Tuesday brunch time was never a particularly busy period at La Pétite Pâtisserie. By ten-thirty, our morning rush was over and it was only our regular customers that walked through the doors, be it the laid back art posse from the gallery down the road or the wealthy trophy wives that stopped by after their weekly Harrods visit. Over time, the staff and I had come to know the frequent fliers, but recently, a mystery man had begun to make the corner table his home away from home. 

The girls had taken to calling the man Oz, for reasons I didn't know. Being the owner, I very rarely had time to work 'on the ground', and if on the off chance I was free, I much preferred to spend my time in the kitchen, perfecting the recipes alongside the pâtisserie chefs. That didn't stop me from hearing all about the gorgeous specimen of man, as Lauren had taken to calling him. I'm not sure how much of a compliment that was to Oz- currently, Lauren was in a sex drought and thought everyone was attractive, whether they were or not. That said, Joanne had also gushed about Oz and his perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect smile... "Perfection," she commented one day. 

"Nah," our nineteen-year-old waitress, Aimee, shook her head in disagreement to Joanne's assessment of the customer. "He's more like... sex god on legs. Yep, that's what he is."

Either way, Oz was a new face around these parts, which alone, was enough to pique the women's' interest. The fact he was handsome to boot won him favours, albeit, not with our chefs. Nathaniel Hamilton and Arnaud Bertrand had long been the apple of the female staffs' eyes, but with stiff competition from Oz, the chefs were soon passing judgement on the man, too.

"His eyes are too close together," Nathaniel explained on a Friday afternoon some weeks ago. He'd come in to give me the order form for ingredients we were short of but the conversation- on his side, at least- quickly turned to Oz. "You can't trust a bloke whose eyes are too close together. Honestly, Lauren could do so much better than ogling him all the time."

I resisted the urge to make a comment about Nate's very obvious crush on Lauren and simply nodded in agreement. Arnaud, a Frenchman of few words, hardly sung Oz's praises either. Un conard, Arnaud distastefully muttered. I'm not sure what Oz had done to offend Arnaud, but considering the Frenchman rarely swore, calling a stranger a bastard was a telling sign. 

Still, I never made judgements on people without knowing them. Maybe Oz was a perfect sex god on legs, whose eyes were too close together and was a bastard, but I don't see how that would of any importance to me.

"Oh, my God, Charlotte," Aimee squealed as she mysteriously appeared in the doorway of my office. Not looking away from the spreadsheet that filled my computer screen, I paid Aimee no attention. As lovely as Aimee is, the girl was far too happy for my personal liking and her perky outlook on life was slightly naive. Thankfully, the customers didn't mind her demeanour. "He's back! Oz is back. You have to come see for yourself because Lauren and Nate are arguing about it and Arnaud is muttering gibberish and Oz is asking for you. Personally. He even called you Charlotte. Do you know him? Have you been holding out on us all this time? If you do know him, could you put in a good word for me? I'd owe you big time."

When Aimee finally stopped for breath, I looked away from my computer and stared at her. "Why is he asking for me?"

"How would I know?" Aimee shrugged, a touch of confusion in her features. Suddenly, she perked up. "Want me to go and ask him? I'll go ask him."

With that, she spun on her heels and skipped out of sight. Presumably, she was making her way back down to the shop, but I hoped she wouldn't go through with her threat to ask the guy why he was asking for me. With a soft grunt at being disturbed and having to go sort out my staffing issues, I pushed myself up out of my seat and made my way down to La Pétite Pâtisserie.

Specialising in French desserts, with a coffee shop adjacent, La Pétite Pâtisserie is my pride and joy. The shop only opened a year ago but already it had won a devout following from the London elite who liked to brag about our desserts. For a weird reason, patronising my establishment was some sort of status symbol. People took pride in saying, "Oh, I was at La Pétite Pâtisserie." Or, "The chefs at La Pétite Pâtisserie made the dessert especially for me." We weren't, by any means, an exclusive pâtisserie but we were renowned for making the best desserts this side of Paris. I had no doubt that this was because I'd managed to persuade Arnaud Bertrand, the best maître pâtissier in all France, to come work for me. The man is a genius, hands down. It was because of him all the macarons were mouthwatering, the fraisier  fabulous and the soufflés scrumptious. Without his expertise, the displays would be bare and the business bust. 

Instead, we were thriving. Each morning, Arnaud and Nate would make hundreds of delicious desserts, pastries and sweets, each handcrafted perfectly. By eight am, everything would be on display and by nine, we'd be sold out. Nine-oh-nine, however, saw the next lot of desserts greet the public. Due to our staffing numbers in the kitchen, coupled with the fact that there were so very many pâtisseries to get through, our menu changed every few hours. The first batch may be made up of Tartelette au Citron, Mille-feuille and Paris-Brest, but the second would consist of Religieuse, Mont Blanc and Financiers. The only person who knew the menu beforehand was Arnaud, and maybe Nate, but definitely not me. Then again, I'm just the owner; no one important, apparently. 

