The Chocolate Kiss

by Laura Florand

  He tucked it inside, nestled in the heart of the creamy pale ganache, hid it under the pink shell.

  And stood back, uneasy. It looked so . . . naked. Vulnerable. The pink shells filled with pale cream. He couldn’t do that to her. Maybe he couldn’t do that to himself. What was inside this macaron deserved protection.

  He bit into a raspberry from the flat shipped up fresh from his greenhouse grower in Spain. Sweet, tender, so fragile before his teeth, so perfect on his tongue. From those raspberries he made armor around the vulnerable edge of the ganache, nestled between the two shells, hiding it from the world.

  He tasted one. Oh, yes, perfect. He glanced up. Despite the insane rush of Valentine’s Day, half his kitchen had crept around him, eyeing the rose and raspberry macarons hungrily.

  He held up a hand, and they launched back to their posts like trained tigers before a whip. But they looked over at his counter as they worked. He would be getting acid comments about sub-par pâtisseries in reviews the next day.

  He stood looking at the finished product for a long moment.

  Then abruptly he left the shop and walked down to the florist, standing in line behind all the other men waiting to buy roses. The florist, arranging and wrapping with ribbons and cellophane in a mad whirl, grinned at him happily when he finally got to the counter. “For Magalie?”

  No, he hadn’t been subtle, had he? How could Magalie not know?

  “I loved the Valentine’s post.”

  What?

  “Le Gourmand,” the florist explained.

  He would have to find out what Christophe had done and murder him later. He couldn’t spare the concentration now. His focus was entirely dominated by the creation waiting to be finished on his marble counter.

  Back in his laboratoire, he pulled the petals carefully from one rosebud. He laid just one of those red petals, so perfect and silky and precise, on the top of the macaron shell, cocked his head a moment, and then pursed his lips and found some glucose syrup. Just one tiny bead of it, like dew, on the petal. And one raspberry, a hint of a crown. Or perhaps, he thought with a flicker of a smile, a hint of a nipple peaking to his touch.

  He picked it up very carefully and laid it in a pink box stamped with his name.

  Chapter 21

  La Maison des Sorcières always felt quiet and secret after the glamour and rush of Lyonnais. Philippe usually felt a strange brush of peace when he stepped inside, as if he was peeking into a refuge that was denied him. But today it was oddly packed, and Geneviève and even Aja glowered at him, as if it was his fault. He knew right away, when his heartrate slowed down, that Magalie must not be in.

  A woman in her forties was paying Aja for a small bag of crystallized violets and another of blue rose tea at the vintage cash register, while two more couples waited just inside the door. A woman sat by herself before a splendid tray of chocolate at the table between the upright piano and the display, writing in a journal. In the room beyond, an older couple dug antique silver forks into rough-hewn slices of chocolate tarte and smiled at each other serenely, no need on their Valentine’s Day for Lyonnais glamour. But the three other tables were taken by couples who looked oddly similar to his own glossy clientele.

  Despite the fact that the place didn’t seem that peaceful today, all the tension left his shoulders.

  And he stood there, rose-heart in hand, deflated, knowing that if Magalie were there, his shoulders would still be braced for a fight.

  Geneviève drew him back into the kitchen, and she and Aja eyed him speculatively. Philippe felt a blush rising to his cheeks. And he hadn’t even been the one half-naked last night. Maybe Magalie had jumped onto a passing barge and headed off into the unknown rather than face that look.

  “What’s this one supposed to do?” Geneviève asked, as he set the gift reluctantly on the blue counter. He had wanted to hand it to Magalie. He had wanted to see her face. “Break her heart?”

  He sighed and rolled his shoulders. “I see where she got her trust in others.”

  Geneviève raised her eyebrows. “What she’s got of it probably did come from us, yes. Very self-reliant, Magalie. I think she believes something of her will break if she ever lets herself need anyone. Besides us, I mean, but it took us a few years.”

  Was the woman actually giving him a hint? “And why is that, do you think?”

