by Beth Bolden
It was fierce and hot and the power of it blew out every fuse in his head, giving Miles no time to get his kissing shit together. His hands had just drifted up Evan’s arms, and he was wondering if it was too soon to go for his cock, when Evan suddenly pulled away. His face was flushed, his eyes on the floor.
But he was breathing hard, the rhythm an echo of the ricochet of Miles’ heartbeat.
The only thing Miles could think was that he needed another chance, another shot, because that couldn’t be the last time it ever happened between them. A week ago he hadn’t even liked this man, and now he couldn’t get enough of him.
Had Evan changed or was it Miles who was irrevocably altered? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure it mattered.
“This isn’t happening,” Evan said resolutely before Miles could catch up and make sure that he knew everything he’d done was definitely okay. More than okay. Actually, perfectly fucking splendid.
“It just happened,” Miles said frankly. “Come back over here, and it’ll happen again.” This was more the reaction he’d been expecting after the first kiss, and for it to happen now, after the mind-exploding second kiss, was unexpected and frustrating.
Evan shook his head emphatically. “This is the worst idea in the history of ideas. You don’t even like me. I don’t know why you decided to flirt with me, but apparently I can only take so much before I fold.”
“I do like you,” Miles said, even though it sounded stupid.
Evan shot him a look that said loud and clear that he definitely thought it sounded stupid. “Okay,” he said, clearly not convinced. “But it’s still not happening again. This is a major distraction that we don’t need. And I don’t really like you either. Or your face.” His expression grew downright challenging.
The problem was that Miles didn’t believe him at all. The other problem was that Evan still believed he’d meant that email.
“Fine,” Miles said, unconcerned. Evan might be talking big right now, but Miles knew what it felt like when someone wanted him, and Evan wanted him. Miles just had to wait until Evan was done fighting with himself. It wouldn’t matter how long it took, because Miles knew he was going to get what they both wanted.
Chapter Eight
Not even five minutes after the kiss, the kitchen was overrun by Lucy and Steph and Chloe, Lucy’s crew of prep assistants. Evan tried not to think what they would’ve thought if they’d come in just a tiny bit earlier and caught him kissing Miles.
Or Miles kissing him.
Evan still wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened, only that it had happened at all, and if he was being very honest with himself, the world had shook and the floor had rocked and when he’d opened his eyes again, nothing was the same. It was the first kiss he’d always dreamt he’d get from Miles, and he’d let himself be persuaded into it because he’d imagined it would be like the first time.
It hadn’t been anything like the first time. It had been dreamy and wonderful and perfect.
It couldn’t happen again, but Evan could already tell from the determined glint in Miles’ eyes that he wanted it to. That he believed it was only a matter of time before Evan gave in and let it happen again.
Miles thought he knew Evan, but all he’d seen was the professional surface he’d spent years cultivating. He didn’t know anything about the steel inside that had been forged through even more shitty years making the best of bad situations.
And he’d seen enough in those situations that he wasn’t going to let himself be swayed into a situation where he liked Miles and Miles just thought it was convenient and easy and a simple way to convince Evan to go along with whatever he suggested.
Evan was never going to be the guy who fell for that and then let it drag on. It was necessary for Miles to understand that now.
He scrolled through his email, pretending like he was actually working, while he listened to Lucy and her minions divide up the remaining pain au chocolat and exclaim all over the place about how talented he was, how innovative, how flawless his execution was.
Evan could see the remaining half of his abandoned pain au chocolat on the other counter, and he had a visceral memory of how much he’d really hated Miles when he’d taken that first bite. He’d hated that everything Miles had said was true, and he’d tried to hate that smug look as Miles watched him discover all his truths.
The final, and worst, truth being that he didn’t hate Miles at all.
It was just ironic that Lucy and the assistants were so excited about Miles’ talents, when Miles had only been tangentially involved. They wouldn’t be squeeing all over the damn place if they’d discover Evan had made the pain au chocolat they were currently ingesting.
