Page 50 of Break Me Like a Promise (Oak Valley)

And he hated it.

Maybe he couldn’t run anymore, but he sure as fuck could speed-walk. And that’s just what he did as he made his way into the brisk San Francisco air. He found his Uber and gave the address of a small boutique hotel he’d found close to the kitchen. He watched the dark waves of the San Francisco bay roll beneath the full moon as they made their way up the 101 to the Mission District. The driver turned down several side streets, the famed murals popping up in flashes beneath the street lamps, before he stopped in front of the Parker Guest House.

He got out, adoring the yellow paint that must be soft and bright in daytime, a garage nestled between the two guesthouses turned into bedrooms. While Colton would’ve preferred something a bit more large, a place easy to disappear among other vintage celebrities and unidentifiable tech tycoons, the privacy this place afforded might work. So long as he kept on his baseball cap and sunglasses, at least during the day.

Walking up the steps, he slowly pushed open the front door. Colton had called ahead to tell them about his late arrival, and a young woman put her book down when he walked up to the reception desk. She checked him in, giving the occasional batted eyelash and shy smile, before sending him on his way. The house was just that — an old house, with hardwood floors and a staircase that creaked under his weight. Opening the door to his room, he was greeted with soft carpet and a king-size bed.

Ruby.

He immediately regretted not inviting her on the trip, despite the entire reason he was even going. Having a deluxe hotel room and a that bed all to caress her body and make her feel every ounce of pleasure he could give her…

He filed it away. He could always take her on a nice trip to New York City, put them up for a night or two in the fanciest hotel he could find. She deserved that. But first, shower time.

Before he went to sleep, Colton still hadn’t received a message from her. He tried not to think about what it meant, especially as the clock dwindled until his alarm would go off.

When he woke, there was still no text.

He couldn’t let his bad mood — or his three hours of sleep — ruin what slim chance he had of getting this job. And the little voice in his head asking if he even still wanted the job could just shut right the fuck up. Colton pulled on a pair of comfortable grey slacks, a black button down that he’d bought designer and had tailored, and made sure his apron from the bakery back home was folded in his bag. He didn’t care about getting flour or butter on his clothes, but he needed a piece of his mom with him.

Looking around room one last time, he made sure he had everything and was disappointed he couldn’t stay even one more night, just to get away. Maybe watch some bad television, order all the room service. And he was even more disappointed he didn’t have someone to share that with.

Colton sighed, shutting the door and creaking his way down the old staircase to check out. He adjusted his hat, sunglasses, avoiding the stares from a couple guys while their girlfriends chatted to one another. A car was waiting for him outside, the sun just starting to peek above the horizon and cast everything in a cold orange and pink glow. The murals on the way to the kitchen danced in purple shadows, breakfast and coffee shops opening for the day. It was cute.

But it wasn’t Oak Valley.

The thought hit him as they pulled up outside Sucre, the new pastry shop owned by world-renowned pastry chef, Pierre Hermé. A skinny man and a small woman knocked on the door, and Annette let them in. Colton could think about Oak Valley, Ruby, after he gave his all to this. He followed his competition, and Annette gave him a big smile when she opened the door.

“So glad to see you, Mr. Taylor. Please, come with me.”

She led him past rows of glass display cases with dark wood stands, almost like this was a high-end, vintage jewelry shop instead. The white walls and There were few tables lined against the walls, plenty of space between each one for comfort and privacy. The white walls were covered in mirrors, the floor dark slate. Everything had a sense of gold dust on it, a slight shimmer. Colton looked up at the ceiling, an intricate mural that belonged in Versailles adorning it. Annette pushed the door into the kitchen, and Colton stood before four other contestants, Julien, and his idol.

Julien and Pierre both shook his hand and gave small smiles.

“Thank you for joining us today, Mr. Taylor,” Pierre said, his accent thick. “You may stand beside the others.”

