by Morgan James
“Right. Okay. Shift over, let me at your fridge. I’m not eating sad eggs when you have this setup. We are eating omelets.”
Remy put his hands on Ash’s hips and shifted him over. His touch burned and sent tingling shivers all through Ash’s body. Ash heated and his brain stalled. He’d never been so close to another man outside of acting or family.
Meanwhile Remy was apparently oblivious to the turmoil he’d left in his wake. He opened the fridge and started inspecting vegetables and muttering to himself, completely uninterested in Ash, which, Ash berated himself, was a good thing.
Trying to regain composure, he turned away and flicked the dial to turn the hob off. Didn’t look like they’d be needing it yet.
By the time Remy settled his armload of veg on the counter, Ash was ready to face him again.
“All right. I need a cutting board.” He looked at Ash with raised eyebrows, and Ash pointed. “Okay, so, first we need to wash things.” He passed Ash the pepper, a tomato, and some mushrooms. “Do I need to give you instructions on how to clean those?”
Ash narrowed his eyes. “That is my fridge, you know. I did buy these”—Etta bought them, but it was mostly with his money, so semantics—“and have made salads before.”
Remy held up his hands as if in defensive apology, but he didn’t sound contrite in the least when he said, “Okay, okay, just checking. Wash those. I’ll get started on the garlic and onion.” He turned to the knife rack and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Come to Papa, my pretties.”
It should have been creepy, but instead it filled Ash with overwhelming fondness.
He scrubbed the pepper and tomato, then diligently cleaned the mushrooms of any dirt remnants—he kinda wished he’d never learned where they grew—and listened to the tap-tap of Remy’s knife. It started off slow but turned into a flurry of sound. Ash looked over and saw Remy expertly mincing a clove of garlic. His long-fingered hands manipulated the knife with a competency Ash had only ever seen on cooking shows.
Ash swallowed hard and wished suddenly and fervently that he didn’t have an embarrassing crush on Jamie Oliver, or that Remy wasn’t doing such a fine impression.
Ash turned back to the mushrooms. If the next one looked especially attacked and bedraggled after he was done with it… well, Remy needn’t know why.
Task completed, Ash turned round in time to see Remy dice the last of the red onion. It was still stupidly hot.
Remy looked up. “All done? Perfect.” He scraped the onion into a bowl—and when had he gone looking for that?—put the board back on the counter, and waved Ash over. “Your turn.”
“What?”
“Show me your chopping skills, dude.”
Ash wrinkled his nose. “Nowhere near good as yours.”
“Hmm, I didn’t think they would be. Not when you said you didn’t know how to use this stuff. But show me what you got, I can give you some pointers.”
He handed Ash the pepper. Nervous—he hated an audience when he didn’t know what he was doing—he chopped roughly at the pepper.
“Dude,” Remy exclaimed, affronted. “Don’t tell me this is how you cut everything.”
“Er. Maybe?”
“Okay, no. First of all, your grip is wrong. Can I have the knife for a second? Look. Like this.” Remy curled three fingers around the handle and gripped the blade between thumb and forefinger. It looked hazardous. “You have better control if you hold the blade. You try.” He handed it back, and Ash tried to mimic him. “Better. I’m going to fix your hold. So keep still so I don’t run into the blade, please.”
Remy placed his hand over Ash’s, and only terror at the thought of dismembering him allowed Ash to curb the impulse to jump, to jerk away. His heart rabbited.
“Perfect,” Remy announced after he’d shifted Ash’s thumb. He released his grip, and Ash wanted to shiver when he brushed his wrist. “Okay, now on to How to Hold Your Vegetable—and that sounds way dirtier than I intended,” he laughed. “Seriously, though, if you hold it like this—” He placed his fingertips on the pepper and then curled his hand overtop. “—you never have to worry about taking out a finger. It also means you can eventually pick up speed.” He grinned. Ash’s insides did somersaults.
Not wanting to look a gift cooking lesson in the mouth, he focused on the pepper and did his best to ignore the heat of Remy at his side. He tried to mimic Remy and started cutting.
“Nice,” Remy said softly and encouragingly. Ash shivered.