“Someday,” Lucy was saying, “I want to take you to this little bakery down the street. The choux are a revelation. And I want to pick your brain as you figure out how they do it.”
Evan tried not to grind his teeth together as Miles talked with Lucy. He shouldn't have been jealous. He and Miles weren't exactly friends, and Miles was a decent enough human being that Evan couldn't deny him workplace friends. Even if they weren't him.
“Are we done?” he asked as he stood, gathering his papers, notebook and laptop. “I have a meeting.” He didn’t have a meeting, and if Lucy went and looked at his schedule later, she’d know he’d manufactured a reason to escape.
Miles glanced over, and Evan steeled himself against the silent apology in his gaze. “Yeah, of course, if you’ve got to split, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It wasn’t his proudest moment, but later as he collapsed on his couch, feet and brain and heart hurting, he realized what he’d done. He’d given Miles all the advantages, all the power, all because he’d run away.
What he should do was get up, and go right over to where Miles was probably in his apartment, cooking something delicious, and take some of that power back. His heart and something deeper, a fault line that ran right through the core of him, quaked at the thought. He could do something. It was a huge risk, the sort of unimaginable risk that Evan couldn’t have conceptualized even a few months ago. But the promotion, even as uncertain as it was, had begun to give him the sort of solid foundation he’d always craved.
And once life had become less of a rat race towards one goal or another, always something necessary and vitally important, Evan had become unbearably aware of all the couples that surrounded him. And the contentment their happy relationships gave them.
He’d seen Reed grow confident and happier the longer he was with Jordan. He’d watched Nick worry and stew and pray as his husband, Colin, had figured out where he wanted to play football next. He’d seen one of Lucy’s assistants blossom as she fell in love with her girlfriend.
Love was something Evan had only vaguely heard about, because any kind of love was constantly in short supply in the homes he’d grown up in. There were always more important priorities.
But he’d fulfilled those priorities and they weren’t yelling at him anymore. He was clothed and fed and had a solid roof over his head. He had money in the bank. He wasn’t living a terrified hand-to-mouth existence anymore. He could afford to be exploratory, even if the possibility scared the shit out of him.
But even the fear wasn’t enough to stop him. Even the promise he’d made to himself only an hour earlier that he wouldn’t let Miles kiss him again.
That was the thing. He wasn’t going to let Miles do anything. He was going to be the one doing the kissing this time. The thought was fucking terrifying, but Evan had never let fear stop him.
“This is probably a mistake,” he told himself as he got to his feet and went to look for shoes. “This is almost definitely a mistake.”
Yet he still found the shoes, shoved his feet in them and still tromped one door down the hall.
Miles answered on the third knock, looking very surprised to see Evan on the other side of his doorway.
“Sorry about earlier,” Evan said in a rush because suddenly he didn’t
know what to say. He didn’t know how to go from the awkward realization he was standing on Miles’ doorstep to kissing him like he wanted to. His lack of any experience besides just sort of falling into bed with people had never seemed daunting. It was now.
He didn’t have a clue how to seduce someone. It seemed to come naturally to Miles, because when he wasn’t pissing Evan off, he was trying to charm him—usually successfully. Evan didn’t do that; Evan couldn’t do that.
Miles lifted an eyebrow. “Are you apologizing again for kissing me back? I didn’t think you had a bad time on the second try.” He was holding a whisk in one hand, and he had flour on his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Evan said because all he could do apparently was apologize. And even he knew that apologies usually weren’t preludes to anything sexy. “I interrupted you . . . cooking something.”
Miles pushed the door further open, and just shrugged. “Is it an interruption if you do it regularly enough? Besides, I’m making dinner, you might as well come in if you haven’t eaten.”
Evan had been in too much of a hurry to escape the office and his inconvenient, annoying jealousy to grab food on his way home, and his fridge was empty except for three bottles of fancy mustard and half a bottle of sauvignon blanc. His stomach rumbled as he stepped into the apartment and he smelled something buttery baking.
