by M. J. O'Shea
“I can’t believe I’m here,” Chase said.
It had only been about three weeks since his last visit. They were getting to the pathetic stage, but Kai couldn’t help it. They’d used his new apartment as an excuse. Chase reached over and wound their fingers together.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Kai said. Gladder than he really wanted to say out loud. Chase knew. He had to. It was getting harder for both of them to be alone.
“Me too. Ruby’s doing really well with the ice cream shop.”
“Yeah?”
Chase’s sister had been taking over the reins more and more lately, especially with his habit of going to L.A. Three times in three months. Kai didn’t want to ask…. Well, he did, but he was afraid of the answer. He hoped maybe Ruby might take over the shop permanently someday. And Chase’s loft. Kai wanted Chase near him, and he thought Chase might want to be in California too. He’d ask soon. Maybe in a few days.
“Hey, where are we going for dinner, babe?” Chase finally asked. They’d been holding hands quietly, something the old part of Kai still couldn’t believe he did, and voluntarily. Happily.
“I wasn’t sure. You interested in sushi? Mexican?” It had taken him a little talking to get Chase to try sushi, but once he’d succumbed, he’d become an addict. He’d wanted to go both nights on his last weekend trip out. He was there for five days this time. Maybe they’d have time for something else.
“How ’bout Mexican? I haven’t had decent nachos in weeks.”
“That’s not Mexican.” Kai tried to stuff his foodie self back down.
Chase snorted. “Okay, top chef. I apologize. We can get ‘real’ Mexican.”
Kai elbowed him and grinned. It felt so damn good to have Chase back within his arms’ reach.
“You want to shower or grab dinner first?”
“Dinner, I think,” Chase said. “If we get in the shower, I’m not going to want to let you out of bed until the morning.”
Kai shivered and clenched Chase’s hand a little tighter. “Dinner it is.”
He took Chase to one of his favorite little Mexican spots, a hole in the wall owned by a family he’d gotten close to since he moved to the mainland. They made the most amazing enchilada sauce, gorgeous beans, and these fish tacos he dreamed of sometimes at night. He wanted to order everything on the menu. Chase wasn’t much better. Between the two of them, they managed a huge table full of dishes to share.
“We’re awful for each other.”
Kai laughed. “Don’t you think any chefs would be like this together?”
“Probably.”
Chase linked his fingers through Kai’s across the table for a minute before he went back to his nachos. Nachos. Jesus. Chase had smirked when they were, in fact, on the menu. Kai wanted to shake his head, but it was so cute. At least he’d gotten the fish tacos and a spinach enchilada too. Branching out.
“Hey, what are we doing tomorrow?” Chase asked.
Kai typically led him around while he was visiting, which was fine because Chase, well, he led Kai around too, in his own way. It was a nice balance.
“I thought we’d walk to get breakfast, maybe check out the beach.”
“I like that,” Chase said, grinning. He reached across and stole a chunk of roasted peppers from Kai’s fajita burrito. “This is awesome,” he said. “Good idea for coming here. We can come back again before I go back to Wisconsin.”
He didn’t say home. Kai noticed it right away. Chase probably noticed it too because his smile grew a little bit. Kai still thought of Hawaii as home, but he thought maybe California could be as well if he had Chase with him. Anywhere could be. And that was both terrifying and, well, not scary at all.
“Hey, you full?” Kai finally asked. Chase had demolished a ton of his food, and there were lots they could use as leftovers in the morning or for lunch. It was time to go, maybe walk a little, and then… yeah. That. Kai had been looking forward to it since the second Chase got on the airplane last time. It was what he needed. It was what they both needed.
“Yeah, I’m ready to go home.”
* * *
Kai took a detour home, letting Chase see the beach again before steering them back to the new apartment Kai had picked out after the show had finished. This place was bigger, had two bedrooms—even though the second was tiny, it was space for his sister to come stay if she wanted to—and a huge kitchen. The neighborhood was nice too, only a few blocks from the beach, meaning Kai could start surfing again. That felt good. Right. Like he was getting back to being himself again.
He hadn’t gone back to Donovan’s, even though there had been an offer from the restaurant once the show was done filming. Instead he’d taken a job in a pastry shop that supplied for a major catering company in Hollywood. It was a brand-new challenge for him, creating detailed, delicious desserts that would be served to some of the most famous people in the world. There was a little shop outlet too, one of those places known to people in the know, and strangely Kai found himself preferring to work in the back of the shop rather than in the big industrial kitchen. The shop was more intimate, and the kitchens reminded him of Burned.
That night they made love, long and slow, reconnecting on a level that no one but the two of them could truly understand. Kai recognized what he had now in a way that he didn’t appreciate before. Chase was more than his lover or his boyfriend, he was a partner, in every sense of the word.
The next morning they were woken by soft sunlight and dressed for the chilly dawn and an early walk on the beach, holding hands as they made their way down.
