Taste on my Tongue

by Beth Bolden

  Landon groans.

  Landon likes Ryan Seacrest, ubiquitous host. They always have a fun conversation when he calls in, and Ryan was supportive when Landon came out of the closet.

  That does not mean that Landon likes waking up so early or that Ryan will be easy on him when he’s scented some potentially hot gossip.

  “Landon, I didn’t know you even knew how to cook,” Ryan says casually, and Landon doesn’t have to be a genius to know where this is going.

  Landon stares at the sheet and picks at where a thread is beginning to come loose. The phone is pressed against his ear, damp and sweaty from his nervous palm. He considers dodging. He could do it easily. Ryan would almost certainly recognize it, but he won’t call him out on the radio. They’re friendly enough that he’ll probably let it slide.

  But Landon isn’t certain he wants to dodge. So he leaves the decision up to Ryan. “Well, that’s the point, really,” he drawls out, equally as casual. “There’s someone who’s teaching me.”

  It sounded way less obvious in Landon’s head, but something about the way he talks about Quentin, even when he’s not saying Quentin’s name, is not subtle whatsoever.

  “Quentin Maxwell, right?” Ryan sounds so sly, even though he must realize that Landon practically served him this subject on a silver platter.

  “Right.” Landon has to practically bite his tongue. He wants to ramble on and on about Quentin for hours. Talk about how his eyes shine like precious stones, how soft and curly and sweet-smelling his hair is, and the way Landon feels when Quentin gazes at him like he’s something important.

  But he doesn’t.

  After all, this is Ryan’s job. He needs to work a little harder for the dirt.

  “You know, Jessa was on the other day. And she wouldn’t stop talking about how you and this Maxwell were attached at the hip.”

  “We’ve only filmed once so far!” Landon protests, but it’s pretty weak.

  “Moving fast are we, Patton?” Ryan teases.

  “Quentin’s a great person,” Landon says, and he’s smiling even though there’s nobody who can see. “I think he’s going to be the perfect partner for me.”

  He hopes that’s true in more than one way. But he doesn’t need to say it; Ryan is quick enough.

  “We’ll have to keep an eye on you two,” Ryan says, and then he’s plugging the premiere of Kitchen Wars in a few weeks and then they move on to talking about some of Landon’s new music. “A new sound,” Landon says, “definitely more mature,”—even though he’s still trying to figure out what this newer, more mature sound actually sounds like.

  Ryan says all the right things, enthused for new tracks, says they’re looking forward to hearing more from him.

  The interview ends, and almost immediately his phone rings again. Landon doesn’t even check it before he picks up. “So how was it?” he demands, sure that Ian will have about a million corrections, even though Landon himself thinks it went pretty damn well. With Ryan’s help, he hinted all over the place that he and Quentin are more than friends and hopefully, there will be quite a few people who will tune in just to assuage their curiosity.

  “I liked it,” Quentin says and Landon is so surprised he almost drops the phone.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he says rather stupidly.

  “Did you not know who it was?” Quentin teases.

  “I thought it was Ian, actually, ready to complain about the interview.” Landon pauses. Makes the decision to be more honest than he normally would. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

  “We listen to KISS every morning in the bakery,” Quentin explains. “Was surprised to hear your voice this morning.”

  “Good or bad surprise?” Landon asks.

  “Really, really good surprise. Just a bit taken aback to hear Seacrest interrogating you like that.”

  Landon can’t help the laughter that explodes out of him. “Oh, we go way back. Anything he said—I wanted him to say it.”

  “You told him ahead of time?” Quentin sounds confused.

  Landon isn’t sure that he wants to go into how he knows how Ryan thinks. Just like the radio host, Landon likes using flirtatious banter as a weapon, as a shovel to dig deeper, past all the surface crap. There was even a time when Landon might have had a little bit of a crush on Ryan. That’s long past, but Landon still understands him.

  “Not exactly,” Landon hedges.

  “I mean, you sounded so . . . Landon with him,” Quentin says, and Landon thinks he might detect a hint of jealousy in his tone.

