Page 32 of The Perfect Ingredient
“The United States?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been. They have… violentopinionson men who look like me, and you would declare war on their bread. But it would be an adventure. We could make a mess.”
I can imagine it—the three of us, sinning our way through. Jean, confused by the menus. Me, scandalized by it. Hessoupretending to flirt with the American women purely to watch their husbands squirm.
And then I glance toward the cellar door, where the sound of metal clanking has finally gone quiet.
The pipe, it seems, has finally surrendered.
“Jean,” I call, “did you conquer the beast?”
He appears in the doorway, flushed and a little damp. There’s a smear of something dark on his collarbone, his curls plastered to his forehead, and a wrench sticking out of his pocket. His shirt is clinging to the solid planes of his chest and shoulders, and his pants are worn in all thebestplaces. He blinks at me, then at Hessou.
“I… think it’s fixed?”
“Youthinkso?” Hessou echoes, drifting closer like a curious cat.
Jean shrugs, wiping his palms on the damp thighs of his pants. “No water burst for the last ten minutes, so…”
His voice falters as Hessou stops before him, reaching out to lightly brush a spot of dirt from his shoulder. He always does this—circles Jean like he’s testing the air around him.
“You smell like labor,” Hessou says. “It’s rare in my circles.”
Jean’s eyes widen. He lifts his arm, and leans in to sniff under it. “Is that bad…?”
Hessou grins. “It’s perfect.”
A deep flush spreads across Jean’s cheeks and throat. He’s adorable.
I watch them interact. This has become a morning ritual of sorts: Jean shows up sweaty and a little nervous after his morning deliveries, Hessou teases him, I flirt while bakingsomething inappropriate, and someone ends up half-naked by the end of the hour. It’s comforting and domestic.
Jean tilts his head and scratches his neck, where the collar of his shirt is damp and sticking.
“Sorry I took so long. The pipe was deeper than I thought and one of the seals was… uh… broken. I had to—”
“You don’t have to explain. You look beautiful.”
He blinks. “I—”
“You do,” I repeat, stepping into his space. “Like Michelangelo took a break from David to sculpt a farm boy with delicious thighs.”
Jean covers his face with a groan.
“He’s been like this all morning,” Hessou tells him.
“Unhinged,” I admit.
“Obsessive.”
“Flour in places flour should never be.”
Jean smiles behind his hand. Then lowers it, and I see that smile for real—crooked, a little shy, but full of warmth. He’s used to us. Still blushes, still stammers sometimes, but there’s no fear or awkwardness anymore when we touch him, no flinching when we flirt. Just the slow-burning affection growing louder with each week.
“I haven’t eaten,” he says suddenly. “Been working since dawn.”
“Ohno,” I breathe, stepping in front of him and pressing one flour-dusted hand to his broad chest. “Our boy’s starving.”
Hessou leans over my shoulder. “We’ll remedy that immediately.”
