Bliss (26 page)

Lego-head took a tiny bite of the mousse. Her mouth screwed up and she took a quick sip of coffee.

“Is something wrong?” Sera couldn't stop herself from asking.

Lego-head coughed. “I'm sure it's fine. I just don't like chocolate.” Her scrawny fingers fumbled for her pen, and she wrote herself a note. She tried the quiche. Made another face. “Or eggs.” Another scribbled note. She sampled the
mille crepe,
its dozen delicate layers parting with a ghost of a sigh beneath her fork, oozing hazelnut crème and hours of effort. “Very rich,” said Lego-head, but not in a particularly approving tone.

Sera shot her aunt a look.
We're dyin' here.

“Did my niece tell you about the back room?” Pauline asked brightly.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…

“Back room?” asked Lego-head, eyes sharpening.

Now it was Sera's turn to elbow Pauline, which she did sharply enough that the older woman nearly lost her seat on the arm of Sera's chair.

But the reporter's investigative instincts had kicked in. And Pauline's pride in her life's work would not be stifled—no matter how hard Sera prayed. “Oh, yes, it's the real secret of this shop. We don't call it ‘Bliss' just because the baked goods are out of this world. Our mission is to offer sensual pleasures of
all
sorts—fulfillment for the senses, the earthier the better.”

Ms. Pyle stood up. Her ennui had vanished, and Sera, to her horror, saw visions of bylines dancing in the woman's unfortunately shaped skull. “
Now
we've got an angle,” she barked. “Show me this back room of yours.”

Pauline was more than happy to do so. And Sera, sensing she ought not body-slam her last living relative to the ground in front of witnesses, was powerless to stop her.

The headline in the
Chile Paper
's next issue read:

The day after the issue dropped, they were swamped.

The day after that, a chance tweet from a certain vacationing celeb whose Twitter following exceeded half a million took the tale of Santa Fe's new “dessert and dildo place” to the web. (Apparently, said celeb's assistant had stopped by the store and brought her master—er, employer—a few treats and some spicy stories.) The celebrity thought his followers might get a giggle, and he was right—but so did the national news media.

Because the day after that, the film crew from CNN arrived.

And the day after
that
, her nemesis returned.

O
h, shit. Asher's back.

His figure was unmistakable—long, lean, and purposeful, edging his way through the throng of customers that had lined up outside the door and half filled the courtyard. His destination was clear… he was making a beeline for Serafina herself.

Sera froze. The world went a bit wonky, time slowing while the space between them seemed to wobble and shimmer. Sera gave up breathing as a bad job, had to lean her butt against the counter behind her lest her legs betray her.

He looked good.
Damn
good. Tanned, burnished, fair glowing with good health and a lightness of presence she couldn't fail to notice, even as she wondered at its cause. It was as though he was lit up from within—or, more accurately, that the fire she'd always sensed in him, banked, had flared into full-throated life. She guessed she had about forty-five seconds before he finished wending his way to the front and they were reunited. Her heart began to thrum like the harp in an angel's chorus, her breath coming quick and shallow.

“Helloooo… Peanuts?”

“What?” Sera blinked, brought back to the customer in front of her with a start.

“It doesn't have any peanuts in it, does it?” repeated the anxious mother whose five-year-old was doing his best to get his grubby prints all over Sera's nice clean display cases. “Billy's allergic to peanuts. Well, not
allergic,
but his pediatrician says peanut allergies are very common among boys his age, so we don't want to take any risks! So no peanuts. Does this have peanuts?”

Sera collected her wits as best she could. “Um… it
is
a peanut butter pie, so yes, I'm afraid it does contain peanuts,” she said with an apologetic smile. She squelched the desire to point out the display card that clearly pronounced the nature of the confectionary beast, right in front of the woman's nose. The mom had “frazzled” written all over her as it was.

She wasn't alone. Since the CNN crew had taken the story of her “salacious” new bakery national, interviewing Sera, Pauline, and their neighbors for a piece that had elicited a raised eyebrow from Anderson Cooper himself, tourists and locals alike had been flocking to Bliss, and the phone had been ringing off the hook. Sera was running out of brioche faster than she could bake. She was worn to the bone, practically swaying on her feet.

And it was, hands down, the most fun Sera could remember having, drunk or sober.

Even Malcolm, who'd sworn never to do customer-facing work again, had been drafted to do day shifts baking, prepping, and packaging in the back. Up front, Sera and Friedrich were being run off their feet, helping Santa Feans shop for Thanksgiving treats, birthday cakes, and
pain quotidian
alike. The tables were full, the armchairs overflowing, and patrons were wedged in every available space, munching, sipping, chatting, and comparing notes. Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes bright from sugar, and the din of the crowd was stadium-loud. Their energy fed Sera as if she were plugged directly into it with some psychic extension cord. It was like the very best buzz she'd ever had on booze—exhilaration, exultation, and ego keeping the need for sleep at bay and her reflexes sharp. But this high wasn't about self-destruction.