  “He’s a good guy,” Landon says breezily. “Was really supportive when I came out.”

  “Right, right,” Quentin says with a bit of a nervous chuckle and Landon takes pity on him.

  “There’s no reason to worry,” he says gently. “Trust me. I didn’t say anything I didn’t want to say. And Seacrest knows that.”

  There’s a long silence. Landon is almost afraid he’s said too much.

  “I just don’t get this the way you do,” Quentin says softly. “You understand everything that’s going on underneath, all the media stuff. I just bake.”

  “You’re better off baking,” Landon says and to his own surprise, he sounds serious and in fact, rather jealous. “This media stuff, as you put it, can be ugly. I don’t always like that I understand it. But with my career, I don’t have a lot of choice sometimes.”

  “You’ll help me, yeah?” Quentin asks. “When we do interviews?”

  There’s nothing sweeter than Quentin sounding like there’s nothing to be lost in asking for help—in asking for Landon’s help.

  “Of course,” Landon says, tucking his knees up under his chin. “Anytime you need it.”

  “You’re the best,” Quentin says and Landon can practically hear the smile on his face. “I gotta get back to these croissants, but I can’t wait for our date.”

  Landon smiles back even though Quentin can’t see it. “Me either.”

  Landon doesn’t care that his first date with Quentin is at his place, and that it’ll probably be very casual. He still spends a good hour in his closet, trying to decide what to wear.

  It’s sort of cheating, but when he sees the flare of color out of the corner of his eye, Landon smirks and makes an instant decision.

  Quen isn’t going to know what hit him.

  Half an hour later, the cab pulls up to the building with Quentin’s apartment. Landon fluffs his hair and slides out of the cab. He’s almost entirely certain the driver’s eyes are still on his ass as he walks up to the building, so the jeans he picked must be doing their job.

  Really Landon isn’t sure if he wants Quentin to open the door, fall to his knees and use that insane mouth for something useful or if he wants Quentin to open the door, make him a delicious and intimate dinner, then propose marriage.

  He thinks he’s got either option pretty well covered.

  As it turns out, Quentin opens the door and neither fantasy comes true.

  Okay, his mouth does go a bit slack when he takes in the red shirt of doom—doom being the place any guy goes who sees it and doesn’t end up wanting Landon goes—and that is very gratifying. Exactly what Landon was going for.

  “Gorgeous,” Quentin murmurs. “Really, you’re just stunning.”

  Landon preens a bit. Quentin is a smart boy; Landon practically runs on praise.

  And really, Quentin doesn’t look too shabby himself. He’s wearing a slightly transparent black button-down, the buttons nearly an afterthought, and Landon is salivating at the thought of tracing every single tattoo with his tongue. His hair is down and looks so soft and lovely, Landon is really looking forward to getting his hands in it finally, even if they’re only making out on the couch.

  “It’s a good thing I’m not hiding you away tonight,” Quentin continues, and what?

  Landon is confused. He thought he was getting a romantic candlelight dinner, cooked by Quentin Maxwell’s own hands. He was mostly expecting them to not even make it thro
ugh dinner. He’d picked his outfit purely for initial impact and then how good it might look on Quentin’s floor.

  “We’re not staying in?” Landon squeaks.

  Quentin smiles. “I’ve got a surprise for you actually. Wanna wine and dine you; spoil you a little, to be honest.”

  Landon wavers. He sees his fantasy of a cozy romantic evening, with a couch and a bed and several convenient horizontal—and maybe a few not-so-horizontal surfaces—fading, but at the same time, he really can’t argue with what Quentin’s suggesting.

  “I love surprises,” Landon says.

  “So do I,” Quentin responds with a grin. He reaches over and slides one of those huge hands, warm and definitely big enough to send Landon’s heart into a rabbiting mess, over the curve of Landon’s hip, just where his red shirt meets his tight black jeans. “I was especially surprised—and pleased—to see this make an appearance.”

  Landon tries really hard, but he can’t help his blush. “Didn’t want to disappoint.”

