by Beth Bolden
Miles went to the market nearly every day. He’d gotten into the habit of doing a lot of recipe work at home, which Evan usually enjoyed, especially now that his love of sweets was no longer a big secret.
“Sure,” Evan said, faking confidence. He had no fucking clue what to do with a whole fridge-full of fresh ingredients, but he’d never been a quitter, and he wasn’t going to start now.
Maybe if Miles came in during dinner prep, it would remind both of them just how much they weren’t alike.
“And I’ll be home in a bit,” Miles added. “In case you need help.”
“No help needed, but thanks,” Evan said brazenly, even though he absolutely knew better.
He, one hundred and ten percent, absolutely fucking needed Miles’ help.
* * *
Looking at the fridge did not improve the situation. Miles had been right; he’d been to the market in the last day or so, it was totally stocked, not only with butter, cream, and all kinds of fruit—the fresh component to Miles’ regular recipe testing—but several paper-wrapped packages from the butcher, and a whole crisper drawer full of veggies. He’d even been to their favorite cheese shop, just down the street, and there were several tantalizing plastic-wrapped hunks of cheese. Along with some of the preserved meats that Miles had picked up, Evan could have probably cobbled together a cheese plate, piled up the fresh figs that he’d spotted on the top shelf of the fridge. It would’ve been a great, quick dinner, one they’d had lots of times because arranging pre-made food and ordering in were Evan’s two culinary talents.
But, this time he’d specifically said he was making dinner, because the one guaranteed way Miles would step in, and probably shove his foot in his mouth by saying something critical.
Normally, this wouldn’t be something he’d ever invite, which was why he’d almost strictly stuck to ordering in when it was his turn to figure out dinner. But today was an exception because Evan needed to know if they’d really become that couple.
So, instead of giving up when inspiration did not strike, Evan pulled a packet of boneless, skinless chicken breasts out of the fridge, and then a random assortment of vegetables from the crisper drawer. He could make a stir fry, couldn’t he? Any idiot could make a stir fry, which was why when he’d bothered to date pre-Miles that had felt like the ubiquitous meal that anyone felt they could attempt to impress a potential boyfriend.
“You can do this,” Evan told himself firmly. “It’s chopping. And then cooking. That’s so easy, it’s embarrassing.”
Evan was halfway through the pile of vegetables on the counter when Miles walked in. Initially, he hadn’t been thinking clearly, and he’d been chopping them into small, even chunks, just like he knew Miles was particular about—and then he’d remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be making Miles happy tonight. The opposite, actually. So he’d started chopping far more haphazardly, leaving some pieces much larger than others.
“Hey,” Miles said, coming over to brush a kiss over Evan’s mouth. He glanced down, taking in the knife in Evan’s hand, and the piles of vegetables—most of them not chopped very neatly. Say something critical, Evan thought very hard in his direction, tell me I’m screwing up dinner. Tell me you’ll just take care of it. Say it so I can say something back. But other than a faint purse of his lips, Miles kept his mouth shut.
Frustrating, maybe, but not the end of the world.
“I’m making stir fry,” Evan said cheerfully. Not cheerful enough that Miles might get suspicious that he was up to something—but he definitely didn’t feel quite this enthusiastic about stir fry. The real question was, did anyone?
“Oh, that’s nice,” Miles said. Clearly he didn’t think so. He looked a little constipated, like Evan had just given him not bad news exactly, but an unpleasant variation.
“I think so,” Evan said, beaming.
Come on, tell me what you really think. Tell me that a foot nearer the stove is a foot too close.
“And we’re having . . .eggplant? In the stir fry?” Miles looked down at the little eggplants—that’s what those were!—that he was chopping up inelegantly into large, uneven chunks.
“Don’t you like eggplant?” Evan asked.
Miles rolled his eyes, propping his hip on the opposite side of the counter. Not interfering, not yet, but close enough that he could, if things got dire. And Evan intended for them to get really dire.
