Taste on my Tongue

by Beth Bolden

  It takes him five more minutes, but he finally gets the dough hook in.

  “Didn’t think you’d have so much trouble getting it in the hole,” Quentin says with a smirk and Landon can’t help but turn to him in mock outrage.

  “Quen!” he cries. “I can’t believe you!” And after Landon so scrupulously avoided any sexual insinuation.

  Quentin blushes, but he doesn’t look even the tiniest bit ashamed.

  “Next time, I won’t take it so easy on you,” Landon vows.

  “Wouldn’t want you to,” Quentin says with a laugh and wow, Landon doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through the next eight weeks if he can’t kiss this beautiful man a little bit. Surely that’s allowed?

  He’s going to have to wait until after today’s boot camp is over to call Ian and ask though, because even though Landon feels very nearly desperate, he’s a bit more desperate to stay with Quentin.

  Of course that’s when Quentin turns things up a notch.

  “I'm hungry, let’s make lunch,” Quentin says.

  Landon loves to eat. He’s also pretty intrigued at the concept of Quentin putting things in his mouth. He’s only human, okay? And Quentin’s mouth is so lovely—all wide and pink and plush. Landon wants to do sinful things to that mouth, only about a quarter of which involve food.

  “You mean, you’re going to make us lunch?” Landon asks hopefully. He was rather hoping the equipment tour could continue. At least the equipment is mostly non-threatening—all except the food processor. In his completely non-expert opinion, the food processor is a fucking terrifying piece of machinery designed to process fingers not food.

  Quentin shakes his head. “We’re going to make lunch.”

  Landon can’t help the wave of apprehension that spreads through him. “How about,” Quentin says with a bright smile, “I’ll make you lunch, and you can make me lunch?”

  Quentin obviously believes this is a fantastic idea, but Landon thinks it’s just not fair. Whatever Quentin makes is bound to be delicious. He’s a professional; this is what he does for a living. What Landon can make is probably not edible.

  “Are you sure?” Landon asks. He’s sure Quentin can hear the dubious tone in his voice, but he doesn’t mention it and only nods excitedly in the affirmative.

  “Why don’t we both do something simple, like grilled cheese?” Quentin asks.

  Landon had mentioned to Ian more than once that a grilled cheese sandwich was the one meal he feels even vaguely confident preparing besides cold cereal. He thinks Quentin suggesting this isn’t a coincidence, but that’s fine. Landon doesn’t want to poison such a gorgeous man the first day he ever meets him.

  “I can do that,” Landon says.

  “Then let’s do it,” Quentin says with another one of those dimpled grins that will probably make every single person aged eight to eighty fall in love with him. “Grilled cheese sandwiches. Half an hour?”

  “Thirty minutes?” Landon scoffs. “I don’t think it’s going to take me thirty minutes.”

  Quentin just shrugs, a knowing smile on his face. “You’d be surprised.”

  It’s never taken Landon that long to make a grilled cheese sandwich in his life, but he agrees, mostly because there’s nothing wrong with having too much time.

  They haven’t gone over where all the ingredients in the pantry are located, but unlike during the show, when they’ll get a measly sixty seconds to shop, there’s unlimited time today, so Landon spends quite a bit of time perusing the shelves. Like the kitchen equipment, there are quite a few things he doesn’t recognize.

  After a good ten minutes, he finally emerges with bread and cheese and butter. Simple enough, but it still took him a long time to choose which bread because of course they don’t have anything a simple as plain white bread, like the kind Landon buys at the store. The cheese selection is as exotic as the one at Whole Foods. He finally finds one that looks like a basic cheddar and picks it off the shelf.

  After that, it’s simple enough to slice the bread, though the wickedly sharp teeth on the bread knife scare him almost as much as the dreaded food processor. But he cuts carefully and slowly—maybe a bit too slowly though, because his bread slices end up looking a little like he’s already gnawed on the edges.

