by Kim Fielding
XO,
Missy
By the time Landry finished reading the email, his head hurt. It didn’t help that he’d heard Missy’s voice in his head, loud as ever, and he’d felt the ghost of a childhood bruise where she used to punch his arm when she didn’t get her way. He’d tried telling on her, but since he was older by two years, their parents always took her side.
He didn’t care about Wes Brunken and Carlene Hansen and didn’t know why Missy thought he would. Yes, he’d harbored a slight crush on Jaxon Powers, who’d been an incredible musician even as a teenager. And he had heard about the “spy thing,” although he’d paid it little attention since it happened shortly after Steve’s death and had nothing to do with Landry. As for Aunt Trudy…. He sighed. Maybe she’d get distracted from her mysterious project. Right. And maybe the entire NFL would start playing in pink tutus.
Landry was still glaring at his laptop when Jordan rapped on the doorframe. “Um, dinner’s ready.”
“Okay.” Landry stood.
“Should I not interrupt you when you’re in your study?”
“Only if I say so explicitly.”
“Cool.”
The kitchen was a minor disaster area, with pots and bowls everywhere and an assortment of splatters on the counters and floor. Landry pretended not to see any of that as Jordan led him through to the dining room.
“I’ll clean up later, don’t worry,” said Jordan.
Jordan had spread a pale green cloth over the table, and even though it was sized incorrectly—the dining room table could seat twelve, and this particular cloth was made for the much smaller kitchen table—it created an intimate eating area for two. He’d laid out matching green napkins and a pair of white place mats. He’d chosen the Waterford china—which Landry used only on holidays—and the best silverware.
“Is it okay?” Jordan was bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. “You have a lot of stuff and I wasn’t sure what to use.”
Landry gave a reassuring smile. “It’s fine.”
“Great! Uh, have a seat and I’ll serve.” Landry waited for Jordan to reappear with food, which didn’t take long. He hurried back with a platter in one hand and a pair of bowls cradled in the other arm. He demonstrated his waiter’s skills by getting everything to the table without spilling or dropping anything. Then he sat opposite Landry. “Dig in!”
With some trepidation, Landry did. The lettuce salad, torn into perfectly sized pieces, was heavily dressed with balsamic vinegar, sprigs of parsley, and whole sage leaves. A puzzling citrus-and-tomato-flavored red sauce with some lethal bits of chili pepper covered slightly soggy pasta. Landry choked and tried to counter the chilies with a glass of water, even though he knew that wasn’t the best remedy. The beautifully tender chicken breast swam in a white sauce sporting little green flecks and pale lumps that proved to be chopped raw garlic.
Eventually Landry looked across the table to discover Jordan poking at his own still-full plate. “This is horrible,” Jordan said. “I’m sorry.”
“The salad is, um….”
“Barely edible. Yeah.” A deep sigh.
Now was a time for gentle words. “What exactly were you aiming for here?”
“I was trying for fancy. I’m pretty good at cooking simple, easy-to-digest food for invalids, but I figured you didn’t want boring, plain stuff.”
“Well, it’s not plain. Or boring.”
Jordan snorted. “It’s also not fit for human consumption. I’m sorry.” His words seemed sincere, and a hint of amusement danced in his eyes, as if he was willing to joke about his culinary disaster.
“I appreciate the effort.” That was honest.
“I tried some recipes I found on Zane Zafra’s website. He’s supposed to be a famous chef, right? I must have screwed up.”
Landry snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it. Zafra’s nothing but a… a media monkey. He’s good at playing up drama for the camera and he always looks pretty, but I doubt he could manage boxed macaroni and cheese. He probably makes up his recipes by randomly choosing food words, and then he acts like it’s his followers’ fault when the recipes fail.”
“Yeah?” Jordan had broken out into a full-fledged grin. “I should have picked some of your recipes instead.”
Landry ignored the tickly, warm feeling he got from Jordan’s words. “Perhaps next time you should attempt something simpler. Or better yet, I’ll do the cooking.”
Tracing patterns in the pasta sauce with his spoon, Jordan nodded. “Maybe that’s better. You’re not pissed off at me?”
