by Ava Miles
“I’m so sorry, Margie,” Evan said, his blue eyes gazing at her and not looking away, like he wanted to see all of her.
She was happy for the comfort. Her throat was raw from the retelling. “Don’t be. I realized something after it happened. If they hadn’t pushed me so hard to be like them, I would never have found the courage to rebel and break free. Maybe I would have ended up just like them.” Sure, it had been scary to lose her financial security, but she would have preferred to work at a fast food place for minimum wage than to be on a tether made of money. “Teaching in that small border town saved my life.”
“How long did you teach there?” he asked.
“Two years,” she said. “Then the diocese closed the mission since it wasn’t bringing in enough money and combined it with another parish. The nuns were forced to leave, and so were all of the volunteers.”
“That must have been hard,” he said quietly.
“It was.” She’d bled inside, feeling like she was losing her home, her haven. “Evan, the parents of the children I taught had so little, but they would give me anything from their last chicken to a plate of their special tortillas as a way of saying thanks. They taught me how important it is to give as a way of saying thank you. That’s why I need you to let me give back to you while I’m here.”
The murmur of the other diners’ conversations was a pleasant buzz in her ears, but her focus was on Evan. Like his was for her. The tightness of his features made her stomach queasy.
“Did I share too much?” she asked softly.
He leaned forward and shook his head. “No. I…no. I’m honored you told me.”
His pause had her tapping her foot on the floor in nervousness.
“So how did you end up in Dare Valley?”
A soft smile touched her face, softening her inner tension. “That’s an interesting story. When I left El Milagro—the town where I’d been teaching—I didn’t have any plans. I decided to go somewhere cooler. That summer had been especially intense with temperatures up to one hundred and twenty degrees. I lived in a small room in the mission, which wasn’t air-conditioned. It was brutal. So I decided to drive to Calgary. I’d fallen in love with the place when I was a kid watching the Olympics. After passing through Denver, I decided to take the scenic route through the Rocky Mountains.”
Like most pivotal moments, that day was as clear as crystal in her mind. She’d been in awe of the mountains rising up in the sky after living in the flat desert for so long. “I stopped in Dare Valley for gas and felt the pull to stay there. I can’t explain it, but when I saw the town sign that said, “Welcome,” I knew it was where I belonged.” She shrugged. “That probably sounds weird.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, raising a brow. “That’s how I felt when I came to Paris for the first time. I knew I had to live here.”
Again she wondered what had led him to Paris. “So you get it,” she said, almost releasing his hand because her palm was clammy with nervous sweat. “It was like the town had been waiting for me, and from there, everything fell into place. I found a group house I could afford. Got a job waiting tables at The Chop House. I even enrolled in a few classes at Emmits Merriam until I realized I didn’t care about getting a degree. Pretty soon I made some friends. Jill Hale was one of them. When she decided to open her coffee shop, she asked if I could help. I had some experience with food service, but none as a barista. I taught her what I knew, and the rest we learned together. My entire life changed again…for the better.”
“And you met Howie,” he said, his lakewater blue eyes even more intent now.
“Yes,” she said, finally removing her hand to wipe it on her napkin. Bringing up Howie right now didn’t feel right. “And I got the house and now the bakery… My life is so wonderful now, Evan. I mean look at me. I’m in Paris! Tomorrow I’m going to study with a master baker. And I’m here with you.”
“I’m here with you too,” he said, taking another drink of his champagne.
“So now do you understand why I need to balance the scales?” she asked. “I realize that was a long-winded story.”
“I wanted to know.” He tugged on his ear like he was weighing her request. “All right,” he finally agreed. “You can bake me bread while you’re here. But only at work. Not in your spare time. Is it a deal?”
“Yes,” she said, reaching for her champagne and taking a healthy sip. Her throat still felt dry and scratchy.
As if sensing their intense conversation was over, their waiter reappeared. She ordered a meal of duck confit—since Paris was known for its duck—and a simple watercress salad for a starter. Evan ordered them red wine, and the Cote de Rhone was full and ruby-rich when it arrived. Between the jet lag, the explosive kiss, and the champagne, she already had a delightful buzz going.
For the rest of the meal, she asked him about his favorite places in Paris to keep the conversation light. The waiter kept her glass filled, and she didn’t stop herself from enjoying the wine’s mystery and spice.
“I’m getting tipsy,” she finally confessed after Evan had talked her into sharing a dessert of fresh berries and Chantilly cream.
“You’re exhausted,” he said, holding out his spoon so she could take a bite of the dessert. “Don’t worry. We can catch a cab when we’re finished.” He signaled to the waiter for the check, and when it came, she had to bite her lip.
“Just say thank you, Margie,” he said as he signed the slip the waiter gave him after punching the credit card information into a cute little handheld machine.
“Thank you, Margie,” she quipped. Laughing, she swiped the last of the Chantilly cream with her finger and stuck it in her mouth.
Evan stood and came around to help her out of her chair. Did he think she was that far gone?
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“I’m okay,” she told him, feeling not too steady on her feet.
