Love You So Sweetly

by Tara Lain

  “I see. So at twenty-six, you’ve given up on happiness?” She raised her hands in supplication toward the ceiling. “Lord save me from children of privilege.”

  He gave her a side-eyed look.

  “Remy, I hate to give you a ‘ten miles in the snow’ lecture, but at one point your daddy and I didn’t have enough to eat, were sleeping in our car when no relatives could give us a bed, and owed the bank more money than we had in the value of everything we owned. Know what we did?”

  He released a soft stream of air and said nothing.

  “We parked the car in a junkyard, crawled in the back seat, and fucked like rabbits. We were happy as the proverbial pigs in shit because we knew we were bigger than our problems and we had each other. Love and brains, darlin’. You’ve got brains to spare. What you haven’t got is love.”

  He couldn’t edit the huge frown off his face. “I don’t know what I can do about that, Mama. I’ve never found anyone to love.”

  A tap on the door made them both look up. Nigel said, “Your dinner’s almost ready, ma’am. Would you like to be served on trays in here?”

  “What a good idea. Do you agree, Remy?”

  He nodded, but all he could really hear was “love and brains” repeating in his mind.

  She said, “Thank you, Nigel.” Nigel left, and she turned to Remy. “Get comfortable, honey. You want to go up to your room and change into sweats?”

  In fact, his jeans felt tight and scratchy, and his white shirt was too starched. Plus, the prospect of going home to his ratty, unfinished house made him sad tonight. Usually he barely noticed, but for some reason the prospect of dirt and drywall dust didn’t appeal. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Be right back.”

  He rose and marched in a direct line down the hall and up the wide staircase to the room his mother maintained for him in her house—the room he’d spent his midteen years occupying.

  The place brought back memories. Sports trophies on the upper shelves in the closet that neither he nor his mama had the heart to get rid of reminded him of some high points on the football field. His mom didn’t know it, but it also reminded him of the first time he got his cock sucked—by his team’s wide receiver in Remy’s car, parked behind the gym, the day after they’d won one of the biggest trophies.

  Still staring at the trophy, he pulled off his jeans and shirt, put them in the hamper, and dragged on his favorite blue sweats. Wonder why I remembered the blowjob? Easy. He barked a short laugh. Because I was scared out of my wits in the car, but oh crap was I happy.

  With a sigh, he jogged down the stairs and into the study where his mama already had a tray on her lap. The steaming dish appeared to be chicken, broccoli, and oh thank you God, mac and cheese. Mama had traded in her tea for a glass of white wine, which he assumed was sauvignon blanc, her favorite.

  She waved a hand. “Eat, eat before it gets cold.”

  He sat, pulled the tray onto his lap, and dug an enthusiastic fork into his macaroni and cheese. He shoved a big forkful into his mouth and chewed. The bliss of carbs and cheese in his mouth conjured the ecstasy of Harper’s coffee. Remy swallowed. Probably better not to think about Harper.

  His mama chewed and pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh Lord, this mac and cheese is so good.” She opened her eyes and looked at his plate. “Oh my God, you’re eating it. I’ve hardly seen you consume a calorie of starch since you met that girl.”

  He just kept chewing. Why admit his own idiocy?

  While they ate, they chatted about movies and TV shows they both liked and people they knew. Remy glanced at his mama. “I never asked you how you know Mrs. Treadwell.”

  “Oh, Nora Mae? She and I go way back. She comes from an old Arkansas family, but they fell on hard times. As our star was rising, hers was declining, but she had all that polish and breeding to spare. So I hired her as a sort of social secretary. She’d keep track of my social obligations and make sure I didn’t make a total fool of myself when I attended them. She’d advise me on clothes and improving my manners. We became friends as well as employer and employee.” Mama sipped her wine. “You’ve met Nora Mae, but you don’t remember since you were real young and concerned with your own life. When Daddy and I moved to California, Nora Mae declined to come along. Too much a Southern lady. I had never met Harper since he mostly went to boarding school when Nora Mae worked for me. But of course I’d do anything for Nora Mae. She helped me and Daddy so much.”

  “Harper shows that Southern breeding for sure.” He smiled. When he glanced up, his mother was staring at him with an intrigued expression, so he forced the smile off his face.

  He followed the mac and cheese with vanilla ice cream smothered in hot fudge. Could a man put on five pounds in one meal? Hell, he loved every mouthful.

  When Florence and Nigel had cleared away the high-calorie debris, Remy curled his legs under him and rested his head against the back of the chair.

  “Why have you never found anyone to love, Remy?”

  Oh, so back to more serious subjects. “I don’t know. I work a lot.”

  “Not as much as Daddy and I did.”

  He draped an arm over his eyes. “You already had each other.”

  “No, dear, that’s not the reason. We knew who we were and what we wanted.”

  “I—” He stopped. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You need to do that, Remy. John Jack almost sentenced himself to a life of bitterness, but he was saved from himself. Now I’ve got real hope for him. Tell me what saved him.”

