by E M Lindsey
And it wasn’t.
He finished the culinary class scraping by with a C, and while he knew he should throw in the towel and never look at the inside of a kitchen again except to open and microwave ramen, he decided to go forward. He was anything but a quitter, now more than ever with a fire in his belly to prove to himself that he was capable of being something else. And even if he failed spectacularly, he found triumph in how hard he was trying.
The next class, it turned out, was baking.
He walked through the classroom doors with a cheap cake decorating kit from Michael’s, and somehow, his life was transformed. He wasn’t terrible at decoration, and he could pick up the technical side of creating a frosting swirl. He had a knack for flavor combinations, and he managed gluten free bakes that didn’t taste like they’d come right from the floor of a sawmill.
Suddenly, the world started making sense again.
He could stand in the kitchen and bake, create new flavors, and lose himself to the rhythm of whipping ingredients to make something beautiful, and he wouldn’t need to think. He wouldn’t have to feel the echoes of his mother’s disapproval for his entire existence, he wouldn’t have to feel the crushing weight of his PTSD, or feel the tingle in the scars Scott left behind.
He was just Wilder—quiet and reserved and a little scared. Unloved and starved for touch, but he wanted it that way.
It was years later, with thousands of miles between him and the people who had hurt him, and he was more himself than he had ever been in his life. Enclosed in the walls of a former kosher bakery, he put his mark on the people in this small town—and they made him feel like he belonged there. They gave him space, and peace, and sanctuary where no one ever had before.
As Wilder eased the dropper to the side of his bowl, the light above the swinging door flashed. It could only mean one thing, since Indulgence was two hours from opening and Dmitri was an hour from his shift. He didn’t bother moving, because only one other person had keys to the front door, and a minute later, Theo Bruster swaggered in with a grin on his face.
“Guess what I heard.” With his ears off, Wilder didn’t hear him, but he had long-since learned to read those words on Theo’s lips.
Wilder sighed and reached to his ear to turn on his hearing aids, then he pressed both hands to the wooden baking table. “Who’d you catch this time?”
“No, I didn’t catch someone. I have news,” Theo said. He grabbed a stool and set it down next to Wilder, reaching a finger for the frosting before Wilder caught him by the wrist and gave him a flat look. Theo scowled, but wrenched his arm away and shrugged. “Are you going to guess what it is?”
Reaching for a spoon, Wilder scooped up some of the frosting on the side of the bowl, dipping his own finger before passing it over. It smelled right, but he wasn’t sure yet. “Is there any chance in hell I’m going to guess right?”
“Probably not.” Theo shrugged, then shoved the whole spoon into his mouth before his eyes went wide. “What is this?”
“It’s going to be banana cream pie,” Wilder told him. He tasted the frosting. Not quite there, but almost. Too little flavor was still fixable, and he had a pot ready to start his custard filling. ‘Tell me,’ he signed as he reached for the dropper again, then hip-checked Theo out of his way. Three drops were enough, and he turned the mixer back on, which forced Theo to lift his hands, the spoon hanging from his lips.
‘Rocco’s brother is in town.’
Wilder had met Rocco three times over the last two years he’d been in Cherry Creek—the first time was the day Wilder signed the lease for the bakery, and the next two had been over holidays when Simon had returned to spend time with his brother. He liked having Rocco around—it filled in some of the emptiness he felt leaving his small Deaf community behind, but he didn’t regret his choices to settle in Cherry Creek.
He also didn’t know Rocco well, so the idea that his brother was in town didn’t mean much.
‘And?’
Theo rolled his eyes. ‘A hot porn star’s brother comes into town? That doesn’t interest you?’
Wilder turned the mixer off and grabbed another spoon to test it. Close enough, he decided, for an experimental bake. “Did he say why he’d be here?”
Theo shook his head. “Brad and I ran into Gwen yesterday. The guy rented out the entire fucking top floor of Hopewell Manor.”
