Wax

Thirteen

A/N: Beans! Welcome back. I'm terribly sorry for the delayed update, I'm currently working on the second cover for the Baked Series (Brave Love) and also Xander's birthday special. It will be a chapter from his point of view on Chip finding out about Atlas' hobby. Hehe. 

It's a long chapter, but I hope you enjoy it. I'll see you next week ^0^/ 

_____________________________

[Vanilla]

The wait was nothing short of long and arduous. Andre had, himself, brought out three servings of his signature chocolate lava cake and presented them to us before, perhaps instinctively, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye out for Violet—who had, for the previous four courses, swooped in with a cart full of surprises. Needless to say, by now, this was precisely what the rest of the room was truly waiting for; in anticipation and bated breath.

"Enjoy." Chef Andre prompted a second time, gesturing towards the dessert spoons.

"Should we be waiting for Miss Birchwood?" Beside me, Lockhart had carelessly expressed an eagerness for the mystery menu, which, by far, was not to Andre's pleasure. Unsurprisingly so.

Half the media had their eyes on the rounded entryway, fixed in stone and perhaps even more so with this being the final course of the evening; a chance to finish the evening with a splendid banger of a dessert. And for all intents and purposes, tonight's verdict was glaringly obvious: I was not the only one impressed by the anonymous chef. Already, I could imagine the headlines alluding the evening's events to that of a fictional tale about a cooking rat.

A brief but significant sign of movement turned heads towards the anticipated doorway, expecting yet another grand entrance of the celebrity pastry chef and her cart of delights when all bated breath came to a standstill at the appearance of a stranger dressed in a waiter's uniform.

"Coleman!" Andre was back to being on guard, gaze hardening in an instance of aggravation. "What are you doing here?"

The man dressed as a waiter had on his face a look on confusion. "I don't know. I ran into Violet Birchwood in the secondary and she told me to bring this here." He held up a decent-sized dish veiled by a cloche. "I was just going to get some stuff I left in the lockers and she pushed this onto me. Did something happen? You invited Violet Birchwood to dinner?"

The many questions and embodied uncertainty of a staff member chipped at Andre's reassured confidence and control over the situation. He crossed the room and nearly snatched the dish out of the waiter's hands.

"Enough. You've done your job. You can go now."

"Hold on," I raised a hand, stopping the young man in his tracks. "Did Miss Birchwood have anything else to say? About the dessert, perhaps."

"Um," he frowned with a pause, unsure. "Not much. Only that it's a new cake flavour she has up on her flagship store."

Andre was quick to snatch up the opportunity. "So a gift from Violet, then?"

"I guess so, yeah."

While this seemed to satisfy half the audience of the show, another half—writers and photographers hungry for some celebrity news—displayed an urge to scramble after the well-known pastry chef. Knowing her, she could very well already be on an Uber back to her hotel or on her boyfriend's luxury sports car to his apartment. Many years of training had made her out to be a professional at escaping cameras as much as she was at directing viewfinders her way.