Page 62 of From Paris, with Butter
He lifted his head and met my eyes.
“Was Adrien, you know, was he the guy Sabine’s sister…got with when you were still together?”
“Yes. That’s him.” He sighed. “They deserve each other, I suppose.” Laurent attempted a smile but couldn’t quite complete it.
What a depressing Christmas this had been. And I’d had such high hopes.
Laurent opened his door and took my hand. “I know today’s been hard for you.”
Normally I would have denied it, insisted I was full of the Christmas spirit, but I just leaned closer to Laurent. He led me to the bed and sat down next to me.
“Do you want to know something that’ll make the day better?”
I half shrugged. I could hardly imagine how Christmas could be salvaged.
Laurent waited until I looked up at him. Then he smiled, this time for real. “My parents think you’re great,” he said, still grinning. “They’ve been telling me so all day. My father wanted to know if I was serious about you.”
“Oh,” I said listlessly. I looked around to see if Beau was lounging somewhere.
“I told him I wanted to marry you.”
I was so surprised that I leapt to my feet. “Are you joking?”
He laughed. “Of course I’m not. This isn’t a proposal because I want to do things right, but I wanted you to know how I felt about you.
“And the truth is, you’re it for me, Margot.”
I stared at him wonderingly. “You’re serious?”
He nodded, his eyes gleaming.
I threw my arms around Laurent, and we fell onto the bed, caught up in our mutual joy.
Hours later, I lay away in the warm dark, wrapped in quilts with Laurent sleeping beside me. I felt as happy as a child on Christmas morning. No matter that Christmas was nearly over and my childhood very much so. For years, I’d watched other people find this kind of happiness at work.
Now, incredibly, it was my turn.
Chapter 23
“You’ll astound them,” Laurent assured me as we walked into the building for another gala meeting.
It was the week after New Year’s, and this meeting was especially important because we’d be making test batches of our recipes in the kitchens. I was nervous to see Sabine again, and on top of that, there’d be taste testers judging our food.
Fatima had told us they were just volunteer chefs who’d give us tips to make sure our recipes were the best they could be, but I still felt like I was about to take an exam.
Our judging panel, as it were, was already seated in the kitchens. There were half a dozen of them, including Fatima and, of course, Sabine.
Sabine was wearing a full-length gown with a plunging neckline, which one might say was too ostentatious to taste test recipes. I was tempted to point out that her bra strap was showing, but I demurred. My plan for dealing with Sabine was to simply ignore her as much as possible.
I was anxious starting off, but once I turned my back to everyone and concentrated on the recipes, my nerves eased. This was just baking. I did it nearly every day. Plus, I already had a head start. Many of my recipes required extended time for proofing or setting, so I’d come to the kitchens the day before to get them started.
That made things easier for me today, since most of the recipes only needed to be baked or get their finishing touches. As I completed each recipe, I passed out samples for the taste testers to review.
First done were the baklava croissants. Fatima had loved the idea, despite Sabine’s complaints, but I was nervous to see what the panel thought of it. As each person tasted their croissant, I watched their faces closely.
“Magnificent filling,” one of the chefs declared. “Was it difficult to get the honey from making the pastry layers stick together?”
“Oh, it was so hard to figure out,” I admitted. “The filling in my first try was too runny and melted during baking. Those croissants were basically soggy, sticky bricks,” I said, grinning. “The second time, the texture was right, but I added too much filling, and it overwhelmed the pastry. It took a lot of trial and error.”
