One Step at a Time Read online

  She winked. “I always win, Remington Bennett.”

  Chapter 2

  Dana

  “Oh, Christ,” I sighed, flipping through my wallet after Emmanuel handed me my apportioned tips.

  “Christ is in there?” Emmanuel said. “Look at you. Finally found Jesus.”

  “I’d laugh if you said something funny.” I sighed, dropping my shoulders. “I lost my ID. Right in the middle of Robin Square Station, too. That thing’s probably been stolen by five different people, somehow.”

  White Rose was a beautiful place. I met Emmanuel, the manager, in the back, where he’d been rifling for my weekly tip portion through the documents in the cabinet by the frosted-glass window that overlooked the bay. It smelled like home—it had even before I’d spent the past four years here, that warm and toasted aroma of freshly-baked croissants mingling with the sweet scent of pastry cream, along with the bright sweetness of the peaches that were in season right now, it all wrapped me up in that rich warmth that I could never get enough of.

  “Well, let’s cross our fingers they’re all five good Samaritans who are scrabbling to be the first to return it to you,” he said. “Customers have been raving about your designs lately.”

  Emmanuel was the sweetest guy in the world, a middle-aged Black man with a thin frame and glasses, the kind of smile that won awards, and a penchant for either inflated compliments or incising insults, with no middle ground. I gave him a tired smile. “You say that to everyone every week, Manny,” I said, hitting the tip envelope lightly on his arm before handing it back to him. “Don’t think I don’t see through you, old man.”

  “Why, I never,” he said, a hand to his chest. “I’m as genuine as American butter isn’t. In fact, I was planning on asking if you wanted to represent us for the Starfire Festival, but if you just want to shoot a poor old man down like that…”

  I blinked, once, hard. “I’m sorry, are you tripping on something other than the same doorstop you always do today? You want me to do what?”

  “I mean it. You’re my favorite baker. Don’t tell the other bakers, though.” He chuckled to himself. “I’m just saying, with that steady hand you’ve got on a pastry bag, I think you could make something we’d all be honored to showcase.”

  “I—” I had never had impostor syndrome set in so fast. It hit like the stairs had almost hit my head yesterday, before the pretty girl with the broody look on her face had saved my life—or at least my status of having never gotten a concussion. “Emmanuel, that’s your position. I can’t possibly do that.”

  He sighed, leaning back against the freezer, and just stared out the window. Aside from the hum of the ovens all full to capacity right now and the fire crackling in the old-style brick oven that was part of the original brick construction, the kitchen was quiet. “Now… look, Dani—”

  “Dana—”

  “I don’t want to have the old-man conversation with you, but… I’m an old man.”

  “And still much better a pâtissier than I am,” I said. My heart thumped unevenly, and an anxious feeling settled in my stomach, all the inferiority complexes I’d shoved to the back of my mind over the years jumping up like little spring-loaded monsters. “There’s no way I can—”

  “Now, I’m not saying I’m not any good at the work anymore,” he said, putting a hand up. “I’m still the world’s best, after all.”

  “Well… I wouldn’t go that far.”

  He grinned, but it faded, looking back out at where morning light shone tangerine-gold through the window, casting elongated rectangles of light over the sleek metal and marble surfaces of the kitchen, worked into the original brickwork in a blend of modern and classical. The light danced on the edge of his thin-rimmed spectacles, and for a moment, he appeared dazzling, almost otherworldly. “It’s just a matter of… moving on, I suppose.”

  I watched him for a minute before I tucked my wallet back in my pocket. “Moving on… from baking?”

  “From this sort of bakery scene. I’ve been doing it so long, I’m starting to feel like I’ve explored all the streets and all the back alleys of the craft… these days, though I hate to say it, because it makes me sound so damn old, I’ve found there’s a lot more fulfillment in showing other people the way instead of proving myself the greatest.”