It was the fulfillment of a dream.

Pauline's dreams, too, were coming true. She had set herself up on a stool by the back room like some flower-child nightclub bouncer, and was taking numbers for customers curious about her little corner of the Bliss empire. Today's T-shirt read, “Ask Me About Our Ben Wa Balls!” and she was sporting a purple felt beret angled jauntily over her salt-and-pepper hair. The line for the back room was nearly as long as that for the baked goods, but Sera couldn't begrudge her. Not only had Pauline's indiscreet comment garnered Sera the publicity she needed to make a go of her bakery, Sera had, quite simply, never seen her aunt so joyfully in her element.

Solicitously, Pauline led those with a prurient interest into her domain of personal empowerment, guiding them through the purchase of pleasure-enhancing accoutrements, and then (on Sera's recommendation), discreetly packaging their newfound treasures in opaque plastic bags printed with the store's name in flowing pink script. She'd already had to place several orders with the folks at the Ecstasy Emporium to keep up with the demand.

It was pandemonium—wonderful, glorious pandemonium.

It was also just about all Sera could handle at the moment.

Apparently, Asher Wolf hadn't got the memo.

“I
so
do not need this right now,” she muttered.

“
Excuse
me?” the mother said sharply.

“Oh, not you, you're fine,” Sera said, waving distractedly.
But I, on the other hand, am most definitely
not
fine right now. Even if
he
is the finest thing I have ever seen in my life.

Part of her wanted to shove the lady's cookies at her, vault over the counter, and launch herself into Asher's arms. Another part wished he'd just disappear—at least until she had time to process her feelings. But Asher obviously wasn't going away—in fact, he'd edged himself to the front of the crowd now, so close she could smell his signature, sigh-inducing pheromones.
What'm I going to say to him?
she fretted. It had to be something casual, something that wouldn't reveal how much she'd missed him, how often she'd thought of him since he left, and damn it, how much sleep she'd lost replaying, over and over, their spectacular make-out session.

Be cool, Sera,
she warned herself.

“Where have you
been?
” was what came out of her mouth.

Loudly.

Titters, snorts, and muffled laughs erupted from the crowd waiting their turn at the counter. Sera's face flushed a painful near-purple, and she debated whether the storage cubby at her back might be generous enough to accommodate her.

“I'm sorry, Bliss.” Asher's eyes were earnest, his whole face radiating regret. “I would have returned sooner if I could. I had… obligations… to attend to back home.”

Obligations like his wife?
Sera wondered.

“I see,” she said. She turned to her customer. “How about I arrange an assortment of those
palmiers
and some chocolate-dipped meringues? No peanuts, I promise.”

“Fine, fine,” murmured the mom, stroking little Billy's tousled hair as she gazed hungrily at the man Sera very much wanted all to herself.

“I just got in less than an hour ago,” Asher explained. “And, ah… I brought you something,” he continued with unusual shyness. He reached behind him, and for the first time Sera noticed the long canvas sack slung over his shoulder, like a rifle case or a really, really big yoga mat holder. He swung it around front and reached inside, stripping the cloth away to show her what lay beneath.

“Oh.” Sera's hand flew to her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes.

It was a sign for her store. A big, metal sign with “Bliss” forged in the most elegant calligraphy against a chased background of fanciful designs inlaid in silver, copper, and brass. Amid flowing abstract renderings of what looked like flowers and mountains, Sera picked out delicate little cupcakes, tiered party cakes, éclairs, cookies, and even… was that?... yes, a tiny chocolate babka. It must have taken him days, if not weeks, to create.

“It's wonderful,” she said.

It was Asher's turn to blush, just a tiny hint of rosy color staining those tanned cheeks. “It was the only thing missing,” he said. “Before I left, Malcolm showed me the store, and I thought, ‘It's perfect, it has everything—except a way to let customers know how marvelous it is inside.' So”—he shrugged—“I made this.”

“Nice going, guy, but could you woo your girlfriend some other time? Some of us are crying for a latte and a cinnamon bun here.”

The suggestion came from a burly, cowboy-hatted mountain man with a beard Grizzly Adams would have envied and a grin that took the sting from his words.

“I've come at a bad time,” Asher said, reddening further as he took in, seemingly for the first time, just how crowded the shop was.

“No… well, yes,” Sera admitted. “It's a bit hectic right now, but I do want to talk to you, Ash.”
And kiss you, and lick you, and make myself at home stark naked on top of your body…

“After closing, then?” he asked. “I'll just go and retrieve the dogs from the kennel, and check on Guadalupe in the meantime—she's been managing the shop on her own far too long.”