“You eat too much butter,” Evan said as he toed his shoes off near the front mat.
“At least butter’s natural. It isn’t processed shit,” Miles called from the kitchen.
This apartment was basically the same as his own, except for the kitchen, which Evan could acknowledge was drastically different.
Not the layout. Not the countertops, not the appliances. Just the flour dusting the countertops, and something delicious sautéing on the stove, and the general appearance of a room being used.
Evan mostly used his to unbox takeout containers and to reheat the leftovers the next day.
“You want some wine?” Miles asked, gesturing to the bottle on the counter. “I’ve actually been to this winery, so I can vouch that it’s pretty good.”
Evan had just graduated from buying the very cheap wine at the grocery store, the wine that was a whisper above the box wine and the huge jugs of white zinfandel. He’d never actually been to a winery; in fact his only trip to Napa had been the six hour round-trip he’d made to collect Miles.
It wasn’t like he didn’t want to expand his horizons—Reed was always coaching him to do just that—but horizon-expanding took money and, until recently, he’d never been in any position to indulge.
He poured himself a glass of the cabernet sauvignon and sniffed it, carefully swirling the glass like Reed had taught him the first time he’d taken him to a nice restaurant for dinner.
“It is pretty good,” Evan admitted. Even to his relatively uncultured palate. And it might give him the liquid courage to close the few feet of distance Miles was giving him.
“I know the sommelier who’s in charge there,” Miles said, and his voice grew grittier as he stirred the pan on the stove and then pulled it off the heat.
Evan almost asked if it was an ex-boyfriend but Miles seemed like he was going to tell him even if he didn’t really want to know about all the people Miles had kissed before him. Especially not when Evan was planning on doing more kissing.
“You know Wyatt?” Miles asked, shaking the sautéed veggies in the pan and carefully stirring them into the bowl on the counter. “My old roommate?”
Evan barely remembered anything about his trip to Napa, except the lighter fluid stench coming off Miles and the guilt in his eyes. But he nodded anyway, even though all he had was an impression of a big guy, built like a linebacker with sun-bleached hair.
“Yeah, it’s Wyatt’s ex. Good sommelier. Terrible boyfriend.” He hesitated as he pulled a partially baked pie crust from the oven, which explained the deliciously buttery smell in the apartment. “Got us some great wine though. Not that this one is spectacular, but he was connected, you know?”
Evan had learned really fast that some people—okay, most people—didn’t want to know about how he wasn’t connected at all. Or about his shitty childhood. Or about how he’d clawed his way up the ladder to success. He’d been on a handful of very terrible dates where he’d been at least partially honest when asked, and afterwards, he’d figured out that when people asked, they weren’t asking because they actually wanted to know the truth.
Miles poured the contents of the bowl into the crust and sprinkled some sort of cheese over the top.
“What are you making?” Evan asked, because changing the subject seemed like the best plan he could come up with at such short notice.
“Veggie quiche with some really good fontina I picked up at the farmer’s market,” Miles said, like everyone came home from a trying day and whipped together a gourmet meal.
Sometimes it felt like too much for Evan to dial the number to the local Chinese restaurant.
Miles must have caught Evan’s eye roll because he smirked. “Are you going to tease me now about the good fontina from the farmer’s market?” He was leaning over the counter, eyes sparkling under the lights, looking too delicious for words, even with the flour dusting his t-shirt. Especially with the flour dusting his t-shirt.
“It just was such a cliché. You’re like a walking chef cliché ninety-four point six percent of the time.”
He didn’t look concerned about Evan’s accusation, though, and Evan couldn’t help but be a little surprised. Two weeks ago, that comment would have gotten Evan a sour lemon expression and some biting remark back.
“Why are you being so nice?” Evan wanted to know. He wanted to know even more, like what Miles wanted from him, but he thought he’d start small. Simple.
