Chapter 5 The Rising Heat

(Laura's POV)

I could barely sleep last night.

No matter how much I tried to shake it off, Shawn Moretti's harsh words kept replaying in my head.

"It lacks personality."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? My mille-feuille had been perfect-technically flawless. But instead of acknowledging my effort, he'd dismissed it like it was some half-hearted attempt from an amateur.

And now, standing in Moretti's Patisserie's bustling kitchen, I was more determined than ever.

If he thought I was just going to back down, he had no idea who he was dealing with.

I tightened my apron and stepped up to my station, ready to prove all over again. Around me the kitchen was buzzing - chefs kneading dough, whisking creams, plating pastries. The air was thick with warm butter and melted chocolate and I, despite my annoyance, couldn't help but feel a thrill.

I belonged here.

I was about to start my prep when Elena slid in beside me, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"He got under your skin, didn't he?"

I snorted. "Understatement of the year."

She chuckled. "Welcome to working with Shawn Moretti. He's impossible to impress."

I scowled and grabbed a bag of flour. "I noticed."

Elena tilted her head. "But if it makes you feel any better, the fact he bothered to critique you means he sees potential. Shawn doesn't waste his time on people who aren't worth it."

I blinked. That was...unexpected.

Before I could say anything, a familiar clipped voice cut through the air.

"Mendes."

I straightened up and turned to see Shawn standing a few feet away. As usual, his arms were crossed, his face impassive.

I braced myself for whatever clever comment he was about to toss my way.

"Come."

I frowned. "Why?"

He didn't answer. He just turned and walked and I followed.

Elena gave me a good luck look but I barely had time to process it before I sighed and trailed after him.

Shawn led me down a narrow hallway, past storage rooms and supply shelves, until we stopped at a private kitchen space - smaller than the main one but still with sleek countertops, industrial ovens and a pristine marble top.

He turned to me.

"You're making the mille-feuille again."

I folded my arms. "Now?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Next year."

I scowled. Smug bastard.

"Fine. I'll do it." I rolled up my sleeves and stepped up to the counter. If he wanted a redo, I'd give him a redo.

As I gathered my ingredients, I felt his presence behind me - watching, analyzing, probably waiting for me to screw up.

But I wasn't going to.

I worked fast but controlled, rolling out the dough with precision, making sure the layers of butter stayed intact.

The silence between us was thick, only broken by the sound of my knife cutting through the butter and my breathing with the sound made by the rolling pin against the marble. I refused to look at him but I could feel his eyes on me, sharp and unyielding.

He wanted to test me? Fine.

Let's play.

I set the dough to chill and moved on to the pastry cream, whisking until it thickened into a smooth, silkiness. This time I added a stronger vanilla bean infusion - richer, deeper. If he wanted personality, I'd give him personality.

Once the dough was ready, I baked the puff pastry until golden and crispy. As I layered the mille-feuille, I was steady as I piped the cream between the sheets. It was easy to do and took no effort at all.

At last, I added the gleaming finish, completing the top layer while effortlessly gliding the chocolate outline across it.

I stepped back, exhaling slowly.

"Done."

Shawn moved forward, his gaze flicking over my work. He didn't rush. First, he sliced through it, inspecting the layers-checking if they were crisp enough, even enough. His fingers brushed lightly over the pastry, testing its texture.

Then, he picked up a fork and took a bite.

I swallowed hard.

He chewed slowly; his expression impossible to read. The seconds stretched; the silence unbearable.

Then, he set the fork down.

"Better."

I blinked. "That's it?"

His lips twitched slightly. "The layers are cleaner; the pastry cream has more depth. It's closer to what I expect from Moretti's."

I searched his face, waiting for the inevitable but-the flaw he was about to pick apart.

But... it didn't come.

For the first time, Shawn Moretti wasn't criticizing me.

I could have been dreaming, but I could have sworn there was something different in his gaze. Not food for thought. Not exactly.

Slightly adjacent to that though.

A spark of pride flickered within me.

But right when I was about to enjoy that small win, he said something that completely destroyed it.

"Still not perfect," he added, almost as an afterthought.

I rolled my eyes. "Of course not."

He smirked, then straightened. "Keep improving. We'll see how you handle more complex pastries next time."

He turned and walked toward the door, but I noticed something new this time.

Yesterday, his attitude had been dismissive, like he was just waiting for me to fail.

Today?

There was something else.

Not acceptance. Not yet.

But maybe, just maybe-a flicker of respect.

And that?

That was just enough to keep me fighting.