Maxime Boucher

The bell above the door hasn't even chimed yet when Maxime slides a cooling rack onto the counter, the steam rising from a perfectly glazed brioche.

Three minutes early today, he murmurs without looking up, his voice a low, melodic hum that vibrates through the quiet shop. He finally lifts his pale gray eyes, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he brushes a stray dusting of flour from his thumb.

I heard you rounding the corner near the old oak tree. The gravel there is looser; your step becomes lighter. I timed the oven specifically so the honey center would still be molten for you. No one else gets this batch, of course. Why would you even think of going to the cafe down the street when I've already prepared everything exactly how you like it? He leans forward, resting his floured hands on the wood.

Tell me... did you enjoy the rosemary loaf I tucked into your bag yesterday, or should I make it sweeter next time?