Finding You: The Complete Box Set (a contemporary MM romance series)

by Ana Ashley

  I took my suitcase, and as I dragged it on the cobbled sidewalk toward the apartment, I considered what my great-grandma had said earlier. I felt like I was two people in one body.

  Part of me was Portuguese. I knew the language well and was glad that Mom never let me slack in my practice. Portuguese was all we were allowed to speak at home since outdoors it was mostly English. Speaking Portuguese was second nature, and I was proud that to the untrained ear, I sounded very much like I’d never set foot outside the country.

  Of course, being Portuguese was much more than just speaking the language and knowing the customs and traditions. I just had to figure out what it meant to me.

  I also felt American, having lived in New York for most of my life and also being American on my dad's side. Apart from my holidays in Portugal and early childhood until I was eight, most of my memories and history were in New York, and I felt like I belonged there. I liked the people, the melting pot of cultures, languages, history, and not to mention the great food you could find on every corner of the city.

  How could I figure out where I belonged now?

  Max was my family in America, but at some point, he would find someone he would want to spend the rest of his life with, and there wouldn't be as much time for us to spend together. Not that Max seemed that he wanted to settle down. I was the one more eager to come home to someone every day.

  I was tired of dating men I’d met through dating apps or in bars. It seemed as though everyone my age was just looking for a quick hookup. I got that. In such a big city where everyone focused solely on their career and success, very often relationships came second or even third. Hooking up served a purpose only, to get off and move on.

  I smiled to myself as I approached the apartment door. When did I ever start thinking like an old man? I remembered Max's promise of summer fun and decided there and then as I was pulling the heavy suitcase up the stairs to the second floor that I would enjoy this holiday and be the twenty-six-year-old I was.

  But first, I would have to walk into the apartment that had been my home for the first eight years of my life.

  The apartment wasn't much different from the last time I had been here. The layout was the same, not that much could be changed in such a small space, anyway. It had a kitchen that opened into the living room and then to a balcony of the same width, one bathroom, one master bedroom that had been my parents’ room, and a smaller room that had been mine.

  I loved my room because, despite the smaller size, it also had a small balcony that faced directly toward the apartment building opposite mine, David's apartment. He lived there with his mom when we were young. I hadn't kept in touch, so I was unsure if David still lived there or even in Caparica for that matter. Paula, David's mom, died of cancer eleven years ago when we were only fifteen. I remembered Mom being so upset about the death of her best friend at such a young age. When Paula received the diagnosis, Mom struggled with the distance, and as the last days approached, she came back to Portugal to care for her best friend and was at her side when she finally passed away.

  I wanted to come with her, but at the time, I had exams at school and wasn't allowed to miss any classes. I ended up spending that summer with my grandmother as she became progressively unwell. It was a great summer, and I loved spending it in the Hamptons with her. Despite her frail health, she still had a devilish side to her and encouraged me to pursue a summer romance with another boy who lived nearby. Not that anything had happened then. I’d still missed David terribly, so that boy became the friend I would always see when I stayed with my grandmother and was also the first person outside my family I told I was gay.

  I went to my old room, rolled the shutters up to allow in the afternoon sun, and opened the balcony door and looked out onto the street.

  Some of the shops were different, but the look of the buildings on the outside remained the same, just older and more worn.

  I looked at the balcony across from mine. The shutters were all the way down, so it was impossible to see if someone even lived in the apartment. I couldn't remember how many evenings I’d spent on this balcony chatting with David about our favorite superheroes until one or both of our moms reminded us it was time for bed. Later, whenever I was back home in the summer, we used to carry on with our conversations but using mobile phones long into the night. One thing never changed. The balcony doors always remained open as though by breathing the same crisp summer air, we were both in the same space rather than our individual rooms separated by the street below.

  So many memories in such a short span of time wore me out. Of course, that could also be a result of the long flight and very little sleep, so I decided to take a shower and get some rest before joining the family for dinner.

  3

  David

  Being responsible for the best selling pastries at Café Lima was something I was very proud of. My mom, Paula Lima, was the original owner of the café and its namesake. When she passed away, it became mine, although at fifteen years old, I was too young to take over the business and was also still at school. My mom's sister, Aunt Teresa, and her husband, Uncle Mário, already worked there, so they took on the management side of things until I was old enough to make the decisions.

  One decision, however, was plenty easy to make. I knew I wanted to work with food. Baking and cooking was something I’d done with my mom, and now it was all I had left of her.

  Every day after school, she’d insist I finish my homework, and only then would we bake. When what I made was good enough, she would put it out front for sale. I still remembered the first day that had happened. I’d been intrigued by the photo of a recipe for a chickpea tart because it looked so delicious, even though I was sure that a dessert made with chickpeas wouldn’t taste sweet. Mom encouraged me to try it and let me follow the recipe on my own. I did, and the result was a delicious-tasting tart that sold out that afternoon.

  We also cooked most of our meals together. She liked making traditional Portuguese food, and even when we tried other cuisines like Chinese and Indian, she always was adamant that our food was far better.

