The Mercenary Next Door (Rogues and Rescuers #2) - Lucy Leroux Page 0,36

groaned again, this time with his good hand theatrically pressed to his chest.

His friend fished a paper out of his pocket, a receipt of some kind. He balled it up, then threw it at Mason’s face.

“I was going to offer to check in on your girl when I head back to the States, but now I’m tempted to let you sweat that one out until you get home.”

Mason knew when he was beaten. “I take it back,” he said quickly.

“Yeah, I thought you would.” Ransom smirked, but he sobered fast. “Although, I don’t know how much good it will do. Honestly, it kind of sounds like something you have to fix yourself.”

“Just find me a charger for my phone, so I can explain where I am,” Mason said. “Laila will take my calls if she knows why I can’t be there in person.”

At least, he prayed she would.

Chapter Fifteen

Laila pulled the tray of lemon bars from the oven, sniffing them deeply. It was a simple recipe compared to some, but, in her opinion, few people did it well. She had spent weeks tweaking hers, experimenting with different varieties of lemons while adjusting the amount of butter until the shortbread crust was a perfect shade of gold.

She even made the powdered sugar, crushing the bright sanding sugar to get various colors. After getting the consistency she wanted, she would sprinkle it over the lemon bars through stencils to make designs related to the season.

At the moment, she was making turkey and cornucopia shapes. Her boss had tried to steamroll her to move straight to reindeer and Santa hats, but Laila steadfastly refused to start on Christmas themes before Thanksgiving had passed. The autumn leaf garland decorating the front of her display case was her silent way of telling him to stuff his jingle bells where the sun didn’t shine.

“I will hold the line at Thanksgiving,” she told herself, sticking her index finger into the handle of her empty sugar shifter. She twirled it around like a gunfighter before setting it down and picking up a paintbrush. Bending, she swept some excess sugar off a slightly misshapen bird. “Your sacrifice will not have been in vain,” she assured the twisted turkey.

“Well, now I don’t think I can eat them, knowing they’re your friends.”

Laila’s head snapped up to meet the twinkling blue eyes of a brown-haired man around her age. Dressed in an expensive polo and tailored khakis, he grinned, flashing bright white teeth.

He had Greek-Row elite douchebag written all over him.

“Then again, they look so good I may have to buy them. And whatever those are, too,” he said, waving at the neat row of cylinders in the front of the display case.

“Those are canelés, a pastry from the Bordeaux region of France,” she said, slipping into her professional mask. “A very good choice.”

The guy’s lips stretched. “Then I would like one, please.”

Laila didn’t respond to his megawatt smile. She wrapped the canelé in wax paper before handing it to him.

His fingers brushed hers as he took the pastry from her hand. Instead of fishing out his wallet, he raised the pastry to his mouth, then bit through the dark brown and golden crust.

“Oh my God, this is amazing,” he said, gazing down at it as if it were a revelation.

Thank you,” Laila said, warming incrementally at his praise. Getting the caramelized crust crispy without drying out the tender and soft center had been tricky. She was rather proud of how they’d turned out.

“What’s in these?”

“Booze,” she answered.

He laughed. “I don’t taste it, and I consider myself an expert.”

I bet you are, she thought a touch snidely. From the popped collar of his shirt to his hundred-dollar loafers, this guy oozed privilege from every pore.

“I use cognac, although rum is standard. But it’s cooked off, so it’s quite harmless.”

Her customer leaned against the counter. “Got anything stronger?”

“That would be aisle six, the liquor section,” she said, starting to pack away a batch of edible glitter she’d made for tomorrow’s petit fours.

“Not even a tiny baba au rum?” he asked, naming a liquor-soaked cake, also from France.

Laila stepped back in surprise. “We couldn’t sell those without carding customers.”

“Well, honestly, they’re not that great,” the man said magnanimously. “I had a few in France on a family trip when I was fourteen. I made a point to eat them for dessert every night—because of the rum. I thought I was so cool and grown-up. But they weren’t a fraction as good as these,” he