Sugarplum Bakery

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Lucian was well aware of the stares from other patrons at the Sugarplum Bakery as he and Ashton entered. Once upon a time, it had been the age gap between them garnering looks of disapproval from nearly everyone they encountered. But that was the last thing on Lucian’s mind as he tried to squeeze Gregory’s old fashioned pram through the doors. Chances were, the people dining in Sugarplum Bakery were more miffed about the squalling from inside the buggy and the ruckus it made, rattling up the steps and through the doorway than the twenty-three year age gap between the mother and father of the squalling thing inside the pram.

Of course, to Lucian, the “squalling thing” just happened to be his son, whom he loved very much.

He reminded himself of this fact, and it was enough to keep him from swearing or yanking Gregory around with too much force. He looked around politely and heaved the buggy through. Once Gregory was inside, Lucian held the door for Ashton.

“I’m telling you,” Lucian said, picking up their conversation from earlier. “This is how every day has been since you went back to work. I don’t think he’s stopped crying long enough to notice you’re home.”

Ashton had only secured a position at Le Baiser Sale (again) two days ago. To Lucian, it felt like it had been two years. In part because Gregory had been miserable since Ashton left for work on Monday night and it was now Wednesday morning. But also because Gregory’s loud protestations of abandonment echoed how Lucian felt every time Ashton walked out the door. Henry was back in England and would only return for the wedding. Damien kept himself so busy Lucian scarcely saw him. And though Rachel was back in town and Valter was around, they both had obligations and neither of them were the type Lucian could sit down with and have a long talk about a novel with. He hadn’t been to the opera in months and Lucian was now starting to look at the other mummies and daddies and nannies as if they were friends in the park, which to him, seemed pathetic since he was a grown man who ought to have grown friends.

It was a childish complaint, completely beneath him. So, unlike Gregory, Lucian didn’t (couldn’t) cry about it. Instead, he settled into the idea of being a stay-at-home dad with newfound respect for the generations of mothers who had never had a say in the matter.

They’d brought Gregory along today because of his squalling, actually. The idea of hiring a babysitter while he was this anxious about separation seemed like the worst idea either could have come up with. After all, they’d only be at Sugarplum Bakery about an hour. They had an appointment to finalize the designs for their wedding cake.

Of course, Gregory was oblivious to this fact. If he knew there was cake involved, maybe he’d be quiet.

"I'm going to take him to the pediatrician tomorrow," Lucian added, quietly. "Just in case it's not separation anxiety."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

On most days, the pram was some kind security blanket for Gegory. If he was crying, Ashton could put in the pram and take him out in the sunshine, and together, they’d listen to the conversations of the birds, and feel the cool spring air. But today, Gregory fought and squirmed inside it as if it was some Midieval torture device. She thought for sure if the fresh air didn’t calm him, the smell of hot sweets and baked goods would. But Gregory’s fussing only turned to wailing as they gently wheeled him inside, which garnered them stares from nearby diners who wanted to eat their pastries in peace and quiet.

“I’m telling you,” Lucian said, picking up their conversation from earlier. “This is how every day has been since you went back to work. I don’t think he’s stopped crying long enough to notice you’re home.”

The thought that her son missed her could have been interpreted as adorable, but instead, it made Ashton sad. She didn’t want to think of her son being upset by anything, especially her absence. Delilah assured her that separation anxiety was normal and it was something he’d get over soon enough when Gregory had been inconsolable while Ashton was at her Yoga class. Gregory needed to bond with Lucian, and Ashton might as well of been killing two birds with one stone with her going back to work: she was making a percent of the family income and she was leaving Gregory with his father. But it seemed, when he cried, that the separation anxiety was a permanent thing, and they’d have bigger problems on their hands later.

"I'm going to take him to the pediatrician tomorrow," Lucian added, quietly. "Just in case it's not separation anxiety."

“I pray it’s nothing serious,” Ashton said, “I’ll take off work tomorrow and go with you. I want to be there just in case. All this fussiness has me worried.” Parenting books had told her of all the diseases babies cold have, all of which started with near-constant crying. The books had given her nightmares and she had to put them away, tucking them into the far recesses of her mind. But now, they were pulled back to the forefront as Ashton wracked her brains for some sort of solution.