  Geneviève snorted. “I don’t think, I know. But you’ll have to get to know her your own way. Or not, as the case may be.”

  “I did offer you some tea,” Aja said peacefully, as if his difficult harvest completely failed to trouble her, since the seeds sown were his own.

  “You have a tea for understanding Magalie?” Philippe asked incredulously. That seemed a little specialized, even for this place. Not to mention which, there were limits to all magic.

  Aja gave him a serene look, clearly indicating that if he had wanted to know what her tea did, he should have drunk it.

  “Where is she, anyway?”

  Geneviève arched her eyebrows at Aja. “What was his name?”

  Philippe’s gut clenched.

  “He said he had promised you not to set foot in our kitchens, so she agreed to go to his.”

  Rage rushed up in him like a volcanic explosion.

  “I was surprised he talked her into it,” Aja said with great approval. “Magalie is very attached to this place. He might be good for her, that Christophe.”

  Geneviève shook her head. “I don’t know. Don’t you think we should talk to her? This place is getting so crowded, I don’t know if I can take any more. I should never have let those puppy eyes of hers and Sylvain’s talk me into helping him with his window. And if she’s going to get us written about in blogs next . . .”

  “It reassures her,” Aja said, like someone repeating an argument for the thirtieth time. “To know that she can attract customers despite him.” She gave Philippe a dismissive look.

  “Yes, but we’re the ones people come hunting in the depths of the forest! We’re not the ones who put a castle on a hilltop and wave a flag to get attention. I don’t like the kind of people who come just because they’ve seen a waving flag.”

  “It won’t last,” Aja said soothingly. “Let her get over this. It will die down eventually, or we’ll close more hours and send them all his way.” A slight flick of her hand, as if brushing crumbs off a dirty table for Philippe to scrounge.

  “I hope it doesn’t last! If this keeps up, we’re going to have to dig up this shop and go hide it in a new place where no one knows where we are, and you know that would destroy Magalie. So we’re stuck.”

  Philippe had a brief, terrifying vision of La Maison des Sorcières running off on chicken legs to an African jungle or something. He reached out and just barely stopped himself from grabbing Geneviève, who probably would have atrophied his arm with a look if he had. “Don’t you move anywhere else.”

  Geneviève sniffed. “Well, keep more of your customers down your way. They’re not my type.”

  Philippe ground his teeth, a gesture he didn’t even know he had in him. “Magalie takes every person who comes to my shop and not yours as a personal insult.”

  Geneviève squinted at Aja. “When I was twenty-four, was I that confused and fragile?”

  “I didn’t know you when you were twenty-four,” Aja said repressively. “But when you were twenty-six, the drop of a pin could knock you off center. She’s doing fine. She’s just small, still.” She held up her fingers in a circle about the size of a walnut. “She has to crack through that shell, put down roots, and grow.”

  “Why would it be so traumatizing to Magalie to move this shop?” Philippe interrupted suddenly.

  Both women ignored him. “I guess that’s why we should let her keep on with this nonsense,” Geneviève sighed to Aja. “Doing things like going to play in Christophe’s kitchen are probably a sign of growth. Nobody said growing pains in others weren’t annoying.”

  “Plus,” Aja said sweetly, proving
exactly how mean she could be to someone who had snubbed her tea, “it’s very romantic to be going to make chocolate for a man on Valentine’s Day, don’t you think?”

  Philippe had to turn around and walk out. He almost took his “heart” with him. It cost him. It cost him bitterly to leave it lying there outside his body, in witches’ hands, while the witch it was for was away making her chocolate for that damn bastard Christophe.

  Who would never, never, never set foot in any of Philippe’s kitchens again.

  Fury burned through him. As he went back to work, it ate at him until it seemed to spread out from him through his entire laboratoire. He worked in silence, his mouth a harsh line, imagining two people in a kitchen somewhere across Paris. He had Christophe’s address somewhere. He had to restrain himself from looking it up. Even he couldn’t storm in there in a jealous rage.

