Read Online The Chocolate Touch by Laura Florand - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Florand
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her.
Merde, but this stuff was complicated. He kept trying to pretend she was chocolate because at least he understood that you could never rush chocolate, but since she persistently resembled a woman instead, it was hard for him to treat her like something he could stir with a spoon.
Unfortunately.
He sure would love to stir her with his “spoon,” he thought inappropriately, caught his own wicked grin in the mirror, and sighed. He was never going to learn to be a gentleman, was he? He wondered if she would let him make love to her for hours, though, absorbing him the way she did when she sat in his salon, the way she took his chocolates home and ate them all up in a night. She could eat him all up in a night.
He was going to drive himself crazy thinking these things.
“I’m not meant to shave this much,” he said, coming back into the kitchens, rubbing the back of his hand on his jaw.
“That’s you, thin-skinned,” Célie said dryly, stretching her short body far out over the ganache she had just poured, in order to smooth it flat between two metal frames. She had started training under him when she was eighteen, escaped herself out of a bad situation. He had only been twenty-four back then, setting out on his own after six years training in other kitchens, none of which specialized in chocolate, an act of pure, stubborn insanity.
“Such a sensitive man,” his caramellier Amand mocked, recovering a pot from one of the long sinks along the wall.
“Famous for it, even,” Célie said.
Great, his shaving issues were going to be the joke of the day.
“Do you make sure to let the shaving cream sit for a couple of minutes before you shave?” Amand asked helpfully. “That makes all the difference.”
Dom gave him an indignant look. His young caramellier had fine light brown hair and had to stop shaving for three days before you could even tell. What the hell did he know?
“I have this really great cream I use on my legs afterward,” Célie volunteered. “Do you want me to bring you some to try?”
He was probably the only maître chef in Paris who had employees who mouthed off to him this way. They followed his training to the minutest detail when it came to the production he was famous for, but they made up for it by being smart asses. As a rebel himself, he was lousy at imposing his will. His employees actually used tu with him. He could guarantee Sylvain’s and Philippe’s teams didn’t do that.
“Just trying to be helpful,” Célie smirked, and smoothed the next frame of ganache.
Putain. He hesitated beside Célie en route to the “hot” room, the cuisine, where the caramels, and baking, and cream-heating were done. “Does it smell very feminine, your cream?” he asked awkwardly, sotto voce.
Célie grinned. “Just like gardenias. That’s not a problem, is it?”
Bordel de cul . He went to talk about the day’s work with his pastry team, all of whom had some advice on shaving. He wondered wistfully if he could fire Amand for passing it on so fast, but unfortunately, he liked the guy. Amand had been loyal to him from day one, had a hilarious sense of humor, and could work like a demon during the Christmas season. For that, Dom just had to put up with being the butt of his own staff’s jokes.
Guillemette came up the stairs and lifted her eyebrows at him. Definitely he needed to give that girl a raise. She, at least, had been subtle.
His heart pounding, he ran down the stairs.
When he saw what was waiting for him at the bottom, he nearly ran right back up and fired Guillemette on the spot. Turned out, her eyebrow raising was way the hell too subtle.
Jaime looked up right away at the sound of feet on the metal stairs. She followed all movements involuntarily these days, but never with that leap of hope in her heart.
It reminded her of her freshman crush on a senior in high school. Finding excuses to linger with her friends places he might pass, giggling, imagining at night their
Merde, but this stuff was complicated. He kept trying to pretend she was chocolate because at least he understood that you could never rush chocolate, but since she persistently resembled a woman instead, it was hard for him to treat her like something he could stir with a spoon.
Unfortunately.
He sure would love to stir her with his “spoon,” he thought inappropriately, caught his own wicked grin in the mirror, and sighed. He was never going to learn to be a gentleman, was he? He wondered if she would let him make love to her for hours, though, absorbing him the way she did when she sat in his salon, the way she took his chocolates home and ate them all up in a night. She could eat him all up in a night.
He was going to drive himself crazy thinking these things.
“I’m not meant to shave this much,” he said, coming back into the kitchens, rubbing the back of his hand on his jaw.
“That’s you, thin-skinned,” Célie said dryly, stretching her short body far out over the ganache she had just poured, in order to smooth it flat between two metal frames. She had started training under him when she was eighteen, escaped herself out of a bad situation. He had only been twenty-four back then, setting out on his own after six years training in other kitchens, none of which specialized in chocolate, an act of pure, stubborn insanity.
“Such a sensitive man,” his caramellier Amand mocked, recovering a pot from one of the long sinks along the wall.
“Famous for it, even,” Célie said.
Great, his shaving issues were going to be the joke of the day.
“Do you make sure to let the shaving cream sit for a couple of minutes before you shave?” Amand asked helpfully. “That makes all the difference.”
Dom gave him an indignant look. His young caramellier had fine light brown hair and had to stop shaving for three days before you could even tell. What the hell did he know?
“I have this really great cream I use on my legs afterward,” Célie volunteered. “Do you want me to bring you some to try?”
He was probably the only maître chef in Paris who had employees who mouthed off to him this way. They followed his training to the minutest detail when it came to the production he was famous for, but they made up for it by being smart asses. As a rebel himself, he was lousy at imposing his will. His employees actually used tu with him. He could guarantee Sylvain’s and Philippe’s teams didn’t do that.
“Just trying to be helpful,” Célie smirked, and smoothed the next frame of ganache.
Putain. He hesitated beside Célie en route to the “hot” room, the cuisine, where the caramels, and baking, and cream-heating were done. “Does it smell very feminine, your cream?” he asked awkwardly, sotto voce.
Célie grinned. “Just like gardenias. That’s not a problem, is it?”
Bordel de cul . He went to talk about the day’s work with his pastry team, all of whom had some advice on shaving. He wondered wistfully if he could fire Amand for passing it on so fast, but unfortunately, he liked the guy. Amand had been loyal to him from day one, had a hilarious sense of humor, and could work like a demon during the Christmas season. For that, Dom just had to put up with being the butt of his own staff’s jokes.
Guillemette came up the stairs and lifted her eyebrows at him. Definitely he needed to give that girl a raise. She, at least, had been subtle.
His heart pounding, he ran down the stairs.
When he saw what was waiting for him at the bottom, he nearly ran right back up and fired Guillemette on the spot. Turned out, her eyebrow raising was way the hell too subtle.
Jaime looked up right away at the sound of feet on the metal stairs. She followed all movements involuntarily these days, but never with that leap of hope in her heart.
It reminded her of her freshman crush on a senior in high school. Finding excuses to linger with her friends places he might pass, giggling, imagining at night their
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