Page 96 of Prelude To You

But Roman didn’t bite. His eyes narrowed and a mischievous smile ghosted his lips. “A pastry chef who wouldn’t at least taste her competition in town. That’s a pity.”

I would have kept my mouth shut if it wasn’t for the challenge in his voice. Not that I understood why Roman cared what I thought of the French pastries at the Belmont Hotel.

“Can’t say I would call this revolting display of incompetence my competition,” I said. Roman raised his eyebrows and laughed. “Tell me what you really think.”

So I thought what the hell, if this well-bred gentleman who fucked me like there was no tomorrow asked for my opinion about the goddamn pastries, I was going to give it to him.

25

ROMAN

Watching Isabel work herself up to school me on the quality of the Belmont Hotel’s pastries, or rather the lack thereof, was a thrill I never anticipated feeling. And the most delightful part was that she didn’t know who I was.

“Why do you even care what I think about the pastries here?” she asked with a curious glint.

I was on the verge of confessing that I liked to stay on top of anything remotely inferior going on in my hotels. But I didn’t. “Nothing like a lovely, very naked pastry chef educating me on pastries. Call me a glutton for pleasure.”

She shimmied into a formal sitting position with her back straight, all elegance and poise and angled for battle. And then she glanced up at me from under those long natural lashes.

“Fine,” she said, like this was simply something she’d have to endure. “You asked for it.”

God, I adored her.

The first pastries in the hotseat were two small and very pink affairs. She handed one to me, her voice saturated with distaste. “Look at this macaron, and I’m using the term macaron loosely here, and tell me what you see.”

I took my inspection of said pastry seriously, but my knowledge of pastries was as limited as Isabel’s patience, apparently.

“So?” she asked, not even hiding her superiority over the whole matter.

All I wanted to do was nibble her ears.“It looks fine to me?” I ventured.

If you listened carefully, you could hear Isabel’s eyebrows hit the roof, her outrage barely disguised. “It’s not fine, not at all,” she said. “First off, the shells are cracked. That happens when you undermix, which causes too much air in the batter and when they bake the air bubbles swell and crack the tops.”

She shook her head in dismay. “And look at the uneven feet on the shells, which means they were baked at too high a temperature. The highest heat you can go on macaron shells is 315 degrees Fahrenheit. I do mine at 285 and have yet to crack a macaron.”

I put the macaron back on the plate, suddenly a little more invested in this whole bashing of the Belmont’s desserts. Isabel seemed to know what she was talking about.

“Do you want me to continue?” she asked, as if hoping I’d gotten the picture by now.

There was probably no limit to the time I could spend listening to her. I leaned back against the velvet headboard and smiled. “Yes. Please do.”

She delicately lifted the next pastry. “This is supposed to be amille-feulles,which translated, means a thousand layers which clearly is not the case here. In fact, far from it. Just look at it. No layers, soggy dough and don’t get me started on the glaze. And for a fancypants hotel like the Belmont you’d think they could do better than use store-bought puff pastry.”

I was going to devour her right here, right now, pastries be damned.“Did you just say fancypants hotel?”

“They have Louis Vuitton pajamas in the bathroom, Roman. In all sizes. And I don’t have to remind you how luxurious this penthouse is. One would think the Belmont would have their shit together in the kitchen, but here we are. They might even skimp on a pastry chef for all you know. At a guess whoever finishes first with chopping vegetables is up for dessert duty that day. I can’t even with this damn hotel, seriously.”

I was pissed off at whoever was responsible for the pastry disaster, but at the same time it was delightful to watch Isabel tear the dessert menu apart. “Well, would you have any suggestions for them?” I asked.

“First off, if I oversaw this hotel I’d have a word with whoever is in charge of what goes on in the kitchen. Someone’s taking shortcuts. Secondly, you make the puff pastry yourself. For a good pastry you use fresh, unsalted butter. I make my own with double cream. And never use margarine, oh my God, just don’t go there.”

To make her point she put the despicablemille-feullesback on the plate, her face a delicate scowl.

“All that said, flour is where the real trick comes in. Now I suppose ordinary cake flour would do in a pinch but I have a feeling this stupid hotel buys all-purpose flour in bulk. Never go all-purpose flour in pastries. For my puff pastries I do a combination of Type 45 and Type 55 flour. T45 is from a softer wheat and in old French texts is calledfarine de gruau.The only time I use straight up T45 is for my croissants. And I like my T55 for breads. Also never make the puff pastry more than a day ahead of time, which I strongly suspect these amateurs do.”

My dick heard all of that and responded enthusiastically for reasons unknown. Isabel cast a glance at my groin with a sultry grin.

“Me talking about pastries excites you, Roman?” she murmured, and raked her fingers over my thigh.

---