“I could do croquembouche. That’s relatively quick and a crowd-pleaser. There are endless possibilities of gâteau.” My fingers twitched with the need to get started. “Do you have any favorite flavors? Food allergies?”

While I talked, Delilah began to smile.

“No food allergies. And you’re hired.”

“I’m doing it for free.” I walked farther into the room, taking a look around. The kitchen was as good as what I had at home. Delilah was a professional chef, and I had no doubt she had the tools I needed. But I could always go to the store in a pinch. “What will it be?”

Delilah glanced at Saint, who shrugged. “Whatever you want, Tot.”

“Can you do mango cream in the croquembouche?”

Mangoes must have been a thing with them, because Saint grinned.

“Of course. How about two croquembouches and perhaps glace au beurre noisette to accompany?”

“I think you are my hero,” Delilah said with a relieved laugh.

“Dessert hero,” Saint corrected, but he was smiling, too, in a reserved way that reminded me too much of myself. “Thanks, man. Seriously.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“What was that last bit you mentioned?” Emma asked, looking a little glazed in the eyes. The woman really did love her desserts.

“Browned-butter ice cream. I’ll be serving it more as a semifreddo, though, considering the time.”

“Lord save me.” She fanned herself.

I was supposed to be avoiding the temptation of Emma Maron. But I couldn’t hide my pleasure in seeing her pant. Then a thought occurred to me. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ll be leaving you alone for a while.”

Hell. I hadn’t thought. I was here to run interference, not make dessert.

But Emma gaped, as though I was being ridiculous. “Are you joking? Delilah’s right; you’re a hero for doing this.”

My ears felt hot. I shrugged and turned back to Delilah. “I’ll need to go over what you have and run to the market.”

“I’m not putting you out that much,” Delilah said. “You make a list of whatever you need, and I’ll send someone to get it. I’m moving some of my kitchen staff over to assist.”

“All right, then. Let me at your kitchen, and I’ll get started.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Emma

“Dearest Emma,” Dougal, my onetime set costumer, drawled, “I have to say I love your new man.”

With that, he popped a cream puff into his mouth and moaned dramatically, placing a hand upon his chest.

I huffed out a laugh. It felt both weird and lovely to hear someone call Lucian my man. He wasn’t, but it was nice to know the people I had worked with day in and day out approved of him. I was proud of Lucian. That much was certain. He’d come through today in a big way, creating not only two towers of croquembouche, swathed in glittering strands of angel-fine spun sugar, but also luscious ice creams paired with delicate butter cookies and mangoes cut to look like blooming lilies.

All of it without breaking a sweat. In truth, when he had sat down at my side just as the ceremony started, he’d appeared both pleased and relaxed.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” I said to Dougal and dipped my spoon into the ice cream.

“I’m going to assume you’re talking about me,” Lucian said at my ear, making me jump.

“For such a big man, you walk on cat feet,” I grumped.

Chuckling at my obvious start of surprise, he took a seat. “Funny, I’ve thought the same of you.”

“That I am surprisingly quiet on my feet for someone so big?”

He gave me a slanted look of reproach. “That you’re good at sneaking up on me.”

One long table that stretched the length of the house had been set up on Delilah and Saint’s terrace. Tea lights and taper candles glittered upon the cream linen tablecloth. A webbing of string lights, fresh white flowers, and greenery had been erected overhead.

Now that dinner was over, people were up and mingling or devouring Lucian’s desserts.

“You really did a great job,” I told him truthfully.

“Hmm.” He looked at my little bowl of ice cream. “You didn’t try the croquembouche.”

My nose wrinkled. “Don’t tell Delilah, but I hate mangoes. Hate them.”

Lucian looked at me for a moment while Dougal watched our interplay with great interest; then he grunted, stood, and walked away.

“Uh-oh,” Dougal said with a laugh. “You’ve upset the chef.”

Had I? He didn’t seem the type to throw a fit if someone didn’t like his food. But he had stalked off. I gave Dougal a helpless look, wondering if I should . . . well, I wasn’t going to apologize, not for that. In fact, if he was off pouting, I just might leave him there.

But he returned before I could think any further, a plate of those pretty caramel-covered cream puffs that made up the croquembouche in his hand. My ire notched a bit higher as he sat down, straddling the chair in that way guys seemed to love doing, and faced me.