  My throat was tight. The air felt dry. We always kept the kitchen climate carefully monitored, so I knew full well it was just me. “But—why not someone like George? Or Monica? They’ve both been here twice as long—”

  “Well, the thing here is, Dani—”

  “Dana.”

  “They’re safe choices.”

  I paused. “And… you want a dangerous choice?”

  He chuckled, finally looking back and meeting my eyes. “Oh, here I was going to use wording so much blander. I prefer that. Yes, Dana. I want a dangerous choice.”

  I chewed my cheek. “Should I try serving some mousse with unpasteurized eggs?”

  “Not literally dangerous, please. If you must kill somebody, let it be on your own time.” He shook his head, striding across the kitchen, and I followed. We were between shifts right now, so we were the only ones in right now, and Emmanuel led me through the quiet to one of the ready-to-go fridges and pulled out a peach tart, setting it down on the stainless steel island. “George made this one,” he said.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “The subtle variance of color in the peaches in gradation—”

  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” he said. “And he’s made it ten thousand times before, because we’ve all made it ten thousand times before.”

  I paused. “Are you… saying he’s unoriginal?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t insult him for my life. He’s the kind of person who keeps a place like this running. Lord knows what we would have done if it hadn’t been for George. There’s two kinds of people in this world, Dani.”

  “People who get my name right, and you.”

  He grinned, putting the tart back. “There’s the Georges, and there’s the Danas. The people who maintain, and the people who innovate. The world needs both. But the festival calls for people who innovate.”

  I pursed my lips. “Respectfully, Emmanuel, I’m the wrong person. I don’t actually—you know—get it. I just make things up as I go.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well, here I thought that was how innovation worked. I suppose I stand corrected, that great innovators just got a magical handbook from the sky that told them what to do that hadn’t been done before. I see you really did find Jesus in that wallet of yours.”

  “You are batting a thousand on comedy today,” I sighed. “You know what I mean. I don’t have any formal education—I don’t really know the finer workings. I just try things—figure everything out one step at a time. It’s fun and all, but it’s not reliable when it comes time to actually perform for something high-stakes like Starfire.”

  “Ah. You see, this is where my elderly wisdom really kicks in.” He craned his neck, checking the time. “One of the apprentices will be coming in soon. She’s our fourth one in, and the first one you’ll meet. I’ll be leaving her in your hands.”

  “In hopes that I turn into some preachy, wizened old sage like you after I’ve shown an apprentice around the kitchen?”

  He put a hand to his forehead. “Dani. Brutality like wizened, it’s elder abuse.” But he shook off the mortal blow and said, with a smirk, “We’re going a bit hands-on with this batch of apprentices. Every one of them is getting assigned directly to work with one of the pastry chefs, and today’s is going to be your pupil for the whole three months. And your apprentice is quite the opposite of you—zero bakery experience, but an extensive culinary education. Her credentials were quite impressive.”

  I stared at him for a second before laughing drily, sinking back against the counter with a lopsided smile. “Oh, I get it. You’re hoping the student will teach the master, and I’ll make up for a culinary education by, um… telling her to knead bread.” br />
  “Ah, I see it’s cynics’ hours at White Rose today,” he said. “Sadly for your cynical self, my genius self has already decided it, and Remington Bennett should be coming in about ten minutes. You can say hello to your new best friend for the next few months. Look sharp, Dani. I’m heading out now.”

  “I just pray you didn’t try telling her my name,” I sighed, as he headed for the shelves by the door and pulled his jacket off a hanger.

  “I think you’ll get on wonderfully,” he called. “I’ll be giving you more updates on the festival.”

  “I didn’t even agree to it yet.”

  He chuckled as he slipped his jacket on. “Oh, I know. I know. Good luck today. Oh, and there’s an order for two coffee travelers and sixteen croissants at eight.”

  “You tell me that now?”

  But I could handle it. I’d been here long enough to know the work. I set about preparing the extra batch of croissants, setting aside a package for the order, and I had the Chemex going for the coffee travelers when the doorbell jingled from the front. Slow, sort of meandering footsteps told me it was somebody browsing, and I gave it a minute, pulling beautifully browned croissants from one oven and sliding in another tray.

