by Anna Martin
He lay awake all night, trying not to think, which of course led to thinking. Before he knew it, his alarm was going off, and he’d not slept a single minute.
* * *
The whole walk and ride to work passed way too quickly. It was earlier than he usually went in, so the trains were far less full of commuters with their briefcases and coffees, and the walk went faster with the streets a little more empty. Tristan’s feet dragged. He didn’t want to go back into the office. He had Henry’s folder in his hands, the one that could make his career, at least for a few months, until a bigger ungettable get came along, but the thought of using it made him sick to his stomach.
He walked to his desk and flopped his bag onto his workstation and sat in his chair. The office was quiet with only a few people in. It would be at least an hour before the floor buzzed with the sounds of backstabbing and petty gossip.
I need to get out of here.
Clearly, he wasn’t quite ready after yesterday’s rollercoaster to be back at work.
“Tristan, can I see you in here?”
Fantastic. His direct boss, Terry, usually stayed out of his way. Tristan hadn’t even noticed him lurking in his little corner office.
He stood tiredly and made his way back to Terry’s office.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m glad you’re here a little early. I’m going to assume you had a family emergency yesterday, because my team members don’t take off in the middle of a workday without any sort of notice or explanation. Do you understand?”
“My family’s in England, sir.” He wasn’t trying to sound like a sarcastic shit, but his patience for everything at Blanchard and Starr had run out. Maybe it was lack of sleep; maybe it was his broken heart. Tristan didn’t give a shit about anything.
“Tristan, I mean it. I like you, but I can’t let that slide.”
Tristan lost it in that moment. It was quiet, and Terry probably would’ve never noticed anything off. The sheer doneness just slid through him, icy and certain. He didn’t want to be there anymore. Ever. Not in a day or a week or a month. Never again. He didn’t like who he had to be to succeed, or what he’d been willing to do to fit in to a place he’d never fit in. He was… done. Finished.
“It won’t happen again, Terry.”
“Good. Now do you have those Rolex lay—”
“No, it won’t happen again because I’ll be quitting. This office and I aren’t a good fit.”
“Are you sure you want to make that choice?”
Tristan already felt a world better. No job, soon to be no flat, and he felt more like himself than he had in months other than when he was in Henry’s arms.
“I’m very sure. I’ll pack up my desk and be gone within the hour. Thank you for the opportunity.”
He knew he should give his two weeks’ notice and do it the right way if he wanted any sort of a reference, but he couldn’t do it. The moment he had his few personal items from his desk, he was gone.
The morning felt like a different world when he walked out of Blanchard and Starr. It was chilly and crisp, overcast and gray, but it was the most beautiful day Tristan had seen in a long time. He couldn’t help but to feel optimistic. Henry hadn’t listened to him before, but things were different today. He had to listen. He had to give Tristan a chance. He hopped onto the subway with a smile, hoping to catch Henry alone before Millie got there for the day. It was going to go well. It had to. Tristan just felt it.
* * *
“Henry,” Tristan said quietly. He’d snuck in the alley door to the kitchen. Not fair, and probably illegal, but Tristan was desperate. He had to get Henry to at least listen. Then, if he shipped himself back to London, jobless and boyfriendless, then he’d know he’d tried.
“Tristan. You can’t be here.”
“I have to be here.” He angled himself into the corner so even a wily Henry couldn’t manage to herd him out the door. “I have to explain everything to you.”
“I think you did an excellent job of explaining at the party.”
“No. No. It came out all wrong. Literally. I didn’t mean it how it sounded. I wasn’t using you, Henry. I wasn’t.”
Henry looked puzzled. And hurt. It was the first time since the party he’d seen vulnerability on Henry’s face, and it sliced deep. “When I asked you if you planned everything to get to my father, you said yes. Now you’re telling me you didn’t? That doesn’t make any sense, Tristan.”
“I misunderstood your question. When you asked if I’d planned everything, I said yes to the party. I planned the party to introduce you to my boss. It wasn’t even my idea and I was so stupid for agreeing to it, Henry. I wish I could take it back every second of every day.”
“You planned… the party?”
“Yes. Nothing else.”
Henry didn’t say anything for long moments, breathing slowly. He had a smudge of icing sugar on his cheek. Tristan loved him so hard it hurt.
“So us meeting, that wasn’t a setup from the start?”
“Lord no. I’m not smart enough to be that devious, and you know it. Plus, I’d never do something like that. I don’t care what it got me.”
Henry huffed out a breath and shook his head. “I thought I’d read you all wrong.”
“You didn’t. I promise. It was all real. Every minute of it. I’m so sorry that I let my insecurities get to me. I just had a moment where I wanted to fit in. I thought maybe then I’d be happy at work, but it was never going to happen. I haven’t fit in anywhere except with you since I moved to this city. I don’t even want to. I just want to be with you.”
“Wait, you brought me to that party to impress your coworkers?”