When Colton was in line, Pierre stood before them, framed by Annette and Julien. “Welcome, everyone. Today the five of you will work in the kitchen on a series of tasks — some individually, some together — to determine which three of you will get a permanent, full-time position under my instruction here at Sucre. You may put on your aprons and will have access to the commercial fridge, freezer, and supply closet. Please make your flavors your own when possible. The first task will be to make three sets of twelve macarons, each set a different flavor combination. Second, six eclairs, and lastly, three identical mini tarts. I do not care which of these you partner up on, but you must partner on one task. Because there is an odd number of you, Julien will team up with the remaining chef. You have until end of day to complete your tasks, in any order. Please let us know when you are done with each task.”

Pierre turned on his heel and left while Annette went over where everything was located. Colton was only half paying attention, trying to determine which task he’d pair up on and which of the four people would be his best bet. They started donning their aprons, and he decided to start on the tarts first while he watched his teammates, settling on the macarons as his team task. He slipped his apron on, catching a whiff of home, and got to work.

He settled into a rhythm, creating mini lemon tarts with white chocolate meringue and a dusting of mixed nuts. Annette put them inside in a temperature-controlled case by his work station, giving him the go ahead to move on. Pierre occasionally walked around the room, silently watching. Keeping an eye on those around him, Colton settled on asking the guy who he’d seen walk in to work on the macarons together.

Adam was tall but skinny and came with a southern drawl. Texas, maybe Louisiana based on the way he said ‘sugar’. Since they needed a total of six macaron flavors, they agreed on raspberry and hibiscus, raspberry and honey, chocolate and earl grey, chocolate and chai, rose cardamom and pistachio, and orange and pistachio. That way they could make double the cookies and just change out the creme center, saving time. They decided to triple the cookie dough to account for mess-ups and tastings. They moved efficiently and worked well together, almost like they were on the same wavelength. It was a feeling Colton had never experienced in the kitchen before — he’d never baked anything with another person before. At least not since he was a kid and his mom showed him how. But this unspoken choreography was something athletes talked about, how finding that kitchen partner was a special feat. They busted the macarons out, and Annette put their finished products in their respective cases.

Colton took a breath, wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm. The small woman who he’d seen come in was young and running around like a little rabbit, here one moment and over there the next. A third player, a middle-aged Black woman, had a smile on her face while she casually checked her oven. And the fourth was an older Middle Eastern man, his face stoic while he bounced from one bowl to another. Adam had started his tarts, working just as efficiently alone as he had with Colton. He made a mental note to connect with him outside of this, in case they didn’t end up in the same place.

It was time to start his eclairs. Almond choux pastry with a black currant filling. It was a flavor combination he’d only played with once, years ago. He recalled his mom’s notes on the flavor strengths and tried to adjust accordingly, so one didn’t overpower the other. Sweat ripped down his spine as he piped the pastry, waiting for them to finish in the oven and then to cool. He had no idea how long it’d been or how much time was left, only that it had been hours. His knee was starting to twinge, his back getting stiff. Filling the pastry with the filling, he had to keep breaking to steady his hands.

This was not the kitchen work he was used to.

When his pastries were done, Annette put them in his case. She went around to the other chefs, putting away the last of their treats or speaking to them in a hushed voice. Julien brought stools over to each work station, and Colton sank into its metal seat, grateful for the relief. Adam, also done, took his seat and looked as bad as Colton felt. They exchanged small smiles, the black woman also sitting and resting her head on the table in front of her.

Annette went to the front of the room. “Fifteen minutes chefs, and then we will critique your creations and announce who will be offered the positions.”

Colton’s travel the night before and the three hours of sleep met with the long day on his feet, and he took a page out of the woman’s book, resting his head on the cool stainless-steel table. His nap didn’t last nearly as long as he wanted, thanks to Annette and Julien rustling in the cases and putting the finished items on the tables in front of the chefs.

He was up first.

Pierre, Annette, and Julien took bites from each task before Pierre spoke, his eyes piercing Colton’s.

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