Page 10 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
It’s not giant, but it’s not tiny, either. I have enough space to pace, to host a few guests, to spread out a little bit. I’d planned to decorate a little today—putting pictures of my family out with a couple of knickknacks.
The pictures will stay firmly in my bag, but I do put out the Emeril Lagasse bobblehead next to my computer screen. Dad bought it for me years ago since he’s my favorite TV chef.
I tap his head and watch him wobble before I sign into my work computer, filling out a detailed form about my first tasting experience for Nguyen Candy Company. It encapsulates everything about the sesame truffle but nothing of the interpersonal and internal drama that’s left me swirling in a panic attack.
I pull out my traveler’s notebook and my favorite pen and jot down the emotions fluttering in and out of my chest until I have them down on paper.
This opens me up to more. Something substantial that I dare not say aloud.
His brown eyes look the same, the gold flecks a stable circle around his pupil. Those long lashes are still unfair because of the way they soften his face. Everything else about Ezra seems to be sharper. Harder. The muscles of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves. The expanse of his shoulders and back is wider.
The old parts of me—the naive ones—are desperate to press and test his flesh to see if he feels the same.
The roughness in his hands has softened, too. Is it all the time in the office? Has he given up a hobby? A passion? I wish I knew, had asked more about his life ten years ago. What’s changed in that decade to alter these different parts of him?
By far, the worst part is how the way he looked at me is so similar to the way he looked at me in Cancún. Like he’s surprised but pleased to have found me. That I’m not breathing down fire upon him, even though part of me still wants to.
It’s that part of me that checked for a ring on his left hand, which I found empty, by the way. You fucking hypocrite.
Although, can I really blame you? The extra ten years look good on him.
But let’s not linger on him, shall we? That’s a deep hole we can fall into, and clawing our way out of it will leave us with a lot of scrapes and bruises.
The chocolatier, Wyatt Reid, has the kind of personality that I’m accustomed to in a kitchen. Not my dad’s kitchen, mind you, but other kitchens he’s taken me to. Chefs can be some of the most cold-hearted bosses, but I get it. Standards.
By comparison, Wyatt isn’t bad. Abrupt. Honest. Maybe a little unfamiliar with subtler social cues. Nothing I can’t deal with.
In fact, he seemed to appreciate my banter. I’m a straight shooter, too.
His reaction to my tasting skills was odd. I can’t decide whether he’s impressed or upset over it. I didn’t even dig deep. I could have told him which vanilla bean he used, even which milk powder.
I don’t think it would have endeared me to him, but I’m pretty sure I can win him over with my work ethic. I’m always tasting and cataloging new flavors, new ingredients for Dad.
A clipped knock on my door jars me from my notebook—my new diary, it seems. I stuff it back in my purse as the man I was writing about appears in the small gap I’d left to seem inviting.
“Mr. Reid. How can I help you?” I stand behind my desk as he slips inside, making the space seem smaller with his height, with how big his personality seems to be even in his silence. A paper cup is pinched between his long fingers. “Another test?”
He frowns down at the chocolate in his grip. “No. Not exactly. I didn’t make this one.”
My brow lifts, and I wave him inside. “Who made it?”
He takes two long strides inside, hovering at the seats in front of my desk.
“Please. Have a seat.”
His body flops down like he has little control over it. Wyatt places the chocolate in its wrapper on my desk between us. I sit, too, folding my hands together as I wait for his answer.
The pale green of his eyes is a shade I’ve never seen before—the perfect balance of blue and yellow that’s been left out in the sun to bleach.
“Mr. Reid?” I prompt.
He blinks at me. “Wyatt.”
I can practically see him shaking himself out of his thoughts.
“The chocolate was made by a competitor. I’m curious what the ingredients are.” He splays his fingers toward the small truffle almost like an order to divulge all of the little confection’s secrets.
I tap the side of the paper and hide my smile as he twitches. Pulling it nearer, I lift the little guy and take a sniff. I get a small tinge of spice, but mostly, the medium dark chocolate and colorant in the cocoa butter spray come through.