Oddly, Landry wasn’t. Sure, the meal was appalling, but Jordan had tried to please him, and that counted for a great deal. “I’ve given advice several times about what to do when a project fails. You laugh about it, make do as best as you can, and learn from your mistakes. Nobody has ever died from a botched craft or a spoiled dinner.”
Jordan’s sunny smile reappeared. “Unless the craft involved explosives and the dinner had botulism.”
“Fortunately, neither is the case here. I’ll tell you what. You clean up and I’ll make us sandwiches. I have to get ready for the reception soon.”
“Deal.”
As they worked together in the kitchen, Landry found himself smiling. Jordan was a cheerful presence, and Landry couldn’t remember the last time anyone had shared kitchen duties with him. Although Elaine had sampled whatever Landry prepared, she didn’t pitch in. It was nice to work alongside someone like this and have him grin at you as he mopped up a puddle of red sauce on the floor. And if that someone had merry blue eyes and soft-looking hair that Landry wanted to run his fingers through? Well, that shouldn’t have been important, and yet it was.
They sat at the kitchen table to eat their sandwiches. No fine linens or china, just everyday ceramic plates, plain white cloth napkins, and a view of the lit-up pool.
“This is great,” Jordan said after a few bites. “Really good bread. I like the spread too.”
“There’s more in a jar in the refrigerator if you want it later.”
“Thanks. I should’ve just… I should’ve known better than to try to impress Landry Bishop in the kitchen.”
“You did impress me. You made a sincere effort on my behalf.”
“I’m just glad I didn’t get myself fired.”
“That will require more than a bad dinner. Not that it’s something you should aspire to, of course.” Landry took a sip of his iced tea and suddenly wished he could stay home tonight. He would put on a movie—something classic, like Hitchcock—and relax in the living room, and perhaps Jordan might want to watch with him. They could eat popcorn.
But that was a silly fantasy.
Jordan leaned forward and caught Landry’s gaze. “I just wanted to impress you, I guess. To let you know I think you’re… special. I don’t have bad taste, you know. Like that sweater? I could tell that it matched your eyes. You must look amazing in it.”
Under other circumstances, Landry would have assumed this was a flirtation. Or maybe he just wanted to believe it was, because Jordan was handsome and unexpectedly easy to spend time with.
More abruptly than he’d intended, Landry stood. “I need to change. We’ll leave for the reception in thirty minutes.”
Jordan, sitting with the remains of a sandwich, watched him go.
Chapter Six
A WEEK after Elaine left, Landry woke up early with plans to write all day. But since he needed some exercise first, he spent an hour in his home gym, riding his stationary bike while watching the morning talk shows. Sweaty and a little achy, he startled when Jordan appeared just as Landry was leaving the room.
“Here,” Jordan said, holding out a frosted glass of clear liquid. “Hydrate.”
Landry took the glass and had a careful sip. “Cucumber water?” he asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Is it okay? I used your recipe. Looked it up on your blog. Don’t worry—I’m sticking to the easy stuff.”
That was unexpected, but
nice. Landry took a much longer swallow and then smiled at him. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Would you rather have regular water after a workout? I noticed you don’t usually use much ice, so I added only a couple of cubes, but I can change that too.”
“This is fine.” Landry was positive that nobody on the planet had ever paid attention to his ice preferences. He quelled the twinge of warm pleasure that Jordan had paid attention to such a small detail—and also the tingle that Jordan’s close presence was causing on Landry’s skin.
Neither of them moved. It should have been an awkward moment, the two of them silent in the hallway and only inches apart. But it wasn’t. Jordan’s Seattle-pale skin had already picked up some California tan, and his hair had new blond highlights from the sun. As far as Landry knew, Jordan never wore cosmetics, yet his lips were as plump and pink and tempting as a lipstick model’s.
Belatedly, Landry realized he was licking his own lips. He took a hasty gulp of cucumber water, but it did nothing to cool him down. When he saw Jordan respond by—apparently unconsciously—licking his own lips, Landry nearly came undone.
“I need to shower,” he said hoarsely.