“Thanks,” he croaked and looked over—and was instantly caught in Remy’s gaze. For a long, agonizing moment, they stared at each other. Remy licked his lips and they shone.
Desperate to break the spell, to force Remy out of his space, Ash cast about for a distraction. “How do you know all this?”
“Oh, uh, my mom’s a chef.” Remy stepped back, and Ash nearly sighed with relief. “She’s got her own restaurant now. But when I was a little kid, she worked part-time, and so she was around more for dinner. She taught me everything she knows.” He let out a wee sigh. “Damn, I miss her cooking.”
“She live in Toronto?”
“Nah, she’s east of there. I grew up about two hours down the 401. Mom and Stepdad are still there. When I was studying in Toronto, I used to drive home to the restaurant on weekends for Mom’s food. But can’t exactly do that now. I have a lot of her recipes, but it’s not the same.”
Ash pushed away old memories—he’d been fifteen the last time he had his maw’s home cooking—and nodded.
“Anyway.” Remy cleared his throat. “All chopped up? Perfect. Now, I need a whisk, an egg flipper, and some spices.”
Ash crossed the kitchen and opened the cupboard with the spices, then reached to open the drawer with the whisk and flipper. When he turned to hand them to Remy, he found him openmouthed and staring avidly at the spice rack.
Remy reached out and began fondling the labeled containers. “Damn. Why do you have this collection if you don’t cook?”
Ash narrowed his eyes, starting to feel judged. “I told you I want to… and anyway, Etta likes making salad dressing.”
“Right. Okay. Well, how do you feel about a spicy omelet? Or maybe something with less heat?” His lips twitched. “What about some oregano? Hmm, or maybe basil…?” He grabbed a couple of spices and set them on the counter.
He turned on the hob and glugged oil into the frying pan, his thumb over the spout like Jamie Oliver did. Ash swallowed.
Next Remy pulled a bowl from the cupboard, cracked some eggs into it, and whisked them briskly. He checked the pan, then scraped the veg from the cutting board, and they sizzled on contact. He looked confident as he moved—comfortable and without hesitation. Ash second-guessed every action in the kitchen.
Before long Remy added the spices, then the eggs, and ordered Ash to make toast.
“Oh! We forgot about the bacon.” Remy threw a guilty look in Ash’s direction.
Ash shook his head. “As if we need more food when you’re making that.” He nodded at the extra-large omelet, which was almost done.
Remy scratched his nose. “Well, if you’re sure. Only it wouldn’t be done on time if we started it now.”
Ash pointedly put the bacon back in the fridge. “Etta will be pleased to discover it’s still there later.”
Remy found plates and served them each half the omelet and added the toast. They settled at the breakfast bar with their meal and glasses of orange juice.
Ash took his first bite of egg and moaned. They were heavenly. He quickly cut another, forked it into his mouth, and let out more noises of delight. Delicious. “This is fantastic.” He turned to see Remy had turned red under the compliment. “Truly, it’s the best omelet I’ve ever had. Ever.”
Remy smiled and shook his head. “Thanks. It’s kind of a specialty of mine. Full of protein and vegetables. I make them an embarrassing amount, actually.” He wrinkled his nose adorably and then finally took a bite. He gave a thoughtful-sounding no
ise of satisfaction.
“Feel free to make them for me anytime,” Ash said earnestly, “because these are amazing.”
Remy glowed. And then Ash’s brain caught up with his mouth and he realized he’d invited Remy to cook for him more often, to be here again. Should he clarify he hadn’t meant to insinuate anything? But doing that would make things awkward, surely. He shoved another bite of omelet into his mouth, the better to keep it silent.
They didn’t talk while they cleaned their plates. Ash was always starving after a run, and with food this delicious, he saw no reason to slow down.
He was seriously considering licking his plate clean, when Remy let out a snort.
“If you’re that hungry, I can make you another.”
Ash looked up. Remy was smiling and apparently had been watching him eye up his crumb-filled plate. It was Ash’s turn to blush.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’m full. Only… it was really good.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Remy’s smile turned soft and genuine. “Seriously, I could make another.”
Ash shook his head. “You’re my guest. I shouldn’t be making you cook for me.”
