Page 224 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

“No, no, woman of little faith,” he says while stirring again—

Then he looks down into the saucepan.

“Shit. Lumps.”

I snort.

“Whisk faster,” I tell him.

He attacks the cream with determination, but it’s already too late.

Surprisingly, the cream still turns out delicious.

Assembly is another story.

The chef circles the room giving advice. Dante cuts the pastry rectangles with surgical precision—I’ll give him that—while I pipe the cream.

“A little more to the right,” he says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Yes, but now you’re drifting left.”

“Dante.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know exactly what you’re saying.”

I shift slightly to the right.

He doesn’t need to know I listened.

We stack the layers with almost solemn concentration.

Pastry. Cream. Pastry. Cream. Pastry.

We both lean in at the same moment to judge whether it’s straight, our faces only inches apart.

I catch his gaze.

I’m happy.

Finally comes the powdered sugar.

The chef hands out the small sifters.

“Lightness,” he insists. “A delicate veil. Powdered sugar settles. It doesn’t get dumped.”

I take our sifter and carefully fill it. I position myself over the mille-feuille, Dante standing right beside me.

What happens next is, technically, an accident.

At least, that’s what I’ll claim.

I blow on the sifter—a little too hard, just slightly too much in his direction—and a cloud of powdered sugar lands all over Dante’s apron.

He stares at me, stunned.