  Quentin leans in, leans down really—which is a kink that Landon didn’t even think he had, but from the way his heart is pounding, his pulse going absolutely haywire, he most certainly has a size kink when it comes to Quentin—and just nuzzles his nose into Landon’s neck, lips just teasing with the sensitive skin along the tendons. Landon takes a shuddering breath. Quentin smells so good, like pine forests and soft velvet and butter. “Couldn’t even if you tried,” Quentin murmurs into Landon’s ear and he can’t help the shiver that rockets through him.

  Landon feels his bones melt into jelly. He wants to sink into Quentin and let them fall back through the doorway into Quentin’s apartment and not come out for a good forty-eight hours. He wants Quentin to dismantle him and put him back together.

  The problem is that Quentin is a fucking tease and just as Landon is about to sag into him, Quentin pulls back, though he’s still keeping a mighty friendly grip on Landon’s hips. “We’ve got to go,” Quentin groans a little, sounding positively pained as Landon glances seductively up from underneath his eyelashes. He knows what this particular look does to men, and it definitely affects Quentin. There is absolutely no question of that, from the hot piercing look Quentin shoots him. But he’s on a mission, apparently, and he lets go of Landon, one hand sliding down to tangle their fingers together.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asks as they head down the stairs to the street.

  “Surprise,” Quentin retorts with a dimpled grin. “But you’ll like it. And it’s close.”

  When they turn a corner, Landon glances over in surprise. They’re in front of Sur Ma Langue, pretty much the French restaurant in LA—a restaurant that even Landon, who knows zilch about fine dining, has heard of.

  Glancing over at Quentin, Landon is speechless at the stars sparkling out of his blue eyes and the smile playing at the corner of his lips.

  “Here?” Landon exclaims. “You’re taking me to Sur Ma Langue?”

  Quentin shrugs, and now he’s the one blushing. “Don’t get too excited, I know a guy.”

  “Quentin, I’ve got to be honest.” Landon spares his t-shirt and jeans a brief look. “I’m not really dressed for this place.”

  But Quentin just shrugs. “Trust me. Like I said, I know a guy.”

  It turns out that Quentin is one hundred percent not exaggerating knowing a guy. He does know a guy—the head sous chef, to be exact. It turns out they went to culinary school together, and he owes Quentin what sounds like a whole bunch of favors. Landon shouldn’t be surprised, but he still is when they’re shown to a table that’s in the far back corner room, very private, and there’s candlelight everywhere.

  There’s fat, chunky candles clustered in niches spread through the creamy walls, and wrought iron candelabras warming the corners of the room, and tiny tea lights scattered on the table set for two, their flickering wicks reflecting onto the china and crystal.

  It’s a statement and Landon can’t quite catch his breath.

  He can’t quite believe that all this is for him.

  “Do you like it?” Quentin’s voice is low and sweet and Landon can’t seem to find his.

  Landon’s entire life, he’s had the rotten luck of always caring more, of always falling harder and faster and deeper. He spent most of high school in love with a good friend he knew wasn’t gay. He let his most recent ex-boyfriend, Steve, push and prod and coerce him out of his closet at exactly the wrong time, and then watched as Steve made it clear he’d never really cared about Landon—only about the publicity he could bring to his career.

  Landon has known plenty of people who cared about him for what he can do, for the way he sings, for the songs he can write, for the privilege he can bring them with his fame or his money or his name, but he has never, ever believed that someone cared as much as he did.

  He’d mostly come to grips with it; made it into a little joke. “Oh, here’s Landon, falling hard again.”

  This time Landon feels like he’s not the only one launching off a cliff, flailing through the air, arms and legs cartwheeling madly, air rushing by, riding the exhilarating high of falling.

  Quentin’s right there with him, and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever experienced.

  “Yes.” It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all Landon has the breath for.

  Quentin is a perfect gentleman—it’s been so long since Landon was on a real date, he’s almost forgotten what that means. He pulls Landon’s chair out for him, and he’s this ridiculous, flawless combination of proper and seductive, letting just the tips of his fingers brush the small of his back as he makes sure the chair is at the right distance from the table.