“I, uh, okay. Sure. While you’re doing that, how about if I make some eggs and a fruit salad, which I promise I can do without a disaster. You could maybe eat it poolside?”
“I have work to do.” Yes. Remember that. Much to accomplish today, and this tempting man is your employee.
“But you have to eat. I bet if you have a decent breakfast you’ll be a lot more productive.”
He did have a point. “All right.” And then, as if the words were desperate to escape: “Will you join me?”
Jordan’s smile was stunning. “I’d love to.”
Landry sped through his shower, and for once he skimped on his skin-care regime. He’d make sure to exfoliate tonight. He put a minimum of fuss into his hair as well, and then he dressed in salmon-colored linen trousers and a cream polo shirt with a bright snake embroidered along the collar. He couldn’t explain why his chest felt fluttery as he made his way toward the patio. It was just breakfast with his PA, for God’s sake.
Jordan, standing in front of the stove, shot him a grin. “Eggs are just about up. I’ll meet you outside.” The kitchen was in slight disorder, but Landry had confidence that Jordan would tidy it after they ate.
The sun seemed especially bright, but Jordan had set things up in the shade of a wide blue umbrella. The table held pastel madras place mats and napkins, simple everyday cutlery, and glasses of orange juice and cucumber water. A glass bowl sat heaped with cut fruit and covered by another napkin. Jordan had even grabbed a small potted orchid from the dining room and placed it on the table.
Smiling, Landry took his seat.
Only a minute or two later, Jordan hurried out with their plates. Simple scrambled eggs, done to perfection, and tiny piles of minced herbs from the pots on the kitchen windowsill. “Hope you don’t mind mixing in your own,” he said as he sat down. “I didn’t want to create seasoning Armageddon.”
“You got that idea from my blog too.”
Jordan’s teeth flashed white. “Yep.”
They ate in silence, but there was an odd familiarity to it, as if it were something they’d been doing for years. A hummingbird buzzed past on its way to a bottlebrush plant, the pool sparkled, and a jet hummed overhead. A feeling of disconnect suddenly hit Landry, rocking him so hard that he had to put his fork down. How did weird Wormy Bishop from Peril, Nebraska, end up in an LA mansion with a beautiful man who seemed to want little more than to make him happy? What if it was all just a dream, and he’d wake up in his parents’ old house and trudge his way to his salesclerk job at Svoboda Home and Ranch?
“Eggs okay?” Jordan asked softly, as if he didn’t want to startle Landry. He looked concerned.
“Everything’s fine. I’m glad you talked me into a poolside breakfast. Thank you.”
Jordan leaned back in his seat, his expression satisfied. “I’m glad you took me up on the offer. You know, if you wanted to make a habit of this, we could multitask. While we eat, you could give me a rundown on what you need from me that day. Then we could both get to work as soon as we’re well fed.”
That was an excellent idea. Although Landry did wonder how many mornings he could endure sitting in the sweet sunshine with Jordan almost within reach. What if, one of these days, Landry couldn’t stop himself? What if he ignored the cucumber water and grabbed Jordan instead?
Discipline, Landry Bishop. You can do this.
“I think we can try that,” he said in what he hoped was an even tone. “It’s a good suggestion.”
Jordan smiled. And then something shifted in his expression. His mouth fell slightly open as his eyes widened, and a light flush colored his cheeks. “Click,” he whispered. “Oh my God. Definitely a click.”
“What?”
Still appearing a bit dazed, Jordan shook his head and stood. “Nothing. Do you want some coffee?” He started clearing the dishes.
Landry felt a bit shaken himself, although he couldn’t say why. Maybe cucumber water had mild psychoactive effects. He stood as well. “No, thank you. But perhaps you could bring me some iced tea in an hour or so.”
For once Jordan was unsmiling, his face almost deadly earnest. “I’ll bring you whatever you need.”
Landry, trying to ignore the hammering of his heart, gathered his remaining resolve and fled.
THAT afternoon Elaine called. Landry was in the middle of writing a guest blog on creative ways to make wrapping paper, but he didn’t mind the interruption.
“You haven’t panicked,” said Elaine.
