14. Pascal

I had beenan unstoppable tour de force all day long, acting as chef, server, ma?tre d' and waiter all by myself, tending to customers, filling orders, restocking the display counter, baking fresh batches and selling my perfect, precious pastries to the delighted townsfolk who fawned over my exquisite delicacies. As they should have.

By the end of the day, there was no doubting that Pascal Dupont was the toast of this American small town, quaint and welcoming as it was.

Yes, I suppose Mulligan's Mill was beginning to feel very quaint and welcoming to me.

And yet, with every swing of the door, every face that entered my café, the only person I wanted to see was Bud.

Wasn't he curious about my artistry?

Didn't he want to see the café I had worked so hard to open?

Didn't he want to see me?

It had been impossible to keep him away the past few days. His need to constantly make himself visible to me, his relentless urge to place himself in my orbit, had become something of a joy to me, even though I continually pushed him away.

Well, I had to keep him guessing, didn't I?

I had to keep him fighting for my attention.

Wasn't that the way of love?

"Oh God, I've been too hard," I murmured at some point during the day.

"Oh no, it looks delicious and soft," said the old woman I was serving at the time, who then bit into her buttery beignet and gave me a look like she was undressing me with her eyes.

Morning tea became lunchtime.

Lunchtime became afternoon tea.

Before I knew it the sun had set and I was closing up the umbrellas on the front terrace and stacking chairs on tables inside the café. I shut down the cash register, I flicked off half the lights and turned the Open sign in the window to Closed and locked the front door.

Not until I heard the click of that lock did I realize just how exhausted I was.

I quickly grabbed one of the chairs I had just stacked and tipped it upright just in time to flop onto the seat, a weary wreck.

I suddenly realized how little sleep I'd actually had in the past few days. I'd been so focused on finding my uncle's recipe… and getting the patisserie ready for business… and falling in love with Bud next door, that I'd barely had a wink of sleep.

Wait.

What?

Did I just admit I was falling in love with Bud?

"You silly French fool," I uttered to myself. "You don't even know the man. He's the complete damn opposite of you."

Yes, he was.

And the thought of it brought a smile to my face.

Never before had I met a man quite as goofy…

And funny…

And charming…

And sweet.

And I seriously questioned whether he even knew he was any of those things.

Well, perhaps he knew all too well how goofy he was. But the rest, I wasn't so sure. I had a sneaking suspicion that Monsieur Bud Sanders had no idea just how lovely he was.

Without a doubt, he was a refreshing change to the crowds I knew in Paris, with their pretentious airs and pompous opinions and their smug, self-serving ways.

I supposed many people had described Pascal Dupont the very same way over the years, and they would have been right.

But I was beginning to wonder if this arrogant, audacious chef still had a chance to change his views of the world.

Once upon a time I was, after all, nothing but a kitchen boy.

"Stop this pity party," I berated myself. "You're simply tired, that's all."

I wasn't wrong. The weariness was indeed catching up with me fast. I glanced toward the kitchen, and the thought of making batch after batch of pastries for tomorrow's customers was almost too much to bear.

I decided I needed to sleep more than I needed to cook.

I would get up early and start baking. I had already set my alarm for three in the morning, just like every good baker on the planet did. I would jump out of bed then, refreshed and ready to knead and roll and decorate my delicacies with strawberries and sugar.

That was when I felt the phone in my apron pocket buzz with a notification.

Instantly my blood ran cold.

I knew I only had one notification set up in my phone; the only reason that device would buzz was if my name had been tagged in one of Giselle Chapelle's blog articles.

I snatched the phone out of my apron pocket so fast my grip on it slipped a little and I almost launched it across the room. There had been many times when I wanted to toss my phone at a wall when one of Giselle's notifications came through. But that was back in Paris when she haunted me so often it was almost a sport.

Why was she tagging me now?

I had already fled.

She had no idea where I was, nobody did.

Was she trying to lure me out of hiding with yet another taunting post?

Was she making fun of my disappearing act?

Was she celebrating the fact that she had finally run me out of town?

No… it was much worse than all those things put together.

As I read the post, all I could do was whisper in horror, "Merde!"

