poor guy still looked on the edge of tears over his error with the order.
“Or she doesn’t trust me to run the business successfully without her supervision,” Sylvie said. “Either way—the terrifying misanthrope is mine.”
Liam edged past them with another rack of cupcakes. “Oh?” His face was alive with devilry, his dark skin creasing into lines of amusement around the light in his eyes. With a pointed chin jerk toward Dominic and very precise enunciation, he asked, “Which one?”
“The strawberries are infusing in cherry brandy.” It was the return of Dominic’s most hard-nosed judging voice. Liam’s grin widened. “Pulse them with the icing. We don’t want it completely smooth.”
“That’s fortunate.” His sous-chef got out a last shot before Aaron tentatively called out to Dominic. “From all I’ve seen so far—it won’t be.”
Dominic’s look was sharp with warning; when it briefly moved to Sylvie, it became a lot more complex.
She watched him walk over and bend to help Aaron. But not before he rested a light hand on his miserable employee’s shoulder.
“He’s a really good boss.”
Sylvie turned. All vestiges of shit-stirring were gone from Liam’s expression. Very seriously, he repeated, “He’s a great boss.”
“I can see that.”
Dominic’s staff viewed him with obvious awe, with a clear desire to meet his very high expectations—but with zero intimidation.
With the exception of one irreverent sous-chef, the atmosphere was more formal than Sugar Fair, but in its way, similarly supportive.
“He doesn’t suffer fools,” Liam said. “But when it comes to mistakes, it’s nowhere near one-and-you’re-done.” A renewed spark of amusement. “Possible exception for incendiary unicorns.” He jerked his head toward the busy stations. “There’s not a person in this building who isn’t exponentially better at their job now than before they stepped through that door.”
There was nothing of the casual, throwaway comment about that information.
He looked at her squarely. “I’m not just his employee. I’m his friend. And it might seem like there’s never been a man less in need of protection—but I’m a pretty protective sort of guy.”
Sylvie didn’t drop her gaze. She didn’t even blink. “Noted.”
A short silence. “You’re pretty badass with a piping bag yourself.”
“That is what they write on the bathroom walls,” she agreed solemnly, and took the cupcake that he proffered with a great ceremony.
At one in the morning, while the rain hit against the roof in steady sheets, Sylvie piped another intricate line of curlicues around the bottom tier of the cake. She switched off the bag to Dominic, who completed a delicate ribbon of sugar lace while she used tweezers to set a cascading river of pearls in place.
“Even?” He made a minute adjustment to the lace.
She scanned the effect. “Slightly more on top.”
They switched places, swapping tools again, and Sylvie stepped up on a low stool to reach the utmost tier. She started piping. “Tell me when.”
“Yeah. That’s good.” Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the cake in all its crisp, white, beautiful dullness. Without looking away from the pearl drapery, he reached up a hand and balanced her as she hopped down. “Well?”
She took a few steps back, joining the few remaining members of their staff. Most had left with the completion of the cupcakes and chocolates, Mabel so quickly that Sylvie had literally blinked and she’d gone, winking out like I Dream of Jeannie.
“You know those DIY craft kits for kids, where they supply the blank ceramic base and it’s just screaming out for the paint and glitter?” She relented when he cast his eyes ceiling-ward. “It’s lovely. Elegant, chic, and perfect for the brief. And inspiringly executed. If I had my Operation Cake crown coin, I’d award you the thousand quid.”
He addressed her with typically crisp brevity. “Your ingenuity was never in question. But your technical ability now—”
“Is neck and neck with yours.” Sylvie lacked confidence in several areas of her life; this wasn’t one of them.
When the moment between them drew out a little too long, Liam cleared his throat loudly. “And now I’m clocking out and toddling home to my lonely bed.” He stuck out his hand to Sylvie; she took it. “Without the neighborly assistance, we’d still be racing against the clock at dawn—and I doubt we’d have made it.”
“We wouldn’t have.” Dominic nodded at the assembled members of her team. “Thank you very much.”
Sylvie saw several pleased flushes.
When the door closed behind them, she leaned back against a countertop, a flicker of restlessness igniting low in her belly.
Dominic was securing the order away. He picked up one of the cupcakes she’d decorated, holding it under the light and turning it to see a telltale iridescent shimmer. “Glitter is contraband in these premises.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little sparkle.”
That dark intent gaze switched to her face. “On a cake? Yes, there is. In other areas
—maybe not.” He set the cupcake in the box with the rest. “No sign of your business partner tonight.”
“Jay had a family commitment. I texted and let him know I was offering some unscheduled overtime for the team. And where.”
“And what did he say to that?”
She felt a bit uncomfortable, and she wasn’t sure why. One of her shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Not much. He thought there might have been an insurance issue. Having the staff working in someone else’s business.”
“Did he.” She couldn’t read Dominic’s voice at all.
There were a few spare scraps of fondant on the countertop. Turning abruptly, she collected them, squeezing and rolling until the strange tension in her muscles eased. As her fingers moved quickly and she reached for a paintbrush, Dominic shut and locked the fridge.
She sensed his body heat before he said over her shoulder, “What are you doing?”
Keeping her wee project concealed in the palm of her hand, she flickered her brush. Changed to a different color.
“Sylvie—”
“Just a second.” A third brush, the addition of a few spiky eyelashes, and she turned to extend her palm. Her fingers opened. “You’re welcome,” she said graciously.
Dominic looked down at the miniature fondant version of the possessed Betty Boop clown. He was totally expressionless.
With the end of the smallest paintbrush, Sylvie poked the side of the leering mouth, tugged it upward into an even more disturbing grin.
Dominic’s lips pressed together.
She stroked little BB’s head with her pinkie finger.
His chest started to shake.
Carefully setting the ridiculous fondant clown on the counter, Sylvie reached up, slipped her arms around his neck, and brought his smile down to hers.
There wasn’t a scrap of hesitancy this time, no gentle exploration and circling each other. One moment of awkwardness when their noses bumped, before his hands came up to hold her head and they were kissing—long, deep, hungry kisses.
Her hand stroked his neck, sliding over his chest, and she murmured when he tore his lips from hers long enough to drag a jagged breath and kiss her cheekbone, her jaw, her Cupid’s bow. Her lashes fluttered as their mouths were drawn irresistibly back together.