“The diner’s this way, isn’t it?” Chase asked, tugging on Kai’s hand.
“Yes,” Kai chuckled. “It’s that way. You’re learning your way around my neighborhood, finally. You want breakfast, I take it?”
Chase made a face at him, loped across the street, and ground to a halt. Kai stopped too when he saw what Chase was staring at. It was a tiny empty building on the corner, probably a good seventy years old, pink with banana-yellow trim, but it was perfect. Not too big, not too small, room to install freezers, room for a patisserie. Even if it was a little crappy and run-down at the moment, all Kai wanted to do was open the door and wander in.
“Kai,” Chase said quietly.
“Yeah?” Kai asked.
“How would you feel about maybe quitting your job again in a few months?”
The nervous butterflies were back, but the good kind, the ones that told him that he was in the exact right place with the exact right person. He had some cash set aside and his small second-place check from Burned. Combine that with whatever Chase had saved up, and they could do it. This place was meant to be theirs. L.A. was meant to be theirs. Kai turned and smiled at Chase.
He pulled out his phone and punched in the number on the “for rent” sign. “I think I might be okay with that.”
Chase looked as awed as Kai felt and wrapped his arms around Kai from behind, pressing a small kiss to Kai’s neck. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
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 wh
o 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 Devil’s Food at Dusk
Coming soon from M.J. O’Shea and Anna Martin!
Dawn always seemed to come a little later in the French Quarter, molasses-sweet and slow, still soft but with hints of the sticky heat to come. It spread, languorous, over the weathered painted walls and wrought-iron railings, crooked cobbly streets, and leaded glass windows that had seen hundreds of years of people passing by. Morning was quiet. Peaceful. Mellow.
Remy Babineaux had lived in the city all his life, in the same house on the same street covered by the same winding, purple-flowered bougainvillea vines and creeping ivy, but still, sometimes, in the pink blush of an unhurried morning, he was struck with just how much he loved it. How much he never wanted to live anywhere else.
He pulled his tired body out of bed in the barely-there brush of light and stretched. He hadn’t slept much the night before—five hours at most—and he felt every one of his very busy thirty years in his creaky muscles and sore back. It had been easier to get up with the morning sun when he was nineteen. To a point. Truthfully, Remy hadn’t ever been a morning person. He’d always preferred sleeping in to experiencing the unusual stillness that came in the Babineaux household hours before his brothers and sisters, mother and father, and one rather eccentric grandmother started shouting and laughing and singing—usually all at once. But he had to admit the morning was beautiful. And even if it wasn’t, he had fish to buy.
Next time I’m making Andre go so I can sleep in.
Remy knew that wasn’t true. He trusted his little brother with his life, but with the fish selection? Never. Nobody but him had had the coveted job of fish selection since he was a teenager. He pulled on a threadbare white Henley and a pair of khakis that he didn’t mind getting fish juice on. Then Remy tugged his wavy hair into a thick, high bun, slipped into a pair of shoes, and was out the door. Time to greet the day with rack after rack of amazing, delicious, smelly fish.
* * *
Thursdays were usually the best day at the fish market. It was one of those things that had no logical explanation but a long history of somehow working out that way. The market was open three days a week, and he usually liked to make it to two of them, but Thursdays were, for some unknown reason, when the magic seemed to happen. He liked to get there early for the pick of the catfish, local trout, and sweet, tender gulf shrimp. Wandering through the fragrant stalls, which should be unpleasant but somehow smelled of home and happiness, was something of a Zen experience for Remy. One of the highlights of his week.
The market was crowded and loud, even in the bare light of early morning. Chefs and restaurant owners haggled with fishermen who’d become their friends over the years, laughed at well-worn jokes, argued the same arguments like a dance that had been practiced over time and perfected. The fish market was a tradition, and his city was steeped in traditions.
Remy spent a few minutes soaking it all in, checking out what was new and interesting and delicious before he got down to business. It was important, he thought, to experience things, and not just go through his day completing tasks. His food was better if his feelings for the moment seeped into the dish. Made life better too, if you asked him. His little sister, Grace, gave him shit for his “stop to smell the roses” way of looking at things. She was only fourteen, in a race to grow up and become something. Someday she’d understand that the becoming part was just as important as the getting there.
He stopped at a stand and stared down at piles of glossy, pearly gray shrimp, barely touched with hints of blush pink. He’d steam them perhaps, on a base of pasta with clams and roasted vegetables, a little garlic, some cumin, cayenne, local butter, and a ton of French thyme. Remy could nearly taste the sauce exploding in his mouth—butter broth and seasonings and sweet, firm shrimp. Yes.
“Twenty pounds, Remy?”
“Hmm? Oh yes. Sure thing, Renee.” His favorite shrimp dealer knew him well. He could easily go through that much on a weeknight. Four times that on a busy weekend. Remy signed off on the purchase order. The shrimp would be delivered to his cafe, Lumiere, in a few hours with the rest of his purchases, just in time for him to start cooking.
