by Beth Bolden
Landon isn’t worried at all. They’re just getting started.
Landon’s phone rings way too early the next morning.
“What? Who? When?” Quentin moans, his head buried deep into his pillow. “Just make it stop.”
“Sorry, it’s Ian,” Landon apologizes as he tries to hit the accept button through mostly-closed eyes. He begins to move to get out of bed, but Quentin’s arm shoots out and wraps firmly around his middle.
“No, stay,” Quentin mumbles into the pillow.
“What?” Landon barks into the phone, trying to resettle back into a comfortable position. If Quentin doesn’t want him leaving, then he’s sure as hell not going anywhere.
“I’ve got you a meeting with Epic,” Ian says, and Landon doesn’t even care how smug his agent sounds, he only cares what he’s saying.
“How?” Landon squeaks.
“I sent them that new song,” Ian says. “You know, the embarrassing one.”
“Oh god.” Landon can’t breathe. “That’s why they want to have a meeting?”
“They loved it. Said something about what a surprising Ed Sheeran vibe you have.”
“I don’t have an Ed Sheeran vibe,” Landon says blankly. “I can barely play the guitar.”
“It doesn’t matter. They loved your voice. How much it’s improved. They loved your writing. Loved the romance of it. You’re basically in. There’s great buzz about Kitchen Wars. They want to piggyback on that. Hammer out a contract. Announce it fast.”
It’s hard to focus on anything Ian is saying. It’s all so good, but because Landon is Landon, he can only hear one thing.
Fast.
Things don’t tend to happen fast, at least in the music industry—real things, anyway. Lots of fake garbage that doesn’t pan out, all that happens plenty fast. But not anything lasting.
And after what he went through before, Landon wants lasting more than he wants to breathe, sometimes.
“What’s the angle?” Landon asks
Ian sighs. “It’s real, I swear. They really love you. Fast is just about the timing with Kitchen Wars. You’ve got to trust me here. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
Landon doesn’t believe he would. He also doesn’t believe that Ian could be fooled into thinking something is a sure thing when it isn’t.
“I guess that means I’m going to the meeting,” Landon says. He doesn’t really know whether to be nervous or ecstatic.
Ian relays the details of time and place and hangs up.
Landon falls back against the bed, nuzzling into Quentin’s curls and not even caring that doing so probably breaks about half the rules that exist when you first start dating someone.
Staying over probably breaks the other half, but he hadn’t even hesitated. Frankly, he hadn’t wanted to leave, and Quentin had seemed even less enthusiastic about the idea.
“Stay,” he’d begged Landon, and Landon had been powerless to resist the pleading look in his eyes, and the way Quentin’s hands had drifted over his bare skin as they’d cuddled on the couch.
“When do you have to leave?” Quentin asks now, voice still mostly muffled by the pillow.
“Soon,” Landon says. “I’ve got to get back to my place. Change. Get ready for this meeting. Whatever it brings.”
“It’s what you wanted though.” Quentin carefully rotates until they’re facing each other.
Landon sighs. “Yeah, but it’s hard to know when something’s for real. This doesn’t seem like it’s for real. It’s too fast.”
“Then make it real,” Quentin says softly.
“It’s not that easy.”
“I never said it was easy,” Quentin insists. “The best things, the things you really want, they almost never are.”
“What about this?” Landon asks, stroking a loose strand of hair away from Quentin’s face. “This feels so easy.”
And it does, lying in Quentin’s bed together, skin on skin, wrapped up in each other like they’ve never been anywhere else.
“This is special,” Quentin says so quietly, like he too doesn’t want to disturb the cocoon they’ve created for themselves here. “Different.”
Landon wants to tell him that he’s special, that he already cares so much, surely far more than he should at this stage, but he’s already broken so many of those generally accepted, and no doubt wise, rules, so he doesn’t. Instead he leans in and brushes a single kiss on the tip of Quentin’s cute nose. He hopes it says everything that he doesn’t think he can yet.
Ian wasn’t kidding when he said the meeting was a mere formality.