She pulled Gregory out of his buggy, bouncing him gently, kissing his cheek which glistened with wet tears. “There’s my handsome boy. Don’t cry.” She told him softly, hoping he could hear her over his decrescendo of sobs. “Can you smile for Daddy? Look at Daddy. He wants to see you smile.” Greggy turned his big blue eyes to Lucian, and as he coughed away his last few tears, his scrunched up face relaxed into a smile. “That’s my boy.”

She looked to Lucian now, concern still on his face as the diners, who now had their quiet atmosphere restored, went back to their lives. “It’s not the crying that worries me as much as that cough. Did you hear that?”

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Lucian had called and made an appointment for Gregory. It had been years since Lucian had to deal with pediatrician offices. Memories of teddy-bear decals on the wall and sticky surfaces and Legos underfoot while runny-nosed children tumbled around with Damien on the floor, swapping germs gladly, utterly unaware no matter how sick they were. It smelled like antiseptic and vomit and soap and every time a child coughed or sneezed, Damien would jump up and wash off his hands, admonishing the other child for being unhygienic.

“There are sick people here!” six year old Damien chastised another boy who had the audacity to sneeze on him. His blue eyes were large as tennis balls with concern and just as round. “If you sneeze on one of them, they might die!”

The other boy’s mother had been horrified, of course, and scooped up her grubby child, all the while glaring at Lucian, who was laughing so hard he sent himself into a coughing fit. As fate would have it, he’d caught Damien’s flu. Pediatricians offices were disgusting little places with bright, cheerful colors. Veritable germ traps, they couldn’t be much worse if they’d been sprayed down with a concoction of E. Coli and Staphylococcus.

And Greggy—fragile, baby, newborn Greggy—was going to spend all of tomorrow in one. Lucian wondered just how he could keep children from sneezing or coughing on Gregory.

“I pray it’s nothing serious,” Ashton said, “I’ll take off work tomorrow and go with you. I want to be there just in case. All this fussiness has me worried.”

Lucian suspected it was nothing worse than a little ear infection. In truth, it was probably his fault if Gregory was sick, since Lucian had been the one carting him around to every place on God’s green Earth for the last few days. But these things happened to every baby on the planet. Lucian watched as Ashton plucked their son up and kissed away Greggy’s tears.

“There’s my handsome boy. Don’t cry,” she cooed. “Can you smile for Daddy? Look at Daddy. He wants to see you smile.”

Lucian offered his son a smile. And for a minute, two pairs of blue eyes met. The anticipation spread between them for what felt like eons. Gregory’s face was a blotchy red from crying, but slowly, the red drained away and a smile slowly eased onto Greggy’s face.

“That’s my boy.”

The tiniest spasm of jealousy quivered over Lucian’s heart. Ashton could make Gregory smile so easily. He had decades of parenting experience, but it took much more cajoling for Lucian to coax out Gregory’s smile. And then Gregory gave a little cough.


It’s not the crying that worries me as much as that cough. Did you hear that?”

Lucian nodded. That was new.

“We’ll mention it to the doctor,” he assured her. “And keep an eye on his temperature until then.It’s the best we can do for now.”

Fleetingly—stupidly—Lucian thought of calling Amelia to ask her how to take care of a sick baby. He’d lost count how many times he or Natalie had called her when Damien was ill. ‘Can he take Advil yet?’ ‘What’s a normal temperature for a six month old?’ ‘He’s not eating. Is he sick?’ But Lucian couldn’t do that now, since Amelia was no longer his sister-in-law and personal medical guru by virtue of her nursing degree.

And there was no way Lucian was desperate enough to call Natalie and ask.

Now he sorely wished he was friends with the other mummies and daddies and nannies at the parks. They’d probably know better than Lucian what to do for a little cough. There was always the internet. But Lucian didn’t quite trust the internet. Anyone could post anything they wanted. The beautiful and terrible thing about technology for the masses, he supposed. Lucian shook his head and walked to the counter. He smiled at the server at the counter.

“Ashton Greene and Lucian Michaud,” he said. “We have an appointment to discuss our wedding cake design?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

“We’ll mention it to the doctor,” he assured her. “And keep an eye on his temperature until then.It’s the best we can do for now.”

