Page 34 of The Perfect Ingredient
“He looks edible,” I whisper.
“He always does.”
* * *
When we leave the boutique, Jean is looking like a half-finished dream.
The jacket isn’t bespoke, but it fits close enough. Deep green wool, hugging his shoulders, darker pants slightly too tight at the thigh, and around his throat, the silk tie I chose. It draws the eye up to his face, his lashes, the way his pink mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
His hair’s still a mess. His hands are still rough. He still blushes when a woman looks at him too long.
But he looks stunning. Which was, of course, the entire point.
People turn to stare as we leave. Some try not to. Others don’t bother pretending.
He gets looks from women in lace gloves and veiled hats, fans held tight beneath delicate chins. From men smoking cigars outside cafés, pausing mid-sentence to track him with their eyes. Some of them narrow their gazes, clearly sizing him up. I know those looks. I know the ones that bristle with intimidation, the ones that say, “How the fuck does a boy like that even walk through the world”, and I know the ones that linger too long, hunger hidden poorly behind politeness. Eyes that linger longer on his hips. His chest. His cock.
I lean in closer to Jean just enough to let them see it.
He’s mine.
Hessou walks ahead, cane tapping like punctuation on the cobblestones, guiding us through the heart of Lyon. He’s dressed like sin incarnate, as always, but even so, he glances back at us with a smirk.
“You’re getting more attention than me,” he says. “That’snew.”
“Because he looks fresh,” I say, patting Jean’s bicep.
“I’m always the one people look at. In a bad and agoodway.”
“You’re still the one they can’t look away from,” I point out.
“Yes. But not anymore thefirstthing they see.”
Jean glances between us, confused and already tugging at the tie like it’s strangling him. “Why would people look at you… badly?”
Hessou’s mouth tugs sideways into something almost a smile, almost a wince. He slows his pace slightly so we draw up beside him.
“Because of my skin, Jean,” he says. “Because this beautiful republic loves liberty and fraternity, so long as you don’t look too closely at where its wealth came from.”
Jean’s face pales. “I— I didn’t mean—”
“Iknow,” Hessou says gently, his hand brushing Jean’s forearm. “You’re not the problem. The problem is older than all of us and smells like old church pews.”
Jean’s quiet for a second, his shoulders curling inward as if trying to apologize with his whole body. I see the conflict on his face—he’s too sweet to get defensive, too inexperienced to grasp the complexity. Politics simply don’t stick to him.
“I’ll teach you,” Hessou adds. “Eventually.”
“About politics?” I ask, already picturing the disaster.
“Abouteverything,” Hessou promises, touching Jean’s arm again, leaning on him a little too flirty to look casual in the middle of the street.
“I think he’d rather learn to tie a cravate first.”
“I can do both,” Hessou says with a shrug. Then, his voice dropping to a soft command for Jean: “Stop pulling at it, chéri. You’ll ruin the silk.”
Jean’s hand drops immediately.
We reach the restaurant a few steps later—one of Hessou’s favorites. It’s a place where velvet cushions line the banquettes, the silverware glows from being polished twice, and the maître d’ smiles before we even open the door.