  He kept his mouth a grim line, because if he opened it, he didn’t know what would come out. Even in his silence, the force of his anger seemed to take over the kitchens, until other people were snarling at one another. The desserts they sent out, so deceptively beautiful, were probably going to break up half the couples in the city. Or at least lead to some passionate fights.

  “What happened?” Grégory finally asked him, low. “Was it the blog post?”

  Philippe whipped his head to look at the younger chef. And then he went into his office, shoved some books off his laptop, and went to Le Gourmand’s blog.

  Chapter 22

  Philippe Lyonnais aime . . . Christophe’s blog post read for February 14, a takeoff of the petits plaisirs of Amélie Poulain. Under it was a picture of Magalie’s chocolate, her own hand curved around the handle of the pot the way it should be curved around him, the liquid streaming thick and dark into a cup. Even with the Web’s theft of some of its rich color, the photo was enough to make anyone starve.

  He hadn’t ever even drunk the damned stuff yet, Philippe thought in acute agony. Half of Paris was going to be flocking to La Maison des Sorcières, imagining themselves savoring what delighted him, and he would still not know what it tasted like. Or what it would do to him. What she wanted to do to him.

  Putain de bordel de merde. What was she doing to Christophe right now? That man could wheedle himself into all kinds of territory where he didn’t belong.

  “On this Saint-Valentin, what does le prince de pâtisserie love? He loves rich, thick chocolate stirred by a sorcière.”

  Another photo, this time a close-up of the tea shop’s window display and the dark-chocolate witch with her little basket. One could just catch a glimpse, but probably not recognize, the tiny sliver of the rose-petal heart peeking out of the basket.

  “He loves the magic brewed in this shop, La Maison des Sorcières.”

  An excellent photo of spilled crystallized violets made Philippe wonder suddenly if Aja would be willing to supply him some for a violet and chocolate macaron.

  “Does he even love a witch?”

  Philippe stood staring at the last photo. His own expression in it didn’t surprise him in the least; he had known that about himself for some time. But Magalie . . .

  “Philippe Lyonnais!” Christophe exclaimed happily. “You’re the person who enchanted Philippe Lyonnais!”

  Magalie stirred uneasily in his kitchen in the Ninth Arrondissement, a very nice kitchen, quite spacious for Paris, with a little island, even; but she really liked being in her own. The whole chocolate-making felt wrong here. Whom was she supposed to be luring?

  Christophe was entirely likeable, attractive in a fun way with his curly hair and his enthusiasm, but she kept seeing Philippe’s face every time she glanced down at the chocolate, and the thought of luring Christophe instead made her physically ill.

  Christophe didn’t seem to care so much about being lured, though. He seemed to be triumphing over the fact that he had lured her. But her worth to him seemed to come from Philippe, as if the world’s best pâtissier had cast value on her just by looking at her. An idea that drove her insane.

  “Do you know he was apprenticed part-time when he was fourteen? When he was nineteen, he took charge of the new Saint-Germain shop, and within the year he had a dessert featured in Le Monde? At nineteen! And he loves you! I haven’t had this much fun since the Chocolate Thief story. Thank you for coming.”

  “I don’t—I never said—Philippe Lyonnais—l-l-loved me.” Just trying to get the words out made her hyperventilate. Philippe Lyonnais, love me? Love me?

  “I saw him myself. And I talked to his staff.” Christophe made a kindly, dismissive gesture at her modesty. “Everyone knows he’s obsessed. And they can’t get enough of your hot chocolate. It’s a beautiful story. And I get to be the first to tell it! Did you see my blog post for today?”

  “No-o.” Magalie’s whole reason for working with Christophe had been to get a blog post from Paris’s most famous food blogger about La Maison des Sorcières. She should have been delighted to learn he had already started writing about her. But given all this talk of Philippe’s obsession with her, she was a little hesitant to see what he had actually posted.

  “Look!” Christophe said enthusiastically, whipping out his laptop. “Don’t you love this photo?”