Remy waved him off. “I offered, remember. I was the one who basically told you I could do better than you. And now I think about it, how about you forget that happened and that I was such a shitty guest?”
Ash laughed. “Alright.” He stood and gathered up his dishes. Remy moved to follow, but Ash waved him off and swiped his dirty plate. “No. You made me brunch. Forget about it, I’m not letting you wash up.”
Remy held up his hands. “I won’t argue. Always hated washing dishes.”
Ash shrugged. He’d always enjoyed tidying up and wasn’t bothered. While Remy watched, he scraped off the plates, loaded them into the dishwasher, and then tackled the frying pan. He was scrubbing it free of egg when Remy hopped off his stool. He wandered down the length of the counter and stopped in front of the shelf of cookbooks.
He hummed as he read the titles. “You a fan of Jamie Oliver?”
God, would Ash ever stop blushing today? “Etta and I watch a lot of Food Network.” He scrubbed harder at the pan.
Remy stepped toward him. “Okay. But I think you got the full Oliver oeuvre.”
Ash couldn’t read his tone, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to look.
“Oliver’s your favorite, then?”
Ash shrugged a shoulder. “I guess.”
Remy fell quiet, and Ash finally stole the courage to look. Remy was creeping closer, head cocked.
“You’re blushing,” he gasped with delight. “Ohh. Do you have a mancrush on Jamie Oliver?”
Ash’s cheeks burned brighter. “I do not,” he said indignantly, which was the truth. He didn’t have a mancrush.
“You do. That’s adorable!” Remy smiled again. Ash was as helpless under that grin as all the others.
Ash huffed and scowled at the now-clean frying pan.
“Aw, I’m sorry. Is it like fight club? First rule of the Jamie mancrush is we don’t talk about the Jamie mancrush?” Ash looked over at him to arch his eyebrows, and Remy raised his hands in surrender. He licked his lips. “You know, if you wanted to learn to cook, I could teach you some things?”
“Could you?” Ash had aimed for disaffected, so his earnest tone surprised him.
“Of course. I’d be happy to come over and help you work through some recipes. Though I do have a heavy cost.” His expression turned somber. “I expect to help you eat everything we make.”
Ash tilted his head and tapped a damp finger to his chin. “Hmm. I thought I’d boot you out once the food was made. I’m no’ sure I want tae feed you.”
Remy gasped and placed a hand on his chest. “Scandalous, sir. No food, no lessons.”
Ash heaved a great sigh. “Fine. If you insist, I can let you get a few bites to your gob.”
Remy snickered. “My gob?”
Ash rinsed the pan and grabbed a tea towel to dry it. “Are you mocking my use of Scottish?”
“Scottish is a language now?”
“Aye, ’tis. An’ no’ just ‘noo,’” Ash said, accent getting thicker for this fight. “Scots dinnae spake English.”
“Oh my God,” Remy breathed, clearly delighted. “I’ve never heard you sound so Scottish before, not even as Hamish.”
Ash wrinkled his nose. “By-product of being ‘good’ at accents.” His language-and-diction coach at school had called him a “natural mimic.” He’d played English on British TV and American on Restraint. “I didn’t realize how Canadian I started to sound until I went back.” He snorted at the memory. “By the time I got a cab from the airport, I’d forced myself to sound like a Scot again.” Ash leaned back against the counter and contemplated Remy for a second before adding, “My brother loves to mock me for ‘speaking Canadian.’”
Remy cocked his head. “You don’t sound Canadian.”
“Aye, but I don’t sound full Scottish either, as you’ve already told me. Though when I talk to my brother, it comes back. But some words always come out ‘Canadian.’”
“Like?”
“Hmm, place names. Words we don’t use in Scotland.” Ash shrugged. “He thinks it’s funnier though when I use Canadian terms, like if I say garbage instead of bin.”
Remy nibbled a lip. “I never noticed before that you do, say garbage, I mean.”
“To be honest I got tired of the confused looks.”
Remy laughed. “Poor you! Having to deal with unworldly Canadians.” He stepped closer, smiling up at Ash—had his lashes always been that long?
Ash sighed dramatically and nodded. His life was indeed hard.
And it was about to get harder, because Etta called from the front door, “Honey, I’m home.”