Ashton nodded. Today, she was getting her first real taste of adulthood. Sick child, errands, stress at work, worried significant other… Luckily for Ashton, it tasted like frosting today as she dipped her finger in a display cake’s decorative treats, rubbing some gently on Gregory’s nose, making him laugh as he tried to find the pink and green on his face. She moved the icing around to cover up the fingerprint just in time to see the server approach the counter.

“Ashton Greene and Lucian Michaud. We have an appointment to discuss our wedding cake design?” Lucian said. The man gave them that same puzzled look Ashton had come to know well. She smiled back as if to say ‘why yes. We are twenty-three years apart, no he is not my ‘sugar daddy’, yes this our child. What’s it to you?’. But the words went unspoken as he motioned to the back room with a polite, but rather tight “Right this way, please.”

Ashton readjusted Gregory, who was still fixated on the blurry colors in his field of vision, and followed the two men inside the back room. It was beautifully decorated, if simply so, with pastel painting and oh-so-original cake wall-stickers.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Let me get your design.” the server said, disappearing into the even further recesses of the bakery.

“Jesus, I didn’t realize it was so big in here. Outside, it looks so small.” Ashton said, resting her head of Lucian’s shoulder. “I’m excited for this.”

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

The look Ashton shot the baker caused Lucian to raise his eyebrows. She was smiling blithely—almost sarcastically—and Lucian thought she really ought to be used to all this by now. He was. At least she wasn’t scowling or snapping at him—things Lucian had seen her do over the course of their relationship. Perhaps this was progress. And honestly, it amused him. He didn’t always enjoy being considered a novelty, but the days were fast-approaching when people would ask how Greggy was enjoying his day with “Grandpa” and there would be nothing for Lucian to do but laugh it off good naturedly. Progress he would make in time, too.

“Right this way, please.”

“Thank you,” Lucian said, leading the way into the brightly colored cake room. The walls were painted a pale green that was somehow more reminiscent of Easter eggs or jade jewelry than it was of seasickness. Raised, wooden decals of pink, yellow, and purple cakes jutted from the walls slightly, each decorated with applique sprinkles and candles. The crowning glory, however, was a three tier decal of a wedding cake, painted snow-white and trimmed in a very faint blue. Atop the decal cake were a decal couple—a bride decal and a groom decal, without faces or distinguishing features. He turned to say something to Ashton about it, but she seemed to be showing a bewildered Gregory all the pretty colors and pictures. Lucian smiled.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Let me get your design.”

Lucian nodded gratefully at the man he’d forgotten was with them before the man disappeared even further into what seemed to be an ever-expanding bakery.

“Jesus, I didn’t realize it was so big in here. Outside, it looks so small,” said Ashton, reading Lucian’s mind and resting her head upon his shoulder. “I’m excited for this.”

“Me too,” Lucian told her, a small lilt creeping into his voice as he nuzzled the top of her head. “I’ve always thought the cake testing was the most exciting part of any wedding.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

“Me too. I’ve always thought the cake testing was the most exciting part of any wedding.”

Ashton lifted a thin blonde eyebrow. “Really?” she asked skeptically. “I’m no expert or anything, but I always thought the actual saying ‘I do’ was the most exciting part…” Ashton’s words trailed off into a wisp of sound as Gregory began to squirm about in her lap.

The man returned with a smile on his face and a huge cake, teetering precariously in his small hands. As he began setting it down, Ashton smiled, licking her lips discreetly. She was close enough to taste the multilayers of cakes. If only she reached out just a few inches, she could scrape off a fingertip of frosting to enjoy, just like the cupcakes on display in the front of the store. But little hands, eager and curious, beat her to it as Gregory smashed down with surprising strength on a part of the cake.

But how could Ashton be mad when Gregory laughed so angelically at this? She laughed, too, watching the man’s face burn red with crimson. “Yes. It’s perfect. We’ll take it.”

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

It was days like today that Samara really hated her job. Really hated it. As in, if her job were a person, she would have knocked it to the ground and kicked it in the head until it had a concussion. Because, honestly, there was nothing sadder, more pathetic, than being a hospital secretary.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She could have been unemployed.