  As soon as I finished high school, I’d put on the apron and had been baking for Café Lima ever since.

  I loved my job and had always been adventurous, even spending the last few years experimenting and creating new pastries for the café, which had always turned into a success. But the most-wanted item on the menu by far was still the traditional custard tart. Most days, I’d bake a couple hundred of the things, which could be a little monotonous, and the only thing that had stopped me from developing repetitive strain injury was the recent additions to my kitchen in the form of a few industrial-sized appliances.

  I also loved the early mornings. Who would have guessed that the little kid who had repeatedly asked for five more minutes in bed for the first half hour of each day would now be a happy early riser? Yep, I loved getting up before the rest of the world and walking up to the café, turning the lights on, and doing what I believed I had been born to do.

  Most days in the summer, I also got up a little earlier and went to the beach for a run before even the sun was up.

  Today had been one of those few summer days when I’d been unable to make my daily run because we were hosting a family dinner in the café after hours, so there had been a lot to do first thing this morning.

  Joel, my childhood best friend, was back from New York. He’d moved there when we were eight, and the last time we’d seen each other, we had both been fourteen. Now Joel was back home, and while it was for a sad occasion, it also served to bring the family together.

  Tonight, both Joel's family and mine were celebrating Joel being home and remembering his parents.

  As for me, I was currently in the corner of the kitchen, which served as a standing office, having a mild panic attack. I checked that everything was running on schedule for the hundredth time. I knew how to cater for a dinner party and could do it with my eyes closed, but this was a special occasion
because of the relationship Sílvia had had with my mom, and I wanted to do the best for the family.

  While these events didn't happen very often, I was used to them. The early closing hours of Café Lima meant I was able to bring in some additional income by hiring out the space and catering family dinners and birthday parties, as well as the occasional small wedding. It also gave me an opportunity to experiment with the dessert menu and serving some of my mom's homemade recipes.

  Tonight was a family dinner, so I’d decided on a traditional home-cooked meal. I hoped a green cabbage soup with chorizo for the starter, a monkfish cataplana for the main course, and a three-chocolate mousse for dessert would hit the spot.

  I hadn't seen Joel since we were fourteen. We grew up pretty much inseparable as a result of our mothers being best friends, but things changed when Joel had to move away to New York with his parents.

  We’d still seen each other every year in the summer when Joel spent the school holidays in Portugal, but then he stopped coming back, even when his parents had continued to visit.

  That last summer we spent together had been a defining time, at least for me, so I was feeling unsure about where we stood with each other, but I hoped at least we would be able to rekindle our friendship.

  Straightening my back with a deep breath and placing the task list on my desk, I went back out from the kitchen to the café that was now doubling as the event room.

  The tables had been lined up in a row to make one long one, and we had dressed it very modestly. After all, this was an informal family dinner, and I wanted everybody to feel comfortable and relaxed, even if I was somehow struggling to manage the same for myself.

  As the guests started to arrive, I focused on welcoming everybody. I knew Joel's grandparents very well since they were regulars at the café and as much family as my own. They always passed on news about Gary, Sílvia and Joel, but I was always reluctant to ask too much.

  Joel's aunt and uncle lived in a different town, so they didn't drop by as often. Same with his cousins, but we had all grown up in the same neighborhood, so everybody was on a first-name basis. It really felt like one of the family dinners from my childhood, and I had a pang of longing, thinking of my mom and how much she’d have loved to be here today.

  I didn't have to look up to know Joel had arrived. As I was setting some appetizers on the table, I heard the chattering increase, followed by louder, happy voices. I took a deep breath and then did look up. Joel was distracted by his family, which was just as well because I was transfixed and couldn't take my eyes off him.

  Joel looked...so grown up, so...stunning. He had grown tall, probably thanks to his American side, maybe six foot two. It was quite a contrast to my own more built, but shorter five-foot-nine frame. His light blond hair was a shade darker than it used to be, and I couldn’t quite see his eyes from where I was standing, but I still remembered how they used to be so blue that I would stare at them whenever he wasn’t paying attention.

  Continuing to gaze at him, my thoughts took me in an unexpected direction, and I wondered if, under his button-up shirt, Joel had some definition to his lithe body.

  Shit. I had to get myself under control.

  Joel looked over as if he could read my thoughts, and my stomach clenched. Suddenly, I forgot how to breathe as our eyes locked. Even from afar, they were the same hypnotizing bright blue. He didn't give me time to get over the moment, because he strode toward me, and in a few steps, I was enveloped in a fresh, shower gel-scented hug that took my breath away. I wasn’t sure how long it had lasted, but it felt like a lifetime as I breathed him in and felt his arms snake tight around my back.

  "David, it's so good to see you. God, it's been so long," Joel said before he let go. His smile so bright it lit up the room. I took a moment to catch my breath, feeling my Adam's apple bob, and hoping he wouldn’t think I was a brainless mess.

  Come on, David, you’re a normal person. Behave like one.

  "Hey, Joel.” I choked. “Welcome home. When did you get in?" My voice finally found its way out.