“Yeah, that'd be great—just maybe give me an hour after closing to set the place to rights,” Sera said, wondering if she'd have time to scrub off the sweat, sugar, and sinful thoughts she'd be accruing in the meanwhile. “You know where to find me.”

“Until then.”

Sera's sigh was echoed by half (primarily, though not entirely, the soprano half) of her customers as Asher sauntered out of the store. And as the door closed behind him, Pauline experienced a sudden run on the back room that made her smile quite, quite broadly.

A
t the last second, Sera snatched the forgotten snood off her hair and gave her head a shake, hoping she'd achieve “sexily tousled” rather than “bag lady chic.” Knowing her hair, she figured her chances were about fifty-fifty.

An hour after closing, Bliss was empty, tidy, and gleaming with readiness to face the next day.
What a change from earlier today,
Sera thought, feeling a strong sense of satisfaction—and yes, pride as she surveyed her store. It was a feeling she'd yet to get familiar with. She still tended to see herself as a failure—an addict, a washout in her career.
But look at me now,
she marveled. A so-far successful store. A sweet little bungalow she shared with her aunt. New friends. Glorious sunsets every night, fresh mountain air, and chile-smothered Southwestern food to eat pretty much any night of the week.
And
an incredibly hot guy about to walk through her door.

Just. Don't. Fuck. It. Up.

“Fuck what up?” Asher asked as he poked his head through the door.

Did I say that out loud?
“Oh, I was thinking of including a special later this week—it's this little turkey-shaped
fleur de sel
caramel truffle that'd be perfect for people's Thanksgiving tables. But it's been awhile since I made them and I was worried about how they'd come out. The molds can be a bit tricky.” All true,
if
he'd interrupted her thoughts ten minutes earlier.

“I've no doubt they will turn out brilliantly, given who's making them,” Asher opined, edging the rest of his easy-on-the-eye frame into the shop.

Sera shrugged off the gallantry, uncomfortable with such ready praise.
Blake would've
been on my back, breathing down my neck about how those little suckers better pop out perfect or my ass could find another line of work,
she couldn't help thinking. But Asher wasn't Blake. Oh, boy, was he ever not Blake.

“Come in, come in,” she said, wiping her hands nervously on her jeans and turning for the back. “I was just closing up. Let me double-check that everything's off in the kitchen.” She disappeared behind the glass wall, feeling the need to avoid Asher's gaze.
How'm I supposed to feel; a guy like that walks in all windswept and sexy?
After
three weeks
with not a word?!
She wanted to lob day-old bagels at his head. But not nearly as much as she wanted to tackle him to the floor, slather him in homemade buttercream, and lick it off inch by inch with her tongue.

Down girl.
She retreated to her happy place—the store's commodious kitchen.

“Bliss,” said Asher.

When she turned around, he was much nearer than she'd expected—had followed her into the kitchen and was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off him despite the Navy peacoat and olive wool scarf he'd worn against the late November chill.

“Bliss,” he said again. Deeper.

“Hm?” Her voice was a scant breath, her whole being mesmerized by the intensity of his scrutiny.

He gathered her, quite suddenly and quite thoroughly, into his arms. She squeaked, but had time for nothing more before his lips claimed hers.

It was—or at least
felt
—about ten minutes later when he let her go. Stroking Sera's hair back from her flushed cheek, forehead pressed against hers, he was murmuring something over and over. It took Sera's scrambled brain a while to parse it out.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“For what?” she asked.
Giving me hope? Or giving me a case of the screaming “I-gotta-
have-ya's”?
Sera pulled back to study his face. Green eyes shot through with golden spikes, brows that knit appealingly, lips that were slightly swollen from their kisses and so, so enticing…

“For taking so unforgivably long to return to the best thing that's come into my life in many years.”

“Oh,
that.
” Sera crossed her arms under her breasts, reminding herself not to succumb to his apology without at least token resistance. But token resistance was pretty much all the resistance she could muster. “Yeah, Asher, what was all that about? I thought you said a week, maybe two. It's been
three.
And the last words you left me with weren't exactly reassuring.”

His features creased with confusion. “What, that I wanted to take you out?”

Scratch that. Now Sera really
was
ready to nurse a grudge. “Um,
no,
Asher. I believe you muttered something about
having a little chat with your wife
before you disappeared for nearly a month.”

Asher's hand scrubbed at the stubble that scruffed up his perfect jawline. “Oh,
chara,
” he swore in Hebrew. He had the same look he'd worn the day she'd dinged him with the dildo—the day he'd been worried about taking advantage of her.

Hangdog. Ashamed.

Good.

“Come here,” he entreated, holding out his hand.

