Hilary Fields - Bliss

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:

Cupcakes and Climaxes: New Bakery Offers More Than Just Taste Sensations

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.

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.