Make It Sweet

“You’re surprised?”

“I haven’t been offered many roles since Dark Castle. So this is . . . unexpected. Good.”

“Good.” His brief smile was wide and beautiful, and it took my breath to see it. Then, as if it hit him that he was grinning with sunny feeling, he grunted and went back to cutting the butter for his crust. “What made you want to be an actress?”

I could have given him my canned, on-standby answer, but there should be honesty between us. “I wanted to be famous.”

Lucian paused, his head jerking up.

I lowered my eyes, taking in my slim hands and wrists, which suddenly felt too fragile. “I was fourteen, and my dad was . . . in a mood. The Oscars were on, so my mom and I holed up in the den to watch. And there they were, all these women, wealthy, beautiful, and smiling.”

I glanced up and caught Lucian’s troubled gaze. My smile was one I’d used to reassure men for far too long, but it quickly slipped away under his calm quiet. Because with him, I didn’t have to appease or pretend. I swallowed hard. “To me, that was power. And I thought if I could have that power, that level of wealth and fame, I’d be safe. I’d be free.”

The preheating oven ticked in the resounding silence. Lucian’s expression pinched, and I knew he wanted to comfort me. But I couldn’t handle it in that moment.

“It wasn’t until I actually tried acting that I realized how much I loved it. Acting is challenging, fun, a safe way to express my emotions. I’d always spun tales in my head. This way, I got to tell stories in another way.”

Slowly, he nodded, a lock of inky hair falling over his brow. “You do it well, Emma.”

Emma. Only he could make my name feel like a velvet glove sliding over my skin.

“Thank you.” Success was a fickle thing; it could disappear at any moment. But under his regard, I wanted him to see me at my best. Which meant I had to get my head out of my ass, stop worrying so much, and get back into the game.

Strangely energized, I licked my lips and set my attention back on his vast marble-topped island. “You said you bake because it relaxes you, but is that the only reason?”

His head tilted, the corners of his lush lips curling. “We getting personal now?”

“I’d say so, given what I just told you.”

The teasing look melted into seriousness. “You honor me with your secrets—you know that, right?”

Maybe it was getting a little too intense, because I had the sudden urge to cry or fling myself into his arms. “You going to do the same?”

He huffed, but it was self-deprecating. “It’s the challenge. It takes precision, focus, and planning. And though baking is fairly rigid in terms of technique, creativity plays a big part in the ultimate goal.” Lucian shrugged. “It may not seem much like hockey, but it involves both the mind and the body working as one and total dedication to the outcome.”

“Do you ever think about doing it professionally?”

At that, he turned back to his work, a frown of concentration pulling at his brows. “No.”

“Hmm. And yet your great-grandfather trained you. Did he want that for you?”

At this he smiled, a thin ghost of a gesture that haunted his handsome face. “Actually, he didn’t. He wanted me to follow my dream of being a hockey player.” The haunted smile grew sharp edges. “He said a person would never find true peace and happiness until they followed their passion and love. I suppose he ought to know. He loved being a chef.”

The fact that Lucian referred to his great-grandfather in the past tense made it clear he was no longer with us. But I couldn’t help asking, “Did he ever see you play professionally?”

Lucian’s expression shut down. “Once. But he . . . well, I was never certain he really understood.”

“I don’t . . . what do you mean?”

Lucian let out a slow breath, as though pained. “Seven years ago, he was struck by a car when crossing the street in Paris.” He swallowed thickly. “Jean Philipe survived, but his brain sustained a fair bit of damage. He wasn’t the same man—confused me for my dad, lost words, memories, certain motor functions. He got worse over time. Amalie took care of him. Three years ago, he died of pneumonia.”

“Oh, Lucian. I’m so sorry.” I wanted to hug him so badly my hands shifted forward on the table, but every taut line of his body told me to back off.

“I am too.” He blinked down at the marble countertop, spreading his big hands wide upon it. “I don’t know if it was bad luck on my part or what, but I started getting concussions. Amalie was terrified. I placated her with assurances. Physical injuries were part of the life I led. But that last time, I lost consciousness. My brain became a liability. There are things about that time that I can’t remember. Things that are fuzzy around the edges. But the horror of knowing that I could, if I wasn’t careful, end up like my great-grandfather was crystal clear.”