Prologue

“James. James, I need the heavy cream.” Bryan grabbed the hand of ginger from the

granite countertop, grating it… gingerly…

Gingerly.

Now, that was funny.

Not that he’d crack a smile over it or anything, but still…

Quite funny.

“Yes, boss. Anything else while I’m in the walk-in?”

Bryan pondered that, while adding lime zest to his mixture. Lime – so fresh, so tart. Almost wicked, really. Enough to pucker his lips into something more than a kiss and less than a smirk. Luscious. “Sesame seeds, please, and we’ll need more butter.”

Bright blue eyes looked across the kitchen at him, curious and oddly large in the thin, angular face. “What’s the special today, boss? Anything I can help with?”

Help. Nonsense. He didn’t need help with the daily specials. “Are you finished dipping the cherries?”

”Yes, boss.”

“The berries?”

“Yes, boss.”

His lips quirked; he had always had an apprentice, someone learning his craft. For sixty years he had owned the Baker’s Dozen. Sixty years he’d been working his particular brand of magic into the confectionary, living for that moment when one ingredient called for another, a concoction waiting to come together to be sold to exactly the right man.

Sixty years and he had never, never had an apprentice as maddening as James.

“The cream, James.”

“Yes, boss.” The boy was beautiful – blond and bright eyed, built like an Adonis and simply… infatiguable.

Honestly.

Bryan smiled, bent down over the mixture, the wooden spoon sliding so carefully along the side of the mixing bowl, slowly adding a touch of honey as the scents of citrus and cocoa butter mingled in his nose. Mmm. Yes. Tart and sharp, yet sweet. Rich, but light, with a fresh color that begged to be tasted.

“It’s lovely.” James’ hand slid up along his arm, the touch making him flinch. No one touched him; no one had since Alan had died, some thirty years ago now.

“It’s quite tart, really. Much more punch than it appears.”

The blond head dipped closer, looking and he forced himself not to lean in, to misconstrue a touch that could not mean what his elderly body wanted it to mean. “Is someone coming for it? Someone special?”

He found himself nodding, a vision of a small, dark-haired man painted on the inside of his eyelids.  Smart. Small. Caught in a series of lies that he told himself over and over. Eyes the color of overripe limes. “He’ll ask for a box of cherries. He needs these instead.” The man had enough sweetness in his life, the tart would add a delicious contrast.

“He’ll take them. They always do.”

“Not always.” No, Alan hadn’t. Alan hadn’t taken what he’d made and had died. Left him here to make sweets for years. Beautiful bastard.

Bryan still wasn’t sure whether he loved or hated the son of a bitch. Maybe both.

James’ eyes dropped, the hand falling away, slapping on the counter, sesame seeds scattering like birdseed. “You’re thinking of him again.”

The doors of his mind slammed down, slapping James away. Impertinent child. “As I should. I’m not in my dotage quite yet.”

Young cur. As if he could believe, even for a second, that James wanted an old man like him. That James could want an old man like him.

Those long-fingered hands fluttered up, the sudden motion reminding him of a pair of startled birds, lifting up out of a pond into a sky. White birds lifting into the sun, the shadows burned into his eyes.

Odd.

“Bryan, I think…” That snapped him out of the unexpected vision and Bryan waved his hand, the smell of lime oil from the creases in his hands heady.

“Quiet. I don’t pay you to think.”

“You hardly pay me at all.”

“You.” He opened his mouth to scream, to rail against that impertinent bastard, when he saw the challenging glint in James’ eyes. Oh. Oh, that was why he kept the man. No one dared challenge him, dared to make him laugh. Dared remind him how to be happy when it was too late to take advantage of it. “The cream, James.”

“It’s waiting right here for you, boss, along with the sesame seeds.”

“Sesame?” Oh. Right. Bird seed. Had he asked for sesame?

“Yes, it goes well as a garnish. Gives things a nice crunch. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Was it?”

James smiled, eyes dancing happily. “If it wasn’t what you said, it is what you meant. Isn’t that the same?”

“Probably.” Honestly, youngsters these days, with their metaphysics and lack of respect. “Out into the shop now, James. And watch who you give those cherries to today. They smelled rich.”

“They are.”

He watched the pert little backside move side to side, framed by the long strings of James’ apron as his apprentice headed out into the store to open them up as they did five mornings a week, just as regular as the huge town clock, looming at them from across the square. The sign was turned from closed to open, the orange and green neon light switched on before James began to move the inventory, the racks of truffles and fudges and dipped fruits slowly filling the cabinets.

He thought today would be a short day. People needed what they were selling today. The clock began to chime as James unlocked the front door. Yes, it would be a short day.

Bryan molded a truffle into a perfect circle with his fingers, the cool marble chilling the confection whenever the heat from his hands threatened to melt it. He listened to James’ whistling, the tuneless nonsense relaxing and familiar. He made a dozen truffles – picking up one, then another, dipping them carefully in the white chocolate coating before touching the very top into the scattered sesame seeds.

The twelfth candy was a touch heavier than the other eleven, electric in his fingers. He dipped the sweet into the bath of pale candy, enrobing the medicine before sprinkling it with the last of the sesame seeds.

Freckles.

They looked like freckles.

How very clever.

Continued in First Section