Hilary Fields - Bliss

Oh, 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.

At 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.