  Landon gazes at them critically and wonders if he should try again, but he really doesn’t want to because that knife is almost as terrifying as the food processor. He saw Quentin cut through his bread earlier with confidence and precision, his slices looking as pristine as if they’d just come out of the bag.

  Landon remembers seeing something about presentation and appearance counting when they’re judged, but this is just Quentin. Besides, Landon reasons, Quentin will make sure their bread doesn’t look like it’s already chewed when it really matters.

  The cheese is really, really hard, and Landon struggles even more to slice that into even chunks. He typically buys the pre-sliced cheese in the store. The truth is he’s never actually cut cheese into slices before, which is a slightly embarrassing thing to admit, so he doesn’t. Landon nods enthusiastically when Quentin glances over, clearly watching him struggle with the knife, and asks him if he’s doing okay.

  Because, let’s face it, if he can’t even make a grilled cheese sandwich in this kitchen—the one thing he believes he can cook—he’s fucked. And not in the good way, either.

  Finally, both the bread and cheese are sliced and Landon gets the pan heated and his sandwich is cooking and he can take a relieved breath.

  Of course, then he gets distracted by Quentin, who’s over at his station, looking like he’s adding all these glorious flourishes and garnishes. Whatever he’s making must be a masterpiece. When Landon finally tears his eyes away and glances back over at his pan, he realizes the edges of his sandwich are looking well, a lot darker than he intended.

  But that’s okay still. He can scrape those bits off. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, Landon tells himself, hating that cooking in this kitchen has made him break into a sweat. He wanted to serve something decent and not burned around the edges but c’est la vie.

  Quentin is such a good person. At the end of what feels like the longest thirty minutes of Landon’s life, he presents his plate rather sheepishly towards Quentin and all Quentin does is smile enthusiastically.

  “A true Patton original!” Quentin exclaims with real joy and Landon is rather incredulous. His sandwich looks like a nightmare compared to Quentin’s, which is two flawless triangles, balanced one on top of the other, their surfaces a beautifully even color, their edges crisp and not even a tiny bit burned.

  When he takes a hesitant bite, almost afraid to mar the perfection that Quentin’s created, he moans a little. “This is so good,” he can’t help but say through a mouthful of deliciousness. The cheese Quentin selected was a white cheddar and he’s spread raspberry jam on the bread—not something that Landon ever would have thought of, never mind attempted, but it adds a perfect note of sweetness to balance out the sharpness of the cheese.

  It’s one of the best sandwiches Landon has ever had, and he can’t even bring himself to look over at Quentin as he finishes it off embarrassingly quick. He’s afraid of what Quentin’s face will say when he gets close enough to take in the rough edges of the bread and the burned edges that Landon couldn’t quite scrape off.

  “That was really delicious,” Landon says as he takes his plate over to the sink. He can’t face Quentin. If he can’t do this, then he really can’t do anything, and he just knows what Quentin is going to say. That he’s going to have to find a different, less culinary-stunted partner.

  “Landon,” Quentin says, and he’s suddenly so close that Landon almost drops his plate into the sink. “It’s okay. It tasted absolutely fine. I liked it a lot.”

  Landon laughs a little bitterly. “Just bread and cheese.” And he fucked even that up.

  There’s that hand again, reassuring and big and so warm, on the small of his back. “You have to kn
ow—you’re not supposed to be a good cook yet. We can change that. We’re supposed to change that.”

  Landon’s fingers curl around the edge of the plate and he grips it like a lifeline. “I’m totally hopeless, unfortunately.”

  “Not even close,” Quentin says and it sounds like a vow. “I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you. You picked a really nice sourdough and the right cheese to set it off. There were a few . . . execution problems. But most of those were the unfamiliar equipment I think. And you tried. Do you think every single one of these celebrities is going to try?”

  Landon has wondered that himself. “Probably not.”

  Quentin’s hands fall gently to his waist and it’s almost shocking how big they are in comparison. Landon doesn’t usually feel tiny—he knows he’s shorter than average—but Quentin feels huge. Quentin tugs him around and Landon’s breath stutters at how close they are.