“I just wanted them to think I was a team player. They found out that I knew you.” Tristan blushed, hot and embarrassed. “Okay, I told them that I knew you. But only a few days before the party. Other than that, it was all me. All me falling really hard for you. I wish I could rewind time and never agree to dragging you there like a show pony.”
“S-so what you told me was real?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh my god. I could never say that if I didn’t mean it with fucking everything I’ve got. Yes. I—”
Henry held up his hand. “Not quite ready for that.”
“Okay.” It hurt. He wasn’t going to lie. But at least he was getting to talk. That was more than he’d had that morning when he woke up. There was a chance.
“Setting that party up without telling me was a dick move, Tris. I wish you hadn’t done it. You know how I feel about my dad and that part of my life.”
“I know. I wish I hadn’t done it too. I don’t know how many times I can say that. I’ll say it again and again if you’ll let me.”
“Hey, at least it got you some cred at work, right? You got the meeting.” Ouch. Too soon to joke about that.
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Tristan shrugged. “I threw it away. I didn’t want any part of that tainting us. Even if I didn’t get a chance to ever talk to you again, even if you still never forgive me, I couldn’t sit in a meeting room with your dad’s people and try to sell our relationship for a leg up in the business. I didn’t want anyone else to do it either.”
“Damn. Come here.” Henry held out his arms, rueful smile on his face.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. Before I change my mind you, you… wanker.”
Tristan giggled and stepped into Henry’s arms. He wrapped his own arms around the lightly muscled body he’d come to think of as his. Tristan breathed in Henry’s smell. It made his whole body shiver and come to rights. Yes. That’s how it should be. I love you. Even if Henry wasn’t ready to hear it aloud again, Tristan could think it as much as he wanted. Henry tugged him down for a kiss, a familiar, deep, so-perfect-it-felt-like-he-couldn’t-possibly-be-living-it-again kiss. He decided he’d do whatever he could to hold on to Henry’s kisses for the rest of his life.
“I still can�
�t believe you just gave the meeting away,” Henry finally said when they drew apart. “It would’ve been a huge move for your career.”
“Ex.”
“What?”
“Ex-career. Yeah, so, um, I might have a small problem.”
Henry looked up at Tristan from underneath those huge, fringy lashes. His lips were still wet with kisses, and Tristan wanted more. He wanted to kiss and kiss and fall into bed, fall into each other, and above all, Tristan wanted to never wake up from the dream where Henry wanted him again.
“What’s that? I thought we just got rid of the problems.”
“Well, I’ve just quit my job. I’m in the US on a work visa, hence I need to, you now. Work.”
“Is that it?” Henry nuzzled his face into the crook of Tristan’s neck. He shivered and nearly lost all trains of thought bound in every direction from his fuzzy brain.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think that problem is solved.”
“Really?” Tristan smiled at Henry. “How so?”
“I just happen to know of a place that’s hiring.”
* * *
Ingredients
1 quirky independent baker
1 shy but sarcastic Brit
* * *
Combine slowly and let the mixture simmer on low heat until it comes together. You might have to be a little patient, but the results will be worth it. We promise!
About The Authors
MJ O’Shea has never met a music festival, paintbrush, or flower crown she can stay away from. She loves rainstorms and a perfect cup of tea, beach days, music, bright colors, and more than anything a cozy evening with a really great book. She is from the Pacific Northwest and while she still lives there and loves it, MJ has the heart of a wanderer. So she puts all her dreams of far off places and extraordinary people in her books.
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Anna Martin is from a picturesque village in the South West of England and now lives in Bristol. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English Literature at University before turning her hand as a professional writer. Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater, visiting friends who live in other countries, Marvel Comics, learning new things, and Ben&Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.
* * *
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Sneak Peak of A Little Taste of Magic by MJ O’Shea
Available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited!
Arlo Vallerand woke with a start and sat up in bed. It was bright outside his window, glowing with the soft warmth of a late summer morning in San Francisco. It took him a while to force himself into the real world. The edges of sleep still shimmered in the corners of his vision. They slowly mixed with the morning sun and disappeared, but they left Arlo with this feeling he couldn’t quite surface from. Like Déjà vu, but somehow not.
He’d just had the most realistic dream. It was uncanny. And very unlike him.
Snow and wind swirled outside, and the sound of laughter bubbled happily from the next room…
His belly was warm and tingly. He’d never been so happy. Arlo smelled tomatoes and melting cheese. There was laughter in the distance and a warmth like he’d never felt in his life. Completion. Joy.
Arlo blinked a few times and tried to shake the dream, but he couldn’t. The feelings were all still there – intense happiness, that inexplicable belly-deep sense of rightness, the laughter the smells, a voice calling his name. He still felt all of it. And he had no idea where the dream had come from.
The feeling welled up inside him, swallowed him whole, shimmered out of every pore. It was magic – the real forever kind.
“Baby. Are you done in there?”
It was a voice he knew somehow, but he couldn’t remember it. He wanted to hear it again.
