Madeleine Cookie X Espresso Cookie Novels & Stories

I never could understand why people would choose those monstrosities over real flowers. The ticking of the clock was the only sound adding to the mundane background of the room until an espresso pot made its presence known. My eyes instantly snaked their way to the beep. There was a table filled with baked goodies. They were probably stale. I toddled to the table, and I turned off the coffeemaker that sat in the middle of the sea of sugary chaos. I lifted the clear cover and grabbed a chocolate-chip cookie. I brought it to my mouth, and I nibbled a piece, just enough to check its shelf-life. “Hmm, fresh," I wolfed down the tasty treat along with three or maybe five more. But who was counting

After all, Marco was still holding my hand, not even thinking of letting go. “Hello, Ma’am Lexien! Hello as well, Sir!” one of my staff greeted us with a wide, excited smile. I smiled back politely, and when I looked at Marco, he was smiling too. "Hello," he greeted. “Uhmm, what’s Maxien’s favorite cookie again?” I asked, changing the subject. “That kid loves anything as long as it’s from you,” he replied. “Nelly, give me one box of these and one box of the chocolate cookies too,” I instructed one of the staff, who quickly got moving.

she announced with a dramatic flourish. I laughed. "You're still calling it that?" She nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! Espresso to wake you up, caramel to sweeten your day, a dash of cinnamon for that extra kick, and oat milk for the smooth finish. Perfect for number crunchers like you." Moments later, Lila slid the steaming cup across the counter. The aroma was intoxicating, a combination of strong coffee and sweet caramel. "Here you go. On the house," she winked.

I closed the file on the tablet with a decisive snap. “Set the alarm, Chloe. And prepare three trays of my signature, perfectly salted caramel macarons. The kind that tastes exactly like existential despair and expensive butter. I'm going to meet my new best friend.”

From my seated position, the cookies are at perfect eye level, and against my better judgment, I pick one off the top of the pile. It's dark brown and brittle. A few pieces flick off as I lower the cookie closer to the small plate my cup of coffee sits on. Burnt doesn't begin to describe the abomination in my hand. It looks like she put the cookie through torture. "What kind are they?" I ask before bringing the cookie to my lips. "Chocolate chip." Tabitha grins, looking down at the plate. "They're a little burnt." A little burnt is an understatement. That's like saying the Titanic nudged an icicle.

I am not on social media so I probably shouldn't worry about that. But what if my co-workers saw it...what if... "Lena". His voice cuts into my thoughts. I blinked. "You can trust me". Wait what? How did he read my mind? "I’ll have the special house blend latte, but make it with oat milk instead of regular, extra shot of espresso, and a touch of cinnamon on top.and one of those fresh blueberry muffins if they’re still warm,please.” He said all of a sudden. I blinked and nodded slowly then pulled the window to the kitchen area.

Dad gave me one of the cookies, and it was the best cookie I had ever eaten in my life. “Don’t be shy. What’s your favorite cookie?” Christine’s gentle coaxing brought me out of my memory and back to the present. With a faint smile, I replied, “Monster Cookies.” Her eyes lit up. “I haven’t made those in years—what a great choice. I’ll have to find some M&M’s. Sit down, dear. Do you want soothing to drink?” “I’m fine for now, thanks.” I took a stool seat at the counter and looked around at all the food she had cooked. “I have to ask, what’s with all the food?”

Rafael I push the little plate aside and look at Madeleine. “You pick one,” I say. “I like all of them.” Her eyes haunt me. She’s practically begging me to forgive her, and it’s hard not to crack under the pressure. “No.” She shakes her head. “The cake is the one thing you wanted to do.” “Fine. The Italian Cream,” I end the conversation right then and there. I cannot take one more argument. She perks up and smiles, but I quickly crush her excitement with a cold look.

It’s warm in the way memories are, wrapping around me like a childhood blanket. The place is barely bigger than a closet, tucked into the corner of a sleepy Brooklyn block. Brick walls, dusty wood shelves, a chalkboard menu with smudged prices. Nothing flashy. Just comfort. I step up to the counter, clearing my throat. “Box of chocolate-dipped cannoli. And almond crescent cookies.” The older woman behind the register, short, with gray streaks in her tight bun and shrewd eyes that miss nothing, tilts her head. “You a Madrigal?”

The background was so soothing with some instrumental songs in the background while the nobles were chattering with each other. I let my eyes wander over the display, checking every polished silver tray on the table. I was hesitant about what to eat and took my time until my eyes landed on those Madeleines dusted with sugar and Eccles cakes. The sweet aroma of the pastries reached my nostrils, and my mouth watered. I could already imagine savoring those in a quiet place. Just as I reached for one of the golden Madeleines, a calloused hand brushed against mine, targeting the same pastry that I also wanted.