Wilder knew about the old Victorian house that had been transformed into apartments upstairs, with small shops and a salon below. Theo had lived there for a while before he moved in with Brad, and Wilder liked the place, but it had always been a little too posh for him.
He’d grown up simple—easy. They farmed their own vegetables, and chickens laid their eggs. He’d never been impressed by the idea of wealth. Indulgence did well, but he wasn’t swimming in cash. He made enough to exist happily—to not worry where the money for his bills was coming from. He didn’t have to check his bank account when he shopped or when he filled his car with gas, and that was plenty. His biggest splurge was the fancy hearing aids that were a thousand dollars beyond what his insurance covered—the kind with Bluetooth so he could listen to his classical music on electric guitar, and he could filter out screaming babies—and Theo, when he wanted to spend the afternoon complaining.
But he wasn’t rich, didn’t want to be rich. And Rocco’s brother held no real appeal for him.
“You’re being boring,” Theo said after a minute.
Wilder rolled his eyes. “I’m working. Go bother Fitz—he’ll probably be more interested than I am.”
“He at least appreciates the aesthetic of porn stars,” Theo said, hopping off the stool.
Wilder looked up with a quirked brow. “Is his brother a porn star?”
“Well no, but you know, because Rocco, he probably knows some. I bet he’s had sex with a few,” Theo said, waving his hand. “See you tonight?”
Tuesday—wine night with Theo and Andy at the Lodge since it was always one of the deadest nights. Five years ago, if Wilder tried to even consider sitting on a pool lounger under the stars in some little nowhere town in Colorado, drinking wine and talking about nothing—he would have laughed. He would have laughed, and maybe cried a little, because there had been many years he thought he’d never be able to feel normal again.
Even with therapy, even with medication, things had overwhelmed him for so goddamn long. And now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to trust his heart—to be vulnerable with another man—but he had this. And it felt like enough.
“I’ll be there. Pick me up?”
Theo gave him a mock-salute, then let himself out.
Grabbing the frosting, Wilder shoved it into the walk-in, then turned to the stove to start his custard. Dmitri would be in soon, and the shop would open. And it would probably be dead, because Tuesdays were always dead, but it would be routine. It would wrap around him softly and comfort him with its steady presence, never defying expectation, and never letting him down.
Cherry Creek was a sanctuary, and he knew he would protect that with his life.
Chapter Three
Lorenzo pushed his sunglasses up high on his head, staring around the empty space. Dust was thick in the air, floating in glittering specs through rays of sunlight that filtered through parted blinds. It was furnished in light florals and dark wood, like someone had given his nonny an endless budget and access to all of the 1978 Sears home furnishing’s catalogue.
He could hear Gwen, the realtor, pacing the hallway talking in low, irritated tones, and he fought back the urge to eavesdrop. She reminded him of Gabby in a lot of ways, and it was in this moment—hours and hours on the road and now standing in a room he’d rented sight unseen that he missed her like a physical ache.
The trip to Cherry Creek had been planned, even if it had been mostly in his subconscious. He hadn’t been able to escape the idea of that small town since Rocco had come home with endless praises on the tips of his fingers. He’d taken the road in slow
ly, savoring the curves and bends of the road as it twisted through pieces of the Rockies. It was surrounded by heavy woods on all sides until a valley burst open to reveal a picturesque town that looked like it had come right out of a tourism handbook. He had second thoughts, then thirds, then fourths, but eventually he forced himself to follow his GPS down small side-streets until he reached the little dirt parking lot leading to the home he’d be renting for the next several weeks.
He closed his eyes for a second and tried to picture Rocco in that space. He hadn’t been brave enough to ask Rocco where he’d spent his time. Hell, he hadn’t been brave enough to text his brother and tell him he had packed all his shit and booked a rental in Cherry Creek for three months. He knew, deep down, Rocco would have only encouraged him to go, but he wanted to try and claim a little bit of wholeness and peace for himself, without Rocco holding his hand.
