“Aside from Chanel, I don’t know what any of those things are.”

“But you do know Chanel.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I didn’t bother mentioning that Cassandra loved all things Chanel—not Amalie’s particular perfume, thank Christ—but I’d been on the receiving end of enough bills to know the fashion house and fear it. Cassandra liked to shop. A lot.

It was a relief to realize I didn’t miss her. Not even the idea of her. I slapped the dough on the counter with a satisfying thwap and then looked at Sal. I’d known him half my life by this point, yet while I was becoming a shadow of who I’d once been, he’d come into his own.

My fingers sank into the smooth, springing mass of dough. “You know and like yourself exactly as you are, Sallie. That’s a rare thing.”

As soon as the words were out, I felt exposed. Raw. Biting back a grimace, I focused on my task. But I felt his quiet pity along my skin. It invaded my lungs like the sour stink of scorched milk.

But when I glanced up, I found his eyes were filled with understanding and a solemn affection that made me realize we were more like brothers than either of us had ever acknowledged.

“Luc, did it ever occur to you that I found that confidence, in part, because of you?”

Shocked, I shook my head woodenly.

Sal smiled faintly. “It meant something to this queer boy that a big brute of a hockey player accepted him without question. It meant something that you were ready to throw down if someone so much as looked at me the wrong way.”

I swallowed thickly. “Some people are assholes. I couldn’t stand by and let anyone shit on you.”

“I know. That’s my point, Luc. None of us live in a vacuum. Sometimes we have to accept the support of others.”

Hell.

I stared at the counter, not knowing what to say.

The moment stretched, then broke so cleanly it was as if nothing had been said. Sal went back to humming and watching me work the dough.

“Did you need anything?” I asked, knowing that he and Amalie had decided to tag team me on the topic of Emma.

Proving me right, Sal shrugged, then straightened the sleeves of his caftan. “Thought you might like to know how breakfast went this morning.”

The breakfast Sal had with Emma. Against my will, my heart rate kicked up.

“I don’t.”

Sal gave that lie the respect it deserved. “Your girl didn’t like the pain aux raisins.”

“She’s not my . . . she didn’t like the rolls?” It shouldn’t have upset me. Taste was subjective; people liked different things. But . . . she didn’t like them.

Sal snagged a gouda-and-rosemary cracker from a tray I had cooling. “She doesn’t like raisins. But she devoured the yogurt with a passion that was near orgasmic.”

My lower abs went hot and tight in response. I suddenly resented Sal for being the one who got to see that. It was my own damn fault; I’d sent him off with the breakfast basket instead of delivering it myself.

I concentrated on my dough and the nonorgasmic information Sal had given me. “So no raisins.”

What then? Croissant? Pain aux chocolat? Chaussons aux pommes?

“She loved the fruit as well,” Sal said, cutting into my thoughts. He smirked, munching on the cracker. “Though you can hardly take credit for that.”

Watch me, buddy.

I’d picked that fruit, cleaned it, sliced it at just the right thickness. That was my fruit. Every bite she’d put in her mouth, every moan of pleasure she’d made, had been because of me. And fuck, that turned me on so badly my hands shook.

She liked fruit. I’d try the chaussons aux pommes, then. I’d be shocked if the woman didn’t enjoy apple turnovers.

“Plotting your next form of culinary seduction, are we?” Sal stole another cracker.

“Stop eating those. They’re for lunch.”

“Oh, and what are we having them with?”

“Sliced apples and pears, lavender honey, and cheeses. Tomato soup—” I caught sight of Sal’s smug face and glared. “You know what? Get your own lunch.”

“Somebody is grumpy.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe you should go for a swim.”

“Maybe you should go—”

“Temper, temper, big guy.” Sal grabbed a pear this time. “We both know you’re snarly because you’re horny.”

“It’s like you don’t even value your life.”

“Amalie would kill you if you harmed one hair on my beautiful head, so I think I’m safe.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Sal rolled his eyes, not in the least intimidated. “Give it up. You’re all marshmallow on the inside, Oz. No one who bakes the way you do could possess anything other than a sweet heart.”

With a snarl of disgust, I slapped the dough onto the counter and counted silently to ten. This place was supposed to be a refuge from stress. So far, I had a grandmother trying to matchmake, an actress driving me to exhibitionism, and a fashion stylist getting on my last nerve.

Sal tossed the pear from hand to hand like it was a ball. “Why are you denying that you want her?”

I grabbed the pear out of midair and set it on the counter. “Do you see me denying it?”

That got him. He paused, nonplussed. “Well, hell. Then what’s the problem?”

So many things.

“That woman is the type you keep.” Forever. “I’m not in the market for that. And trust me; she’s not in the market for what I have to offer either.”

“So you’re just going to stay in here the whole time, beating your dough?”

“Har.” The kitchen suddenly felt too small. I rolled my stiff shoulders, but they wouldn’t ease. Fuck it. “You want to get out of here? Grab a drink?”

Sal’s perfectly plucked brows arched. “It’s almost lunch.”

I untied my apron and hung it on the hook by the pantry. “Amalie and Emma can figure out how to serve themselves.”

Just the thought of Little Miss Snoop invading my kitchen wafted over my skin like the blast of an oven opening. I rolled my shoulders again. “You coming?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lucian

Lesson learned: never underestimate Sal. He was as slick as his Elvis pompadour.