Free Sweet by Alysia Constantine

she asked. “You’re growing up, little guy!” She tousled his hair, jumped back to avoid the swat she knew was coming and breezed out to the front of the shop. “I’ll make us some coffee to go with that!” she shouted. On her way out, Jules swore he heard her whistling the chorus to “If I Only Had a Brain.”
    Clearly, she wasn’t about to answer him about Grasshopper. She seemed, in point of fact, to be having entirely too much fun teasing him about it.
    ‘Trice returned with two demitasse cups of espresso decorated with curls of lemon peel and set them on the steel countertop between them.
    “Ready?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at Jules and grabbing a fork. “We’ll do it on the count of three. Let’s see if he’s worthy of you or just a lowly insect.”
    “I don’t—” Jules started to protest, but ‘Trice pushed a fork at him and cut him off, loudly counting down.
    “One!” she hollered, holding up a finger on her free hand. The other hand, holding the fork, hovered over the dessert. Jules sighed and took up his own fork and waited.
    “Two!” she yelled. Jules rolled his eyes and motioned with his fork for her to get on with it.
    “Two-point-five!” she said slowly, waggling her fork. “Will he be worthy of the great Chef Burns? Does he have the chops to deserve your cupcakes? Does he, in fact, have the choppers?”
    “ ‘Trice, I will fire you for this,” Jules warned, leaning heavily on the counter.
    “You absolutely will not,” she shot back, but sighed and rolled her eyes again. “Okay, you big baby. Three. Three! Taste ! ”
    The two of them sank their forks into the pudding simultaneously. When they clinked against each other, Jules eyed her again with irritation and held his still. ‘Trice pulled her fork out, held it high, and said, “Here’s to you, BB!” With that, she popped the bite into her mouth and made an exaggerated face of delight. “Mmmmmm, good! Chops galore! He can eat my cupcakes any time!” When Jules glared at her, she said, “Taste it, you big chicken-baby. It’s not poisoned, if you’re worried about that. I have learned to detect Iocane powder.”
    Just before he could answer, the bells on the shop’s front door jangled. ‘Trice hollered, “That’s my cue!” and was off, leaving the kitchen door flapping in her wake and Jules holding a drippy bite of the pudding on his fork.
    It was, for Jules, one of those moments that slows down so completely that the dust motes floating in the air seem to freeze and turn into little stars in the sunlight, the sound washes away to background ocean noise and the breath slides out slowly, like a silk ribbon dropping off a package. It was one of those moments for Jules. He held the fork near his mouth and watched one glistening, amber drop of bourbon sauce slip and fall, watched it round itself into a perfect ball as it went, watched it splat down onto the top of the pudding, sending little spatters onto the counter and the back of his hand.
    It shouldn’t matter this much, Jules thought and shook his head. He slipped the bite of pudding into his mouth, deliberately unceremonious.
    It tasted entirely different from his own version of the recipe. It was heartier, heavier ( the bread, he thought), and smoky ( the bourbon ), with the faintest hint of orange ( improvising! Jules thought and blushed just to picture this man tasting and imagining and playing as he went). It was a little rough, a little dry and certainly not very subtle, but it was, he thought, sliding his tongue against the thick, eggy bread—bread this man’s fingers had ripped and pressed—absolutely sexy.
    He took one more bite and held it gently in his mouth, pressing with his tongue until the smoky syrup drizzled down the back of his throat, and then, from the walk-in fridge, he pulled milk, eggs and butter. Because he wanted to answer this, to make something that might hit the same notes, or make a harmony, something that would float above