But Samara had a business degree and dreams of one day opening her own restaurant and instead of putting one or the other to use, she was picking up muffins and coffee for her boss (who, no matter what Georgette said was not gay) and they seemed to be all out of normal, blueberry muffins. It was such a sickening first world problem, but Samara could not—could not—go back to work with a few banana nut muffins to make up for the shortage. Something about nut allergies and not endangering patients and anaphylactic shock. Science mumbo jumbo, really. Samara didn’t believe in nut allergies. She believed they existed. But so too did overprotective mothers who bubble-wrapped their children. Too often, she’d taken calls of patients complaining of “allergic reactions” that turned out to be nothing more than panic attacks brought on by a WebMD search.

She tapped a salmon colored nail against the glass counter.

“Look,” she told the guy, making her voice as syrupy sweet as possible, “But I need another half dozen blueberry muffins. If you can’t get them to me, I’m going to hold you personally responsible for any allergic reactions. Okay? So, if you don’t want a lawsuit…”

She smiled toothily. God, the things she did to make Dr. Bonnaire happy, the things she said. If he didn’t love her for it, she didn’t know what it would take.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

In Bill’s experience, bakeries were crowded places, filled with rushed early morning businessmen in search for a quick meal, or children with early onset type two diabetes who complained to their mummies and daddies that they had given them the wrong type of pastries. Or bakeries were chains frequented by hip young students claiming it made them “cultured” while they sipped so-called “organic” lattes and chatted. In fact, Bill tended to avoid bakeries all together. Whether it was the cartoonish, fairy cake wall stick-ons, or the sugary atmosphere, Bill didn’t know, but even on his most cynical of days, there was no denying that ambrosial scent of fresh baked goods and inviting offers of rich coffee.

And that was what brought Bill here today, hoping no one from work recognized him. After being reinstated at the opera house, suddenly being everyone’s new boss, the dancers and singers flocked to him, wanting to be his best friend, as if he had any say at all in what roles they got. Today was a day he set aside for himself to unwind. After eating breakfast, Damien should be home and together, they would buy useless crap off infomercials and watch movies. The call of the bakery was almost as enchanting as the call of work, and he pulled out a stack of papers, of notes for the current rotation of shows. Reviewing set designs and stage directions, Bill drank his coffee idly, wondering only for a moment if it was allowed in his post-rehab treatment plan. Shrugging it off, he only looked up to the sound of a woman arguing with the cashier. “Look, but I need another half dozen blueberry muffins. If you can’t get them to me, I’m going to hold you personally responsible for any allergic reactions. Okay? So, if you don’t want a lawsuit…”

Bill chuckled to himself. Sometimes, people didn’t understand that the world couldn’t bend to their will, that sometimes, the world was just out of blueberry muffins. “Oi!” Bill called, a laugh playing at his lips. “If you need blueberry muffins, there’s another bakery down the street…”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: For Lori! BiC:

Gwendoline Fontaine

“Donuts?” Gwendoline asked into her phone, peddling one handed on her bike, perfectly shaded beneath the large black umbrella that hung above her. She was on her way to Torben’s gallery showing, an event she and her boyfriend had been looking forward to for months now. Her wonderful, loving boyfriend who wonderfully and lovingly neglected to tell her there needed to be refreshments at this event.

“Or éclairs. No, no. Donuts. Four dozen donuts,” a frantic Torben said on the other end of the receiver.

“You want me to make four dozen donuts in a matter of twenty minutes? I’m good, love, I’m not that good. Besides, I’m nowhere near a kitchen.” Gwendoline could see it now: that exasperated, hopeless look on his face as he watched some premonition in his mind of his gallery being a flop for the sole purpose that there were no sweets for the guests to munch on while they viewed his works. Gwendoline sighed, her voice gentle. “Look, dear. I’ll figure something out. You just worry about your gallery.” She hung up the phone and peddled faster down the street. Hell hath no fury like hungry art critics and she did not what to see that paper mache tree in her living room get covered in even more negative reviews. The tree was unfortunately large enough.

So Gwendoline swallowed her brackish pride and stepped into the Sugarplum Bakery, her nostrils filling with pastries and desserts that attempted to be ambrosial and decorative, but fell short. She had once enjoyed bakeries, coming here with her brother and grandmother when no one in the house felt like cooking, but years of practice and schooling at the top cooking school in Paris told her how fake and awful the sugary sweets really were. But the people she was trying to impress knew no difference and probably even frequented the Sugarplum Bakery as they scampered off to work.

