Nine
Matt had enough practice at waiting to be an expert.
He could handle the heat and frenzied action of a restaurant kitchen. Had honed his reflexes on boiling stockpots and rapid reductions. But give him the cool, precise pace of the chocolate workshop any day.
He knew when to linger, when something needed that extra time and attention to transform average to perfect. He was careful, thorough.
He rocked the serrated knife over the block of single origin Guittard chocolate, chipping off small chunks from the corners. The bittersweet aroma of tobacco, plums, and black cherries rose around him. Spicy and astringent as a Cabernet wine and just as heady.
Here in his workroom, at the back of Chocoholic’s, everything was in its place. Copper pots suspended from the track lighting, exactly where he wanted them. The twenty-pound crate of oranges, ready to be hand sliced and candied, shoved to one side. The air chilled to a brisk eighteen degrees Celsius, kept constant by the PVC strip curtains hanging over the door — thermal insulation and soundproofing, all in one. Which meant he could blast the riff-heavy leads and gravelly vocals of vintage BTO through the overhead speakers as loud as he wanted.
Some days, the crackle of tempered chocolate shrinking and releasing in the molds as it cooled was all the background noise he needed. But this morning, the quicker the beat, the better.
The blade beneath his hand sliced through solid chocolate to the marble cutting board, riding on the bassline of the song.
Making confections — hell, working in any kitchen — required quick thinking. Fast reactions. A second too slow and risk burning the caramel or the chocolate seizing into hard lumps. But patience was at the heart of it all. And normally, he had it in spades.
Wait for a soufflé to rise? No problem. Take the time to temper chocolate properly? He’d never even been tempted to speed up the cooling process. Now, all he wanted to do was rush. Apply pressure.
Rotating the block, he shaved off splinters.
Turns out, waiting was easy when you could count down the minutes on a timer. Not so much when it came to exposing a lifetime of secrets.
Jeffrey would get back to him. It was only a matter of time. But Matt wanted the phone to ring. Right now. Or the door of the shop to open.
The knife caught on the chocolate, slipped. Razor sharp, the blade nicked his finger. Damn. Blood welled to the surface. So much for keeping all five digits high and away from the sharp edge. Even Jeffrey had taught him that.
Turning to the sink, he held his finger under running water to clean the wound. The cut was shallow. Still, the wound throbbed as he applied pressure to it.
Matt opened the right-hand cabinet and grabbed the box of Health Canada–approved supplies. Stocked to treat any kitchen injury you could think of. First-aid kit out already and it was, what — he glanced at the wall clock as he tore the wrapper off a blue food-safe bandage — barely 9 a.m. Great.
Accidents happened when you got distracted. He had the scars to prove it.
Maybe breakfast would help. He could walk to the Coffee Nook, get there and back, and still open on time. Grab a croissant, some caffeine.
Yeah, that sounded just about perfect. Get a change of scenery, forget about those photographs for a while.
And stop dwelling on the fact that he hated waiting.
Nothing like a little fresh air to clear the mind, take the edge off frustration.
Matt walked down Main Street. Sunlight bounced off hot pavement. Not many parked cars yet. A couple of trucks, bumpers rusted from winter road salt. Probably locals, running errands. By noon, they’d be replaced by roadster convertibles, shiny as Matchbox toys. Summer cars. As much a part of the season as pool noodles propped outside the grocery store and splashes of strawberry ice cream on the sidewalk.
He took the weathered steps up to The Coffee Nook two at a time — and stopped short in the shade of the awning.
Kayla stood outside the door, looking in. Or reading the opening hours? He bit back a groan.
The café was normally overrun with customers on the mornings they served their freshly baked croissants. But the way his day had started, he wouldn’t be surprised to find the place closed.
“Hey,” he greeted Kayla, trying to see around her.
Through the window, he caught a flash of movement. Three, maybe four customers sat at the tables inside. If they were open, why was she still standing out here?
“Hi.” She kept her gaze on the door, didn’t even glance at him. Bronzed skin pale against her black hair. She stood there, still as an ornament on a shelf, except for the muscle that jumped in her jaw.
Over her shoulder, he noticed a poster taped to the glass. Bright enough to catch your attention from the street and draw you in. All stark colours and flashy text. The title, done in orange letters, looked like it belonged on a pulp fiction dust jacket. Pop-Up Exhibition. Beneath the title, a silhouette of a couple stood in front of a painting, the gilded frame just visible over their shoulders. Through an optical illusion, it looked like strips of the poster had been torn off to reveal the words Cover Art beneath. Clever.
But that didn’t explain why she was staring at it. And blocking his way inside.
Close enough to catch the roasted caramel sweetness of the Coffee Nook’s house Colombian blend, he asked, politely as he could, “Are you heading in?”
Kayla looked at him then, dark eyes flashing with anger. Maybe it was the wrong thing to ask. “Sometimes,” she said, more to herself than to him, “I wish he was dead.”
The cold fury in her voice startled him more than the words did. “Who?”
She turned, brushed past him, looking close to tears. That show of emotion was like seeing a crack in a porcelain doll that revealed the flesh beneath. The sudden thud of a heartbeat.
On instinct, Matt caught her arm. “Are you all right?”
She took a breath, gave him a shaky smile. “Perfectly.”
Could have fooled him.
He shrugged it off and pushed the door open on a blast of butter, pastry, and ground coffee.
The poster for Charley’s pop-up gallery had set her off, that much was for sure. And he wondered why.