Walking through the kitchen as I made my way to the shop front, I noticed that the men had all the ingredients for éclair, choux and Lunette aux Abricot out in preparation for the lunchtime menu. In the meantime, the scent of freshly made Tarte Tatin, Baba au Rhum and Pont nNuf lingered in the air, making my mouth water and stomach grumble. It was always the case when I knew Tarte Tatin was on the menu.

"You should stop staring," I heard Nate's voice speak sternly. "It's not like he's anything special."

I found everyone huddled around the doorway that led from the kitchen to the shop, all staring at one particular customer. Rolling my eyes as their curiosity, I cleared my throat to alert my staff of my presence, quirking an eyebrow at them questioningly when they all jumped and gawped at me.

"Gents, if you're making éclairs, may I put a request in for Vienetta éclairs?" With a simple nod in response to my question, Arnaud dragged Nate back to the kitchen, leaving Lauren, Joanne and I watching Aimee flirt with Oz. "Ok, I'm pretty sure I don't pay you two to stand around and perv at customers. Who is manning the coffee bar this morning?"

Lauren raised her hand. "Me."

"You have a customer waiting," I note, seeing a well-dressed woman tapping her false nails on the counter. "Joanne, you're on the pâtisserie side. Meanwhile, I'm going to drag the baby off the customer."

Lauren and Joanne quickly scuttled away to man their duties, giving me the opportunity to take a good look at this Oz character. 

He was dressed in a sharp navy suit with a slate grey tie around his neck, his shoulders broad enough to wear the jacket well. The white shirt he wore complimented his skin tone, even if I found it hard to believe that the tan was natural and not the works of Fake Bake. His blond hair was coiffed to perfection, striking the right balance between messy and styled, while his eyes- most likely blue- were hooded. Despite that, and the fact that the British weather was gloomy outside, there was still some sparkly held in the eyes. His jaw was defined, although currently in dire need of a shave, and his lips could pout like no one's business. 

Sensing my gaze on him, Oz turned his attention away from Aimee and settled it on me. A victorious smirk worked its way onto his lips, unnerving me. I didn't understand what it meant, but I'd long ago given up on trying to understand the male species. It wasn't worth the inevitable headache to give men a second thought. Instead, I sighed and decided to find out for myself why this man had not only asked for me but had done so by name.

"Aimee," I call out to my AWOL waitress. Pointing at some of the tables around the café area, I say, "Get back to work."

"Sure," she says, shooting a smile at the man. "If there's anything you need, just call. My name is Aimee."

With a sway of her hips and a swish of her hair, Aimee made quick work of clearing the tables before running off to gossip with Lauren and Joanne about whatever Oz and she had spoken about. Choosing to ignore their procrastination, I put all my focus on the man who was still smirking at me.

"Good morning," I greet the man, a hand outstretched. "Charlotte Delaney."

"A pleasure, Miss Delaney," the man spoke, his hand connecting with mine as he stood to his full height. In that brief second, I came to realise three things: this man is tall (six-two, maybe six-three), he's Australian (hence the nickname), and I didn't like the shivers that went up and down my spine when his hand touched mine. Pulling my hand away, I waited for the man to speak again. "I must say, I've been looking forward to this day for a few weeks now. Finally, I get to meet you. It's almost as good as Christmas morning."

I frowned at his words, not understanding the meaning behind his words. I didn't know this man, but here he was, telling me that he'd been waiting weeks to meet me. What kind of creep is this man? "Excuse me?"

"They said that you're beautiful," the man commented, eyes raking over my body. In that moment, I'd never felt so self-conscious. I was by no means unattractive, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm beautiful either. The man's eyes- definitely blue, I saw- started at my feet, taking in the black court shoes I wore, before moving up my legs to take in the grey dress that fell just above my knee. His eyes darted to my face next, raking upwards to my dark hair that was worn up, before finally settling on my blue eyes. When his assessment of me was over, he grinned. "They weren't wrong."

"Who?" I asked, becoming more and more confused. Eventually, I shook my head and gave a small chuckle. "Oh, I get it. This is a joke. Well, as un-funny as this was, I don't know you."

The man's grin became bigger. "This isn't a joke, Charlie."

"My name is Charlotte, not Charlie," I said through gritted teeth. "Look, whatever your game is, I'm not playing. As much of a pleasure as this has been, I need to get back to work."

"Feisty," the man laughed. "I can work with that. Isaac Fletcher, by the way."

I frowned. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Not yet." The man- Isaac- took a step forward, that permanent smile never slipping from his lips. He slid past me, making sure to pick up his phone from the table, and began to make his way to the door. He opened it slightly, looking back at me over his shoulder with that smirk of his. "But it will. Soon."