Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  “Asher!” cried the women.

  “Yo, Ash,” Friedrich mumbled, deigning to remove his ear buds and give the taller man a shy smile. There was a definite hint of hero worship in the kid’s expression.

  Sera couldn’t blame him. Her heart was suddenly beating a whole lot faster, and a goofy grin spread itself across her face without asking permission. She waved shyly.

  Asher strolled over and the BRBs parted, Red Sea–style. He made himself at home on the arm of Sera’s overstuffed chair, stroking her cheek with a fond finger and gifting her with a smile that made her lungs forget how to do their job. In his eyes, Sera could see memories of the weekend they’d shared… and the promise of more pleasure to come.

  “Hey, Ash,” she said, voice huskier than normal. “You know all the BRBs, right?” At his nod, she continued with the introductions. “And this is Marnie Pyle, a journalist from the Chile Paper.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Pyle,” Asher said politely, though his eyes never left Sera. His clever fingers began tracing the length of Sera’s arm from wrist to elbow. Sera shivered happily, his caress momentarily hypnotizing her into a pleasure daze.

  A sharp cough jolted Sera out of her reverie.

  Oh, right. Introductions are supposed to go both ways. But should I introduce him as my landlord, or… Sera decided to keep things simple. “Marnie, this is Asher Wolf.”

  “You’re Miss Wilde’s boyfriend?” Marnie asked, displaying the first honest interest she’d shown since she walked in the door. The wide-jowled journalist eyed the tall Israeli speculatively. A bit too speculatively.

  Her taste buds might be dead, but her libido’s still kickin’. Sera winced, silently cursing the reporter’s question. Men hated labels. Labels made them squirm and twitch—and sometimes run for the hills. Asher wasn’t a runner—by now Sera knew that much—but despite three unforgettable evenings of romantic dates and nights of passionate lovemaking, they’d yet to have the dreaded, “let’s define our relationship” talk. Sera held her breath, blanking on ways to head disaster off at the pass.

  But Asher appeared unfazed.

  “Yes, I am,” he said cheerfully. “Or at least, I’m working toward it.” He gave the nape of Sera’s neck a kiss that managed to be both gentle and wildly stirring. The BRBs sighed. Sera turned pink as a Valentine’s Day Peep, feeling a rush ten times headier than sugar flood her system.

  Lego-head fiddled with her digital recorder, pointing it toward Asher. “Interesting,” she grunted. “So, as Miss Wilde’s significant other, what’s your reaction to the comments made recently by Chef Austin?”

  “Comments?” Asher looked puzzled, glancing down at Sera for an explanation. She tried not to squirm. Maybe I should have told him. But I just couldn’t bear to drag him into this. It’s so ugly, and it shouldn’t have to be his fight. “Bliss, what is she talking about? What has that man said to you?”

  “It’s not what he said to Sera, studly, it’s what he said to the world,” Pauline huffed before Sera could begin to explain. “That rat slandered my Baby-Bliss to this”—she glared at the reporter before seeming to recall that alienating her would be a poor idea—“to this fine journalist here. Half the town probably read what she printed. We’re trying to set the record straight.”

  At her side, Sera could feel Asher stiffen. “What exactly did Mr. Austin say about Serafina?” he asked very quietly.

  The BRBs looked at one another, then at Sera, uncomfortable.

  Marnie’s eyes lit at the prospect of conflict. She emitted a teeny smile. “Miss Wilde hasn’t shown you the article? Interesting. Well, I have a copy here in my bag.” She dug in her messenger tote for the latest issue of the Chile Paper. She handed it to Asher, who received the newspaper as though it had been marinating in a storm gutter for a week. “Here, take a look.”

  Asher took a look.

  With each paragraph his eyes scanned, his expression turned stonier. Sera found herself wanting to comfort him, though it was she who’d been maligned. Now he’s really finding out what he’s gotten himself into with me, she thought, feeling sick. Damn Blake to hell. If he ruins this, too, I’ll gut him and make a fricassee out of his kidneys.

  The reporter didn’t miss Asher’s expression. “Would you care to make a statement?” she asked, waving her digital recorder in Asher’s face. “After all, you’d be best qualified to rebut some of Chef Austin’s more, ah, personal accusations about Miss Wilde.”