The Epic people practically fall over themselves in their eagerness to talk about a contract. Landon doesn’t know if Ian has prepped them in advance, but they say all the right things. All the things Landon has secretly wished for years had been part of his old contract—freedom and the ability to make his own choices. There’s no unpleasant strings tying him up in knots. Not yet anyway.
Ian promises Landon there will be clauses to prevent the strings from ever tying him up again.
They agree for him to go into the studio with one of their favored producers, who happens to be someone that Landon has worked with before.
By the end of the day, as Landon is relaxing in bed, he feels like he can genuinely text Quentin and tell him that things not only went well at the meeting, they went better than he could have hoped for.
So happy for you, Landon is the text waiting for Landon the next morning on his phone. Can you meet for lunch? Want to see you before filming.
They’re filming again in two days, and Landon has been so preoccupied with the developing Epic contract that he surprisingly hasn’t agonized yet over seeing Quentin. Of course he wants to.
Character development, Landon tells himself.
Late afternoon break? I’ve got meetings this morning til after lunch.
Quentin responds right away and his eagerness is a balm to Landon’s confusion.
Perfect. Meet you at the bakery?
The bakery takes up almost a whole block—it’s sprawling and very busy, if the constantly revolving door with a steady stream of customers is any indication.
Quentin hasn’t talked much about this bakery. They mostly talk about the bakery Quentin wants to own someday. In his fantasy, it’s small, tucked away in a suburban corner of LA and moms bring their kids to grab an afternoon pick-me-up and students spend the afternoons camped out in comfortable chairs with endless cups of espresso and the homey, comforting pastries that Quentin wants to bake.
This modern, sprawling behemoth of a building doesn’t feel much like it has much in common with Quentin’s dream and Landon can’t help but swear to himself with renewed resolve that now that his dream is well on its way to repair, they’re going to win Kitchen Wars to secure Quentin’s.
He has no real illusions about what he can bring to a relationship—he can be bitchy and whiny, more than difficult at points—but he can give Quentin what he’s dreamed about forever.
With his resolve burning in his veins, Landon shoves his aviator sunglasses onto his head, careful not to disturb his hair, and walks in the front door of the bakery.
It’s a hurricane of sight and sound. The scent of freshly baked bread and pastries winding around him like a lover and the burst of colors in the pastry case. A million jeweled shades of macarons, and not the heavy, thick coconut cookies, but the perfect, delicate shells filled with delicious concoctions that Landon associates so strongly with the romance of Paris. There’s vermilion and emerald and ruby and bright garish orange. He wants to taste all of them.
Tarts filled with strawberries and raspberries and blackberries, scattered carelessly but flawlessly over the sheen of vanilla-flecked pastry cream.
He’s so entranced by the outrageous displays, each more fantastic than the next, that he doesn’t even see Quentin until he’s leaning over the case, elbows resting gently on the glass, a smug smile on his beautiful face.
“Like what you see?
” he asks so impudently that Landon wonders how could he have gotten so lucky to find someone so in tune with his own sense of humor.
Landon flutters his eyelashes and stares right at Quentin. He’s got his hair pulled back, showcasing his incredible jawline.
“Yeah,” he says, not once taking his gaze off Quentin, “I really do.”
“Lemme grab us some coffee and a plate,” Quentin says. “Why don’t you find us a table?”
It’s a cavernous room, nothing like the cozy, comfortable vision that Quentin’s drawn for Landon. But Landon still manages to find a quiet corner, and is just settling down in the comfortable chair when Quentin shows up with a tray.
“Cappuccino, right?” Quentin asks as he slides a white cup and saucer in front of Landon.
Landon begins to nod but is distracted by the incredible plate of confections Quentin deposits in the middle of the table.
“A little of everything,” Quentin explains as he takes a seat across from Landon. “A few macarons. These are lime and orange, lemon and thyme. Chocolate cherry.”
Landon’s mouth waters.
“And some tarts, I saw you eyeing those,” Quentin continues with a smirk. “Strawberry passionfruit and blackberry orange.”
“It looks incredible,” Landon says, and it’s an understatement. “Did you bake all this?”