He was starting to doubt again, though. Hopewell Manor was the most expensive lodging Cherry Creek had to offer—the place cost a mint, but it was simple, and it was old. Lorenzo usually divided his time between his beach house in Malibu and his little cottage near Pietro in Napa Valley. He told himself he needed to shed the trappings of that life which had left him hollow and lost, but he wasn’t ready to go back to his early years of struggle and wanting.
He didn’t want to feel like that broke teenager hip-checking vending machines for stray Reese’s Cups and hoarding lost change he found on the sidewalk so he could get burritos on the weekends with his friends who never had to worry where their pocket money was coming from.
And he knew it was too easy to forget—that he was too quick to erase those lean college years where he had to choose between keeping the lights on and going out with his friends Thursday nights. He liked his life, and he didn’t want to lose all of it. He just didn’t know how to fill the aching gaps inside him without letting it all go.
“Well?”
Lorenzo turned at the sound of Gwen’s voice, and he pasted on a smile that felt more like a grimace. “It’s…”
Her cheek hollowed like she was biting it to fight off a smile, and when he didn’t finish his sentence, she lifted a brow at him. “There is the Lodge, of course, if this isn’t up to your standards.”
“I don’t want to stay at some motel,” Lorenzo said, waving his hand at her. “I mean, I’m sure it’s great. It was cute on the website, but I want to be somewhere that I have time and space to myself, you know?”
“Right,” she said. “So…here, or…?”
He had a feeling she didn’t have much more than this, and he wasn’t sure it was worth wasting any more of his time hunting around for yet another thing that was going to be impermanent. “Here’s great. Thank you, Ms. Fitzgerald.”
Her smile softened, and she beckoned him to the kitchen area where she laid out the lease for him to sign. “Can I ask you something?”
He braced himself, because he knew it was coming. He and Rocco looked almost nothing alike—his baby brother had outgrown him by the time he was sixteen, and Rocco’s body had been carefully sculpted and shaped for his job. Lorenzo had always been more on the waify side, no matter how many hours he dedicated on weights, and eventually he gave up trying. He took after their mother more than their father anyway, with his black hair and thick brows.
But Gwen also knew who he was—and he had to assume a lot of the town did as well.
“Sure.”
“How are Simon and your brother doing?”
He froze, pen poised over the signature line, because that wasn’t what he was expecting. Rocco was a porn star, but he was also a social media celebrity, and his Deafness set him apart from others. Lorenzo knew his brother both hated and capitalized off it—and it had primed Lorenzo to field personal questions about what it was like to have Rocco as a brother.
He hadn’t expected the genuine question or the honesty in her tone. “Uh. They’re good.”
Her face softened. “I actually didn’t get to meet Rocco more than a couple of times while he was here. I was going through some family shit.” Her brow dipped in a faint scowl and he bit back his desire to pry. “Anyway, we miss Simon.”
Lorenzo signed his name, then set the pen down and pressed his hand to the paper. “He and Rocco were pretty caught up in getting settled, so I didn’t get to know him well.”
She lifted a brow. “Hasn’t he been there for almost two years?”
Lorenzo barely managed to keep himself from wincing. “Yes, but he’s in school so they moved to LA. It’s not as close as people might think. Rocco usually texts though, and he seems happy. And Simon seems like a good guy.”
“He is.” She said it sharply, like a simple, immutable fact—and Lorenzo had to wonder what it was about the soft, shy baker that had everyone in a goddamn tizzy.
Was it something in the fucking water, or…
“Anyway,” Gwen went on, “we’re all glad he’s happy, but we miss Chametz.”
Lorenzo blinked, but didn’t even attempt to repeat the word, but he was pretty sure that was Simon’s old bakery. “Someone else runs it, right? He mentioned something about some guy…taking over?”
Gwen gave him a long once-over, then shook her head. “He and his brother sold it off before Simon left. It’s a place called Indulgence now.”
