Single Weretiger DILF
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Juliette Crabtree stifled a yawn and took another swig of her steaming black coffee from the mug. The brew scalded her tongue a little but it didn’t bother her. Despite making it extra strong—a double-espresso—the coffee failed to give her the super-charged caffeine effect she was looking for. It had been brutal when she finally roused herself out of bed two hours earlier. She’d been pulling late hours for the past three days filling a large order and she was exhausted. Making pastries and candies for people to enjoy was her passion, but she loved doing it long after the sun was up. Five-thirty in the morning wasn’t a good hour of the day to be doing anything but curling up under a thick comforter and dreaming of new recipes, or occasionally dreaming that her life might have turned out differently.
She gusted a little sigh.
The pink rose-infused macaron shells were lined up on the baking tray ready to be filled and assembled. Juliette cracked a tiny smile. Watching her creations gave her a sense of pride. Macaron shell had a bastardly reputation of being difficult to make. One small misstep and she’d end up with heap of unappetizing almond meringue lumps instead of pastel-colored delicately airy cookies. Good thing that the God of Macarons bestowed His blessing today. Everything came out perfectly. Her sweets would give some Parisian bakeries run for their money. Maybe even comparable to the famed Ladurée pastry house, if she said so herself.
Now all she had to do was to pipe the filling and assembled them. The thick, creamy, rose-flavored ganache was just at the right temperature and consistency to work with. As she scooped the filling into the pastry bag, a subtle yet tantalizing Bulgarian rose scent wafted from the bowl. She couldn’t resist taking a spoon and sampling the filling.
Hmm. So damn good, she moaned in pleasure as she was momentarily transported into sweet sugary clouds of nirvana. If she were allowed to have her little own way, she co
uld eat the whole bowl by herself. Despite being a weretiger, Juliette had a chronic sweet tooth. Like hard core. Opening a French confectionery as her day job fueled her sugar addiction swimmingly.
As soon as she finished the macarons, the alarm on the oven chimed. The almond croissants had finished baking. She turned off the timer and unloaded the trays and the oven was ready for the next batch of morning pastries. After the macarons, she would make some eclair and tarte aux pommes.
All in all, today’s work was a pretty good distraction. Juliette had promised herself she wasn’t going to think about depressing things today. Not today, the anniversary of her divorce from the man she thought she’d be with the rest of her life. The man who cast her out over something she couldn’t possibly control.
“Ouch,” she yelped as she accidentally bumped her arm too close to a hot tray. “Nope. Today’s going to be good. It’s just a tiny burn that you won’t feel in a few minutes. You’re not going to let it bother you, because it’s a beautiful day, and you’re about to open and make some customers happy. Smile, Juliette. Smiiile!”
She realized Andy, one of her two employees, was leaning on the end of the counter holding a freshly baked tray of Kouign Amann, their second-bestselling pastry. Andy’s hairnet and beard-net framed the most amused expression she’d ever seen him wear. His smile widened. “It’s one thing to talk to yourself, but do you ever answer yourself?” he quipped. “Should I be worried about this? Can you still sign our paychecks?”
“Sometimes I do answer myself.” Her grin widened. “But at least it’s intelligent conversation.”
“Touché,” he said with a chuckle. “Gonna rack these to cool, then put them in the case.”
“Great, thanks. And the other voices in my head want me to thank you too.”
Andy laughed, saluted her, and headed to the other side of the kitchen to properly cool the pastries. “Juliette’s talking to herself again,” he said to her other employee, Noelle.
“Did she ever stop?” Noelle said, loud enough for Juliette to hear, then winked at her across the kitchen.
Her small shop was a three-person operation. Andy was in charge of daily pastries and cookies. Noelle manned the front and often helped the kitchen when they were swamped. Juliette made all the candies and macarons. All in all, she ran a tight and effective ship. Her employees were both humans who knew she was a were, and she could take a lot of teasing. She envied them both their youth, and the way their entire lives still stretched out in front of them. They could still look forward to falling in love, getting married, having children . . .
A tap at the front glass door of her shop drew her attention. Her breath caught, despite herself.
Ugh. Him again. Wilhelm Sorenson.
“I got it,” Andy said as he hurried to open the door.
She almost told him to let the man wait, it wasn’t even six o’clock yet, and she already thought that was a horribly early time to open. The morning coffee and pastry crowd made it well worth it, but couldn’t Wilhelm wait five more measly minutes? If he’d been anybody else she might have stared him down until the clock struck six—her official opening time.
But she couldn’t.
He also happened to be her landlord.
Her pushy, yet sexy, landlord.
Andy opened the door and flipped the sign to “open.” “Morning, sir,” he said.
“Morning, Dusfrene,” Wilhelm greeted Andy as he breezed in like he owned the place. Well. He did own the place. The building. The handsome businessman walked up to the counter and beamed to Noelle. “Morning to you too, Ms. Maison. Don’t you look lovely today. New dress?”
Unfortunately, Noelle was immune to his compliments. Wilhelm wasn’t her type she said. She preferred a lone wolf type of guy with a chip as big as a small moon on his shoulder.
Noelle replied in her typical “meh” expression that complimented her goth-attire, “Bonjour,” she said. Many people told Juliette that Noelle shouldn’t man the front of the store because she was stingy with smiles, but Juliette liked the girl. Noelle was an efficient worker and could handle high-stress situations like a boss. Plus, Juliette liked Noelle’s unique personal style. Noelle was always decked out in goth clothes that looked like cute-ified French maid dresses. It went extremely well with the theme of the shop: the turn-of-the-century Parisian confiserie. Besides, Noelle was French. Her accent sexy as hell. “The usual, sir?” she asked.
“S’il vous plait.” Wilhelm cast his gaze around and clashed with Juliette. The Bonbon kitchen was visible from the counter. He threw her his signature killer smile before he glided to the sitting area and took a seat on the bistro chair. His tall stature and long legs made it look as if sitting on it was uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem to care. He had been a Bonbon loyal customer since the first day they opened.