“To you? Especially when you seem to enjoy making fun of me?” Miles shrugged, clearly unconcerned by the sudden shift in their relationship. “I’m not sure. Why does it matter?”
“It matters because it matters.”
“Some things don’t require you to overthink them. Just like some pastries shouldn’t rise too much. Or that a dessert can be too sweet, but can never have too much chocolate.”
“Life advice from Miles Costa. You should change career paths.” Evan knew he got bitchy when he got defensive. “Finding Your Best Self by Miles.”
Evan ignored the twinge of hurt in Miles’ eyes.
“Hey, I never promised I was some sort of expert. I sort of fall into most things,” he said, voice still easy, “and when I got out of my own way, this seemed pretty obvious.”
“I can’t do that. I don’t do that.” Evan hesitated, confessions teetering on the edge of his tongue, but he held them back. “If something isn’t going to work out, if something looks like it’s going to fail, I make sure it doesn’t.” He didn’t want this to fail, but he also didn’t know how to make it a success.
Show me how, he wanted to beg Miles, but his pride would have stung far too much to ever admit that out loud.
“You know," Miles said casually, "that explains a lot about you. About how you are with your job."
Evan turned away, twisting the stem of his wine glass. “I thought I was the luckiest person in the world when I got a paid internship at Five Points my senior year of college. It was the best opportunity I was ever going to get, and I jumped at it.”
“And you worked your ass off,” Miles finished. When Evan glanced up, he was smiling ruefully.
“What?” Miles asked with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed that much.”
Evan flushed and nodded. “I haven’t. I did everything they asked me to do. And it wasn’t glamorous stuff, we didn’t do any videos back then. Not like now. The culinary department didn’t even exist. Most of the staff writers had assistants. I was an assistant to the assistants. And that makes it sound even better than it was.”
“How did you end up working for Reed?” Miles asked. “He’s never struck me as the sort who would get a new
job and demand an assistant.”
“Oh god, no,” Evan breathed out. “That didn’t even become official right away. I had started helping out here and there on the Dream Team set, this was right before I graduated from college, and I really wanted to transition from a paid internship to a full-time paid position. And I thought if I made myself an expert, the guy you went to for everything related to that show, I might make myself a job.”
“So you helped Reed when he came on.”
Evan leaned over the counter, wondering how, in a week, he and Miles had gone from hating each other to reluctantly working together, to conspiratorially trading work stories and sharing a bottle of wine as Miles cooked.
For the very first time he let himself think, I want more. I want this all the time.
“You and Reed have more in common than you realize,” Evan confessed.
“We’re both brilliant chefs?” Miles’ incredulous look left Evan feeling warm inside. Too warm. He took a gulp of wine before belatedly realizing that was not going to help at all.
“Other than that,” Evan said. “When he started, he was fucking lost. Jordan helped, of course, especially with his Dream Team producing duties. But the rest of it? I found myself doing a lot of stuff he asked me to help him with.”
Miles leaned over the stove, pulling the oven door open a crack to check his quiche. Evan tried to ignore the way his t-shirt rode up his back, exposing a tempting slice of bare skin.
He failed. He wanted to reach over and touch that skin. He wanted to know what it tasted like under his tongue.
“So how long did you officially work as Reed’s assistant?”
Evan hesitated. “Are we really having the conversation we should have had the first day you showed up? Right now?”
“You just knocked on my door. We’re having a nice glass of wine. I kissed you today and we both liked it.” Miles shrugged unrepentantly. “It makes sense to start over, as much as we can.”
Evan couldn’t believe his nerve, but Miles did seem to do that: float through life, unconcerned and not heavily bogged down by regrets or complicated situations. He was a surface person; Evan was desperate for roots. They were probably not the most obvious match, and Evan knew that, but sometimes fate was crazy like that. You wanted the wrong person, even if you knew he was the wrong person.
