Page 78 of Friends Don't Kiss

Somehow I’m out of the car, and Colton has my hand in a warm grip. “Relax, sweetness. It’s cool,” he tells me, amusement in his voice.

The legendary pastry chef crosses her arms and looks at us with kind interest, her light blue eyes dancing on her round, freckled face.

“So you kept the secret, huh?” she says as we join her at the front door. “Good for you, Colt.” She extends her hand and turns her gaze to me. “Hi, I’m Annabel Plum. Call me Annabel, and welcome to Sweet Grove Bakehouse.”

I stick my hand out nervously, trying to temper my urge to jump up and down. “Kiara Smith, and yes, I know who you are.”

“I’ve heard of you too,” she answers casually as she leads us inside.

I lock eyes with Colton. “What did you tell her?” I whisper, embarrassment flushing my cheeks as I imagine him gushing over my pastries to the GOAT. And why is she calling him Colt? Does heknowher?

After we take our coats off, Annabel leads us into a large open space with a post and beam vaulted ceiling two stories high. The white landscape illuminates an immaculate space mainly dedicated to baking and cooking. Four ovens, induction and gas ranges, professional-grade equipment, three islands. Everything is of professional quality, but at the same time, an elevated decor of chandeliers, fresh flowers in mason jars, and a large live-edge table laden with Farmhouse Pottery dinnerware and Simon Pearce handmade glasses turns the space into a haven of welcoming luxury.

The white and chrome of the kitchen is softened by the wooden accents of the central dining area. Beyond that, the living room area is defined by an off-white sprawling sectional covered with pastel throw pillows, two leather chairs, and a coffee table covered with Annabel’s books.

Annabel pulls three small glasses and an unmarked bottle of liquor from a cabinet. “Sit down,” she says, gesturing to the stools lined at the kitchen counter. She pours three glasses and sits across from us. “To friends,” she says, cheering.

“To friends,” Colton answers.

I take a small sip, letting the sweet wine warm my insides.Mmm. Interesting. A basic, classic orange wine macerated with cloves. I’ll have to tell Haley to try that.Then I decide it’s time I come out of my starstruck shell and ask the first of many questions that have been assailing me in the last minutes. “So… how do you know each other?” My eyes go between Colton and Annabel. I can’t believe he kept such a secret from me.

“From the garage,” Annabel answers. “My husband loves vintage cars, and we’ve been to Emerald Creek a few times to get some work done.”

“That’s it?” I ask, incredulous. Colton doesn’t make friends with his clients. He’s friendly enough. But that’s not what gets you an in with a celebrity.

“Pretty much,” Annabel says. Then with a small smile, to which Colton responds with an actual blush, she adds, “He might have personally delivered a car once, and I might have invited him over for a pear and almond tart, and he might have said he had a friend who could share her recipe with me because mine lacked…” She turns her gaze to Colton, while I feel my insides shrink in horror. “What did it lack again?”

“A touch of bitterness. The types of almonds you used, if I remember correctly.”

She opens her mouth in an Ah shape, and says, “Right. A touch of bitterness, just on the first bite, almost—”

Almost erased by the sweetness of the pear but still there as a memory that makes you better appreciate the sweetness of the fruit and the softness of the crust.

I’d explained this to Colton, two or three years ago. I was rambling on about how certain flavors hit certain taste buds and that it was important to consider this when creating a pastry—or any dish, really. You didn’t throw ingredients together just because you liked them on their own. Pairing them so they completed each other was a step in the right direction. But analyzing the experience it would provide nanosecond by nanosecond as each layer of flavor built on each other? Now that was the foundation of a successful creation.

“—Almost erased by the pear but still there to make you better appreciate the sweetness and softness of the fruit and the crust,” Colton completes.He remembers?

They both exchange a chuckle. “Lemme tell you, Roger thought it was the funniest thing ever.” She looks at me. “Roger’s my husband.”

My cheeks are burning, but I don’t dare ask for confirmation. Did Colton actually…? Just thinking about it, I’m dry heaving.

“And he was right,” she tells me. “Youwere right. I quickly asked him who’d given him such knowledge of pastry, and he happily gave me all your information. Told me where I could buy your ‘stuff.’ That’s what he called it. ‘Stuff.’” She rolls her eyes.

Did Annabel Plum ever eat mystuff? And if so, what did she think?

Colton shrugs like none of this is a big deal. His eyes are on me, and he looks… proud. He’s quiet, soaking it all in. He knows this is a big deal for me. Meeting Annabel Plum.

“The next time he came here to fix something or another on Roger’s car, he brought a whole sampling of your ‘stuff.’ He said it was to thank me for the tart the previous time.”

Colton lifts his shoulders. “I didn’t know you were a big deal,” he says as a matter of apology.

I hide my face in my hands in mock acknowledgment of low-key shame and groan.

Annabel laughs. “It was so sweet! And he was right, yourstuffwas… quite the stuff. I’m glad he brought you over, and I finally get to meet the woman that has this mechanic so wrapped around her finger that he knows the difference between a macaroon and a macaron.”

I smile at the memory of how this piece of trivia came to Colton’s attention. It was nothing notable, just a quiet evening playing video games. I’d told him how I’d maybe overreacted when Alex—who was at the time Chris’s new apprentice—had knocked down a whole platter of macarons that took me a while to make, and he thought it was no big deal. Still high from my day’s frustrations, I tore him a new one until I realized he thought I was talking about macaroons—something I’d taught Willow to do a while back.

Willing to move the conversation away from me, I twirl the deep gold wine in my glass. “This is really good,” I observe.

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