Sera debated, but she couldn't resist. He enfolded her hand in both of his, drawing her close as he backed up until he hit a countertop. With a lithe movement that would have done a dancer proud, he grasped her by the waist and twisted to deposit her, light as a feather, to sit atop the stainless steel counter. Sera could feel the coolness through her jeans, and then Asher's heat as he crowded up close to her. Somehow, her legs were spread wide, and he had wedged himself between them. His fingers speared into her hair, cupping her face and turning it up to his. Even atop her perch, he towered over her. “Bliss. My wife has been dead for four years. I went to make my farewells, make peace with my memories of her. I did this because, after you came into my life, it became clear that I had met a woman with whom I could perhaps make a future. Before I could pursue this—pursue
you
—in good conscience, I had to say good-bye to my past, and so I went to visit her grave.”

Tears stung Sera's eyes, threatening to spill over. Her own hands rose to cup his cheeks in return, and she leaned forward to bring her lips to his, telling him wordlessly that she witnessed his pain; honored it.

“I'm a dumbass.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Your ass,” he said with a twinkle, “is smart enough to fascinate me on quite a regular basis.” He demonstrated by sliding his hot hand up her leg until he reached the portion of her anatomy in question, wedging his hand between it and the counter to give it a squeeze.

“It's I who have been the ‘dumbass,' Bliss,” he continued more somberly. “And I'm sorry for it. I had no business being so cryptic, and then not calling… It was wrong of me.” He shook his head. “I thought I'd be gone just a few days, that I'd have plenty of time to take care of my business and get back to you to explain more fully why I'd gone. However, when I returned to Tel Aviv, I found my family in a bit of disarray.” He stroked Sera's leg absently as he spoke, perhaps taking as much comfort as he was giving.

“My father is getting on in years, and his health has been declining for some time. Whenever I would call, my mother and sister always assured me it wasn't serious, that they were looking after him and there was nothing to worry about. Yet less than a week after I returned home, he had a stroke.” At Sera's stricken look, he hastened to reassure her. “It turned out to be very minor—some kind of infarction, I believe they called it—but he was in the hospital for several days and I needed to be there. And after that I stayed to help my mother and sister settle him back at home, to be sure they had all of the support they needed.”

“Of course,” Sera said, feeling daring enough to run two fingers down the side of his face in a gentle caress. “I'm so glad you were able to be with your parents at a time like that.” Her own parents were long gone, but Sera remembered how devastated she had been at even the hint that her aunt might be sick, when Pauline had told her and the BRBs about the lump in her breast.

Asher caught her fingers and kissed each one. “I think my family has been shielding me too much. Since my wife's death, they've tried to keep things light and respect my need to process my grief in my own way—even to moving halfway across the world. Perhaps they thought I couldn't handle another illness, and so they played down my father's condition. When I saw the reality… well, I'm afraid I became a bit caught up in family concerns. Still, Bliss, I should have called. But somehow… I just wanted to wait until I could see your face again… touch you…” Asher suited actions to words as he stroked one callused hand down her arm. “…gaze into those pretty gray eyes. And tell you… how much I've longed to be with you.”

“Asher, you really need to stop talking now.”

Sera very much enjoyed the look that crossed her handsome suitor's face.

“I'm sorry?” He took a step back, leaving her bereft of his warmth.

Sera grabbed his hand, reeled him back in. “You should be. I went to a lot of trouble to put on this mascara”—she pointed to her lashes—“and I don't think you'd enjoy seeing it decorating my cheeks like a bad batch of icing. So please, spare us both and come here and kiss me, before I start to blubber.”

Asher was nothing if not obedient.

From there, things took a rather delicious turn. Sera couldn't keep her hands off her lovely landlord, and he seemed to feel the same. Between lush kisses and caresses that sent her pulse soaring higher than the Santa Fe ski basin, he murmured words that were music to her ears. “I thought of you all the time I was away. I wondered how you were faring; whether the store had opened yet, and how you were getting along with Malcolm and Pauline. I pictured how delicious you looked the last time we were together, flushed and wanting atop that countertop in your aunt's kitchen—much as you are now. Hell, much as
I
am right now.” He grinned, framing her face in both hands so she couldn't look away despite the fresh blush that bloomed across her cheeks. “I couldn't wait to get back to you, Bliss. And I can't wait to take you out—on a real, true date.”

I can't wait either,
Sera thought.
I don't care how badly this ends. I want to follow this fantasy as far as it takes me—to smile with him, hold hands with him, and hell, yes, make love as best I can with him. So what if I'm destined for the worst case of female blue-ball syndrome in the history of the world? I'm not giving this up one minute before I have to.

She kissed him for all she was worth.

Asher kissed her back as if she were priceless.

I've never been happier in my life than I am right at this moment,
thought Sera.

The universe thought that was very funny indeed.