Page 7 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
“I would have liked to meet with you before HR hired anyone.”
I cringe at the blunt confrontation in Wyatt’s tone, but Avery doesn’t flinch. She barely blinks.
“I think that would have been preferable, but I’m here now. And I amverygood at what I do.”
The memories of what she’s good at plague me. These thoughts are not appropriate at the workplace. Not appropriate to be having about my new employee. Not anything that can he helped.
I almost apologize for his brusqueness, but she spreads her hands. “Where do we begin?”
Wyatt looks to me, and I nod before he grabs a tray from the small fridge at his station. It’s a small selection of our four most complex signature chocolates. He slides them in front of her and pours her a glass of water.
Those hazel eyes take him in for what seems like a full two minutes before she turns to me.
I shrug. Neither of us have seen any kind of demonstration of her skill, and I certainly want to be sure she can do what she says, but it’s Wyatt who speaks up.
“Show me what you can do.”
4
Avery
The panic that sets in when I recognize my new boss doesn’t dissipate through our short tour, although the place isn’t anything like I imagined it. I’d envisioned large machinery buzzing away with an assembly line of workers adding big bags of ingredients and checking for quality.
What Ezra had actually created was a group of artists who took painstaking care of the confections they made. It is beautiful, and exactly like what I would have expected from the Ezra I knew those first six days of Spring Break.
He gives me no outward signs that he recognizes me, other than the lingering looks, especially when I take my pose at the lab table. If I had a strawberry margarita in hand, it might have completed the picture, but the way he stares screams of knowing.
Good. Fine.
I’m not freaking out. Nope. Not me.
Even though my heart is still beating too fast and my palms are sweating. I take a deep breath through my nose.
The chocolatier, however, I know is going to be entertaining when I hear him clearly from his office. I try not to laugh when they bring me a test. Of course, they want to test me. As Wyatt said, HR hired me—not either of these two.
So, fine. I’ll play the trick pony for this, but only to shut down their doubts.
I pick up the small, round chocolate with the dark shell. There’s a small imprint on the top to help differentiate it, but I don’t have any idea what it means. Bringing it to my nose for a sniff, I get only the notes of dark cocoa bean.
Closing my eyes, I take a small bite of the corner, only about a quarter of the actual truffle. The shell breaks and melts against my tongue immediately, sharing a note of coconut I couldn’t grab with my sense of smell. Then, the smooth ganache hits with dark chocolate, heavy cream, and layers of sesame—tahini, roasted sesame seeds, maple syrup, and sea salt. There’s only a little bit of crunch in the silky texture, suspended at the top to create a good contrast.
And man, it tastes divine. No wonder he keeps this one available all the time. It must be a big hit with his target consumer. It is with me.
I take another nibble, getting more layers of flavor, down to the brand of vanilla he prefers and which coconut oil he likely uses. The base chocolate must be ground specially for them because it doesn’t taste like most that I’ve had before. The closest thing I have to compare it to are the Korean chocolates Dad brought back to me three years ago after his trip.
When I open my eyes again, both men are watching me intently. And a third person stands at the end of the lab table, gaze pinched to analyze me in an unfriendly way. Like I’m intruding on her territory.
She’s a pretty blonde, blue-eyed but with a natural tan. Mediterranean blood runs through her veins, much like it doesmine. So maybe the coldness is a reflection of her the same way mine is of me.
I turn back to Wyatt and his pale green eyes, which are strikingly offset by his pale red hair. The lack of freckles makes me think he’s Scottish, although he doesn’t have an accent, so it must be the same way I’m Italian—by heritage.
After a deep breath, I give them what they want. “The shell is 70% dark chocolate mixed with milk powder and unrefined coconut oil—Cocoxim, if I’m not mistaken—and the center is your sesame filling. On top, roasted black sesames, clover honey, and sesame oil made into a crunchy butter. The ganache is the same 70% dark chocolate, heavy whipping cream, pure maple syrup from somewhere north of here, probably Vermont, Tahitian vanilla bean paste, tahini, and sea salt.”
I set the other half of the truffle back in its place on the tray and blink at them. The woman’s face is blank, but her eyes have widened only a fraction. Ezra is smiling, like he knew I would pass this test with flying colors, even though I never told him what I can do.
And Wyatt… his cheeks have gone red and his jaw clenches.
“Did I pass your test?”