Remy worked his way through the crawfish and catfish, the mussels and clams, smelling and sampling, weighing and ordering. It was his ritual. He never rushed it.
When Remy was nearly ready to call it a morning and head back home, his phone buzzed with a text from Andre, his little brother and very pushy sous chef.
Don’t forget my halibut.
Remy made a face. The halibut at the fish market was good, but it was shipped all the way from the north Pacific on ice. He’d far rather use local catches to make his spin on traditional dishes, but sometimes Andre got his way. The halibut and chips was one of those times. Andre had tried it, fallen in love, and decided it should be a regular menu item at Lumiere, after a lot of protesting from Remy. It had become popular with the customers, much to Remy’s annoyance. He was even more annoyed by the fact that he liked it himself—especially with Andre’s signature tangy tartar sauce. Most of the time he pretended he didn’t, but Andre knew better and liked to flip him all sorts of shit for it.
I’m getting your damn halibut. Go back to bed.
All he got in return was a winky face and a string of fish emojis. Remy chuckled. Child.
* * *
After a good morning perusing and haggling at the fish market, Remy usually tried to get another hour or two of sleep before he needed to meet Andre and the vendors at Lumiere for the day. He was tired when he sank back into his bed, smelling vaguely of fish, but it wasn’t easy to fall back to sleep with the heavy heat of an increasingly sweltering late-August morning battling with their feeble air-conditioning—something else on the long list of things he needed to deal with. Another time. Instead he did the best he could with strategically placed fans and open windows until he drifted off into a light sleep that would only last until the family started rising for the day.
As a result Remy was sleepy as he wrapped up his hastily made breakfast sandwich in a paper towel, poured a thermos of coffee, and locked up on his way out for the second time that day. Off to Lumiere.
He and his brother worked long hours to keep their cafe open and a favorite among locals, just like it had been since years before he was born. Before even his father was born. Sometimes it seemed thankless, especially on days when he was exhausted and run down from the constant grind. Remy figured he’d hate Lumiere if he didn’t love it so damn much.
The walk from home to Lumiere wasn’t long. Nothing was that far in their little corner of New Orleans, but he only had eight blocks between the Babineaux compound and their restaurant, which was lucky because he was operating on five hours of sleep and a cup of coffee. He downed his egg, cheese, and bacon croissant on the way and waved at the neighbors. Remy knew nearly everyone on the trip between his house and the cafe. He’d been walking the route his entire life, from way back when his dad ran Lumiere, and he spent his summers underfoot driving the chefs insane. Even though the place was his to run—and had been for a few years since his dad had retired—it still bowled him over sometimes that he was doing exactly what he wanted to do.
Andre had gone in earlier, unlocked everything, and started warming up the ovens and greeting delivery trucks. Usually they took turns getting the kitchen prepped, except on market days when Andre handled it while Remy got some much-needed sleep. Remy figured he really should give his brother the chance to hit the markets someday and pick their fish, meats, and produce.
Or maybe not.
When Remy got to the restaurant, Andre was in the middle of checking their fish orders from earlier against the invoices while their produce guy hauled in the day’s boxes of fres
h vegetables and salad greens. Andre signed off on the papers and sent the final delivery truck on its way.
“Hey, bro,” Andre said. “Get a decent nap this morning?” He tied a red bandana around his head. It covered most of his hair, other than a few dark, wavy tendrils that snuck out. Andre was a favorite with the neighborhood girls and with the customers when he came out of the kitchen. He had big dark eyes, long curly eyelashes, dimples, and a glamorous grin. He was also amazing with a knife. Remy didn’t know what he’d do without him.
Remy shrugged. “Not really. It was too hot, and I could hear grandma shuffling around in the garden.”
Andre made a face. “She hasn’t been sleeping much lately, has she?”
They both worried about their grandmother. She wasn’t getting any younger—she’d passed eighty a few years back. Estelle had been spending a lot of time lately in their back garden, talking to the flowers their grandfather had planted before he died. Remy had walked out a few weeks ago to find her dancing around in her flowered nightgown, hair loose and all the way down to her waist. He’d been halfway between charmed and scared.
“No. I need to talk to Ma again.”
“We’re not putting Grams in a home,” Andre said. His mouth got that stubborn slant to it that made him look less like Remy and more like their uptight middle brother Sal. Remy punched him on the arm.
“I never said anything about a fucking home, Dre. She belongs with us. Who said we were putting Grams away?”
“Sal.”
Remy rolled his eyes. The Babineaux family had always stayed together—grandmother, parents, and kids all in one spindly, vine-covered four-story house that had been in Grandma Estelle’s family for generations. The only one who’d branched out was Sal. He’d gotten a modern condo in another part of town and, despite having more than his fair share of opinions about family matters, only deigned to come home for Sunday dinner occasionally. Good riddance, Remy thought. He knew Andre and Grace agreed with him.