  Asher snapped the paper shut. He was breathing with great deliberation, Sera saw, and his eyes had gone from green to golden, as they did only with strong emotion. He rose to his feet and towered over Marnie as he very deliberately handed back the offending tabloid.

  “I have no intention of commenting on my girlfriend’s personal business. No man of any worth whatsoever would do so—not in private and sure as hell not in public.” His tone was so clipped, so fiercely leashed, that all the women held their breath, wondering when he’d lose it. “You want a statement? Print this, Ms. Pyle: It takes a man of extremely questionable character to say something of this nature in a public forum. Anything that comes out of Mr. Austin’s mouth is to be examined very closely as to motive. If he slanders Miss Wilde—”

  “Libels,” muttered Marnie.

  “If he speaks ill of her,” Asher said quellingly, “it’s due to some sick ‘shortcoming’ of his own. And while I won’t discuss the intimacy I am honored to share with Miss Wilde, there is one thing I will say—and say without hesitation. This woman I love is the finest pastry chef this city has ever seen—and there is no doubt in my mind that she can outbake Blake Austin any day of the week.”

  Pauline stood up and cheered. “You tell ’er, hot stuff!”

  The Back Room Babes clapped and whistled, stomping their feet.

  “Ooh, hey!” cried Syna, shushing them with an impatient gesture. “That’s totally what we should do! Have a bake-off! We’ll teach that scuzz Blake a lesson and prove Sera’s the better chef!”

  “Hells yeah, girl!” Aruni squealed, grabbing Friedrich’s arm hard in her excitement. She beamed at Sera. “You could so take that dude down in the kitchen! We’ll show everyone he’s full of shit and prove your baked goods are out-of-this-world orgasmic!”

  Friedrich did not seem to mind Aruni’s viselike grasp, though he blushed at the word “orgasmic.”

  The BRBs started throwing out ideas for how Sera could show up Chef Austin. Pauline and Hortencia got in a squabble about who got to be Sera’s trainer for the big showdown. But Sera couldn’t think about bake-offs or getting back at her ex-boyfriend. She was still reeling from what Asher had said—in front of all her favorite people and the press.

  This woman I love.

  Did he even realize he’d said the words? She dared a glance up at her newly designated boyfriend. He had eyes only for her, ignoring the fluttering BRBs and the avidly observing reporter. His gaze held everything she loved best about Asher: honesty, tenderness, and a wide-open window to his truly spectacular soul. And what she saw when she peered inside made her catch her breath.

  Yup, he realized.

  Sera’s eyes welled. She couldn’t look away, only blink rapidly as Asher returned to her side, kneeling at the foot of her chair. “I love you, Serafina Wilde,” he said. His eyes were molten gold with emotion. “I am very angry with you right now for not telling me about this business with Blake Austin, but I do love you, and I want to help you face whatever comes. Please don’t keep something like this from me again. Promise me, Bliss.”

  Sera snarfed back a sob. She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to cradle his face with both hands. “I promise. And, Asher…” She smiled tremulously. “I love you, too.”

  When he captured her lips with his, it felt like fate.

  When she turned back to the BRBs, she found her fate had already been sealed.

  * * *

  “Ladies, I can definitely make this happen.” Bobbie, looking self-satisfied, was patting her already
perfectly curled bangs into place.

  “How?” Hortencia wanted to know. “Austin’s not likely to accept Sera’s gauntlet just because she throws it down. What’s in it for him, besides total humiliation?”

  “Don’t be a downer, Horsey,” Pauline scolded. “That’s where Ms. Pyle comes in.”

  As one, the women turned to stare at the reporter, who wore a wary but intrigued expression. Conflict was her stock-in-trade, after all, and a feud between foodies was sure to spur circulation. As a springboard into investigative journalism, this wasn’t exactly the sort of story that got one nominated for the Pulitzer, but anything that increased her readership was a plus. Marnie cleared her throat. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We want you to print a challenge to Chef Austin!” Aruni chirped, bouncing over to join the ladies with a sassy backward glance at the flustered Friedrich. “Right, ladies?” She checked with her sisters, who nodded confirmation, then plunked hands on hips and gave the reporter a gamine grin. “You send that windbag a straight-up dare to meet Serafina in the kitchen and she’ll prove once and for all who’s the best.”