Quentin looks surprised. “Of course. I told you I did most of the pastry here.”
“I’m just . . . impressed,” Landon confesses.
“I told you I could bake; that I went to culinary school.”
It’s true, Quentin did. And Landon has seen Quentin cook during their first week of competition, but watching him assemble that fairly simple burger is nothing like the jewel-like beauty and perfection of what’s shining on the plate in front of him now. These are works of art.
Landon is flustered. He doesn’t feel inferior; if he was going to feel inferior over kitchen skills, that ship sailed a long time ago, but he’d still felt somewhat equal in that he and Quentin have both made a career out of creation.
As it turns out, it’s really tough to equate the perfection in front of him to some cheesy pop songs that he’s had a hand in writing—even those less-cheesy pop songs that he longs to write feel inferior.
“Looking around,” Landon can’t help but lean over and admit in a hushed tone, “I just don’t see why you’d ever want to leave this place. Everything is so freaking beautiful.”
Quentin looks amused. “Oh, sure it looks alright, but I don’t want to make this sort of thing.” Quentin gestures to the plate of jeweled macarons and the flawless tarts.
Landon shouldn’t gape, but he kind of does. “I mean,” Quentin continues, a trifle quicker than before, his voice still as slow as maple syrup on a chilly afternoon, “I want to create beautiful things. But none of this, not a crumb out of place, all cold perfection. I want something you don’t want to ruin by eating it. Something you can’t wait to sink your teeth into. Something warm and sweet.”
“Quentin,” Landon can’t help but admit, “that’s the greatest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Quentin flushes and carelessly picks up an aubergine-colored macaron. “I suppose you want to make serious songs, then?” he asks.
The problem is Landon doesn’t really know what he wants to create. Maybe what he’s really envious of is Quentin’s certainty.
“Not serious,” Landon says, picking at the napkin lying next to the saucer. “But important, somehow. Even if the importance is just making people happy.”
“You’ll figure it out.” Quentin seems so sure. Landon wishes he had a tenth of Quentin’s confidence—but the thought of Quentin realizing that is too awful to contemplate, so Landon does what he does best. He changes the subject.
“We should really be figuring out this week’s plan,” Landon inserts.
The look in Quentin’s eyes tells Landon that he isn’t as good as he thinks he is at changing the subject, but Quentin is wonderful and lets it go.
“I wish I could figure out what the theme is. Have some sort of idea going on,” Quentin says rather wistfully.
Landon takes a sip of his coffee which is strong and hot. Just the way he likes it. “But watching you in action is so inspiring,” Landon teases.
Quentin quirks an eyebrow. “Watching me flounder around with no idea what to cook is inspiring?”
“Absolutely. I enjoy every second of it.”
“You should really enjoy this week then,” Quentin says wryly.
“Please,” Landon scoffs. “You’re so calm and collected. And here I am, flying off the handle because I’ve been forced to chop something or actually use the oven.”
“Hey, you know how to use the oven now,” Quentin drawls out, but his eyes are sparkling, and the air between them is crackling with tension and chemistry and the fact that Landon is pretty much going out of his mind with the need to touch Quentin right now. Unfortunately, Landon is dumb enough to have scheduled their date at Quentin’s workplace.
“Who do you think is our biggest competition?” Landon asks, pointedly ignoring Quentin’s statement about the oven. He supposes he theoretically knows how to work the oven controls, but in the heat of the moment, nothing is certain.
“I think Reed and Diego will make a big comeback this week.”
Landon devours half a strawberry passionfruit tart and moans at how good the fresh fruit tastes in combination with the cold, decadent pastry cream. “Reed couldn’t bake this. How could he possibly stand a chance?” He gestures with the tart.
Clearly, Quentin is both flattered and amused. He giggles, which Landon has figured out he tends to do when he’s uncomfortable with a compliment. Or sexually aroused. Landon shifts in his chair a little.
Quentin is just really arousing, okay?
“We probably won’t be baking tarts though,” Quentin points out very rationally.
“But if we did,” Landon retorts with a sly grin, “your tart would own his tart’s ass.”
