Page 1 of Single Mom’s Secret Diary (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection)

Avery

I grin at my father as he lays a special treat in front of me at the bar.

My son, Charlie, is already munching on his own offered pile of pastries.

My dad—Dominick Caruso—is a famous pastry chef, at least in the region.

He might not be nationally or globally renown, but he is damn good at what he does.

And that is to make the most flavor-intensive pastries in existence. That’s my truth, and I’m sticking to it.

What’s in front of me is distinctly green, and I purse my mouth. Matcha, mint, pistachio, green apple, or lime? Certainly not avocado, since I don’t see any savory garnishes.

Dad isn’t a fan of food coloring. He’s too focused on flavors for that, and dyes change the taste. I would know. We had that argument when I was seven. He stopped using them altogether in his bakes.

For his chocolates and macarons, however, he uses a smidge. Their vibrancy is a part of their appeal. I get it. He uses as many natural colorants as possible.

I sniff, closing my eyes to take in the scents of sugar and flour and butter. Vanilla, green tea, and lime. My mouth waters. I reach for a fork.

Dad is grinning at me before I take my first bite. It's a cake of some kind, layered high like an opera cake, but I never can keep the different kinds of sponge separate in my head. I can, however, pinpoint every ingredient he includes in one.

A small triangle slides onto my fork. I start with it at the front of my palate. The sweet notes of the sugar and white chocolate hit me first, then the salt, butter, and almond. Sour from the lime comes after, and the green tea comes last before I swallow.

It’s clean, refreshing, and combines the kind of complexity I’ve come to expect from my dad. I take another, larger bite, and he grins at me.

“You like?” His brows rise high on his forehead, hopeful.

“I do.” I push around the second bite, enjoying the mouth feel. His buttercream is silky and smooth without being too greasy. The sponge is moist and soft but firm enough to hold against the layers. And the ganache with the lime in it is thick as it melts. “Clean.”

His laugh is boisterous. “No notes?”

I tip my head to the side.

Dad points at me. “Ah. Tell me.”

“Maybe a little less gelatin? Pectin instead? Or just let the chocolate in the ganache do the work instead.” I smack my lips and go for a third bite. “Maybe pistachio flour instead of almond? Is that too much green?”

“No. I like it. They are in season soon, so it will match well.” Ideas are spinning in his head already. It’s a look I know far too well.

“Mmm-hmm. Just don’t forget that your grandson is here while you lose yourself in a new round of tests.” I steal one more bite for the road. I never seem to finish an entire full-sized treat. I’ve always been a fan of samplers.

For obvious reasons. The super-taster skills my dad has honed in me since I was young have set me up to try anything. Well, almost anything. That man will never offer my son a Twinkie or Oreos again after the fit I threw when they changed the recipes.

No. Thank you.

I wash my hands and straighten my jumpsuit. It’s sleek and professional, as smart as it is sexy, the kind of impression I want to make on my first day at my new job as a chocolate taster. I mean, talk about dreams coming true.

The little girl I used to be is practically screaming and jumping up and down in my head.

I round the counter to plant a solid kiss on my son, Charlie, ruffling his dark hair as he chews through a chocolate croissant. “Don’t eat too many of those. You need to eat real food, too.”

“That is real food,” my father scolds.

I plant my hands on my hips and watch him do the same. “ Balanced food. Fruits, vegetables, meats. And not all wrapped up in a buttery crust, as delicious as that might be. It will make you slow on your skates.”

The pout forming on my son’s mouth turns into a grimace. “As long as I don’t have to eat kale.”

I laugh. “No. You don’t have to eat kale.”

He nods and takes another enormous bite. Charlie truly looks so much like his father—the darkness of his hair and how it flops in his face, those almond-shaped eyes, the natural tan to his skin.

I shake my head and point at my father. “Not too many treats. Yes?”

Dad’s bluster vanishes, and he holds his arms open wide. “Yes. Come, hug your papa.”

I step into his arms and enjoy the way he squeezes me tight.

“You make me proud, bambina . Blow their socks off.”

I laugh. “Knock their socks off and blow them away, Dad.”

After another sharp squeeze, he releases me, waving his arms to usher me out the door. “Go, go, go. Don’t be late.”

Grabbing my oversized purse and heading out the door with a smile, I let the moment wash over me. It’s going to be a good day. I know it.

The route I plotted out last night will take me roughly thirty-seven minutes.

It’s a bit longer than I prefer, but it takes me out of the middle of town and down toward New Jersey.

Right at the border, industrialization has rooted itself among the rolling hills and trees of the Hudson Valley forests.

The building is squat and wide, the parking lot mostly full but not overtly large. How many workers did Nguyen Candy Company employ? I researched the variety of what they offer before my interview, having only gotten to taste a select few to remark on.

Apparently, I’d impressed HR with it, and that’s what landed me the job.

From what little they told me, I will be working directly with their chocolatier—the man in charge of creating new recipes for various seasons. This one is particularly tricky—making a chocolate with all the health benefits of dark chocolate but with the pleasing, creamy flavor of milk chocolate.

It’s not an easy ask, but I enjoy the gritty darkness of freshly ground Mexican chocolate. I still order disks of it from a company I found there nearly a decade ago. Something about the texture sends sweeter signals to my palate than others do.

Regardless, I am sure to enjoy the process.

Pulling through a gate has me showing my ID to a middle-aged guard who has a warm, fatherly smile. He places a short call inside before he lifts the bar and directs me to where someone will meet me to show me my way. I thank him as he nods me on.

All the bustle from the morning crew has passed. It doesn’t make sense to drop me in the middle of that chaos on my first day. So thank you, Pam, from HR. I greatly appreciate it as I saunter toward the door with my bag snug under my arm and pressed against my hip.

Pam, herself, is waiting by the entrance with a grin, her blonde, modern beehive holding a jeweled candy pin in the front. Seeing this kind of enthusiasm for her job endears her to me more than her overly friendly attitude.

“Welcome, Ms. Caruso. We’re so excited to have you here.

Mr. Nguyen is waiting for you in his office.

He wants to properly greet you before we take you to our chocolatier.

Our CEO is very hands-on and passionate.

I think you will like him.” Pam waves me forward, and we ascend a set of cement and metal steps to the second floor, where the general feel of manufacturing is lost to the cushy luxury of high-end offices.

The carpet dulls the sound of my heels, the light turns more natural than fluorescent, and the windows showcase the expanse of the wilderness beyond us.

Oh, I can certainly fall in love with this place for this view alone.

Try not to dawdle.

Many of the doors open to offices and a large boardroom. More of them are closed as I’m led to the back corner, where a wide door made of dark wood is cracked open.

Pam knocks, peeks her head in, and waves me forward. “Right this way.”

I step in as she opens the door wider to let me pass, and she swings it nearly closed behind her.

The sight of the man sitting behind his desk stops me halfway into the room.

I blink as if he’s an apparition, but when he stands to approach me, I recognize the way he walks, the discerning glint in his eyes, and the recognition in them.

My new boss is Charlie’s father.