  I headed for the front after that, pushing through the swing door and coming out behind the counter, where I spotted a figure on the other side, mostly hidden away behind the espresso machine. I straightened my back and put on my best smile, and I said, “Hi, welcome to…”

  I trailed off, though, when I stepped up to the counter and found myself face-to-face with the exact same girl who’d just saved my skull the day before, standing there in a trench coat and looking at me with every bit as much surprise as I knew I was giving her.

  “Dana Gallagher?” she said, her voice small, eyes wide.

  Ugh, she was pretty. She had a small, slight stature, maybe five two or five three, with a smart brown bob and blue eyes, high cheekbones that gave her a serious look. That intense expression she had on—she looked like she was in control and she knew it, and between that and the very nice coat she had on that looked designer, she had an intimidating aura. Slowly, I jogged myself back to attention.

  “Ah… so you know my name, too. If you were an assassin tracking me down, I think you blew it yesterday.”

  She cocked her head, giving me an odd smile. “Speaking frankly—do I look like I kill people?”

  I chewed my cheek, trying to ignore the way my heart fluttered. I tried to ignore silly notions like fate, but they crept up on you sometimes, and there was something about this girl that drew me in. Running into her in two separate places was the kind of coincidence that made me think silly things.

  “Maybe,” I said. “You have a bit of a moody expression, you wear nice clothes… might have some mafia ties.”

  She flashed me a quick smile, but it faded, looking down over me. “You… work here?”

  “Nope, just vaulted over the counter, knocked the staff over the head, stole their uniform, and I’m incognito as one of them. Mafia ties myself.”

  “Ah. Well, I think we’re from rival families. Now we kill each other, right?”

  “Tragic, but beautiful.” I cocked my head. “How do you know my name?”

  “You dropped your ID,” she sighed, hanging her head. “And I just got back from dropping it off at the address listed on it. If I’d known we were coworkers, I’d have just kept it with me.”

  “Oh my god. Thank you so much,” I said, a hand to my chest. “I was so worried when I realized I’d lost it. I seriously owe you so much for…” I trailed off, only just realizing with a sudden sharp flutter in my chest what she’d said. “Wait. Coworkers…?”

  She cleared her throat, looking back up and meeting my eyes. “Remington Bennett. Call me Remi. I’m one of the new apprentices.”

  I tried to ignore silly notions like fate, but sometimes, the coincidences were a little too much to be anything but.

  Chapter 3

  Remi

  Well, I was royally fucked. I was an entire monarchal orgy, the level of royally fucked I’d managed to attain.

  When I’d gotten to her home, a little townhouse in Archer Bay along a row of charming houses overlooking the water, a quiet one-lane street in front with more plazas and foot traffic than cars, all lined with trees—I’d slipped the ID into the mailbox at 3141 Cross Street and let out a long, slow breath, feeling like I was letting it go.

  This is good, I’d told myself. I knew feeling things for girls would be a problem once I got out here and felt like I could do anything. Nipped that in the bud. I felt like dropping that ID off and turning away was symbolic of letting it go, learning to accept my feelings and just release them. Walking from there through the morning quiet of Archer Bay into Southport district, my head felt lighter, clearer. Never seeing that girl again.

  And then not even half an hour later, there she was, wearing the black-and-silver White Rose apron with the hummingbird-on-a-rose logo embroidered on her chest. The moment I saw her, I just wanted to turn and march out of the bakery, sit down, and fully process my gay panic before going somewhere else to work, but White Rose had been my dream for years. I wasn’t letting even her get in the way.

  And I’d barely even gotten around to accepting that before she said, “I’m really glad I get an opportunity to pay you back, then. I’ll be working with you directly for your apprenticeship. Emmanuel put me in charge of making you comfortable here and helping you do your best work, so… we’ll be working together a lot.”