  His eyes are so blue and so near and all Landon would have to do is reach up on his tiptoes a bit and he could press his lips to Quentin’s. The knowledge simmers through him and Landon can see the precise moment Quentin has the same thought—his eyes darken just a shade, from the edges of the ocean surf to the sky at the height of summer. And Landon knows without question that Quentin wants him.

  When Quentin pulls away a second later, murmuring about washing up and then finishing up with the equipment this afternoon, everything is the same between them, but it’s different. They didn’t kiss, but Landon knows it’s inevitable now. There’s heat between them, and he knows self-control has never been his forte.

  The afternoon passes much like the morning, with Quentin carefully and completely going over the rest of the equipment. Landon is taken aback by some of the more exotic items, like the anti-griddle and the ice cream machine.

  “You don’t actually expect me to use these, right?” he asks, crossing his arms across his chest. Quentin doesn’t seem particularly dumb, but he’s showing Landon the controls of the anti-griddle like Landon might actually have to use the thing. And Landon can’t even make a grilled cheese sandwich.

  “I have no idea what we’re really in for,” Quentin admits. “I know we’re going to need both of us if we want to have a chance of moving on each week. So yeah, you might have to use it, if I’m busy doing something else.”

  “You want to be as prepared as possible,” Landon says, admiring how shrewd Quentin is, underneath the curls and the sparkly eyes.

  “I don’t want to have any regrets.”

  Landon understands all too well about regrets. “Should’ve kissed me, then,” Landon says brazenly, because he might as well bring up the moment that’s been on his mind all afternoon.

  He knows he’ll get another chance and this time, he hopes Quentin won’t pull away because Landon can’t remember the last time he wanted someone this much. He can practically taste Quentin’s lips on his and the anticipation is sweet and hot in his blood.

  Quentin blushes. “Am I that obvious?” he asks, as if obvious is bad.

  “I like it,” Landon soothes.

  “You’re just . . . just . . . so pretty up close,” Quentin admits with bright-red cheeks flaming bright.

  “Thank you.” Landon can’t help but preen a little. “The feeling is definitely mutual.”

  At that, Quentin’s grin turns a little knowing. “Best news I’ve heard all day.”

  After the anti-griddle and their enlightening conversation, they move on to the deep fryer. Landon finds it only slightly less horrifying than the food processor.

  “Why is everything so dangerous?” he asks.

  Quentin looks genuinely mystified. “If you’re careful, it’s not, really.”

  “It’s literally boiling oil,” Landon points out.

  But Quentin just shrugs. “Well, let’s hope we don’t have to deep fry anything.”

  At four, they call it quits for the day. Landon has zero qualms about asking for Quentin’s number—after he’s been flirting rather shamelessly all day—and immediately enters it into his phone.

  “I’m gonna put you in as Quentin the Baker,” Landon says.

  “Not the worst thing I’ve ever been called,” Quentin has to admit.

  “What is the worst thing?” Landon asks, horribly curious.

  “I think an ex-boyfriend called me a dick once. Or maybe that was one of my ex-girlfriends.” Quentin shrugs, and Landon thinks he’s gotten off pretty easy over the years.

  “Girlfriends and boyfriends, then,” Landon says as casually as he can, which is not casual at all.

  “I’m more pansexual than bisexual,” Quentin admits.

  Landon holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hardly one to judge here.”

  “What you did was really brave,” Quentin says and that note of hero-worship is back in his voice. Landon thought he’d like it but he really doesn’t. At least not because of this. Quentin doesn’t know the whole story; won’t ever know the whole story, if it’s up to Landon.

  “I guess,” Landon says with a shrug. “Or really stupid. Depending on who you talk to.”

  “Well I think it was brave,” Quentin staunchly defends.

  “I like you, Quen,” Landon says, slinging an arm around him and tugging him close against him for a brief second. Only a brief second because any more and they are going to end up making out in the pantry.

  “The feeling is most certainly mutual,” Quentin retorts with a dimpled smile.

  “Burned grilled cheese sandwiches and all.”

