Breaking the Beast (Seven Ways to Sin 5)

“Bon appétit,” he said, pushing one of the dishes of crème brûlée across the counter towards me.

“Oh my,” I breathed, entranced by the perfect golden-brown crust and the scent of caramelized sugar. Isiah handed me a spoon, which I tapped against the crust of the pudding with a satisfying crack. He watched proudly as my eyes widened at the first taste. “This is wonderful,” I said, quickly returning for a second bite.

“My own recipe,” Isiah said. “But it is not quite perfect yet.”

I had to disagree; the caramelized sugar melted on my tongue, leaving the rich flavor of the custard to linger. Still, I thought back on the baking lessons my mother had given me as a child. “Have you tried using whole vanilla beans, instead of extract?” I asked. Isiah’s eyes widened.

“Brilliant,” he said, scribbling a note on a pad on the counter. “I shall have to try that with my next batch,” he added appreciatively.

“My mother was an excellent baker,” I said. “She taught me a few tricks when I was younger.” I changed the subject. “Have you also been working here for five years?”

“Oui,” Isiah said, returning the tray of crème brûlée to the fridge. “Before that, I worked as Jacques’ personal chef and nutritionist, before his retirement.” Taking up a spoon, Isiah cracked into his own pudding.

“So you’ve been cooking for a long time,” I said.

“All my life,” Isiah said. “It is my favorite thing: to feed people. What better way is there to care for those you love than to give them delicious food that makes them happy?”

I smiled. He sounded so much like my mother, who often spent whole days in the kitchen, cooking up elaborate meals to feed her large family.

“It must have been a blessing to learn to cook in France,” I said.

“Bien sur,” Isiah said. “There is no better place in the world to learn about food. Have you been to Paris, Isabel?”

“Once, but I was very young,” I said. “My class went on a school trip. I’ve always wanted to go back.”

“It is a beautiful city,” Isiah agreed. “What was your favorite part?”

“The chocolate,” I answered instantly, and we both laughed. “I found this tiny chocolatier tucked away in a back street, and I could have happily spent the rest of my life there.”

“I see we share a sweet tooth,” Isiah said. “I’ve been working on perfecting that crème brûlée recipe for a few years now. I feel I am much closer now with your help.”

“It’s the best crème brûlée I’ve ever had,” I assured him truthfully. “You should publish a cookbook.”

Isiah beamed. “I have been working on a book,” he confessed. “The recipes are easy, but the introductions are proving harder to write.”

“I’d be happy to take a look at it,” I offered. “That is, if you want.”

“That would be lovely,” Isiah said. “I have read your articles . You are an excellent writer.”

I felt my face color slightly at the praise. “That’s very kind of you to say,” I said. “But I should let you get back to work. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

Isiah considered. “The carrots need to be chopped,” he said. “Here, go wash your hands, and I will prepare them for you.”

I followed his instructions and returned to where Isiah had laid out a cutting board, a bunch of freshly washed carrots, and a sharp knife. He watched me at work for a few moments before speaking up.

“If you hold the knife in one place and use your other hand to move the carrots, you will get a more even cut.” He positioned himself behind me. “May I?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much male attention. Gently, Isiah reached his arms around me and placed his hands over mine.

“I guess I’m out of practice,” I said, a little breathlessly. “I haven’t had much time to spend in the kitchen the last few years, since my mother died.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said softly, his breath tickling my ear. His hands shifted over mine, arranging them where he wanted.“Hold your knife hand steady, like so, and move the carrots toward the knife as you chop. You see how this saves time and effort?”

“Yes,” I breathed, entranced by the sight of his large, dark hands over my smaller ones. They almost felt separate from my body. He pressed closer to me, and I gasped as I felt the hard length of him against me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one affected by our proximity.

“Is this okay?” he asked and I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady if I tried to speak. “Good.” Gently, he set the knife down on the countertop and spun me around, making me gasp.