Page 223 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

Neither of us gives an inch.

“You’ve never made puff pastry in your life,” I point out.

“No,” he admits shamelessly. “But I watched a lot of videos.”

A laugh escapes me despite myself.

He smiles, his gaze full of warmth.

I move the butter out of his reach.

“Don’t touch it.”

He raises both hands in surrender.

We continue. He rolls out the dough with intense concentration, as though the future of the mille-feuille—and possibly all of France—depends on it.

I can’t hold back anymore.

I laugh again.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says without lifting his eyes.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me alive.”

“I do not want to eat you alive.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

At the next table, a couple in their sixties watches us with amused smiles. The woman whispers something to her husband. He chuckles softly.

I turn back to my dough, my cheeks slightly warm.

Eventually, after two folds, one disagreement over thickness, and intense negotiations regarding refrigeration time, our pastry goes into the oven.

We stand side by side waiting, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the glass door.

“If it fails, it’s your fault,” I say.

“Look at it. It’s rising perfectly. It’s beautiful.”

When it comes out, it’s genuinely excellent.

He looks so smug about it that I can’t help smiling.

Next comes the pastry cream.

The chef explains the technique with the passion of a man who truly loves his craft.

Thirty seconds later, I catch Dante watching one of the neighboring tables.

“Dante.”

“What?”

“You stopped whisking. The chef said never stop whisking or it’ll get lumpy.”