“Humor me and take my arm.” He gave it to her, and she took it. “Makes me feel more manly.”
“I can’t imagine you feeling unmanly,” she declared as they left the quiet candlelight behind and walked into the soft lamps illuminating Paris’ streets. His arm felt strong under her fingers.
“I don’t tell many people this, but I didn’t exactly have my man card until Chase came along.” He led her to the Quai. “You’ve seen how much I geek out over inventing things, and well, I used to look the part. I was a geek. And…promise you won’t laugh.”
He looked so vulnerable, her heart shot up into her throat. Unable to speak, she shook her head.
“I pretty much lived and breathed all things fantasy and sci-fi growing up. Harry Potter saved my life in some ways when I was a kid, and those books sparked my imagination so powerfully that I…created my first invention.”
“So you do like to invent.”
He paused for so long she didn’t think he was going to continue. All of the sudden he was fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot. “Yes. It’s made my life very comfortable.”
Well, that answered some of her questions about his job situation and how he’d gotten his money.
“And then you met Chase,” she said to encourage him, watching the cars pass as they waited for an available taxi. “Who is he, and can I meet him?”
He signaled to a cab, which pulled over to the side of the road. Evan helped her inside and then climbed in after her and gave the driver directions in his smooth-as-silk French. The sound sent a little thrill through her.
“Chase is my business partner of sorts,” he finally answered, “but he doesn’t live here. He…ah…sells my inventions.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “What else have you invented? Anything I’d know?”
He cleared his throat. “No. Nothing you’d know.”
She put her head on his shoulder as the sights flashed by through her window. The lights of Paris were breathtakingly beautiful, and she couldn’t wait to stroll through the city at night with Evan holding her hand.
> “You really care about Chase, don’t you?” she asked.
“He kinda…helped me become what I’d always wanted to be.”
He dropped a kiss on the top of her head as he said it. The simple touch was beyond endearing. Self-sufficiency had become so important to her that she’d stopped expecting comfort from others, least of all taking it.
“And what was that?” she asked.
His sigh was so strong it made her shiver. “Someone special. Someone worthy of pride. Someone who…could command…ah, shit, I’ve never said this out loud to anyone.”
She turned in her seat. “You can trust me, Evan.”
He scrunched up his face like he was about to do something unpleasant. “I wanted to be the cool guy everyone liked and admired. Not the geeky guy scared of his own shadow who…didn’t know how to man up.”
Because he needed it, she traced his face, letting the tips of her fingers caress the edges of his beard. “I think you’ve become a man anyone could admire.”
He looked out the window. “I thought so too for a while, but then I got lost somehow. Margie…I found a part of myself in Dare Valley. With you.”
She turned his face back to her and stared into his eyes in the darkness of the cab. There was wonder there and that reluctant vulnerability that touched her heart every time. “I’m glad. I think I found a part of myself too.”
When they arrived at her apartment, Evan paid the driver as she exited the car. She keyed in the code to the apartment, but when she went to open it, Evan grabbed her hand.
“I’m going to say goodnight here,” he told her. “You need to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“I was going to invite you up.” They were the only two people on the street, and an air of intimacy surrounded them.
“I know you were,” he said, moving toward her and blocking out the light of the streetlamp. “And I want to come up. That’s why I’m saying goodnight here. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not here for very long, Evan.” She gripped his hand. “I want to make the most of our time together.”
He raised her hand to his lips, holding her gaze. “We will. You said being with someone is big for you, and I want to honor that. For you. And for me.”
She let her mouth curl. “The celibacy thing helped you see sex in a new light, didn’t it?”
A reluctant smile touched his lips. “Yes, but don’t tell anyone that either. Besides, I have to find a more romantic place to make love to you.”
Now that surprised her. “Why?”
“If you think I’m going to knock myself out on your hobbit door trying to carry you to the shower after we make love, you’re kidding yourself. I want…I want it to be everything you’ve ever dreamed about. You’ve…made me dream again, Margie.”
In that moment, she almost heard the clock ticking down their time together, and it sent a sharp pang through her. She already knew leaving him was going to tear her to pieces. “I don’t want you to go,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.
His heart beat in rapid bursts in his chest, echoing the thundering passion in her body.
“I have to,” he said, disengaging her arms and kissing her softly on the mouth. “Everything needs to be perfect. So you’ll remember.”
She faced him on the street. “I’ll always remember you.”
He pushed a lock of hair back from her brows. “Text me when you finish up tomorrow. I won’t say good luck because you don’t need it. The bakery is going to be so damn happy to have you there, Margie. Good night.”
His footsteps echoed in the quiet street as he walked off.
“Good night, Evan.”
She let herself inside and found her bed, promising herself it was okay to give her whole heart to Evan while she was in Paris.
It had to be. She didn’t know how to hold herself back.
Chapter 3
Boulangerie Ma Belle had a red storefront with sparkling glass windows showcasing the bakery’s amazing breads. Margie paused in front and peered through the glass. She saw the curved style of croissants, made mostly in France. From the research she’d done on French baking, she knew this signaled the use of faux fats instead of butter, which was used in the traditionally round croissant shape. To her amazement, there were laws—actual laws—that governed the shape of specific types of bread. And some baguette designs even had their own patents.