“I do,” Miles said, “which you know. And I told you I was saving those to make some roasted eggplant pizzas this weekend. You know, when we were going to have Reed and Jordan over?”
Evan actually hadn’t remembered that. But then sometimes when Miles got talking about food and recipes, he did zone out just a little tiny bit. Not enough that Miles might notice, but enough that his eyes wouldn’t glaze over.
“Oh,” Evan said. Then suddenly smiled, gesturing towards the pile of eggplant chunks. “Should I save these then? We could put them in a Tupperware and you can just roast them later?”
Miles looked at the eggplant dubiously. “That wasn’t how I was going to prepare them,” he said carefully. Way too carefully. This right here was why he and Miles had lost their edge; they were too fucking careful around each other now. Love made you do crazy things, like not want to insult your lover’s chopping skills, even though they were terrible.
Six months ago, Miles wouldn’t have even hesitated, and then Evan would have said something snarky back, and they’d have ended up having hot, wild sex on the kitchen floor.
Now, he thought a little resentfully, they’d probably wait until they went to bed, like two perfectly normal, perfectly adjusted people.
“How were you going to prepare them?” Evan questioned. He would really have to push Miles; that much was becoming painfully clear.
But he didn’t really want to, and that, just as much as Miles’ obvious reluctance to call Evan out on his poor knife skills, told the story of their relationship. They were happy. Happy getting along, happy loving each other, happy having sex after they got to bed, instead of on this cold, uncomfortable tile.
For a moment, Evan was almost tempted to leave it, but then he remembered Reed’s concerned look, the worry in his eyes. What if they lost what made them special? What had made them so interesting and so attractive to the Cooking Channel?
“I was going to thinly slice them, then salt roast them,” Miles said, and he couldn’t quite meet Evan’s eyes.
“Oh,” Evan said. He didn’t know what salt roasting even was.
Miles threw his hands up in the air, and Evan thought, finally, this is it. I’m going to get a cutting remark shot in my direction any moment now. But instead, Miles opened his mouth, then shut it again, and then finally said, “I’ll just get some more Friday, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” Evan suddenly yelled. “Nothing is fine!”
Miles looked at him. “It’s not?”
“You need to get mad at me!” Evan knew how unhinged he sounded.
“What?” Miles asked, mystified. “Why would I do that?”
“You always used to! We bickered all the time. We fought constantly.”
Miles looked even more confused. “That’s what you want? Us fighting all the time?”
Evan set down his knife, despairing. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“This . . .this is what Reed wanted to talk to you about, wasn’t it?” Miles said, reaching for Evan and pulling him into his arms. It felt fucking awesome, like it always did. Miles was like the boyfriend version of a warm, cuddly blanket. It was the exact opposite of what they were supposed to be doing, but Evan discovered he didn’t have the self-control to pull away. Not when it felt so good.
“Yes,” Evan said in a small voice, burying his face into Miles’ shoulder. “He wanted to make sure everything was okay, because we’re getting along. How fucked up is that?”
“Fucked up that we’re getting along? Or fucked up that he’s worried that we are?” Miles wondered and Evan had a feeli
ng he didn’t really want an answer. Because there really wasn’t one.
“What if we can’t turn it on for the cameras?” Evan asked quietly.
“I . . .I kinda like the idea that we don’t have to be that way all the time,” Miles said, his tone equally soft. “Don’t you? Or did you like that? The bickering and the snarking at each other? We do it sometimes, still, just . . .it’s nice to not have to do it all the time. I think . . .” He took a deep breath. “I think I actually love you too much to do it all the time.”
Evan let out a heavy sigh. “Me too, I think. I . . .do you really think we can do it on set, the way we always used to?”
Miles shrugged. “Do you still think all that crap you used to say to me? Because I still have it flash through my mind sometimes, I just don’t really want to say it anymore. Because most of the time you dish it back, because you’re you, but then once in a while, I’d go too far, and you’d get this hurt look in your eyes, and god, I hated that.”
“You really are a romantic,” Evan said, smiling. “Seriously. A huge cheesy sap.”