The bakery was busier than Gwendoline thought it deserved, with university students glued to their laptops, idly sipping coffee that was nearly the same quality of Torben’s morning brew and businessmen chatting about investments and things that Ingo had once tried to teach Gwendoline about while they nibbled on day-old rolls. But today really wasn’t a day to argue with the bakers here. She needed and wanted to be in and out of here as quickly as she possibly could.

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Really, Reese was forcing herself to come here. Ever since she had been released from rehab and had been doing therapy, she had promised herself that she would always eat breakfast each day. It was the most important meal of the day that provided you with the nutrients to get through the day and give you energy to dance...and she had forgotten. After many months of having kept her promise, it was all about to be undone because her stupid alarm had not gone off.

She had been dressed and out the door by the time she realized that she hadn't anything for breakfast. Her routine was about to be disrupted and her good habit broken! Thankfully she had come across the Bakery. She would just duck in and grab something and be on her way again. She could spare ten minutes or so and it would be worth it in the long run, she was sure.

She quickly ordered an apple tart pastry and a cup of coffee. The coffee came quick enough and she sipped on it contentedly while the person brought her a...cherry filled pastry. For a split second she was unsure what to do. She certainly didn't want to make a big deal out of it. It was just a simple mistake. But she'd been looking forward to the apple one though...and the small part of her was still recovering reasoned that the apple one was smaller and had less calories in it. She waved one of the workers down.

"I'm sorry...but I think my order is wrong," she said.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwendoline drummed her fingers on the counter, singing a song in her head about how God-awful the pastries in the show case looked. She almost wanted to buy them all and save them from humiliation, hide them away in the trash so no one could see and make fun of them. But that would mean giving more money to this bakery than she cared to. She had her own cooking career to support, thank-you-very-much.

She leaned heavily into the counter, as her mind began wandering. Thinking about parakeets and who names fruits was far more interesting for waiting for donuts she wouldn’t even eat.

But as she began pondering which was named first—orange the fruit, or orange the colour—a small voice piped up, piquing her attention. "I'm sorry...but I think my order is wrong."

Gwnedoline’s blood boiled as she recalled a few nights ago, the patron at La Tour who threw an absolute hissy fit about a dessert Gwendoline made before faking a broken and storming out. It was people like this who were slowly destroying art. The people who complained about food, no matter the quality, were also the people who would one day draw a moustache on the Mona frickin’ Lisa. Food was art and to call it “wrong” was a sin against humanity.

“No, it’s not,” Gwendoline said as the wait staff swooped up the dish. “No, put that back down. You brought out what you envisioned her eating in your mind. You brought out a pastry that’s just as good as your other ones. She needs to eat it and appreciate it.”

The girl was young and slim. Gwendoline felt a pang of pity for her, the slip of a thing, mainly because she looked like she could easily be blown away by the bakery door swinging open. “Sorry, dear,” she said to her. “But baking is an art. Would you tell and artist that their depiction of you is wrong?”

Having lived with, slept with, cried with, and loved with an artist for ten years, she knew there was no right answer other than “no”. Torben often drew Gwendoline how he saw her—huge eyes, small chin, with a head shaped like a light bulb. It wasn’t what Gwendoline saw in the mirror, nor was it what she wanted to see in the mirror, but she loved his art. It was a sharing of his soul, it was the highest form of love, not just for her, but for his passion. And to say ‘take it back, I don’t want this’ was like taking a knife and stabbing the creator through the heart nine times.

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Reese was very non-confrontational. She probably would have gone ahead and ate the cherry pastry if she hadn't still been so concerned about calories and consuming as few as possible while still making sure she was eating. It was a big deal for her to speak up enough to admit that her order wrong.

“No, it’s not,” came a voice from behind her as the waiter picked up the pastry. “No, put that back down. You brought out what you envisioned her eating in your mind. You brought out a pastry that’s just as good as your other ones. She needs to eat it and appreciate it.”

The waiter looked at Reese and Reese looked at the woman who had spoken, confused about what to do. This was beginning to be far mroe of a confrontation than she had ever imagined. “Sorry, dear,” she said now. “But baking is an art. Would you tell and artist that their depiction of you is wrong?”