It was a good thing I was already sitting down, otherwise my legs would certainly have caved on me as I read—

Bonjour my dear food-lovers,

You'll be happy to know that Giselle is still chasing that elusive gazelle known as Chef Pascal Dupont, and after much investigative work I have traced his whereabouts to a tiny town in Wisconsin named Mulligan's Mill. It would appear after fleeing the high society of Paris, Monsieur Dupont has stooped to the lowly levels of opening an old bakery in a place so remote he clearly hoped that nobody would ever find him.

But find him we did.

In fact, in the pursuit of gastronomical justice, this intrepid blogger will go one step further than simply exposing Monsieur Dupont's hiding place.

I, Giselle Chapelle—along with an entourage of my most respected food critics—will follow Monsieur Dupont to his hideaway of shame to find out if he is still the creator of mediocre morsels, or whether he has taken a step away from the spotlight to finally improve upon his culinary disappointments of the past and live up to his Uncle Alphonse's superior pastry skills.

Yes, dear food-lovers, follow this blog to see whether Pascal Dupont will rise to one final challenge or sink like a botched souffle?

Our flights are booked.

Our transportation to Mulligan's Mill has been arranged.

In precisely thirty-eight hours, we will arrive in the tiny township and put Monsieur Dupont to the test.

Of course, being the kind and compassionate food connoisseur that I am, I have tagged Monsieur Dupont in this article so that he might prepare himself for our visit. If he sees this post, I sincerely hope he seizes this opportunity to dig deep into his repertoire and pull out something truly extraordinary.

On the other hand, if he does not receive this post, then I suppose the only thing to say when we arrive will be… Surprise!

Until then, food-lovers, au revoir… and stay tuned for my next thrilling post!

I wanted to faint.

I wanted to vomit.

I wanted to faint and vomit then faint again.

That vicious, malicious witch Giselle Chappelle was about to hunt me down, and she was bringing her stinking hellhounds with her. In thirty-eight hours' time—the morning after next—they would all descend on Mulligan's Mill and come pounding on the door to Pascal's Patisserie.

My mind raced through the very limited options available to me in that dark and desperate moment:

I could try to serve her something I had served her a thousand times before and hope that the fresh spring air of Mulligan's Mill would magically transform my tarts and éclairs into something to satisfy her infamously finicky palate, but I somehow doubted a change of scenery could change Giselle's cutting critiques;

I could pack my bags and run away in the dead of night, just as I had done in Paris, and hope that this time my disappearing act would last a little longer than this one, but something told me that would only whet Giselle's appetite to continue the chase, turning it into a true game of cat and mouse;

Or…

"Or I could find that fucking missing recipe!"

No… not missing… stolen!

I pulled myself to my feet and stormed into the kitchen.

I yanked open the pantry door, pushed past all the bags of sugar and flour on the top shelf, and reached for a small tin way up the back. I pulled it out and opened it, then pulled out the letter from Monsieur Flannery that I'd concealed inside.

I turned it over and on the back I read aloud—"Is the story true, or but a myth? For a nickel or dime, will the ghost grant your wish?"

I had no idea what the cryptic riddle meant.

I still had no clue where to start looking, even after pulling out half the light fittings and knocking chunks out of almost every wall in my upstairs apartment.

Frustration got the better of me. I scrunched up the letter and shoved it into my apron pocket, then hurried upstairs, determined to resume my search.

I thundered into my bedroom and jerked at my apron strings, anxious and angry and sensing the panic set in.

My head was spinning, stress compounding upon the exhaustion I was already feeling.

I finally got the knot of my apron strings untied and threw my apron onto the floor, then grabbed the sledgehammer that was propped in a corner and considered which wall I was going to attack next.

That was when I jumped at a sharp chink on the window.

I jerked my head in that direction.

The curtains were still open, and across the way I saw Bud leaning out his living room window, about to throw something else in my direction.

Chink!

A small stone hit the glass.

Then another.

Chink!

I screwed up my face in annoyance.

Yes, it was true, I'd been desperate to see his stupid, grinning, bearded face all day long. But all I cared about at that moment was Giselle's arrival and my need to take this place apart brick by brick in order to find the recipe that Monsieur Flannery had stolen.

