16. Pascal

That night,I went into the deepest, soundest sleep I've ever known.

In the gentle, quiet dark of slumber, there was no sign of Giselle Chapelle, no angry words from Uncle Alphonse, no memories of Paris or the farmhouse or any of the things I had run from.

All I dreamed about was a field of roses.

And in the middle of them, smiling as he always seemed to do, was Bud.

My beautiful Bud.

Until—

The alarm clock sounded like a fire alarm.

And suddenly all the bad things—all the bad people in my life—came rushing back to me.

I sat upright in bed, then jumped when Bud sat up beside me. "Fuck!" I forgot he was there.

Clearly, he did too. "Where am I?" he asked, looking around at the moonlit room in a panic.

"My bedroom. It's all right, you're in my room."

"God, what time is it?"

"Three in the morning."

"Three in the morning?"

"Did the alarm affect your hearing?"

"No. It's just… early."

"Don't you have to get up early for your flower deliveries?"

"Yes, but not this early. You get up this early every morning?"

"Pastries don't bake themselves." Of course, I had already decided that there would be no baking that day. I did not even intend to open the patisserie that day. I had a recipe to find. But none of that was Bud's business. "You have to leave. Now."

I flicked on the bedside lamp and saw the hurt look on his face.

I would have been lying to myself if I didn't admit that telling him to go crushed my own feelings. Hell, there was nothing I would have loved more than to let him stay, to lie with him for a while longer, to perhaps make love once more, then bring him a fresh croissant and a café au lait in bed.

But some habits die hard.

"I said, you need to leave."

Confusion mingled with his look of hurt. "Pascal, did I do something wrong? Are you angry with me?"

"I will be if you don't leave now."

"Of course. You have to work. But… we had a beautiful night last night, right? I mean, we felt something for each other. Right?"

"Of course we did. Now go. Just leave."

I got up and pulled on my jeans.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him do the same. I turned my back to him. I didn't want to make eye contact. I felt the anxiety bubbling inside me once again. I felt the stress taking over. I didn't want to have to deal with the guilt of ruining our first lovely night together too.

I picked my shirt up off the floor, put it on and felt instantly annoyed at myself that all the buttons were gone. "Merde!"

From behind me I heard—"What's this?"

I turned.

I saw him standing there with his jeans on and a piece of crumpled paper in his hand.

I noticed my apron on the floor near his feet and realized what he was holding—

The letter from Monsieur Flannery.

Panic gripped me.

"Give me that!"

I stormed over and snatched it from him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to look at it. It was on the floor, it must have fallen out of your apron pocket and—"

"And you decided to read it?"

"No. That rhyme on the back caught my eye. But I didn't see it was a letter until I turned it over and—"

"Go. Leave."

"I'm sorry. Pascal, I—"

"I said get out!"

He kept his head down and started heading for the window.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going out the way I came in."

"Out the window? Don't be ridiculous. Go down the stairs and out the front door."

He turned and headed for the stairs, but before he reached them, he turned and said, "I'm not ridiculous. Please don't call me ridiculous."

Remorse hit me like a slap. "Fine. You're not ridiculous. Just please… go!"

He turned.

He started his way down the stairs.

And almost as an afterthought he said, "It's the well."

I nearly didn't hear him at all. "What was that?"

He stopped on the third or fourth stair. "The answer to your riddle. It's the well. Winnie's wishing well."

"What?"

He continued his way down the stairs.

"Wait! What did you say?"

I chased after him and caught him at the bottom of the stairs, a few feet into the café.

"Bud. Wait. I'm sorry I was snappy just then. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm just a little highly strung right now."

"You didn't seem highly strung last night. What we did… it was amazing, and exciting, and beautiful. We made love, you played music, you slept so soundly I could feel your breath against the back of my neck, deep and peaceful. And now this morning, it's like you're a different person. It's like you're the old you again… all angry and impatient and yes… snappy."

"I thought you liked it when I was bossy. Weren't you the one who ejaculated in your jeans when I was rude to you."

"You weren't rude that night. You were assertive. You were sure of yourself, and that was sexy as hell. But you weren't rude and mean to me. You never called me ridiculous."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Like I said, I'm a little stressed out right now."

"About what? That letter?"

"Yes. And an article that was written about me online. It's a long story."

"So, tell me. Tell me why it's upsetting you. Pascal, I like you. I know we barely just met, but I like you. A lot. There's something about you that makes my stomach go all funny and my head go all giddy, and I mean that in a good way. But I'm not sure I can do this if you keep running hot and cold like a tap that needs the plumbing fixed."

I sighed and pulled a chair off a nearby table to sit on. "I suppose I am like a faulty tap, aren't I. I don't mean to be."

He pulled a chair off a table, tipped it upright and sat beside me. "Then what can I do to help fix you?"

"To be honest… I'm not sure. Getting me through the next"—I looked at the clock on the wall—"twenty-nine hours or so would be a start."

He gave me a confused look. "What happens in the next twenty-nine hours?"

"Disaster strikes, that's what. As I said. It's a long story."

