Page 42 of The Perfect Ingredient
We are in the kitchen when I say all this out loud.
The bakery’s almost finished now—floor scrubbed, copper polished, the counters gleaming with new marble. The wrought-iron sign above the front door is already gilded in gold leaf, even though I still haven’t chosen what to write on it.La Crème Secrète, perhaps. Or maybe nothing. Let them smell their way in.
I could open tomorrow if I wanted. There’s already gossip about it, I’ve heard. The restored building with the Parisianmadman. The one with gold on the sign and strange smells coming from the chimney.
But I don’t want to open yet.
Because for now, everything that matters is here, in this room.
Hessou has been back for three days now. Munich held him hostage for a fortnight—some perfumer’s congress, which sounds more tedious than it probably was. He left a vial of something illegal and floral that smells exactly of his skin in the half-sleep of morning. I’ve been rubbing it on my wrists like a woman in mourning.
Now he’s back where he belongs. Slouched in a sunbeam at my kitchen table, expensive in the bored, unbothered way that only old money can perfect. Jean’s next to him, still damp from the bath he took after I covered him in melted chocolate a couple of hours ago.
They both watch me like I’m something explosive. It’s how they always look at me when I bring out a covered dish.
I make a little show of lifting the silver cloche.
“Crème Trois,” I declare.
They stare at the plate: a single custard tart, baked in a gold-rimmed tin, topped with glazed figs, dark chocolate shavings, and one perfect rose petal.
It’sthe tart.
It’s what I’ve been chasing since the beginning—since I stood in this ruined kitchen months ago with my sleeves rolled up and nothing but hunger in my chest. What I’ve been dreaming about while tasting skin and salt and sweat. What I’ve failed to make again and again, even with all the ingredients in France.
But this one… I got it right.
“It’s done. Finally.”
Hessou smiles lazily.
“La recette?”
He doesn’t need me to answer. He knows what it is because he’s had it on his tongue more times than either of us can count—straight from my mouth, from Jean’s cock, from the times both of them came inside me. He knows it from the nights when we take Jean together and everything mixes until the boundary of who gave what stops existing.
And this isours. Mine, his, Jean’s. All three.
I take the knife and cut three slices.
Jean is the first to lift his fork. His eyes drift shut and a shiver takes him from head to toe.
“Bon?” I ask.
“It’s… I don’t know how to say it. It’s not just sweet. It’s—” He looks down at the plate, breath catching. “Warm. The way I feel when I’m full. But not from food. I mean…”
Hessou, watching him. “Comme l’amour.”
“Yes,” Jean says, with a smile. “It tastes like love turned into something we can eat.”
I take a bite of my own.
The custard gives in the moment it touches warmth. The figs carry a kind of ripeness that borders on indecent for this hour. The chocolate hits with a bitter edge, a small bite behind something tender. And the rose… that’s me indulging myself.
It works. God, it works. The textures, the depth, the way it lingers on the roof of my mouth like something I’ll never get enough of. When I close my eyes, I taste the three of us—Jean’s sweetness, Hessou’s sharpness, my obsession to bridge them both.
I swallow, and my fingers tremble.
I lick the back of my spoon. Jean steals a second bite from Hessou’s plate, and Hessou lets him, though he lifts one perfectly groomed brow in warning. Jean grins, and Hessou turns his head to kiss him.