Immediately Reese thought of Damien and his ketchup protrait of her the night they had met each other and then of all of the other drawings and sketches he had done of her. No, she wouldn't dream of telling him he had protrayed her wrong. Still she couldn't see how that was the same as asking for the right kind of pastry.

"No! I wouldn't. I just...I asked for an apple one and they gave me a cherry..." she tried to explain helplessly. "I'm not saying that bakery isn't art, but I just think that if you ask for something and pay for something you should get it?" The last part of her statement came out sounding more like a question than anything as if she wasn't quite sure if she were correct on this or not and needed the woman to tell her.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

"No! I wouldn't. I just...I asked for an apple one and they gave me a cherry...”

It was a common misconception, mistaking art for a wrong order. There were several times when Gwendoline would see somebody and think to herself ‘I can see them eating a strawberry crème Brule’, and then they order a chocolate cake. It wasn’t what Gwendoline envisioned, and nine times out of ten they liked whatever Gwendoline put in front of them. The only time she made exceptions was for allergies. Art was worth many things, but never someone else’s life.

"I'm not saying that bakery isn't art, but I just think that if you ask for something and pay for something you should get it?"

“That’s part of the vision of baking. You see someone and a dessert pops into your head and that’s what you have to create. All artists work that way. Baking engages all of the senses, and all of them must be satisfied for the artist. If someone believes that’s what you should be eating, it doesn’t make them wrong, and it doesn’t make you right. Life’s hard enough for an artist without people telling them they messed up.”

Gwendoline knew that first hand. Her boyfriend had a troubled soul, and it showed in his painting. The macabre scenes he depicted reflected how he saw the world-- beautifully gloomy with a shade of whimsical to it. And when people told him his art was wrong, his socks stayed on for days as he worked everything out on the canvas. And Gwendoline knew when she harbored bad feelings, when her baking was criticized, she turned to the very thing that garnered her that criticism and her apartment would fill with the luscious and curious smells of creations.

“You get it I’m sure. I’m sure there’s something you do that makes you feel whole, that makes all of your cares go away, right? There’s got to be.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

“That’s part of the vision of baking. You see someone and a dessert pops into your head and that’s what you have to create. All artists work that way. Baking engages all of the senses, and all of them must be satisfied for the artist. If someone believes that’s what you should be eating, it doesn’t make them wrong, and it doesn’t make you right. Life’s hard enough for an artist without people telling them they messed up.”

Reese listened as the woman explained, but she wasn't quite sure she followed the older woman's logic. She sincerely doubted that the frazzled baker behind the counter was attempting to be artistic when he gave her a cherry pastry rather than the apple one she'd asked for. However, she supposed the woman did have a point. Bakers created just the same as Damien did when he sat down to draw her; just the same as her when she made her movement into a dance. If was never nice to have someone tell you your creation was wrong.

“You get it I’m sure. I’m sure there’s something you do that makes you feel whole, that makes all of your cares go away, right? There’s got to be.” she said fervently.

Reese glanced away and nodded. "I...I'm a dancer. I do ballet," she admitted. "I suppose you're right. I wouldn't want anyone to tell me that my version a dance was incorrect simply because I did something different." She ran her fingers through her choppy hair nervously as she glanced back at the baker who had since moved on to help someone else. "Do you really think he saw me eating a cherry pastry," she asked, seeming confused by what this meant. Was this some very odd way of flirting with her?

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: Sorry it's so late. Enjoy! BiC:

Gwendoline Fontaine

"I...I'm a dancer. I do ballet." Well there you go. An art was an art was an art, after all. "I suppose you're right.” Of course she was. Not that Gwendoline was typically right. In fact, she had to be corrected on many things, but when it came to art, she knew a thing or ten. ”I wouldn't want anyone to tell me that my version a dance was incorrect simply because I did something different. Do you really think he saw me eating a cherry pastry?"

Gwendoline nodded. “I do indeed.”

“Madamemoiselle,” the man at the counter said. [/b]”Your donuts are done.”[/b] Graciously, Gwendoline took the boxes into her arms and paid.

“Glad we had this talk, girlie,” Gwendoline said with a wink, scribbling a phone number down on her napkin. It wasn’t her number. In fact, it was her brother’s number. But chances were, the girl wouldn’t call it, and if she did, Gabriel would have a blast. “Call me if you need anything.”