Miles just smiled back, like this was greatest thing Evan could have accused him of being. “Yeah, so?”
“I think I like it, too,” Evan admitted.
“Imagine that,” Miles said, pulling him close again, resting his chin on top of Evan’s head. “I think we’re gonna be okay. We’re still us. We haven’t really changed, we just fell in love. That happens, you know.”
“I was here, I didn’t exactly miss it,” Evan retorted, and then for a second, froze, then started to grin. “I think you might be right.”
“Wait a second, I want to get that recorded for posterity,” Miles said with a faux-serious tone. “I might not even hear that ever again. I might be right? Oh my god.”
“Hey, shut up,” Evan said, slapping him lightly on the chest. “You’re the worst.”
“Am I?” Miles said, glancing down at him, his eyes darkening. “Maybe you really should shut me up.”
He dropped to his knees, and Evan found his cock hardening like it’d been trained to, whenever Miles’ admittedly fantastic mouth was anywhere near. He remembered all the times they’d done this—so many, they felt infinite—and also the very first time, when the attempt had ended in disaster.
“There you go,” Miles coaxed, nuzzling Evan’s hardening cock with his nose, as he reached up for the button and fly on Miles’ jeans. He’d actually started wearing jeans now, at least on days they didn’t have business meetings, which Miles claimed turned him on more than anything else.
Evan let Miles pull down his jeans, and then his briefs, and then everything went hot and red, Miles’ mouth closing over him and sucking hard.
“Fuck,” Evan breathed out, fingers curling over the edge of the counter as Miles continued to work him, the pleasure sparking through him in hard, desperate spurts. “You’re so fucking good at this.”
And he’d learned that too, since that first terrible blowjob that Miles had given him. The one he hadn’t even managed to stay hard doing. He’d learned that Miles liked to be praised, liked to be told he was doing good, and Evan had discovered that nothing turned him on more than being the one who was doing the praising. Maybe that was another reason they’d lost their edge. It was too good to tell each other how great they were; so much better than making up stupid shit about how much they weren’t.
Miles sucked and twisted hard, his mouth working Evan so perfectly that he knew he was getting close.
“Touch yourself,” Evan begged, because there was maybe nothing hotter in the universe than watching how much pleasuring Evan pleasured Miles.
It felt like an impossibility that he’d never, ever get used to. That this brilliant, gorgeous, insane man would fall in love with him, and want to be his partner. Would choose it a hundred times a day, even when Evan was being difficult, even when he was being a brat. He’d still drop to his knees for Evan, would make him feel good in a thousand unique ways. It was a push and a pull that Evan had never believed he’d have, that he wasn’t even quite sure he deserved.
But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered, more than anything, was the flood of pleasure overwhelming him as he thought, we could do this, forever, and it’d never be enough. Evan barely got a single look at Miles reaching into his own open fly, frantically rubbing himself before Evan flew off the edge, pulsing over and over into Miles’ mouth.
He slumped against the counter, eyes barely open as he heard Miles moan and follow right behind him.
“We’ve got to stop doing this,” Miles said after a long moment, carefully pulling himself upright. He went over to the sink and rinsed his hands. “Do you really want dinner?”
Evan thought for a long moment. Dinner? What was dinner?
“I thought so,” Miles said, and with no other warning, scooped him up and carried him to the bedroom they shared.
A long time later, as they lay in bed together naked, Miles said softly, his voice barely registering, “I don’t really miss it.”
Evan nestled closer, tighter, loving every bit of Miles’ warmth. At some point they’d have to get out of bed and find something to eat for dinner. Not the chopped eggplant, probably. “Miss what?” he asked.
“Miss fighting,” Miles said with a resigned sigh, “but if you really think we need to . . .I think we’re cute no matter what, but you’re the producer here. You’re the expert.”
“I never wanted to fight with you,” Evan admitted. “I actually hoped that we’d be friends.”
“Friends?”
“That was the most I was hoping for,” Evan said wryly. “The rest was beyond my expectations.”