Sadly, I was anything but in the mood to flirt with my handsome neighbor.

I put down the hammer and strutted impatiently to my window.

I gave him an irritated glare as I grabbed hold of the curtains, then swished them shut like it was closing night on a show at the Moulin Rouge.

I turned away from the window and was about to make my way back to the sledgehammer when my weary eyes finally sent the image of what they'd just seen to my tired brain. "Wait a minute. Was Bud just wearing a waistcoat? With nothing on underneath?"

I spun on my heels and took the curtains in my fists again.

I opened the drapes an inch, just enough to sneak a peek.

Sure enough, Bud was standing in the window wearing jeans and a buttoned-up waistcoat. He was, however, no longer holding stones in his palm ready to hurtle them at my window. Instead, he was now holding up a hand-written sign that read—Open You're Window!

Instantly I was even more aggravated.

I turned away from the window and rummaged through my drawers to find a marker and a pad of my own, on which I wrote—You Spelled ‘Your' Wrong!

Returning to the window, I pulled the curtains wide open, held up my sign and grumbled to myself, "Sacre bleu, it's not even my first language and I know that."

Bud gave me a confused look for a moment, then figured out my painfully simple message and picked up a marker to amend his sign before holding it up again, pointing at it for extra emphasis—Open Your Window!

I made a shrugging gesture as though questioning his instructions.

He pointed at his sign even more emphatically.

I turned a page on my pad and held up a new sign—Why?

He turned his sign over and wrote on the back—Just do it.

I was exhausted, but I was curious, not to mention the fact that I was beginning to truly adore his tenacity.

I pushed open my window and called across to him, "Happy now?"

He grinned his sweet grin and nodded. "Wait right there."

He disappeared from view for a moment, then reappeared with his record player which he sat on the sill of his open window. He reached down beside him and picked up a surprisingly fashionable trilby hat which he placed on his head.

A flutter winged its way through my heart, and I suddenly forgot about the blog and the missing recipe.

I felt a zing in my crotch.

I felt a tingle in my stomach.

Then, ever so delicately, Bud picked up the needle of the record player and placed it in the groove of a record spinning on the turntable.

Suddenly a blast of brass and drums filled the night air as Joe Cocker's sexy, swoony, strip-fest of a song—You Can Leave Your Hat On—began to play.

My left knee instantly threatened to buckle but I pulled it back into line.

My right eye developed an uncontrollable twitch that I hoped Bud couldn't spot from there.

Thankfully Bud was already far too busy swaying and shimmying to the song… and I couldn't take my eyes off him.

As his shoulders pitched forward and back like a powerful ocean wave, his fingers unfastened the top button of the waistcoat, then the second and third, revealing his furry, muscled chest.

I swallowed hard and felt the bulge in my jeans strain against the denim.

With a sly smile, Bud unbuttoned the fourth and fifth buttons and let the waistcoat pop open.

As his hips gyrated, he ran his hands through the hair on his perfect belly.

My legs weakened and I had to lean against the windowsill for support.

Bud took the trilby and tipped it forward, the shadow of it covering his mischievous eyes for a little mystery.

As the song's piano twinkled seductively, he peeled the waistcoat off his shoulders, let it slide down his arms, then twirled it over his head and hurled it into a corner of his living room.

He lifted himself up onto his toes to the beat of the song, thrusting his hips forward before grabbing a nearby chair and sliding it over to the window.

He jumped up onto it so I could see him fully, unobscured by the windowsill, dancing on the chair as he began to unbutton his jeans.

I felt dizzy.

The exhaustion… the stress… the seduction! It was all too much.

Bud flipped open the top button on his jeans.

My knees were struggling to hold me up.

He took the zipper in his hand and began to slide it downward, unveiling his thick patch of pubic hair.

My head began to spin.

I caught sight of the trunk of his thick cock for a split second before he plucked the hat off his head and held it over his crotch.

His other hand inched his jeans down his thighs.

His smile spread wide.

He gave me the sexiest wink I'd ever seen.

"Oh mon Dieu!" I gasped and my vision turned to a blur.

Suddenly the room swirled around me.

My legs gave out completely.

The sight of Bud in the window vanished.

And as I hit the floor, the whole world went black.