shook her head, as if finding the concept hard to believe. “How do you do that?”
He thought back to the first artisan chocolates he’d seen at a shop in San Francisco, his fascination with them, and how it had grabbed hold. “The magic of iridescent powder and airbrushing the molds with red cocoa butter. I do that before pouring in the chocolate for the shell. The shells harden, I pipe in the filling, cover it all with more chocolate, then let it set.”
“You make it sound so simple,” she said, and this time without a hint of anything but awe.
He liked that, coming from her, but he didn’t stop to analyze why. “It’s as simple as teaching kindergarten. Meaning once you’ve been doing it awhile, you know the ins and outs and all the things that can go wrong.”
“What can go wrong?”
At the beginning? So many things he’d lost count. “Not tempering the chocolate correctly is the most obvious, but I’ve got a machine for that, even though I can pretty much tell the temperature by touch when I do it manually. Less obvious is coming up with a filling that seems like a good idea but ends up tasting like crap.”
She stepped back from the window and looked at him. “Have you done that?”
“It’s been a while, but yeah.” When her expression grew questioning, he said, “Let’s just say I won’t be offering hot buttered rum popcorn again.”
Her laughter filled the small kitchen. “That actually sounds really good.”
“Sounds. Not tastes,” he said, his hip braced against the center island as he watched her make a circle through the small room.
She ran a finger along the edge of the countertop range he used to prep some of the fillings. “It’s so clean in here.”
“That’s because I worked as late as Addy would let me last night to get ahead, and I haven’t dirtied anything up yet today. Stop by six hours from now and you’ll be singing a different tune.”
That earned him a rueful smile. “I guess that’s my cue to go home.”
He wasn’t ready for her to, but she was right. “Our tours do include a complimentary sample, so before we head back, what’s your pleasure?”
“Ooh, I’ll have one of everything,” she said, laughing as she returned to the window. Hands on the counter, she leaned forward, as if getting six inches closer would give her a better view.
She made him think of Addy, again, as if his daughter had inherited her traits: the way her eyes grew wide with excitement, the way she held her mouth to one side as if doing so helped her think.
Dangerous thoughts to be having, he realized, pushing them away to say, “We can go into the store, you know. Get you a better view.”
But she shook her head. “Why don’t you surprise me?”
“Okay,” he said, though his ideas of what made good flavor combinations weren’t what every customer enjoyed. “What do you like?”
“Something spicy. Cinnamon or cardamom, or even chilies.”
He looked out at what was left in the cases, then knocked on the window. Lena Mining, his right-hand woman, held up one finger where she stood at the register counting out a customer’s change before telling the others in line she’d be right back.
Moments later, she met him at the door, the longest swath of hair on her head falling over her right eyebrow and leaving the rings on the left brow—one silver, one bronze, one gold—exposed.
“Can you grab me a Queen Cayenne?” he asked.
“Sure thing, boss,” she said.
Callum stayed where he was, and seconds later she returned, shocks of her multicolored hair sticking up in artful clumps. Makeup in the same bright pinks and blues shadowing her eyelids, she glanced over his shoulder at Brooklyn while handing him the candy in the brown glassine cup.
“She’s Addy’s teacher,” he told her when her disconcertingly perceptive expression asked the question. “Don’t be getting any ideas.”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said again. She said that a lot. Then she winked and returned to the store.
“She’s cute,” Brooklyn said, gesturing through the glass to where Lena was already at work filling a box for another customer.
“She’s a pain in my ass, and I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He offered her the candy. “Bottoms up.”
“This is way too pretty to eat,” she said, taking the pyramid-shaped sweet from the paper and setting it on her palm, the kitchen’s bright overhead lights picking up the molded brickwork of reds in the dark chocolate shell. “But