  Magalie looked at the title. Philippe Lyonnais loves. She blinked, feeling dizzy enough that her own pot of chocolate in the photo started to look like an abyss she could fall into.

  He scrolled down.

  And her body folded a little over the screen as if it had just reached out and punched her.

  There was Philippe, leaning into her, the crescent moon over their heads, a bare inch between their lips. The hunger in their faces was so . . . naked. She looked as if she would die for him. Die to have him close that last inch of space and kiss her.

  “I’ve already had 150 comments!” Christophe said gleefully. “There’s another one right now: Damn it, I hate her! I wish I could enchant him. Don’t take the hating thing seriously—you have to have a thick skin when you blog. And there have been thousands of hits. You’ll have lines out the door tomorrow.”

  Yes, but at what price? She didn’t want the whole world to see her naked. Good Lord, Philippe might be looking at that photo right now.

  Magalie wanted a mask to wear on her way home. She told herself that, given the two million people who lived in Paris and the eleven million within its greater perimeter, thousands of hits on Christophe’s blog did not make her notorious, but she felt overexposed. She wanted to put that deadbolt on her door that Philippe had talked about.

  What had she been doing, trying to beat the lines at Lyonnais? She didn’t want lines. She wanted to be private and secret and recognized only by those who sought out something rare.

  She was glad to be back on her island, welcomed by its seventeenth-century calm. But when Thierry waved at her and asked if she had liked her roses, she blushed, her heart beating like some strange muscle that didn’t know how to work anymore. Had Philippe sent her flowers?

  She snuck glances at Philippe’s windows as she walked past but could barely see them through the lines of men waiting to buy the perfect Valentine’s gift. He was probably too busy even to gloat over the fact that he had such long lines and La Maison des Sorcières had none.

  She touched a finger to her bare collarbone. She hadn’t put on the necklace Philippe had given her. But she wished now that it lay there, in secret under her sweater, filigree chain and moon warmed by her skin.

  There were no lines at all before La Maison des Sorcières, despite the blog post, and she felt exhausted. Maybe part of her didn’t want to deal with Philippe-style lines down the block, but it hurt her that, even stripped naked for the world to see on a blog, she kept failing at the attempt to matter more than he did to people.

  She discovered that the door to the shop was locked, and she focused on the sign written in Geneviève’s cryptic, slanting script. Morally opposed to Valentine’s Day. Closed in protest.

  She sighed and let herself in, leaving t
he door unlocked and taking down the sign. It considerably complicated her efforts to generate more business that her aunts continually sabotaged the attempts.

  She showed Aja the sign in the kitchen, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Oh, Gen just needed some space,” Aja said easily. “I’m sure you can take it down now, if people have gone away.”

  Magalie sighed and threw it into the trash.

  “So how did it go?” Aunt Aja asked. Dressed today in a warm brown kameez and salwar pants embroidered with golden yellow, she was humming while she boiled grapefruit peel three times. Three times, she said, was the key to clean all the bitterness out before she could turn it into sweet, intense candied fruit. “Tu l’as aimé?”

  Did you like it? Magalie heard. She started to flush. “We didn’t get that far,” she muttered in embarrassment. Seriously, sometimes Geneviève seemed to have worn off too much on Aja, with the indiscreet questions.

  Aja’s mouth might have twitched. She poked at her grapefruit peel with a wooden spoon, watching the beads of air form under the surface but not quite rise to the boil. “After two hours in his kitchen, you don’t know if you liked it or not?”

  “It’s not Philippe’s kitchen. He can try to dominate it all he wants, but this kitchen stays mine. Ours, I mean.”

  Aja tucked her lips in, her eyes dancing. Bubbles began to rise to the surface of the grapefruit water.

  “And it was hardly two hours,” Magalie muttered. More was the pity. In two hours, they could have . . .

  “I meant this afternoon,” Aja said, with such excessive gentleness, it was clear she was trying not to laugh her head off. “Did you like Christophe? Really, Magalie. I am always a little curious about these male-female things, but I hope you don’t think I would ask my own niece to describe her sex life to me.”