[ The part of her that's still an innocent, a young woman loved and spoiled by all around her, looks at Neuvillette with raised brows and a slight pout to her lips as he chews the treat she has specially prepared for him. She knows they're good; she made enough that she would have time to taste test her own work— after all, she hardly wishes to ply him with lesser desserts, and yet all she can think as she watches is that he hates it, that he'd as soon spit it out if she weren't looking right at him.

The grown woman, Boss of the Spinula di Rosa, tells herself sternly that she's being ridiculous.

But it doesn't really help when he compliments, in what seems to her to be a particularly measured and careful way, the technique of her baking, and not the flavor. Navia sighs, and makes quite the show of it, of rolling her eyes as her arms fold over her chest. Despite her misgivings, there's something playful in her expression, and yet— ]

Monsieur Neuvillette, surely you are aware that the baker bakes not for others' enjoyment of her technical proficiency? Of course I'm glad to hear that the macarons have come together well— [ but, quite frankly, she already knew that ] —but I'm far more interested in your opinion on how they taste.