Ash froze. He’d forgotten Etta would be back after lunch. He glanced at the clock—almost one. He considered how close Remy was stood. Oh God. This wouldn’t go smoothly.
“Hello,” Etta purred. She stood on the other side of the breakfast bar, looking Remy up and down, a cat eyeing prey. “And who do we have here?” She lifted a brow at Ash.
“Hi.” Remy’s tone was warm, despite the trepidation around his eyes. “I’m Remy. I work on Mythfits with the writers.”
“Ohh.” She cocked her head and gave him a blatant once-over. Ash sweated, rooted to his spot near the sink. Unable to…. Could he stop this? “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“No? Well, I mean, I met Ash at a con months ago, and you were there, but we didn’t talk, and I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.”
Etta widened her eyes in faux realization. “Oh. You’re not the one who put Ash in the wig, are you?”
“Yes?” Remy said warily.
“I have a picture.” Etta smirked.
Remy’s eyebrows flew to his hair. “You have a picture of me?”
“I have a picture,” she said slowly, with narrowed eyes, “of Ash in a wig. You just happen to be in it.”
Remy lifted his hands in surrender—wise man. “Fair enough.”
“So,” she said, leaning against the counter. “What have you boys been up to today?” She turned to Ash.
That question had so many layers. Primary were her concerns about Remy’s interest. She had yet to be convinced he wasn’t a stalker. Ash glared. He did not need protecting from Remy.
She pointedly ignored him and turned back to Remy, who shrugged.
“Haven’t made up our minds yet. Just had some brunch. Maybe we could go for a walk around the neighborhood?” he directed at Ash, who quickly dropped his scowl.
He nodded. “Sure.”
Remy smiled. “Perfect. Would you like to come too, Etta?” His tone was perfectly polite, nothing to suggest he wanted her to do anything but what she desired.
Ash’s renewed glare was not so, and he did his best to ramp it up. Etta was no’ invited to join them.
She cocked her head to the side and then smiled. “As much as I would love to join you, I spent the mor
ning at kickboxing. I promised myself I’d start the afternoon in the bath. Have fun, boys. And you”—she pointed at Ash—“put those groceries away.”
Ash rolled his eyes but dutifully fetched the bags she’d left by the door, like always. She said it built character for him to carry the bags through the flat, given she’d lugged them all the way home. It sounded a load of mince to him, but it was easier to do as told than argue about the difficulties of “lugging” groceries by car.
Remy shuffled over and peered inside a bag. “Want a hand?” He didn’t wait for a reply but pulled items from it.
“Thanks.” Then, feeling the need to explain away Etta’s behavior, Ash said, “She does more of the grocery runs when I’m working.”
Remy nodded. “Makes sense.” He smiled and handed Ash a bag of apples to put away.
Ash smiled back. It was… nice, this quiet moment shared. Soon they would get ready and head out for a walk and there would be strangers about them. But for the moment, it was only them, and Ash could get used to it.
Chapter Five
“SOMEONE’S happy today,” Jasmine said cheerfully and threw her arm around Ash’s shoulders and leaned into him. She wore Roxanna clothes—tight black jeans, an overlarge black jumper, thick smudged eyeliner, and her long hair down and straight, framing her face—a sharp contrast to her sunny smile.
Ash lifted his eyebrows.
“You’ve been smiling all morning. You wake up on the right side of the bed?”
He’d woken up from an excellent night’s sleep after a day spent with Remy. “Maybe.”
“Well, I like it. Good to see you happy. Not to mention how handsome you look when you smile.” She chucked him playfully on the chin. “What a waste on that last show you were on.” She shook her head with exaggerated sadness.
Ash snorted. He’d loved playing Zvi, but it was a relief to play a character who smiled now and again. He furrowed his brow and pouted, an anti-smile.
Jasmine pinched his bottom lip. “Sassy.” She patted his cheek. “So, lunchtime?”
“Lunchtime.”
They headed to craft services. Ash liked eating with Jasmine, if only because they tended to grab as much food as the other—Ash because he had a large body and extensive cardio routine to fuel, and Jasmine because she seemed to possess a bottomless pit instead of a stomach.