And well, that sounded far less small-town than he was expecting. “What is that, like massage?” Though if he was being honest, it sounded like a bit more than massage—and he wasn’t entirely disinterested.
“Gluten-free cupcakes,” she said, and he allowed himself a tiny spark of both relief and disappointment. He probably wouldn’t have been able to resist temptation, but he knew it was better if he did. Gwen grabbed the paper he finished signing and pulled it toward her. “I know this isn’t usually your scene—which I guess is what you were looking for according to your email?”
Lorenzo shrugged. It was true, but he was starting to doubt himself. “Something like that.”
“Cherry Creek is a good place, but it’s not for everyone.”
He took half a step back, because it almost sounded like a threat. Her eyes were soft though, and there was something in them that was almost like pity. In spite of how much he probably deserved it, it still stung.
“My family wasn’t always like this,” he said after a beat.
“This?”
“Rich,” he clarified. “My parents both worked nine-to-fives in retail, but then Rocco started making a ton of cash in college. Then my oldest brother started up his own firm, and things just snowballed. One of my brothers went off to New York—and he works in finance. My sisters both live in Miami, and they own a clothing line together. And I…” He stopped, because what was he? A failed mogul? Someone who was getting ready to sign papers to sell off two art galleries that didn’t mean jack or shit to him? A man without passion, without point, without any sort of real future—just money in a bank account he hadn’t even earned?
It made him feel like an even bigger asshole.
“I don’t judge people just because they don’t live like I do,” he said quietly.
Gwen’s mouth turned up in the corners, and she laughed gently. “We are who we are, Mr. Moretti, and even if you do judge us, that’s not going to change anything.”
“Fair,” he said, ignoring another small sting.
“Don’t beat yourself up if Cherry Creek isn’t for you.” Gwen gathered up the papers and then tucked them against her chest with a curled arm.
This time, her words sounded like permission to second-guess his life’s choices, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be let off the hook that easily. He’d come to find himself—somehow. He’d come to retrace his brother’s steps and maybe find some way to look at himself in the mirror again and see a whole person instead of some cardboard mockery of the man he might have become.
Lorenzo stared around the apartment—the little kitchenette with the two-burner stove, the small fridge, the row of pans that had seen better days. There was
a stack of take-out menus that were looking more and more appealing the longer he stood there, but the Wi-Fi up there was shitty and after waiting for the first webpage to load, he gave up and considered the little grocery store not far from the Manor.
For all that he had been spoiled by convenience for the last two dozen years, he knew he hadn’t lost his touch in the kitchen. One of his tried and true seduction techniques had been his mother’s caponata, and that had gotten him more blowjobs than six martinis and a hit of molly during his first year with more than one zero in his bank account.
Not that he wanted to go out of his way for himself, but maybe the first step in his journey was shedding the part of him that had been catered to for so damn long. He cooked when he wanted to impress these days, not for the necessity of it, and the idea of getting down to basics made him a little tingly inside.
Grabbing his keys, Lorenzo locked the door behind him, then took the stairs two at a time. He was four steps from the landing when his foot hit the edge, and his entire body hit the ground before he realized he was even falling. Pain lanced up his side, the wind knocked out of him, and he was suddenly aware of every single forty-two years of his life right then as he laid there on the floor.
“Verdammter Mist! Did you just stroke out?”
Lorenzo couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, but it sounded like it was in the direction of the sharp-smelling salon that was just to the right of the front doors. He gasped for a breath, then his lungs started to open, and he pressed one palm to the floor as he righted himself.
He wasn’t stroking out—not yet, but his humiliation had him on the edge. “Uh.” His gaze darted around as he rubbed a palm over his ribs, and eventually he spied a man peering from behind a low reception desk at the front of the salon.
“Do I need to call an ambulance?” the man asked. His voice had a rounded accent to it, thick in the back of his throat like he was maybe German.