  “Where would you have this showdown?” Marnie wanted to know. “And when?” She was scribbling notes on her pad.

  “That’s where I come in,” Bobbie said proudly. “I’m an events planner for the Santa Fe Winter Fiesta, which as you know is running all next week. I can absolutely slot in a cook-off, even last minute, and I’m sure we can sort out a venue. If you print the challenge, I’ll publicize the heck out of it all over town and let people know where to show up. It’ll be a sensation!”

  “Yeah!” Syna chimed in. “Bill it as the great Cupcake Conflict or something. We can even get a production crew from Santa Fe Studios to come film it. My hubby works with a lot of those guys. Heck, the local news might even want to cover it. Or maybe it’ll get picked up by one of those reality TV cable channels!”

  “Dear, I’m afraid there’s already a show like that,” Hortencia informed Syna. “Several, in fact.”

  Pauline raised an eyebrow at her partner.

  “What? I watch the Food Channel.”

  “Hasn’t helped your cooking,” Pauline muttered.

  “Anyhow,” Janice said. “Like studly said, our gal can beat the britches off that slimy scumbag when it comes to cookin’. Miz Pyle, all ya gotta do is print an item that invites people to judge for themselves who’s the better chef, promise lotsa free treats, and we’re in business. He won’t dare refuse, or he’ll look like he’s scared to face our Sera.”

  Marnie coughed contemplatively. “Well, that would certainly address some of Chef Austin’s accusations, especially if Miss Wilde wins the contest. But I don’t see how it would counteract the comments about Miss Wilde’s more… personal… issues.”

  The BRBs put their heads together, whispering.

  Sera surfaced at last from Asher’s drugging kiss to the sound of some seriously intense muttering from her friends. From their expressions, they might have been debating anything from the right way to disable a nuclear reactor to the best brand of lube in Pauline’s back room.

  “Wait, maybe we could…” murmured Syna, the gist of her suggestion inaudible to Sera.

  “Nah, we’d probably get arrested if we tried that, but wouldn’t it be awesome if we could?” Aruni said sotto voce, shaking her curly head regretfully.

  Bobbie touched her pearls and squinched her well-plucked brows together in consternation. “C’mon, Pauline, you’re our resident evil genius; help us out!” She gazed expectantly at their fearless leader.

  But Pauline just flapped her hands at her minions. “Hush, women.” She flopped back in her armchair and gave her niece an assessing look that was nevertheless rich with pride…and respect. “I don’t know what you’re fretting about, you ninnies. You can quit your scheming. My Baby-Bliss has got this one in the bag.”

  Oh, Pauline. Sera’s heart overflowed as she looked from the man she loved to the woman who had raised her to know she deserved it.

  I’m damn well gonna give it my best shot.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The mixer blades beat with agonizing slowness.

  Whomp.

  A lifetime.

  Whomp.

  Two lifetimes.

  Whomp.

  Galaxies were born and died.

  By contrast, Sera’s heart was pummeling her ribs like an overzealous karate instructor. Sweat beaded her upper lip, and she glared into the brushed aluminum bowl as if her will alone could froth the egg whites into the nice, stiff peaks she was after. But no matter how she fiddled with the switches on the stand mixer’s sides, the blades would not speed up. Her whites refused to foam. The pinch of salt she’d added did nothing to help. Or wait, had she accidentally used sugar? There was no time to start over. The meringue has to be ready in five minutes, and I still have to brown the tops! Shit, did I even set the oven?

  She turned in a blind panic, flinging open the Blodgett’s gaping maw. No racks! What am I supposed to do without racks? I’ve got a hundred mini meringue pies to dish up, and no way to caramelize the crusts!

  Wait… a brûlée torch! Gotta be a brûlée torch around here…

  She patted her apron, she flung open cabinets. Not so much as a cardboard safety match to be found in the whole goddamn kitchen! Ever more frantic, knowing her whole career, her very happiness, depended upon success, Sera searched the space for something—anything—she could use. Her gasping breaths were the only sound, until…

  Wham!