  "Just this morning. It's great to be back, and seeing the whole family here together is just... awesome." Joel smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks for letting us use the café. Grandma told me earlier that you own it now."

  "Yeah, technically it’s mine since it was Mom’s, but my aunt and uncle manage it with me. It's become more of a family business.” Shit, I was rambling. “Do you want to take a seat? We're going to start serving soon." It was all I could say before I excused myself to go back to the kitchen.

  I walked through the double doors leading to the back but went to the opposite side to the standing office. There was a panel that separated the area from the kitchen, so I was able to lean against the wall and go unnoticed, hoping to get a hold of myself.

  Jesus, what was happening to me? My heart was racing, and my hands suddenly felt clammy, but there was also this odd sensation of rightness. There was no time to figure out what it all meant, and this definitely wasn't the place. Both our families were counting on me to deliver a good meal, and that's what I would do. I wanted to honor the memory of my mother as well as Joel’s parents, Sílvia and Gary.

  By the time I came out of my hiding place, all the guests were seated and patiently waiting for the appetizers to arrive.

  I looked for a spare seat at the long dining table, and when I found my spot, I looked over toward the kitchen and nodded at the staff to begin serving the starter. I sat down, and when I looked up, I realized that Joel was sitting right across from me. He looked slightly flushed, and his smile seemed a little more nervous, a contrast to his earlier demeanor. Was he feeling as discombobulated as I was?

  I ran my hands through my hair and smiled back, hoping my expression read "let's be friends" rather than "I think I'm stupidly attracted to you."

  "So, Joel," Aunt Teresa said from a few seats down, "how long are you staying with us? We haven't seen you for such a long time and we were hoping we’d have the chance to see you at the café as often as possible."

  "I'm staying for a few weeks. I'm hoping to catch up with the whole family and also fit in a bit of exploring," Joel said, his eyes landing on me at the end with what looked like a hopeful gaze.

  Hopeful? Did he want to reconnect as much as I did? I wanted to talk to him, ask him why he hadn’t come back, what his life was like in New York. I wanted to tell him what his mom did for me when mine died, and I needed to hug him and tell him I was sorry for his loss. But I couldn’t, not now. I just hoped I’d have the chance later.

  Everybody settled into a comfortable conversation during the starter, praising the food, which made me immensely proud.

  "It's nothing to do with me. I'm using mom's recipes, so you really can't go wrong," I said, hoping to deflect the attention.

  "Oh, my goodness,” Aunt Teresa said, “I remember when Paula went to our mom, who was hopeless in the kitchen, and said she wanted to learn how to cook. Of course, that didn’t work out.”

  I smiled to myself, having heard this story before.

  Avó Violeta, Joel’s grandmother, continued. “And then she started sitting with me in the kitchen every day when I was cooking our dinner, and she'd ask so many questions. I didn't realize what her plan was until she'd been doing it for weeks, so I started teaching her the basics. She was so talented and had such a good knack for flavor."

  My chest felt tight as I listened to the memories of my mom. Sometimes, I wished I could access everybody's minds and capture all those memories for myself. People who knew my mom often talked about her, sharing bits here and there. It felt as though she was still here with me, and I was so proud that she was a well-liked and respected woman who fought hard against the single mother stereotype by building a thriving local business. I wondered if, wherever she was, she was proud of what I’d done with the café. I hoped so.

  As the main course was served I took a moment to look around and watch everyone as they tried my food.
r />   "Do you remember when Sílvia and Paula went on a school trip to Ovar and they had some Pão de Ló? When they came back, Paula spent days trying to bake one, and both she and Sílvia nearly ended up in the hospital with food poisoning because they had used old eggs and the cake was undercooked." This story came from Joel's uncle talking about a particular Portuguese traditional cake that has a soft center. "It was hilarious. They were so ill and swore they would never eat another cake ever again. That lasted about a week!" There was laughter all around as they remembered the two best friends fondly.

  I looked up at Joel, who looked as though he was wrapped up in all the stories and lapping it all up.

  I guessed that Joel wouldn’t have heard some of them before. I felt sad for him. While I had a constant reminder of my mom by courtesy of all the local acquaintances, Joel hadn't been as lucky. Being away for so long, Joel had missed out on seeing his mom in her home environment, surrounded by the family she’d grown up with.

  Joel would have different memories of his mom living in a whole new continent, a different culture, and also in one of the most exciting cities in the world, New York. I sincerely hoped I would have a chance to hear about that part of his life while he was here.

  I would have to find a way to get close to Joel again, and as I dug the dessert spoon in the lightness of my chocolate mousse, I realized I had the perfect excuse.

  Throughout dinner, there were many conversations and people to catch up with. Earlier today, Avó Violeta had called to ask if I could cater for two more people. I’d said yes, of course, and then was pleasantly surprised when I saw Chico and Mariana join us, without the twins who apparently were at a sleepover.

  Chico was a good friend and a local mechanic. Aunt Teresa used him exclusively when her car needed something done to it. His services were often exchanged for custard tarts or celebration cakes. Unfortunately, I didn’t see Mariana as often because she owned a clothing shop and worked long hours.