When she opened the door, a discreet bell rang. A beautiful blond woman wearing a fabulous white dress looked up from behind the counter. “Bonjour.”
“Bonjour,” she replied, doing her best to deliver the words in an appealing French accent. “I’m Margie Lancaster, Andre’s new baking apprentice.”
The woman came around the counter. “Oh, the American! How lovely. We have been waiting for your arrival. You came in yesterday, oui?”
“Oui,” she replied. “I was grateful Andre gave me a little time to settle in.”
She threw her long hair over her shoulder. “Not enough time if you ask me. That man is a slave driver. I know. I’m married to him.”
“Oh,” she cried out. “How lovely.”
“I’m Belle,” the woman said, kissing her on both cheeks Parisian style.
“He named the store after you,” she said. “That’s very romantic.”
Belle gave a mischievous smile. “If I didn’t work here, I would never see him. This way we are not parted too long. Bakers’ hours are horrible, no? You will see. Andre told me you are opening your own bakery in the United States.”
“Yes,” she said and then added, “Oui,” like an idiot.
“What is the name of your shop?” Belle asked.
“Hot Cross Buns.”
Belle laughed. “You have a wicked sense of humor. I like it. We are going to be friends.” She walked over to the door behind the counter and opened it a crack. “Cherie, your new apprentice is here.”
Margie took a moment to enjoy the sight of all the bread around her. There was an entire wall of the most gorgeous round loaves with the letters BMB cut into the top for decoration. Many bakeries carved their initials into their bread. Margie loved the idea and planned to do it for Hot Cross Buns.
“That is our rustic farm loaf,” Belle said. “The recipe is from Andre’s great-great grandmother. And these are our sourdough loaves, which we also bake as baguette.”
The sourdough loaves she indicated were round, but decorated with different inscriptions. One had a rose while another showcased a tree. They were so artistic Margie almost teared up at the sight of them.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, wishing she could trace the patterns.
“Wait until you try one. They are pretty, yes, but they also taste divine. Our sourdough is nothing like the kind from your San Francisco, though, and Andre will tell you why.”
“Giving away all my secrets, Belle?” a man asked from behind them.
Margie wrested her gaze away from the bread to look at him. Andre appeared to be in his early forties, and was completely bald in that sexy way Michael Jordan and Patrick Stewart were. His body had the muscular build of a man who kneaded dough for a living. And his smile was pure gold with a dimple winking out mischievously in his right cheek.
“Andre! It’s so good to finally meet you,” she said.
He crossed the room and kissed her on both cheeks with an enthusiasm that made her laugh.
“You say that now.” His wink had Belle rolling her eyes. “Let us hope you feel the same way at the end of your apprenticeship.”
“Let me know if I need to tell him to…how do you say it in English?” Belle said. “Reverse back?”
It took a moment for her to understand. “Throttle back.”
“I only want to share everything I know with her,” Andre said, throwing his arms out with gusto.
“It’s only ten days, Andre,” Belle reminded him. “He is as eager as a child.”
“We will make the most of our time, Margie,” Andre said. “Brian tells
me I must have you teach me how you make your cinnamons rolls while you’re here. He said I would revolutionize Paris with the recipe.”
“Brian is sweet to say so.” She eyed the man’s white apron, which was streaked with flour and dried dough. Soon she would look like that every day too. “I would be happy to show you, Andre. The recipe is from the owner of the bakery I am buying. It’s been in her family for generations.”
“As have my recipes,” he said, gesturing grandly to the wall. “Our bread is like a living, breathing family tree of our ancestors. In the quiet hours of the night, I can feel their spirits gather around me as I help them live on through my work. You will see.”
She shivered. “That actually gave me chills.”
Belle patted her arm. “Don’t worry about our baking spirits. They mean no harm.”
Her chills weren’t due to fear, but rather the realization that these people understood her. On a primal level, Margie understood people had baked bread for millennia. Bread had nourished humankind since after the first hearth fires were lit. And when bread was unavailable, people starved.
“Bread is life,” she echoed. “I believe that.”
“Good,” Andre said, laying a hand on her shoulder and peering into her eyes. “You have an old soul. I can see that. You make good bread because of it.”
She flushed. “An old soul?”
“You see things. In people. In life. Bread is your way of giving back to the world, no?”
Something powerful rose in her chest, an emotion she could not name. She thought of what she’d told Evan last night over dinner. “I…yes…bread taught me so much, and now I want to give back through my bakery.”
Andre pulled Belle in close with his other hand, and the three of them formed a circle. “I knew you would feel the ancient power of the yeast, of the leavening, of the baking. You must in order to become a master. We are going to do great things together while you are in Paris, Margie.”
“I’m…my heart is about ready to burst with gratitude,” she said to them, and they both hugged her. “You speak my language. I know that sounds weird since English is my first language, and French is yours. But making bread and baking it—”
