Page 43 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
When she reached the end of the tent, she crossed to the sweet side, critically eyeing the seating clusters dotting the lawn along the way.
“The tarts turned out beautifully,” Sadie said, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. They’d worked hard yesterday to get each one just right: blackberry mousse with elderflower whipped cream, lemon tarts with shortbread crusts and toasted meringue, and dark chocolate with whipped espresso cream piped in perfect rosettes atop the mini treats.
“Having the majority of the food bite-size—or two—makes it much easier to serve,” Claire said, then winked. “And they’re pretty.”
The young assistant, whom Claire had hired to work part-time while she finished pastry school, grinned. “The crème brûlée cups aren’t anything to sneeze at either.”
They were a great idea if she did say so herself. The small glass cups held creamy vanilla-bean custard with a crunchy sugar crust torched on top. They were clustered in the center of wide platters, surrounded by a variety of truffles that Claire was unashamed to say she’d snuck tastes of as they worked—just to be sure they were good, of course. The way some of the wandering guests were eyeing the trays, she wasn’t the only one who thought they looked mouth-watering.
All that was left was to stack the strawberry sponge cake she’d filled with spiced honey cream and iced with white chocolate ganache. The layers were decorated with edible pansies in various colors. Elegant and delicious. The sense of pride at what they’d accomplished filled her as she began the work of stacking the four-tier cake that would be the dessert centerpiece.
She was balancing the top layer above the cake, measuring the distance around to be sure she had the center before permanently placing the layer, when she felt Lincoln’s warmth next to her. Something inside her recognized his presence even when she couldn’t see him, and blossomed open in response. It had felt strange at first, but she was beginning to get used to it.
“Look about right?” she asked.
Lincoln’s palm settled on her lower back, in what she’d decided must be his favorite spot—at least to rest his hand. “Hmm, yeah. Perfect.” He waited until she settled the cake and let go before continuing. “Got a minute? I really need to talk to you.”
“I would love to indulge you, Lincoln, but I have to finish the garnish here and be absolutely certain everything else is perfect. The bar, the servers—”
Lincoln’s thumb caressed the indent of her spine. “You know everything is perfect. You’re a master at what you do, Claire. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Delight rippled through her. She fussed with a pansy on the cake, pretending to move it just so. “Well, if the great Lincoln Young tells me so…”Then I’ll hold the words close forever.
“Lincoln Young does tell you so.” His opposite hand grasped her hip, turning her to face him. “I really need to talk to you.”
Something about the tone of his voice caught her attention. She forced herself to be still, to really look into his eyes despite the urgency pushing her to check just one more thing. “Are you okay?” She couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting down the length of his chest, following the gorgeous contours of his dark suit, the light pink shirt that somehow made him look more powerfully sexy than ever. Dark slacks and shoes polished to a high shine— Heat blossomed low in her belly. “You clean up good, Lincoln.”
Lincoln’s chuckle still held strain, but he pulled her closer, a brief hug that was both a reassurance and a reward. His voice deepened in her ear. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”
Again with the heat. Would she ever not want this man? “Thank you.”
He eased back. “But I need to talk to you.”
Beside them she heard theclickof a camera, and then a masculine voice. “Lincoln, Claire, can I get your comment on this morning’s article in the Nashvill—”
Lincoln’s grip tightened, and his voice was full of gravel as he replied, “No, you cannot.”
Claire narrowed her eyes, searching Lincoln’s face for the source of his anger. “Lincoln—”
“Are you sleeping with your pastry chef, Young? Is that why Ms. Taylor received the job at Black Wolf Resort?”
Shock jolted through her, and she jerked her head to the side to stare at the man questioning them. “What?”
She didn’t recognize the reporter; that was her first thought. In his late twenties, with that eager look that only comes with access to a big celebrity or a big story, the man blanched as he fixed his gaze on Lincoln’s face.
She looked at Lincoln too, and shuddered at the murderous glare directed at the reporter.
And then her brain began to register what she’d actually heard.
He’d asked if Lincoln was sleeping with her.
The man kept talking. “The Blanchard article this morning detailed a report of poor performance at ICE when you worked under Chef Young, Ms. Taylor. How did you manage to work your way into this position if not through a previous... relationship?”
Blanchard? As in Shel Blanchard, the journalist they’d talked to this past weekend? What had she written?
Oh God. “Lincoln?”
He stepped in front of her. “We’re not answering questions at this time. And we’re not answering questions like that at all.” He turned to her, his grip on her waist becoming more of a guiding touch. “Let’s go.”
