Page 8 of Bittersweet Valentine

Some things, it seemed, didn't need spice to burn.

Chapter Five

Kandi

"A message in every bite," I murmured, studying the rows of candies laid out on my workbench. The innovation round started tomorrow, and I'd been experimenting for days, perfecting the balance of spices, the sequence of flavors, the subtle building of heat that would make my creation unique.

The Chocolate Hart was quiet, closed early so I could work without interruption. Outside, snow fell steadily, turning Kings Valley into a perfect winter postcard. Inside, warmth from the stove filled the air as I put the finishing

touches on my competition pieces.

Each treat would tell a story, a progression of flavor that would take the judges on a journey. The first would consist of dark chocolate and vanilla, familiar, comforting—like coming home. I'd tempered the chocolate to exactly 88.7 degrees, knowing the precise temperature would give it the perfect crystalline structure, the snap that spoke of expertise and care. The vanilla I'd chosen wasn't the common extract but whole beans, aged in bourbon barrels, their complex sweetness a foundation for everything to come.

The second chocolate introduced warmth—subtle hints of cinnamon and cardamom emerging slowly on the palate. I'd infused the spices directly into the cream for the ganache, letting them steep until the aroma filled the kitchen with memories of winter evenings and shared dreams. This piece was about memory, about the way certain flavors linger in your mind long after they've left your tongue.

The final chocolate was my boldest statement. Cayenne bloomed gradually, building heat that lingered like regret, like possibility, like the way first love burns long after it's gone. I'd tested dozens of combinations before finding the right balance—not enough heat to overwhelm, but sufficient to make its presence known. Like certain food critics who came home after ten years, thinking they could judge without feeling.

"That's a dangerous look," Sophie said, entering from the back room with fresh molds. "You're plotting something."

"Just finalizing my innovation entry." I adjusted the temperature on one of my tempering machines, watching the digital display flicker to the perfect number. "How are the special orders coming along?"

"All the Valentine's pre-orders are packed and labeled." She set down the molds and peered at my work. "Are those the spicy ones you've been working on? The ones meant to make a certain food critic sweat?"

"They're not meant to make anyone sweat," I corrected, though we both knew that wasn't entirely true. "They're meant to showcase innovative flavor combinations while honoring traditional techniques."

I demonstrated the tempering process for her, spreading dark chocolate across the marble slab Roman had given me so many years ago. The stone held memories in its smooth surface—countless hours of practice, dreams shared over cooling ganache, promises that melted away like poorly stabilized chocolate.

"Watch how the chocolate moves," I explained, gathering it back with my scraper. "You want it to flow like silk, but with just enough resistance to tell you the crystals are forming properly. It's about patience, about knowing exactly when to push and when to wait."

Sophie nodded, but her attention was drawn to the window. "Speaking of waiting..."

The bell above the door chimed, and I looked up, expecting Meredith or Eleanor—the only people who usually stopped by after hours. Instead, Roman stood in the doorway, snow dusting his dark hair and wool coat.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, brushing snow from his shoulders. "I wanted to discuss the innovation round parameters."

Sophie shot me a knowing look as she gathered her things. "I should head out anyway. See you tomorrow, Kandi!"

The bell chimed again as she left, leaving Roman and me alone in my kitchen. The space suddenly felt smaller, more intimate. The snow falling outside muffled all sound, creating a bubble of warmth and chocolate-scented air. Even the hum of the tempering machines seemed to fade into background music for this moment.

"The parameters were clearly outlined in the competition packet," I said, turning back to my tempering. The chocolate flowed under my scraper, dark and glossy. "Or is this about something else?"

He moved closer, watching me work. "Your technical round pieces were perfect. The judges were unanimous."

"Is that official feedback or personal observation?" I kept my movements steady, though my heart wasn't.

"Both." He leaned against my workbench, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixing with the mouth-watering sweetness in the air. A dangerous combination. "You've mastered the fundamentals. But innovation is different. It requires taking risks."

I looked up, meeting his gaze. "I know all about taking risks, Roman. Some pay off. Some don't. But at least I take them."

The words hung between us, heavy with meaning. He studied me for a long moment, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box—burgundy with a gold ribbon. One of mine.

"I bought this today," he said, setting it on the counter. "Your maple caramels. They're extraordinary."

"Professional opinion?"

"Personal one." He opened the box, selected a piece. "I remember when you first tried making caramel. You were sonervous about getting the temperature right that you barely breathed until it set."

The memory hit unexpectedly—sixteen years old, standing in my parents' kitchen, Roman timing the caramel stages while I watched the thermometer like it held the secrets of the universe. He'd kissed me when the caramel finally set perfectly, and I'd tasted butterscotch on his lips for hours after.

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