10. Pascal

"What the fuck was that?"I whispered to myself as I closed the door.

Did Bud have a condition I didn't know about?

Had he been taken over by aliens?

Had he found Dr. Jekyll's evil potion and turned himself into Mr. Hyde?

Whatever it was, I didn't like it.

Where was the sweet, adorable, nervous, knee-buckling man I had met?

What had happened to the hunk who made my stomach quiver and my cock hard?

"Wait a minute… is it me? Is this my fault? Have I pushed him too hard?"

I felt terrible all of a sudden. Guilt was not a feeling I had experienced often in my life. Ever since I was young, I had learned to fortify myself, to put up a wall so thick that nothing could get to me, including any feelings of remorse. I had taught myself to be unapologetic, just like my Uncle Alphonse—my mentor, my inspiration, my disciplinarian.

Yes, his lessons were hard.

At times, they almost broke me.

But they had made me tough.

Perhaps too tough for a gentle soul like Bud.

"I must give him room," I told myself. "I must leave him alone for a while. I've obviously hurt his feelings in my desperate desire to win him over. I must give him space and time to heal." I straightened my back, feeling my walls rise in defense again. "Besides, I have more than enough work to keep me busy. I have the patisserie to open. I have pastries to bake. And I have that missing recipe to find."

Indeed, what time did I have for a man like Bud anyway?

The next morning, the first of my many supplies arrived from the wholesalers in Eau Claire. I told the deliverymen to stack the sacks of flour here, the tubs of butter there. Gallons of milk went into the refrigerators, cartons of eggs went into the pantry. Bags of sugar were set down on the kitchen counter, along with jars of nutmeg, cocoa powder and vanilla bean paste, while bottles of oil, rum and brandy lined the shelves above the stovetops. And then there were the countless mixing bowls, measuring cups, spoons and whisks I had ordered to replace the old utensils used by Monsieur Flannery, not because his equipment was damaged or faulty in any way, but rather, I didn't want the tools of a thief tainting my talent.

As my products arrived, I pushed thoughts of Bud out of my head and busied myself with organizing my workspace.

The moment the deliverymen were gone, I tied on my apron and began creating.

I cracked eggs.

I sifted flour.

I measured milk.

I whisked mixtures.

I snapped cinnamon sticks.

I melted butter.

I poured exact quantities of sugar with ease and expertise.

I kneaded dough.

I stirred custard.

I folded meringue.

I piped cream.

I simmered, I stacked, I spooned.

I baked, I boiled, I bubbled.

And when I was done, I wiped my brow and gazed with pride upon my work.

My kitchen counter was now crowded with trays of mille-feuille and macarons, crème br?lée and cherry clafoutis, profiteroles and chouquettes, madeleines and éclairs.

When I carried the first tray from the kitchen into the café, ready to place my pastries into the refrigerated counter displays, I was surprised to see that night had fallen outside. As always, the hours had vanished while I baked.

I hadn't thought about Bud once.

I wondered if he'd thought about me.

And there he was… walking back into my thoughts.