  It’s the wildest, sexiest thing Landon has ever experienced, and they still haven’t gotten to the food.

  There’s no menus, first off, and Quentin just smiles, dimple and all, when Landon asks what they’re eating. “The chef is preparing something special for us tonight,” he explains, and not for the first time, Landon genuinely wants to ask if it’s right that all this is for him.

  It’s not that he doesn’t think he’s worth it. He knows he is. It’s just been so long—really, forever—since anybody else acted like that was true. It makes Landon want to reach out and grab on to Quentin and never let him go.

  So Landon does exactly that, reaching for Quentin’s hand and tangling their fingers together, squeezing tight.

  Quentin flushes and looks so pleased that Landon can’t help but blush too. “You’re wonderful,” he tells Quentin far more seriously than he usually talks on dates. He’s used to pulling out every flirtatious move in his rather extensive book, but with Quentin, it almost feels as if he can slow down and not have to work so hard to impress him.

  “I never thought I’d be sitting here, on a date with Landon Patton,” Quentin says equally seriously. It seems they’re both comfortable enough to break first date etiquette. “And definitely not already knowing you’re so much more than how you were on TV.”

  “More awful? More obnoxious? More pudgy? More incapable at culinary masterpieces?” Landon teases.

  “All of the above,” Quentin teases right back. It’s flirting, but it feels like flirting that you’d do twenty years in, when you’ve long since learned that impressing the other person is not only impossible, but completely unnecessary. Landon has wanted that comfort and slow-burning firework exploding in his heart for so long and had nearly ruled out the possibility because of the kind of men he usually meets. But with Quentin—Landon suddenly sees a world of potential unfolding beautifully in front of his eyes.

  “My hips,” Landon groans and gently untangles their fingers long enough to grab a hunk of bread, warm and deliciously fragrant from the basket. “But I don’t even care.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Quentin says, tilting his head and appraising him. “More to hold on to.”

  Landon nearly chokes on his bread. “Here I think you’re being all polite and gooey and romantic, and then you go and
do that,” he insists. “It’s . . . well . . . it’s very distracting.”

  Quentin beams. “I’ll have to keep doing it then.

  “Besides,” he continues offhandedly, “it’s nice that I’ll be able to cook for you. I want to feed you all the time.”

  Landon glances up from where he is generously buttering his bread. The butter smells heavenly—so good in fact that Landon is very seriously contemplating eating it without any bread whatsoever.

  “And yet here we are,” Landon points out.

  “There’ll be lots of opportunities to feed you,” Quentin says very confidently and for once in his life, Landon feels not an ounce of shame for being a sure thing. He’s more than happy to be a sure thing if Quentin is involved.

  The waiter comes over, and formally presents a little round plate with some sort of brown substance on it. Landon frowns when they’ve left. “What’s this?”

  “Pâté?” Quentin asks with an absolutely delicious little French accent that makes Landon melt like the butter smeared on the bread in his hand.

  Landon still glances at it dubiously. “What’s that?”

  “You’ll like it. Trust me.” Quentin carefully selects a thin slice of bread from the basket and spreads a thick layer of the brown goop on it.

  Then Quentin’s leaning over the table and okay, Landon is willing to try just about anything if Quentin’s going to feed it to him.

  It’s rich and soft and an explosion of flavor in his mouth. Landon can’t help but groan a little. Quentin looks very smug.

  “Like it?” Quentin asks, as if he doesn’t already know how delicious it is. Bastard.

  For a split second, Landon seriously considers saying he hates it, but then he won’t be able to eat any more. It’s not very hard to push his pride out of the way and nod shyly.

  “Thought you might,” Quentin murmurs conspiratorially, already reaching into the basket for more bread. By the time the waiter is back with wine, they’ve polished off the entire plate of pâté and Landon is seriously considering casually mentioning to the waiter how stingy of a portion that was. But he trusts that whatever to come will probably be just as delicious.