Page 2 of The Perfect Ingredient
“Jean-Pierre,” he says quickly, then clears his throat. “Just Jean’s fine.”
“Jean,” I repeat, tasting the short, solid sound of it. “You’re new.”
“Started last week. Usually it’s my boss that does the deliveries out here, but he’s got a cold.”
“Well,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “A happy little misfortune for me, then.”
He gives me a look that’s half puzzle, half panic, probably wondering if I’m joking or if I’m always like this (I am).
“Tell me something,” I continue, turning toward the counter. “How do you feel about sweets?”
Jean shrugs. “I like them.”
“You’ve got taste buds, then. Good enough.” With a flourish, I uncover tray after tray. “Here. Try this. No, sit. Right there. And don’t you dare argue.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“Tch, tch.”I guide him by the elbow, planting him on the stool before he can finish protesting. “Just a bite of each. You can spit it out if you don’t like. I won’t cry…much.”
He blinks as I push the first sample toward him. A tiny tart topped with candied rose petals.
He bites. His eyes widen.
“Oh,” he says.
That’s enough for me.
“Next,” I say, sliding another tart, fig and goat cheese with pine honey.
Then apricot-lavender with caramelized fennel.
Then a spoonful of strawberry-orange mousse.
Then…
It continues like this—me shoving pastries into his hands, sometimes just straight into his mouth when he doesn’t reach for them fast enough. He eats everything.
And naturally, I ruin the moment.
I reach for a bowl of something creamy I meant to pipe, some whipped mascarpone concoction with lemon zest and ground vanilla. My hand slips. My fingers sink into the sticky white cream, a dollop clinging to my knuckles.
“Ah,putain,” I mutter, looking for a rag and finding none.
So I do the logical thing.
I bring my fingers to my mouth.
I lick the cream from my knuckle first, a long stripe. Then I take my thumb into my mouth, sucking the sweet, rich vanilla from the skin. I do the same for each finger, one by one, my eyes fluttering closed at the soft, round taste of it. It’s good, but not enough. I smack my tongue lightly against the roof of my mouth, chasing the last note of lemon zest.
When I glance at Jean again, his lips are parted. His chest rises, shallow and fast. His pants are pulled taut, the bulge thick and impossible to ignore. I blink once. Then twice.
Oh.
Oh!
Isthatit? Have I finally created my masterpiece?
I step closer to him and he tenses, looking ashamed. But I just reach for the tart he just bit into—the fig and pine honey—and pluck it right from his fingers.