“Arlo? Babe? Let me help you. It’ll be bedtime before that thing is ready to eat.” The voice was accompanied by a soft chuckle.
Arlo tried to look up, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t see the face that went with the voice.
He needed to see a face…
Nothing in his life had felt more real, more necessary than the man in the dream, whoever he was.
He didn’t know what to do with the dream. It really wasn’t like him to dream much at all, let alone something that realistic. He felt drugged, but weirdly awake. Wired. It was too early to be up, but Arlo didn’t think he was going to fall back to sleep. He flopped back down on his lovely bed, in his cousin’s perfect little townhouse, and stared at the ceiling.
Even hours later, the intense longing for something he’d only seen in a dream wouldn’t go away.
“Lasagnas are done, Frankie. You want me to work on the pastry dough?” Arlo leaned against the counter and watched his cousin move around the ancient, brick-walled kitchen.
He’d grown to love the old kitchen over the summer - tall and cavernous but somehow homey. It usually smelled like baking bread and one of his cousin’s specialties. The kitchen was rarely quiet, either. It was usually filled to the brim with chatter and clanking pots, noise from the dining area and even a radio that played bossa nova whenever his cousin’s best friend stopped by to help.
“No, I want you to do the lasagnas.” Frankie winked at him. “They were your idea. I want you to see it through to the end.”
“I told you they were done,” Arlo said. Frankie had to know that. Their smell was wafting on the air, filling the room.
“That’s not what I meant,” Frankie said. “I want you to do the lasagnas.”
“Oh.” Charm them. His cousin wanted him to charm them. “I don’t think I’m ready to try it on food we’re going to serve to customers.”
“Pfft.” Frankie rolled his eyes. “Sure you are. Hold your hand over the lasagna and concentrate. We’re going to try infusing this one with just a light bit of happiness and sunshine. I’m sick of the rain.”
Arlo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Here goes. He tried to put last night’s dream out of his mind. The same dream he had the night before…and the night before that. A voice, a feeling, crisp falling snow, and the smell of lasagna. There was a reason he’d changed the menu today. The dream had taken over his nights and most of his waking thoughts. It was impossible to push it aside.
He ignored the heavy summer rain that pounded on Cucina Capri’s high windows and tried to pull in the warmth of the kitchen and the memory of yesterday’s hazy glow until both things were nestled somewhere in his chest. Then he remembered the voice in the dream, the happiness he’d felt and added that to the growing ball of light.
Arlo wanted to take that feeling and put it in the lasagna. Just that feeling. Nothing else. He concentrated on his cousin Frankie’s voice and whispered, “Happiness. Warmth. Sunshine.”
Arlo’s palm tingled a bit and then he lifted his hand. Frankie clapped him on the back. “Good job. Take a taste and see if it worked.”
Arlo dipped a spoon – not his cousin’s treasured wooden one, of course – into sauce that had pooled at the corner and tasted it. He was immediately filled with a faint but pleasant sensation of golden light, baking bread, the coziness that came from Frankie’s cooking, warmth, love, and, closeness too. It mellowed in his chest and made him smile.
“It worked.”
He put the spoon down on the work surface and grinned. It had taken months to get where he was. When he’d first arrived in Cucina Capri’s kitchen, he’d been a mess.
“You’re getting so much better at that. You’d be surprised how hard an accurate food charm is for most of our family.”
Ar
lo grinned. Sometimes he wondered how it was possible that Frankie was a cousin, rather than his brother. He sure seemed far more like Arlo than the rest of the Vallerands.
“Okay,” Frankie said. “On the next pan, we’re doing it without speaking out loud. Remember. Happiness and sunshine.”
Arlo tried to protest, but Frankie held up his spoon like a sword. “I know you can do it. Don’t be stubborn.”
“I can only do it silently when I don’t mean to.”
“See? If you’re doing it subconsciously, that means you’re strong with emotion charms. I’ve never done it accidentally. At least not when I wasn’t already in the middle of charming something.” Frankie smiled and blushed a bit.
“Do I want to know?” Arlo asked. He knew his cousin had a very good relationship with his husband, Addison. Very good. He wasn’t sure if he needed more details than he already had after nine months of living with them.
“Oh, it’s nothing like that. Really. I was just in the middle of charming some fruit sauce once when Addie walked up and tickled me. I kind of gave my sauce the giggles. But I’ve never done it subconsciously from scratch. That’s, like, a whole different level. I’ve never met a witch who could do that.”
Arlo had to hold back his own snort. “You really gave fruit sauce the giggles. Wow.”
“Please don’t repeat that story back home.” Frankie cringed and swept his dark hair off his face – a gesture Arlo found they had in common. “If my mom doesn’t already know, I’d rather save myself the humiliation.”
Frankie’s mom was a bit…. interesting to say the least. A purist. Old school. Honestly, she was a snobby pain in the ass. Arlo didn’t blame Frankie for moving across the country from Louisiana to get away from her. He also didn’t blame him for wanting to hide his quirkier moments from her judgment.