Quentin laughs long and loud then, the sound echoing through the open bakery like a rather triumphant bell. Landon tries to find something every day that he’s proud of; today, he’s most proud of the way he can make Quentin laugh like that. That’s an accomplishment that he doesn’t think will ever get old.
“You know, my mom never had butter in the house,” Quentin confesses when he’s finally managed to contain himself. “Maybe I’m compensating for the lack during my childhood.”
Landon knows to step very carefully around the subject of parents. It’s the first time Quentin has said something about his, and Landon freezes. He wants to ask, wants to know everything he can about Quen, even though he’s scared.
“Why not?”
Quentin shrugs. “My mom hated to cook and she was terrible at it. Why bother with real butter if you know it’ll taste like garbage?”
“It’s hard to imagine you growing up somewhere where food wasn’t important.” It’s phrased as carefully as Landon can, every ounce of tact he can find in use.
“They just didn’t care.” Quentin’s eyes go soft and hard at the same time, and the one thing Landon does understand is feeling conflicted over family. He certainly feels conflicted enough over his. “They don’t really get why I’m here, doing this. They think it’s a waste of my time. Of my future.”
Landon plucks a perfect blackberry from a tart. “One thing I can tell you for sure, for sure,” he vows, as serious as he ever is, “is that you’re not wasting your time.”
The lines on Quentin’s forehead smooth out a little. “I know I’m not, but it would be nice if they knew that too.”
“My mom doesn’t know what to do with me either,” Landon confesses, which is the last thing he expected to come out of his mouth. It’s apparently being extra uncooperative today. He can’t remember the last time he told someone this; he never even told Steve.
“LA is just a lot different than where I grew up,” Landon continues and he can�
�t help the thread of bitterness that sneaks into his voice. “She just doesn’t get it. Not before. Not today. Probably not ever.”
Quentin confirms his sainthood when he reaches over and tangles his fingers with Landon, squeezing them gently. He doesn’t say anything but Landon knows that sometimes words aren’t enough.
“Let’s get out of here,” Quentin says, changing the subject. Landon sees his forehead is getting a little damp. Maybe they’re both suffering. “My break’s over soon.”
“Never going to say no,” Landon whispers, but Quentin’s already stood up and he probably doesn’t hear. Which is just as well because nobody needs to know just how far gone Landon is. Most of all Quentin.
A few scant minutes later, Quentin’s got Landon pressed up against the back wall of the bakery, right next to the deliveries sign. The red bricks dig a little into Landon’s skin through his t-shirt, but the roughness contrasted with the honeyed sweet pleasure of Quentin’s mouth is exceedingly hot. Landon feels lightheaded, head tilting back to rest against the wall as Quentin’s lips coast up his neck.
“Quen,” Landon half moans, half pants. “Public.”
Because if anyone walks by, they’ll see Quentin’s big body pinning Landon to the wall, his hands determinedly pushing up his t-shirt, the rough pads of his fingers stroking down his abs and lingering at the waist of his pants, thumbs dipping under the fabric, reverently caressing the sensitive skin over Landon’s hip bones.
If anyone walks by, they’ll see Landon’s fingers buried in Quentin’s curls, tugging them hard enough to make Quentin moan into the soft crook of Landon’s neck, where he’s licking and sucking a bruise that’ll be hell for the Kitchen Wars makeup artist.
And all because Landon insisted on a goodbye kiss, and Quentin insisted he make it a good one.
Quentin’s lips disappear from Landon’s skin for a second, and Landon, who’d let his eyes drift shut, vision hazy with heat, refocuses on Quentin.
Sometimes it’s hard to look at Quentin directly. He’s too much up close—skin smooth and pale, touched with just a hint of a heavier cream, freckles dotting his nose and a jawline so sharp it makes Landon weak in the knees. It’s easy to miss how Quentin is more than a sum of his parts when the parts are so extraordinary. Those jewel-like eyes, the pillowy pink lips, his hair like a golden halo around his head. Landon doesn’t like to think of himself as particularly stuck on the surface of people, but when the surface looks like this, it’s hard to move past it.
