{insert clever title here}

Part One

I rinsed my hands under a stream of warm water, then dried them on the cheery green dishrag hanging by the sink. The pitter-patter of the rain sliding down the window panes was soothing, and a wave of warmth radiated throughout my body as I stood near the wood-fire oven. The aroma of freshly baked pastries wafted through the tiny kitchen, filling my mind with joyful thoughts and conjuring up the memories of my youth.

Floating around the room, I examined the desserts in various stages of completion. In a heavy copper pot a fine white sugar was caramelizing into an amber sauce with a satisfying hiss. Only a few more minutes on that one, I noted. The oven dinged to signal that the third layer of the chocolate cake had finished baking, and I grabbed a pair of oven mitts and set the spongy cake on the rack to cool. Then I remembered the galettes!

The butter had been removed from the fridge long enough that I was able to press a fingertip into it and make a small indenture. I worked quickly on the simple dough, extra generous with the rich butter to ensure maximum gratification. The analog clock flashed twenty-two, and I realized I wouldn't finish at this pace. Valentine's day was tomorrow and everything had to be ready for the giant orders we had been receiving all week. Without much rhyme or reason, I floured the surface of the wooden countertop and began rolling out the dough like a maniac. My arms were strong from working in the bakery the whole day, and the task didn't take long to complete. I sliced the peaches and strawberries into thin slivers, and precipitously arranged them on the delicate tarts.

Just as I was setting them in the oven, I heard the door creak open. I wiped my hands on my pale blue gingham apron, and turned around quickly. A man I had never seen before was standing before me, in the midst of all the flour and sugar and egg shells littered around the cluttered kitchen. He was classically tall, dark, and handsome, but he didn't have the gracious charm of one who usually possessed these qualities. His hair was ruffled, looking as soft as the chocolate I had been working with all day. He had an apologetic expression in his sea green eyes, as if he had been intruding on something. I straightened up immediately.

"Are you Naomi?" I wasn't expecting anyone. Fleur de lis was my sanctuary, and its kitchen was my sacred place. Nobody ever came to the back this late, not even Annika, the owner.

"Yes," I said. I didn't know who this stranger was, but I did know that I was standing there mutely, and letting him see the mess of a kitchen I kept. There were cast-iron pans and silver whisks piling up in the sink, and the half-empty container of baking-soda was left precariously balanced at the edge of the countertop. I felt like apologizing, but then I didn't know what to say. Usually, I would start off sentences and they would drift away from me until I had no idea what I was trying to say in the first place. For once I clasped my hands in front of me and let him do the talking.

"You can go home now," He said, in a charming voice. I blinked a couple of times, confused. Did Annika die? "I start work tomorrow, and I thought it would be a good idea to clean up from today and learn where everything is." Maybe he was kidding. Cleaning up after me would be laborious.

"Okay," I said. Not even, do you want my help? Not even, the bowls go on the third shelf from the left. Just a less than eloquent okay. Fleur de lis never had more than one pastry chef at a time, there was never enough space. I grabbed my gray wool jacket and stepped out into the cobblestone street, wondering how this new situation would affect me. I was greeted by a gust of frigid wind, stinging my cheeks, then walked around the perimeter of the bakery to the back where I had left my bike.

The rain was pouring down in sheets now, like the tiers of our famous wedding cake. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass of the abandoned hat-store across the street. I grimaced at my disheveled appearance. Although I enjoyed all things feminine, I had never been one of those girls with a perpetually appearance, and my lipstick was often smeared to one side. I was never the type who sported a messy-chic look, or had bed-head hair that actually looked sexy. My honey-blonde strands were draped limply over my shoulders, and my blouse was twice as rumpled as it looked this morning. And I had forgotten to iron it. Mr. Stranger probably thought I was homeless. I walked with an urgent pace towards the bike rack, determined to make it home before eleven.

The blackness of the night fell over the city like a warm blanket, punctuated by tiny pinpricks of white light. All of a sudden, it occurred to me that all the bikes were gone. I stopped abruptly, then glanced around to make sure I was looking in the right place. Not a single bike was left out in the parking lot.

My heart sped up and I bent down to confirm what I already knew. My purple plastic bike chain had been severed into two pieces! A pit of dread formed in my stomach. I didn't like the thought of walking home two miles in a neighborhood that wasn't particularly safe. And the bike was practically the only remotely expensive thing I owned. College life wasn't really about living lavishly.

"Wait!" A voice pierced through the silence like a blade. My head jerked up, and I watched a dark silhouette approach me with celerity. It was the mysterious guy. He looked kind of funny running out of bakery like that. He was impeccably well-dressed, and now the rain made his clothes cling to his muscular form like he was some sort of hero in an action movie. Then, I noticed that he had my brown canvas bag slung under his arm.

"You left this," He said, and I self consciously crossed my arms over my chest. I took the bag out of his hands and our hands touched briefly. His hands were warm. I temporarily forgot about the bike.

"Thank you so much," I stammered, feeling a blush creep onto my cheeks. I realized I probably looked like a cat left out in the rain. His mouth creased into a smile, pretending to ignore my embarrassment.

"You are a terrible cook," He remarked good-naturedly. I reached into my bag and pulled out a good-sized ball of pastry dough wrapped in plastic wrap. He watched curiously as I broke off a piece and handed it to him.

"I admit to being a messy cook, but a terrible cook I am not." I didn't know where this feisty energy inside me was coming from, only that when he grinned, the feeling intensified. He took a small bite, and his face lit up.

"Not bad." He was teasing me.

"It's great, actually," I said smiling, and tore off a piece for myself. Just then it hit me that we were standing out in the pouring rain and I still didn't know this guy's name.

"I'm Ian, by the way," He said, as if he could read my mind. He extended his hand, and I shook it. It was soft and smooth, unlike the rough, calloused skin I had. I hoped my mascara wasn't streaming down my face.

Suddenly, I saw a flash of blue out of the corner of my eyes. A hooded figure had taken my bike and was riding it up the street!

"That's mine!" I yelled, and took off after him. It was hard to see where I was going, but I kept my eyes fixated on the back wheel. My feet were flying as I sprinted after him, not slowing down until he reached the park. As soon as I saw him whoosh through the entrance gates, I knew I had no chance of reaching him now. Frustrated, and deeply disappointed, I relented.

"What the hell?" Ian came rushing over to me, his eyes wide with concern. I was still panting heavily. I couldn't believe he had come after me.

"That - guy - stole my bike!"

"I'll help you get it back," He said, chivalrously. But it was too late, I thought. The thief had a huge head-start.

"You don't have to," I said, losing my words, "He's gone, anyways." My bike. My favorite bike. My faithful bike that had never ever gotten a flat tire, or left me stranded on the side of the road. It was speedy too, high-quality, and aerodynamic. I would never see it again.

"The other entrance to the park is barred," Ian said helpfully.

"So he has no escape," I thought aloud. I hesitated for a moment. "Should I call the police?"

"We can take him." His words sent shivers up my spine, and my cheeks flushed again.

"I don't want to drag you into this," I said, glancing at the tall iron gates. The park looked like a

shadowy jungle, enveloped in darkness."Well, I'm not leaving you here." He met my eyes and a burst of adrenaline coursed through my veins. We took off down the tenebrous path, and suddenly I wasn't so afraid anymore. The streetlights cast a dim glow over everything, and Ian gave me a reassuring smile. A wave of warmth and excitement engulfed me.