  A booted foot sent the kitchen’s double doors swinging violently toward opposite walls. Into the breech stepped a figure in a billowing leather duster and a hat to match. From halfway across the steam-shrouded room, Sera could see Blake’s black eyes narrow with malice as he caught sight of her. His lip curled derisively. In slow motion, one hand rose lazily, brushed aside his heavy coat, and revealed the holster at his hip.

  Heart pounding, Sera lunged for the gun belt she was somehow unsurprised to find strapped to her own side…

  And came up holding a half-squashed chocolate éclair.

  A sinister grin spread across Chef Austin’s face as he raised his pistol…

  And Sera shrieked as she came suddenly, violently awake.

  A yawning maw met her gaze.

  Fortunately, it was Silver’s yawning maw, smelling somewhat unpleasantly of puppy chow and all too full of tongue, which he proceeded to slop across her face as he barked, happy to see Sera awake. He pranced all about the bed, tail wagging frantically, spent a moment tunneling into the mussed bedclothes in case he’d missed any excitement, then flopped on his back in the warm spot Asher had left, paws up and begging for belly rubs.

  Sera ruffled his fur absently, grateful for the wholesome enthusiasm of the puppy. It went a long way toward dispelling her nightmare—though not far enough. His master might have done a better job, she thought with a mental pout, but Asher was nowhere to be seen. Shower? Coffee run? He must have already walked the dogs, because Silver wasn’t whining to be let out, and Sascha wasn’t pacing at the half-open bedroom door the way she did when things got urgent. It warmed Sera’s soul a little to realize she was learning the Wolf household’s rhythms and routines, and even—maybe—beginning to find her own place within them. She turned her attention outward, smiling ruefully as a god-awful clanging and a raft of Hebrew curses informed her Asher was in the kitchen attempting to make breakfast.

  She appreciated his efforts, but there was no way she’d be able to eat this morning, even had her otherwise lovely new boyfriend not been a horrendous cook. Her stomach was too busy putting on a Cirque du Soleil interpretive performance—theme: petrified pastry chef.

  Today we settle the score, Blake, Sera thought with a certain grim determination. Once and for all. I may not have dreamed up this cockamamie scheme, but now that I’m committed, I am damn sure going to give it everything I’ve got.

  Marnie had baited the trap well—and with rather more piz
zazz than Sera had expected.

  New Mexican Standoff!

  Break out your dessert forks, Santa Feans. In response to recent comments made by celebrity chef Blake Austin, Ms. Serafina Wilde, proprietor of Bliss, a newly opened bakery known for more than mere culinary delights, is calling out her former mentor. Mr. Austin, in town to oversee the opening of his newest investment, the Blue Coyote on Canyon Road, had called into question Miss Wilde’s competence in the kitchen, among other, more personal complaints. Miss Wilde now invites Mr. Austin to a “battle of the baked goods” at next week’s Winter Fiesta.

  “Let the fine folks of Santa Fe be the judge,” said Miss Wilde. “I’m confident my confections capture the true essence of bliss. But if Blake thinks he can do better, he’s welcome to give me a run for my money.”

  When the Chile Paper reached out to Mr. Austin for comment, the chef had only two words for Miss Wilde.

  “Bring it,” said Mr. Austin.

  Readers are invited to visit the Winter Fiesta’s website for more details on this sure-to-be epic culinary clash.

  Uncharacteristically terse as his official reply had been, Blake’s unofficial response had been classic Austin.

  He’d sent Sera a dead fish.

  It had arrived at the shop wrapped in newspaper, with a note that read, Nice try, Sera-frigid. You, my dear, have as much chance of revitalizing your career with this little stunt as this fish does of swimming back to the ocean. But since you choose to invite your own ruination with such a spectacularly desperate ploy, I am more than happy to provide the final nail in your culinary coffin. I shall look forward to witnessing—and indeed, causing—your utter and irrevocable humiliation.

  It was a nice fish, though. Alaskan king salmon, if Sera wasn’t mistaken, twenty dollars a pound and no easy feat to acquire fresh in landlocked New Mexico. She’d been tempted to poach it with a light creamy dill sauce, but she wouldn’t put it past Blake to have poisoned the poor thing. Its cold, staring eyes had seemed to pierce her, asking mutely, You sure you want to go toe-to-toe with this dude? You don’t want to end up like me, do you?