“How would you know? You’re in Hawaii.”
“I would have heard you from here.”
He wished she could see his scowl. “I’m not hysterical.”
“Not usually, no. But there was that time Todd spilled merlot on you.”
“He spilled it on my cream-colored cashmere blazer three minutes before the Suzee Show went on-air. I looked like a murder victim.” In retrospect, Landry shouldn’t have trusted Todd with the wine to begin with. The stagehand was pretty, but he had all the grace of a drunken giraffe, plus a tendency to wave his hands when excited. Apparently he’d been very excited over Landry’s upcoming segment on things to make out of wine bottle corks. Landry had nearly burst into tears over the spill, but Elaine had been standing nearby and fortunately suggested an impromptu bit on stain removal.
Now, Landry kept his voice regal. “I’m perfectly calm.”
“Good. Does that mean Jordan’s working out?”
“Yes, I’ve been letting him use my home gym.”
“Oh my God. Was that a joke? Did Landry Bishop attempt a pun?”
He glared at the phone again. “I’m often witty.”
“Uh-huh. So, Jordan. He’s a keeper?”
Landry knew Jordan wasn’t eavesdropping. He was, in fact, using Landry’s writing time as an opportunity to take a break from his own tasks, which probably meant he was in the pool. He swam often, and if Landry snuck a few peeks at the beautiful, skimpily clad man doing laps, well, he was only human. Besides, Jordan had had a full week to purchase bathing attire, if he so desired. He didn’t seem inclined.
“Landry?”
He reeled his thoughts back to the conversation. “We’ve had some rough spots, but he’s learning quickly. He’ll do, I guess.”
“So I was right and you were wrong.” Her smugness traveled thousands of miles, undiminished.
A redirection was in order. “Have you settled in all right?”
“More or less. I forgot how much my parents drive me insane. I love them. They’re great. But they make me crazy. Sometimes they act like I’m still thirteen. The other day I said fuck in front of Mom and she told me to watch my language. I was like, ‘What’re you gonna do, ground me?’” Elaine huffed. “It’s okay, though. Our place has a nice lanai, so when I can’t stand it one second longer I can
sit out there with a mai tai and remember I’m living in paradise. But really, Landry. How are you doing?”
“No mai tais. No lanais. It’s not paradise. But it is the city of angels, and that’s close enough.”
They chatted a few minutes longer about nothing consequential. For some time after the call ended, Landry remained in his chair, thinking about what Elaine had said about her parents. His own were long gone—his father died of a heart attack when Landry was in high school, and cancer took his mother soon after. Neither of them had lived long enough to see him become successful. He wasn’t sure what they would have made of him. Maybe in their eyes he’d always have remained weird little Wormy, the bookworm who cared more about fashion magazines than football.
He still had Missy, though. And her husband and kids, along with a slew of aunts and uncles and cousins, all of whom were apparently content to live out their lives in the middle of nowhere. His relatives weren’t horrible people, but when Landry was a kid, they’d driven him nuts—and there’d been no lanai to retire to with a tropical drink.
Landry had never bothered to come out since he’d never been in. By the time he’d hit his teens, it was already crystal clear to everyone that he was gay. Not a single relative had hassled him over it, and his cousins threatened anyone at school who dared to bully him. But Landry had always felt like an alien among them, a changeling child who never quite fit in.
“Which is why I am here in Los Angeles,” he reminded himself aloud. Where he did fit in—even if it took some effort—and where he was supposed to be working on the blog post and not angsting over his childhood.
But although he rested his fingers on the keyboard, not a single word came. He couldn’t think of anything clever to say about wrapping paper. Or anything else. Maybe he needed a change of scenery. He hadn’t taken a vacation in forever. Hawaii. Landry could go to Hawaii. He would not stalk Elaine. Instead he’d rent a nice little place on a sugar-sand beach, watch surfers flex their muscles as they rode the waves, and eat fresh pineapple and papaya for breakfast. Then he’d come up with a series of blog posts on how to inject tropical touches into everyday life even if you lived in Duluth, and that meant he’d be able to write off the entire trip. An excellent plan all around.
