Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(3)

And it was in this Village that my favorite cheese shop on the entire planet lived, this cheese shop that I walked three blocks south of my normal route to stare at. And quite possibly drool at.

Cheese. Cheeeeeese. What a thin, flat, nasal-sounding word for such a luscious, rich, gorgeous thing. Hard. Soft. Ripe. Grainy. Creamy. Often stinky. I’d yet to find a cheese I didn’t adore.

My love affair with cheese went back to childhood, when I’d sit in our kitchen with a dish of ricotta sprinkled with sugar. My mother, a world-renowned artist, would work on her sketches; there were countless sketches in every room of our brownstone. I’d eat scoop after scoop of the decadent cheese, and we’d talk about anything and everything. As I got older, my palate developed further, and I continued my love of all things dairy. If I ever developed lactose intolerance, I’d throw myself into the East River.

I’d often wondered if the size of my considerable posterior was directly related to my love of Gorgonzola. If the size of my thighs was exacerbated by my craving for Edam. Probably. But I could live with big thighs and a grabbable ass. Live without Roquefort? Perish the thought!

As I approached La Belle Fromage, I felt the fontina sending out a tendril or two. Come here, Natalie, lay your gentle head down on these pillows of Camembert, or cradle a chèvre against your lovely bosom. And here, Natalie—come sit by this English cheddar, a cheeky bastard but strong and capable, willing to prop you up if you are tired from your long journey underground . . .

“Never skip lunch again,” I muttered to myself as I pushed open the heavy oak and lead-glass door.

“There she is!” a voice sang out, and my favorite cheese monger, Philippe, came around the counter.

“My beautiful Natalie. I worried when I didn’t see you! It’s almost six o’clock, I was almost ready to close up!”

“Had to work a little late.” I smiled, leaning in for the double kiss but with a curious look. “How’d you know I’d be stopping by?”

He rolled his eyes in a way that only a Frenchman could get away with without seeming rude. “être vénère. You think I don’t know the habits of my best customer? Always on Friday, always on your way home. ‘How’d you know I’d be stopping by’ indeed . . .” He walked around the counter muttering, knowing I’d follow. The shop was almost empty, just one other customer. Younger guy, knit cap, with a few blond curls escaping. Bottle-green eyes that met mine in the mirror behind the case. I let the tiniest smile creep over my face as I checked out a display just to his left, making sure to make eye contact once more.

Good boy, come this way. He grinned at me in the mirror, and I pretended to not see it. I played with the edge of my coat, letting my fingers do their lingering along my collarbone. He put down his Gouda, picked up a cheese log, and from the way he was holding it, I knew I’d hit pay dirt.

Mmm, start out the weekend with a quickie? Good goddamn I’m good.

Knowing that I had the pup right where I wanted him, I headed over to the counter where Philippe was still going on and on about how well he knew me and how I alone appreciated his perfect palate. I paid attention, but mostly my eyes were on the Cheese Mecca that beckoned.

Philippe prided himself not only on having one of the most complete selections of French cheeses, of course, but on finding the most interesting and wonderful local cheeses from all over the Northeast. He knew my favorites, he knew what I liked, and he knew what I loved.

“Now then, you must try this. I’ve been sold out of it all week, but I just got more in for the weekend business. Taste this!”

I tasted this and that, a little here and a little there, my toes curling inside my shoes as he placed slice after slice of heaven in my hand, where it quickly disappeared into my nearly panting mouth.

“Now then, this one is really going to knock your shoes off,” he cried, pulling a new round from the case with a look of delight.

“Socks, not shoes.”

“Oui, of course.” He leaned across the counter with a spoonful of something rich and dense.

I opened my mouth, he slid it in, and the second it hit my tongue, I moaned.

I knew that taste. I dreamed of that taste. I moaned again.

I heard a small cough from behind me, and I knew Knit Cap Quickie Guy was very aware of the sounds I was making. I didn’t even bother blushing; I was enjoying this too much. To be clear, I was enjoying what was in my mouth.

I opened my eyes to find Philippe standing there, grinning widely, delighted that he’d picked exactly the right one. This cheese was killing me.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, delicately licking my lips, already knowing the answer.

“It’s brand-new, from a small dairy in the Hudson Valley. Bailey Falls—”

“—Creamery,” I said, the word creamery falling from my lips like a caress.

I knew the man who had made this. Strike that. I was aching to know the man who had made this. Know him, and know him.

“I’ll take it,” I told Philippe, my voice breathy. I looked left and saw the other customer, the guy who just moments ago I was considering bringing home for a Friday Night Special. He now paled in comparison to—

Long tanned fingers

Beautiful strong hands

No no. Save it until you get home and can enjoy. No mental pictures right now, get home before you—