  “It was only a little burned,” Quentin is quick to add. “A very tiny bit.”

  “In my defense,” Landon says, shrugging his jacket on, “you’re a very distracting person.”

  “Tomorrow, same time?” Quentin asks, not even acknowledging how insanely distracting he is—whichLandon kind of loves and hates that about him.

  “Sure.” Landon would get up even earlier to hang out more with Quentin Maxwell. Which after one day might be a little pathetic, but he’s not complaining. Quentin is extraordinary and Landon feels like he’s already in deep and they haven’t even kissed yet.

  “We’ll work on your knife skills,” Quentin promises. “It’ll be fun.”

  Knife skills sound even less fun than kitchen equipment, but today was awesome so Landon can't complain. Besides, this is all stuff he'll need to know.

  “Maybe if I do well, I can get a reward.” Landon knows he’s transparent as hell. He doesn’t even care.

  Quentin smirks. “I don’t know, Patton. Maybe we should be practicing patience instead.”

  “Patience is for losers.”

  Quentin just shakes his head, but he’s laughing so Landon will take that as a win and also as a maybe.

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  After a restless night of half-lucid, hot dreams that all feature a certain blue-eyed baker, Landon gets up early and spends more time than he even did on his grilled cheese sandwich fussing over his hair in the mirror. What—his priorities are awesome.

  He’s not proud of how vain he is, but when Landon has a crush, well, he has a crush. And this one on Quentin has hit him hard and fast, and part of that is the fact that he’s almost certain it’s mutual.

  The rest of it might be how gorgeous Quentin is, and how supportive and kind and funny too, with a sly sense of humor that seems to match right up with Landon’s own. But mostly Landon thinks his crush is nearly unmanageable already because the air practically vibrates with electricity when the two of them are in the room together.

  He’d called Ian on the car ride home, and Ian had texted him back an update on the contract not even an hour later. Maybe Landon slightly exaggerated how charming the world is going to find the two of them together—or maybe not. Only time will tell, but Ian was happy with the news that he likes Quentin. Less pleased that Landon likes Quentin, but Ian reports that it’s technically not against the contract for Landon to push Quentin against the nearest counter and kiss him until their lips fall off.

  It’s the
best news Landon has heard in a long, long time.

  Of course there’s a second text that advises Landon to at least try to keep it in his pants, but he ignores that one.

  He wears his tightest pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt that he hopes shows off his biceps and his tan. He’s pleasantly surprised with the results when Quentin practically trips on air when Landon walks into the room.

  The only downside is that Quentin’s carrying a whole bunch of knives.

  “Landon,” Quentin admonishes, but with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “please try not to distract me when I’m transporting sharp objects.” He sets the knives down on a huge wooden cutting board, and lets out a quick sigh of relief that he’s escaped unscathed.

  “Distracting?” Landon wonders out loud, all creamy innocence, as he practically strikes a pose in the doorway. “What on earth could you be referring to?”

  Quentin snorts with laughter.

  Landon takes a sip of his coffee, trying to regroup and refocus. “So why were you hefting those dangerous objects around the kitchen anyway?”

  Quentin levels him a frank stare. “The state of your bread yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Landon really wanted to forget that part.

  “Oh is right,” Quentin says, but it’s still kind. Landon doesn’t think Quentin could be unkind even if he wanted to be. He’s got such nice eyes. “We’re going to work on your knife skills today.”

  Honestly, Landon was expecting more from the morning. He was expecting maybe a hug, or some more casual touching, but Quentin’s just a touch more stiffly professional today—okay, he wasn’t stiffly professional at all yesterday, but now he seems to have found some distance and it makes Landon want to whip out his phone and wave around that text from Ian that says there’s absolutely nothing in their contracts about becoming involved with their partners.

  A year ago, he might have actually done it. But after the last situation where he jumped first and looked later came back to bite him in the ass, he’s become more cautious. He’s still Landon—overly friendly and excitable, but there’s a part inside of him that he’s not sure he’d open to anyone else again.