Foreboding was a hard pulse in Dominic’s blood. “And when is the delivery date for this order that we haven’t started yet?”
Sylvie came close, obviously concerned.
Liam dropped the expected hammer. “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Fuck,” Dominic said emphatically.
What’s wrong? she mouthed, and he grimaced.
“Who’s still there and who’s prepared to stay?” he asked Liam. “Triple pay.”
“Everyone here is staying. Regardless of overtime pay,” his friend said firmly. “You’re a bit of a dick sometimes, mate, but we’re all pretty loyal to our boss, you know. Go team.”
His boots squeaked over the falling snow as he turned with a small sound of amusement, but the sincerity behind the words didn’t pass unnoticed. Or unappreciated.
“But we’re already short-staffed because of the flu bug. Pete left early for a dental appointment and his phone is off. Lizzie’s on annual leave as of this afternoon and is probably at the airport by now. And we still have to finish the remainder of the Farquhar’s order for tomorrow afternoon.” Liam had earned his position at the salon through finely honed talent and years of hard work—and because he was routinely unflappable. Right now, he was flapping. “There’s no way we’re going to finish this on time. It’s intricate work, and we don’t have enough hands.”
As Liam added each dire pronouncement to the situation, Sylvie had put down her armload of drinks and extracted Dominic’s car keys from his pocket. Taking the slices of cheesecake from him, she beeped the lock on the car and put the boxes and trays on the back seat, coming back to touch his arm.
And in a moment of stress and bone-deep tiredness, on a freezing-cold street outside the tackiest establishment in London, he realized that for the first time, his instinct when things went wrong really was to reach out, metaphorically and physically. After years in sole charge of every aspect of his life, of feeling the honor and the weight of so many livelihoods standing on his shoulders, he put out his hand and Sylvie took it in hers without the slightest hesitation.
There was nothing wrong with a solitary life. In fact, even if you didn’t intrinsically want a solitary life, there were still times when it was fucking bliss to spend long hours in your own company. Essential. Bonus points if the cat was upstairs in his own room. However, the feeling of absolute faith that when the cracks started to appear, someone else would be crouching at your side, helping to bail out the water, and that you could do the same for them—
Pretty indescribable.
He rubbed warmth back into her chilled fingers. “Start the mixing,” he said crisply to Liam. “We’ll be there in fifteen.”
“‘We’?”
The surprised query was cut short as Dominic swiped his thumb, ending the call. He looked down into her questioning face. “Sylvie,” he said. “I need help.”
She looked back silently.
And her fingers moved to interlock with his.
De Vere’s
And, temporarily, quite a lot of Sugar Fair.
“Duck,” Sylvie sang out, swinging a tray of chocolates out of the way as Dominic’s sous-chef Liam slipped past her holding a huge bowl of Vienna buttercream.
“A word from you that sends shivers down my spine.” Dominic was transferring the final cake layer onto the racks to cool. The moment it was secure, he turned back to the conveyor belt of chocolates, picking up a mold. As Sylvie took three seconds to roll out her shoulders and neck, she watched him hand-painting the multitude of tiny dots that would form the crisp surface of De Vere’s Pointillist Caramels. Several of his team had already completed trays of these and done so adeptly, but as soon as the brush was in Dominic’s hand, it was as if the universe had a hit a fast-forward button. He was working so quickly she couldn’t even catch the individual techniques.
Now that the more irritating parts of his personality were dramatically losing the battle against his reluctant and increasingly overwhelming good side, she could appreciate his skill without prejudice.
However, they were on the clock here. This was not the time for musings as to whether her more sensitive patches of skin would tolerate chocolate paint.
“Last time, it preceded a fairly dramatic explosion,” he murmured, setting his brushes in their stand and pouring molten chocolate into the mold. He tipped and rolled the mold, coating each casing in a thin layer of chocolate.
“Well, fortunately this is one of your cakes.” Sylvie eased around another of his team with a polite “Excuse me” and set a large pot of sugar syrup on the stove. “And the only soulless robotics involved with a De Vere’s commission”—she clicked on the gas and turned to smile blandly at him—“are the clientele.”
At the cupcake station, a grinning Liam made a hissing sound between his teeth. “Bit unfair,” he said over his shoulder.
“Farquhar’s?”
“All right. Fair.”
Dominic joined her at the stove with another pot. The moment they stepped foot in a kitchen, regardless of whose name was above the door, they were both in their professional zone, concentrating on the task at hand. But as he turned to meet the teasing glint in her eyes, out of the others’ sight and for the merest flicker of a moment, he angled his head as if he were going to whisper in her ear—her ultimate weakness. His lips touched the hollow beneath her earlobe. The tiniest butterfly nuzzle. He was gone and back to work before the last shiver had skittered down her spine.
The man didn’t make a practice of spontaneous physical affection. Clearly, he was one of those people who excelled at literally every bloody thing they tried. If she weren’t thoroughly enjoying the near-constant sensual annihilation, it would actually be quite annoying.
With a mostly steady hand, she stirred the sugar solution and adjusted the temperature, then joined Liam and the rest of the staffers spinning out cupcakes. Most of the team were Dominic’s, but a number were her own people. The rivalry between the two bakeries extended right down the staff line, but every member of her team who’d been about to pack up this evening had taken up the offer of overtime. They’d dashed across the street to help, with no more than lighthearted jabs.
She wasn’t in the least surprised. She and Jay hired for skill—and they hired for integrity.
Even Mabel had agreed to lend a hand and was currently using a lethal-looking syringe to shoot filling into chocolates. Naturally, she’d made a beeline for the sharp and pointy.
And frankly, the whole night would be worthwhile just for the first meeting between Mabel and Dominic.
Her assistant had marched her diminutive self into the kitchen as if she owned it, cast a disparaging look around, criticized his choice of lamps, and skewered him with a comprehensive stare. “I’m Mabel,” she’d said. “Those of my choosing call me Mabs.” Another pointed sweep up and down his body before she reached her verdict. “You can call me Mabel.”
Sylvie hadn’t missed the immediate acquisitive gleam in Dominic’s eyes. She saw it again now as Mabel finished a row of chocolates almost as quickly as Dominic himself.
When he walked past the cupcake station, she caught hold of his belt and leaned close. “If you try to headhunt my Mabel,” she said, incredibly silkily, “the next balls floating in my cocktails? Will not be made of sugar.”