  And then, like clockwork, I just wanted to go sit outside and process my gay panic again.

  Dana was pretty. Too pretty. She’d been gorgeous in the red coat yesterday, and she was gorgeous in the dark colors of the White Rose uniform. The way her eyes sparkled at me did an absolute number on my resolution to be strictly heterosexual while I was here in Port Andrea.

  “Oh… great,” I said, looking around the bakery. My heart pounded for so many reasons right now, and the most benign was that I was actually here—White Rose looked just like it had in all the pictures I’d spent ages looking at, daydreaming of, and every bit like it had when I’d last been here, six years back. I’d barely gotten through my second bite of an éclair before I’d made my decision, and when I got back home, I told my mother I was going to culinary school.

  And now it led me here, to come work behind the counter—and apparently, to spend all that working time alongside this woman who was going to undo me with the way she smiled.

  “Even though we’re from rival families?” I said. “This sounds like a forbidden affair…”

  Her eyes sparkled. Under the warm lights of the bakery, they looked like molten amber. “I think we can keep it under wraps,” she said with a wink, and Jesus I did not need the wink. It seemed like I was getting a primer not only on the inner workings of White Rose Patisserie but on how to handle my feelings around an attractive woman. “Follow me into the back. Ever used a Chemex? I can put you right to work.”

  “Have I ever used a Chemex?” I said, watching as she walked over to the side of the counter and pushed open a swing gate. “Have you ever used oxygen?”

  “Ah, we have a coffee snob,” she laughed. “Emmanuel told me you’re the everything-in-its-place type. Culinary school?”

  “Extensive,” I said, following her behind the counter with my heart pounding, and around the corner into the back. My breath caught at the sight—the far wall was all original brickwork, thick windows looking out over Iris Square and the sweeping vista of the bay past that, the water sparkling in the morning light, and it smelled like heaven, brown sugar and honey and warm bread lingering on the nose.

  “Extensive?” She laughed. “I like that answer. Go to France and study from the masters themselves?”

  I cleared my throat. “As it happens, yes, I spent a year abroad in France studying pastry…”

  “Are you serious?” She turned on me, scrunching up her face. “Do you speak French?”

>   I gave her a wry smile. “They were French pastry snobs. If I’d spoken so much as an English loan word, I’d have been thrown out. Yes, I speak French.”

  “Damn. You’re a lot more of a mafioso than I am.”

  I cocked my head. “Isn’t that supposed to be Italian…?”

  A timer went off, ringing through the kitchen and cutting her off before she could say anything, and she gestured to the shelves and hangers behind me. “Oh—feel free to put your stuff wherever and grab an apron, I need to get this. I’ll be right back with you, Remi.”

  I sighed, turning away from her and throwing my bag onto the shelf, pulling down an apron from a hanger, just praying for myself to get used to Dana talking to me with that sweet, honey tone to her voice.

  Holding the White Rose apron in my hands felt surreal. Pulling it on, looking down at the little hummingbird-on-a-rose icon against my chest, I wasn’t sure I was really here.

  But I’d make it work. I needed to. Only one of the apprentices was going to get a full-time position here, and with nine of us in total, I couldn’t afford to let anything distract me.

  I was going to get this job. It was either that, or head back to my family with my tail between my legs, grovel before them, and admit I really didn’t have what it took to make my dreams come true.

  I didn’t want to spend a lifetime in their career path, doing exactly what they’d laid out for me. I didn’t want to spend a lifetime with their stony faces judging my every move, whether it suited their agenda well enough, performing social interaction at their country-club events.

  But most of all, I didn’t want to see the gloating look on my mother’s face when I told her she’d been right.

  *

  “Avery told me to come meet her,” I said, and the girl with the long blonde hair at the host’s stand cocked her head.

  “Right now? She’s in her office, but I’ll be happy to pass on that you’re here, if you give me a name…?”

  “Remi.”

  She smiled, stepping back from the stand. “I’ll be right back with you, then, Remi.”