"Then you better start talking. I'll kick it off. Once upon a time, there was a handsome, talented pastry chef named Pascal…"

I couldn't help but chuckle. His kindness, his boyish charm, his innocence and his unwavering need to help me, even when I had been such a jerk to him, warmed my heart.

"I wasn't always Pascal the pastry chef. Long before that, I was Pascal the kitchen boy, learning everything I could from my Uncle Alphonse. He was the true legend in our family, a pastry chef so celebrated that all of Paris knew his name. He was the one man I looked up to most in the world. I loved him. I revered him. I thought he was God. And yet he thought nothing of me, perhaps even less than nothing. Do you know what it's like when the one person you admire the most does nothing but scoff at you, laugh at you, treat you like you don't even deserve to be in the same room?"

"Yeah, I kinda got a taste of that lately."

I felt my face flush with embarrassment and regret. "I'm so sorry, Bud. I should never have called you ridiculous. I shouldn't have turned you away like I did."

He reached out and squeezed my hand. "It's okay."

I laced my fingers around his. "It's funny… all my life, the only thing I ever wanted was to become my Uncle Alphonse. I suppose we really do have to be careful what we wish for."

"Not all the time," he said, rubbing our clasped hands on my thigh. "I've been wishing so badly for you these past few days, and now look what happened… you fucked the virgin right out of me."

I couldn't help but laugh out loud, and he smiled. "You should do that more often you know."

"Do what?"

"Laugh. You have a beautiful laugh."

I looked at him, genuinely curious. "What is it you see in me? I've been nothing but an asshole to you since I arrived. What have I done to deserve you?"

He shrugged. "You're exciting. And you're talented. And you're… French. You've seen the world. You know so much, you've done so much. You know what your dream is and you've dedicated your whole life to making that happen. Do you know how sexy that is to a guy who's lived in the same small town his whole life?"

"You know what your dream is too. The flower shop… no?"

"Yes. But I waited so damn long to make it happen. I waited so damn long for someone like you to walk into my life."

There was no fighting the urge to lean across and kiss him. "No more waiting. We're here now. Let's make it count."

"Then start by telling me about this damn letter."

The sagging of shoulders was enough to tell him I wasn't really sure where to begin; that the weight of it all was beginning to take its toll. "A long time ago, my uncle and the owner of this place knew each other."

"You mean Mr. Flannery?"

I nodded. "That's who wrote the letter. Years ago, he and my uncle were in business together in Paris. Let us just say, they had a history together. They opened a very successful patisserie, they were the toast of the town. But at some point, there was a falling out. I'm not sure what happened, all of this was before my time, but the letter would suggest that my uncle and Monsieur Flannery were lovers. When their relationship fell apart, Monsieur Flannery fled Paris and ended up here in Mulligan's Mill… but not before punishing my uncle by stealing his most prized recipe. Over the years, Alphonse tried a thousand times to recreate his masterpiece, but time and time again he met with failure. It would be, in the end, his undoing. His craft, his talent, his soul began to fester, until there was nothing left but an angry shell of a wronged man. Of course, Paris still remembers him as the great master of pastry that he was… and someone whose genius I have never quite managed to live up to."

"But everyone loves your pastries. Everyone in town is raving about you."

"And I wish the rest of the world was as kind as the people of Mulligan's Mill. The fact is, they're not. Worst of all is the most notorious food blogger in Paris, Giselle Chapelle. She and her food critics can make or break a career in a single spoonful. She's the reason I fled Paris, to try and save my reputation. Now the only hope I have of saving my career—my life's work—is here in Mulligan's Mill."

"What do you mean?"

"The recipe that Monsieur Flannery stole is hidden somewhere here in Mulligan's Mill."

I could see the penny drop on his face. "The sledgehammer. You're not renovating. You're looking for the recipe. You think it's hidden somewhere in this building."

"I have no clue where it is. The only clue I have is on the back of that letter." I had read it over and over so many times I knew it by heart. "Is the story true, or but a myth? For a nickel or dime, will the ghost grant your wish?"

"He's talking about Winnie's ghost," Bud said excitedly.

"Who the hell is Winnie?"

"Winnifred Wexley. According to the stories, she was head over heels in love with our town's founder, Huckleberry Mulligan. Unfortunately, he didn't feel the same way about her, so she vanished into the woods. Legend has it, she threw herself down the old well, and her ghost is still there to this very day. People believe if you throw a coin down the well and make a wish for love, Winnie will make it come true."

"Is the story true, or but a myth? For a nickel or dime, will the ghost grant your wish?" The riddle made perfect sense now. "The recipe is down the well."

"Then let's go find it!" Bud exclaimed excitedly.

We both stood, but I grabbed his forearm and said, "There's one more thing I need to tell you."

"What's that?"

"I mentioned before that disaster strikes in twenty-nine hours' time. That ‘disaster' is Giselle Chapelle herself."

"The food blogger?"

"Or more appropriately, the destroyer of worlds. She's somehow managed to track me down, and she and her cronies are on their way here to try and smite my career, once and for all. That's why I need the recipe. To prove I'm no hack. To show her what greatness truly is. And to finally get her off my back forever."

"Wow, this recipe must be something else."

I had hoped the same thing countless times over. "It seems we're about to find out."