  Remy sighed. “You did, Mama.”

  “If you think that, you weren’t paying attention.”

  He pulled the arm off his eyes and looked up. His mama was leaning forward earnestly.

  She said, “When John Jack married, he had all kinds of weird ideas about what it means to be a man and crap like that. I think he married Trudy mostly for her awe-inspiring rack. But I like to think his underlying intelligence led him to choose a really smart woman with a backbone of solid iron. When he woke up to that fact and realized what he had, he began to grow in happiness. So tell me what made him happy?”

  He frowned. “Choosing the right woman?”

  “Oh dear God, Remy, do you really think I want you to choose the right woman? What I mean is love. Love is the source of happiness, of course, darlin’. That’s what I want for you.”

  “Of course.” He stared into space as seconds of silence ticked by.

  She stood and poured herself another glass of sweet tea. “Want some more?”

  “Sure.”

  She carried the pitcher in one hand and the bottle of unsweetened tea in the other to his glass, poured some of each, then went back to the cart and returned with ice.

  He nodded. “Thank you.” Slowly, he sipped as she walked back to the sofa. When she sat, he fucking said it. “Mama?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you want me to choose the right woman?”

  She pressed a finger between her eyebrows. “I hoped you didn’t notice that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “All I mean is that I want you to find love however’s right for you.”

  “And that’s not with the right woman?” He wasn’t even outraged, only curious.

  “Hells bells, I don’t know. Maybe it’s with two women. Maybe it’s with—”

  “A man?”

  She expelled a big breath. “It’s crossed my mind. You know that.” She raised a finger. “I’m not saying you’re gay, Remy. I’m saying whatever the hell you are, quit pretending to be something else. You’re never going to be happy living someone else’s life.”

  He covered his eyes again. I don’t believe I’m having this conversation. “What does it mean when a man’s own mother thinks he’s gay?”

  “Probably that she should butt out.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  Her turn to snort. “You know I love you. I really don’t care if you fuck ducks. I just want you to be filled wit
h joy and satisfaction as a result of your choice.”

  “I promise to attend the next Economic Development dinner escorting a duck.” He lifted his arm and looked across at her. “As long as she’s formal.”

  “Or he wears black tie.” She raised an eyebrow, and he laughed.

  “Okay, Mama, I really will think about what you’re saying. Except for finding a way to capture the online grocery market, I’m not sure what would make me happy. But I promise to consider it.”

  “Good. That’s all I ask.” She waved a hand. “Now drink your sweet tea.”

  “Yes, Mama. Anything you say.” They both laughed as he tried not to think of the last time he’d tasted sweet tea.

  HARPER MOVED Sylvan’s arm off his chest, slid out of the bed, and padded into the bathroom. He showered and shaved as fast as he could manage, turned off the water, brushed his teeth, and wrapped himself in his robe. After carefully turning off the lights so they wouldn’t shine in Sylvan’s eyes, Harper opened the bathroom door, peeked out, and walked quietly to the closet. Five minutes later, he hurried down the steps to the kitchen and dumped his jacket on the chair.

  If I make coffee, I’ll probably wake Sylvan. Quietly, he opened the refrigerator and took out the carton of OJ. After removing a glass from the cabinet, he poured a couple of inches of juice.

  “What the hell are you doing awake? It’s oh-dark-hundred.” Sylvan stood in the door of the kitchen stark naked. He walked over and pressed against Harper’s back, his erection stabbing into Harper’s right thigh. He whispered, “Come back to bed, baby.”

  “Too much to do, dear.”

  He clutched Harper’s shoulders. “Shit, Harper, no sex last night, none this morning. What are we? Monks?”

  Harper smiled. “We had sex yesterday morning, Syl. We’re not exactly celibate.”

  “Aw baby, I’m horny.” He wriggled.

  Harper pulled away. “Come on, dear, you’ll mess up my pants.”

  Sylvan moved closer. “I want to seriously mess up your pants.”

  Turning, Harper kissed Sylvan’s nose. “I have work. You of all people understand that.”

  “What are you working on?”

  The whole conversation with Remy flooded over him. “Just some evaluations of territory sales.” He swallowed the last of the juice and moved to his jacket.

  “What territories are doing the best for Merced?”

  Harper felt himself tense and tried to relax. He forced a grin. “I can’t tell you that. That’s like insider trading or something.”

  “Don’t be silly. I already know way more about Merced than you do.”

  “Good. Then you don’t need my amateur input.” Harper waggled his fingers and walked quickly toward the garage door. “See you tonight, dear.” He was into the garage, belted into his car, and was driving out onto the street in seconds. Two blocks away, his self-awareness caught up with his acceleration, and he pulled over to the side of the road.

  Okay, it wasn’t that he’d refused sex to his lover. Hell, happy couples did that when they were stressed or overworked. No, it was the fact that he’d purposefully come home very late the night before and left early that morning so wouldn’t have to have sex with Sylvan.

  He flopped his forehead on the steering wheel. “That’s a very bad sign.”

