Page 43 of My Best French Wedding

After an appreciative look at the body in question, Stellan busied himself with the espresso machine. As soon as his back was turned, Walter widened his eyes at Hildy, who narrowed hers back at him.

“Mmmm,” she sighed at the first sip from the tiny white cup. It was an annoyingly over-the-top reaction that nevertheless managed to spike Walter’s pulse. “Could you get a coffee flavor this rich in a cake?”

“I have, yes. But it was not easy.” As if she’d flipped his talkative switch, suddenly Stellan was Mr. Chatty, telling Hildy all about his experiments with roasting his own beans, complete with detailed descriptions of the different flavor profiles, processing methods, tips for proper storage… Walter’s eyes were starting to glaze over when Stellan switched tacks.

“It is a dream of mine to visit the places the beans are grown.”

“I would love that,” Hildy said at once. “Waking up with the sunrise and watching the mist burn off the distant peaks, surrounded by nature.”

Walter snorted, doing his best to pass it off as a cough. He could tell from Stellan’s rapt expression that he was imagining cozy campfire scenarios with Hildy, whose yearbook superlative had probably been “Least Likely to Rough It.”

“How long have you been engaged?” Stellan asked, a furrow forming above his dramatic nose.

“Oh goodness.” Hildy pretended to think it over. “It feels like an eternity. And then some.”

“I thought it must be a long time,” the chef said. “Because you are not very physical together.”

“That’s Walter,” Hildy said at once. “He’s extremely buttoned up. I have to rein myself in, bring it down to his level.”

“That must be difficult.” Stellan’s eyelids seemed to be getting heavier by the second. Maybe he needed a coffee too, before he smoldered himself into a pile of ashes.

“Watch this,” Hildy instructed, before swooping in to press a quick kiss against Walter’s cheek. “Did you see that flinch? For one little kiss on the cheek?”

“I didn’t flinch.” Walter wondered how Hildy would react if he kissedherout of the blue. Maybe somewhere other than her cheek.

“It looked like a flinch to me,” Stellan said.

“Enough about him. Tell me about you.” Hildy gazed at Stellan as if he was the star attraction in a sculpture gallery. “How did you get into the wedding cake business?”

“My sisters,” the chef confided, with none of the reluctance he’d shown Walter. “I have four, and for each wedding, they asked me to bake the cake. If you have sisters, you know it must be a different cake every time. I asked myself, what cake is the essence of Marie, and Birgitta, and Lola, and Ebba. Everyone wants a cake just for them, yes?”

Hildy nodded as if he’d said something profound. “The universal desire to be seen.”

“But make it cake,” Walter muttered. Hildy patted him between the shoulder blades as if she was burping an infant, athere therethat felt more likeshut up. He took the opportunity to snake an arm around her waist, tugging her close. Purely for revenge purposes.

Hildy stiffened for an instant before registering Stellan’s attention—at which point she melted against Walter’s side, resting her head on his shoulder.

A timer sounded, and Stellan excused himself.

“Stop touching my stomach,” Hildy hissed.

“Oh, so you’re allowed to poke me in the nose, but I can’t lightly rest my hand on your abdomen?”

“That’s where all my vital organs are. Have you ever met a cat? You’re lucky you still have two arms.” She beamed as the chef rejoined them, twisting free of Walter’s grip under the guise of examining the plate in Stellan’s hand. “What do we have here?”

“This is a fig and cardamom cake. You know what they say about figs?”

“We both know,” Walter interjected. Not that either of them paid any attention to him.

Hildy rocked forward on the balls of her feet, staring at the cake like she was ready to dive in.

Stellan sliced a thin wedge, the knife sinking into the golden sponge. “Do you want to feed each other?” he asked Hildy. “You can use the fingers if you like. To me, food is an experience of the whole body, not just mouth or tongue.”

“I think probably a fork. Walter’s kind of a germaphobe.”

“What will you do at the wedding?” Stellan asked him.

“Great question.” Hildy nodded her approval. “What do you think, Walter? You would never smash a dessert this magnificent in my face, would you?”