Page 1 of The Baker and the Wolf
Nobody has to tell me whenheenters the shop. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
Without looking his way, I wrap baguettes in brown paper and chat with Madame Carre. “Yes, I’ll bake chouquettes again tomorrow. Be sure to come early, while they’re fresh.”
The man watches me from the end of the queue. I feel it.
Pride keeps my eyes on Madame’s weathered face until she steps away from the counter and Old Jeanette Becque takes her place. While wrapping her order, I dare a glance, only to see him bending down to pet Miette, the bakery cat. She trills at him and rises on her hind legs to shove her face into his hand. What a flirt!
The first time he entered the shop, my little tabby girl stalked out there to hiss and growl at him. Now she adores him. He must have worked some magic on her; I’m certain he’s a mage of some kind.
Every morning for the past two weeks he’s ordered pastries and black coffee and then sits by the front window. He takes his time, pets Miette, and talks to her.
Where is he from? I’ve never seen anyone with such brown skin before. And his eyes! They glint like gold coins.
All right, it’s true, Miette isn’t the only one who’s pleased to see him again. I’m dying to look his way, but I can’t let him catch me at it . . . again.
My sister Suzette would advise me to look deep into the stranger’s eyes and smile, but I can’t. I haven’t smiled for so long that my face doesn’t remember how.
My younger sister, Charlotte, often tells me I should flirt with my eyes and spark a man’s competitive instinct. I’m not even sure what she means by that.
Mama says I should focus on what I’m good at: baking. Following her advice is easiest.
But really, what have I got to lose?
Well, there’s always what’s left of my pride . . .
I sneak a glance. He’s reading today’s menu board, arms folded over his chest. Oh! That glossy black hair waving down to his shoulders . . .
“Ahem.”
My attention snaps back to Old Becque, as everyone calls her. She squints over her shoulder at the man, then raises one straggly brow at me. “My change?”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” My face feels like I just opened an oven door. I quickly count out the coins.
“When your grandparents were alive,” she croaks, “this shop was respectable. It’s unseemly, a young, unmarried woman like you running a business and ogling every man that steps through the door. Even foreigners! But then your mother never has cared about propriety or modesty.”
With the slightest of nods, I hand over her package. “Bonjour.”
Old Becque gives me her sourest look, and I return it with interest. I’m not afraid of losing her business—the baked goods at Maison Boulanger are the finest in the city. But the encounter leaves a sick feeling in my belly.
Mama would simply shrug it off. She says her old neighbors are merely jealous that she, the daughter of a shopkeeper, is now married to the mayor of our thriving city.
I serve two more customers, wrapping round loaves, croissants, and several éclairs. The stranger still waits his turn, and I suspect he openly studies me. Should I be flattered? Instead, I feel as if my hands and feet grew three sizes.
At last he steps up to the counter, which is really a table with a battered top, but it serves the purpose. “How may I help you, monsieur?” I briefly meet the stranger’s gaze, then glance around. Wait. He and I are alone in the shop. On a Friday morning. How did that happen?
He opens his mouth just as Miette launches herself from atop the pastry display case to land on his shoulder.
“Miette, non!” I exclaim. “That was rude! I do beg your pardon, Monsieur.”
Smiling a little, he reaches up to pet Miette’s ears, and she rumbles like a coffee grinder, rubbing her face against his hair. “No need. We are friends now, are we not, little one?” His voice is gruff yet smooth. And that accent! “So, Miette is her name?” His eyes twinkle at me. “No mouse will try to steal this sweet ‘crumb,’ eh?”
I can’t think of a word to say. I merely watch as he gently lifts her from his shoulder and cradles her against his chest. The little flirt rubs her cheek against his, purring with her mouth open. He glances up at me, and I see a dimple through his short beard. “She tells me no mouse dares enter the shop on her watch.”
It’s nonsense, of course, yet I half believe he is translating for my cat.
When one of his black brows arches in question, I realize I’ve been staring and blurt, “How may I help you today, monsieur?” Wait . . . I just said that. Now even my ears burn. “I mean, do you want an éclair?”
His lips curve up at the corners, and he leans slightly forward, still cradling my shameless cat. “Whichflavordo you recommend? Lemon or apple?”