“Ah.” Miles didn’t say anything else, and Evan wondered if he’d fucked up by admitting that.
“What I mean . . .is I don’t mind telling you when you’re being a stupid shit. But we don’t have to fight just to fight,” Evan continued awkwardly. “I . . .I don’t want to do that. I’m so happy with you, I don’t think we can really do that anymore.”
Miles’ arm tightened over him. “I hoped you’d say that.”
“You did?”
“I mean. . .I wasn’t thinking about it, or spending much time thinking about it. But I trust you. I know you’ve got my back, and that you wouldn’t do anything that pissed me off, not on purpose. Maybe on accident . . .” Miles trailed off. “I guess what I’m saying is that I trust you. I know you won’t screw me over. So my first reaction is just . . .let you do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”
Evan chuckled. “Imagine if we’d discovered that six months ago.”
“If we had, we might not be here right now,” Miles said. “It turned out that thing I loved to hate about you was that I . . .love you?”
“You’re an idiot,” Evan said, but he heard just how warm and soft he sounded. As gooey as the cinnamon rolls that Miles liked to bake them on lazy Saturday mornings.
“Never going to stop being that,” Miles said, and that felt just right to Evan.
Catch Me
Chef Wyatt Blake is finally ready to move on from his thankless job. He gets no wiggle room, zero praise, plenty of abuse, and on a good day, he might only spend twelve hours in the Terroir kitchens. A friend of his recommends a private chef position, but despite the boost in pay, Wyatt doesn’t want to babysit some spoiled, rich LA family.
Imagine his shock when the family isn't a Kardashian clone, but Ryan Flores, the only professional baseball player to ever come out of the closet.
Ryan is also at a career crossroads. His team’s management wants to see his more responsible side, which means no more late night hookups and no more adrenaline-charged stunts. When his agent suggests he find a fake boyfriend to give him an air of domesticity, he’s only reluctantly interested.
Until Ryan goes to a local bar and spies the cute private chef he’s supposed to be interviewing the next day. Maybe a quieter life wouldn’t be so bad, as long as Wyatt is part of it?
Wyatt believes Ryan co
uld be more than just a crappy boss, but he isn't sure about leaving the kitchen for the life of a professional boyfriend. Especially when he wants the reality so much more than the fantasy.
Chapter One
Wyatt couldn’t take his eyes off him. Not his face, with those dark eyes and those cheekbones. Not his hands, cradling the single glass with its inch of golden liquid. Definitely not the way his arm muscles rippled under his tan skin. Considering how many guys were packed into this bar, including the mostly naked ones dancing on the stage, that the man had caught and held Wyatt’s attention was an undeniable accomplishment.
Under any other circumstance, Wyatt would have opened with that line when he approached him. But that wasn’t happening tonight, or any other night.
He was definitely cute though, with smile wrinkles around his dark eyes, and close-cropped brown hair. The loose, graceful way he held himself made Wyatt believe that he had a very decent set of muscles under his t-shirt and jeans. None of that explained why Wyatt couldn’t look away. Maybe it was that the man didn’t smile as much as he should. Only occasionally his very white teeth would flash, a contrast to his tanned skin, but it never felt like the smile reached his eyes.
Maybe it was the way he had so easily garnered every other person’s interest in the bar.
Maybe it was because he was Ryan Flores, and the first “out” professional baseball player in the history of the game. He’d come out a few years before, right before the draft, and after spending a year or so in the minors, had broken out in a huge way during a Dodgers’ playoff run. So what might have become only a footnote in the history of Major League Baseball instead got a whole paragraph.
It was a Thursday night, and Wyatt had come to Temple, one of the most famous gay bars in West Hollywood, hoping for a few beers, a chill night, and some well-deserved ogling of the gorgeous dancers. One of them had always reminded him of his ex, Nate, and now that Nate’s memory had faded to a pleasant afterglow rather than acute bitterness, Wyatt had thought he might appreciate the similarity a little more.