  Twenty minutes later in the early morning sunlight, Harper pulled into the sparsely filled parking lot at Merced Technologies, his heart slamming against his ribs. He was dying to tell Remy what he’d discovered from Josh Barrowman and see if he could figure out the secret to the man’s success.

  And that was all. Merced business. The only reason Harper had run out of the house leaving his lover wanting. He controlled his brain to keep down the sound of his own ridicule.

  He climbed out and glanced around, looking for Remy’s car. Silly. He had no idea what it looked like.

  Harper hurried into the building and rode the elevator up. On their floor, still relatively quiet since it was only six thirty, he powered to his cubicle, glancing toward the glass walls of Remy’s office. Light! He dumped his jacket, grabbed the paper notes he’d made in addition to those on his laptop, and carried them to Remy’s office.

  The door stood open, and Harper tapped on the doorframe.

  Remy looked up, smiled, and then his smile kind of wobbled.

  Harper sprang forward. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Ah. I know.” He dumped his laptop and papers on Remy’s chair and hurried to the kitchenette.

  Minutes later, as Harper poured the heavy cream into the steaming french roast, his self-delusion scrambled like the lines of code in The Matrix. Here he stood, happily making coffee for Remy Merced. One hundred percent business, those were his motives? Right.

  Chapter Seven

  REMY STARED at the place Harper had been standing. He didn’t want to feel uncomfortable with Harper. Their easiness together was one of his favorite things. But the conversation with Mama suddenly made Remy ultra-aware of his responses and feelings when Harper was around. They were strong enough that if Harper hadn’t come to California to be with a man, Remy might have done some exploring of his sexuality. Might. But Harper was with Sylvan. Those were the facts. Plus, while Remy didn’t know him well, Sylvan Hoag was an impressive man, and coveting his boyfriend was stupid.

  He inhaled slowly through his nose and let it out through his mouth. Cleansing, like they taught in yoga classes.

  Harper walked back in carrying two cups and set one in front of Remy. “There, that should make you feel better.”

  Remy pulled the cup closer and cradled it in his hands. “Just the smell makes me happy. How about you? No sweet tea.”

  He flashed his dimples. “Even I’m not Southern enough to drink sweet tea at seven in the morning.” He laughed. “I like coffee sometimes.”

  Remy sat back and sniffed his divine brew. “You’re here early, looking enthusiastic. Do you have any good news for me?”

  “Well, I have news, and we can decide together if it’s good.”

  “Shoot.” He swigged the coffee and almost moaned in delight.

  Harper said, “I found out about the region that did better than all the rest.”

  “Okay. What’s their secret?”

  “Josh Barrowman.”

  “Who?”

  “Josh Barrowman. He’s one of the sales support people for the district, and it seems Josh took a very personal interest in his customers, even going to far as to call or go to the warehouses to be sure his customers got the exact ripeness of produce and cuts of meat they wanted.” He shrugged. “It seems the customers loved it.”

  “Well, that’s interesting but not exactly good news.”

  “You don’t think so?” Harper peered through his dark rims over the edge of his cup.

  “We can’t exactly reproduce Josh What’s-His-Name all over the country.”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why can’t we reproduce him?”

  Remy frowned. “That level of customer service doesn’t scale. We can’t duplicate it cost-effectively.”

  Harper chewed his lip. “I stayed up most of the night working on it. I think maybe we can.”

  “How?” Remy might be skeptical, but the idea of cracking this nut still sped up his pulse.

  “Part of it can be done with new brands and part of it with code. I think what Josh’s success is reflecting is people finding a way to get exactly what they want rather than settling for what we have. So if we diversify and carry more specialty brands, especially organic products, I think that will get us further. If we want to do a Trader Joes and start carrying mostly our own brands, we can consider that.”

  “To reduce prices.”

  “Exactly, since cost is one of the barriers to online shopping.” Harper sounded really enthusiastic, which warmed Remy’s heart. Harper leaned forward. “And we give shoppers more personalized options in everything
. Degree of ripeness in produce, amount of marbling in meat, etcetera.”

  “Okay, I see. That’s really interesting.” Remy steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “But do you think that does the whole job?”

  “No. The rest we do with people. For shoppers who want one, we give them their own Josh Barrowman, who’s their advocate. We train our support people to intervene to be sure customers are getting exactly what they want.”

  Remy shook his head. “That’s always the sticking point. Most of the big, cost-effective pools of customer support reps are offshore in different time zones from our warehouses. They have different cultures and different types of diets. Food is so personal.”

  “Yeah, I know. I get stuck on that point too. Even if we use US customer reps, it’s hard to train people to that level of service.”

  “Still, I like your other ideas. I think we should try out the change of options and personalization in ordering right away. We can also add a few organic labels and see how they go. Popular wisdom says customers will only pay the extra money on the West Coast and in big cities.”

  “Times are changing, especially if we can offer organic at a reasonable price.”

  Remy flattened his hands on the desk. “Let’s put it into action in three trials and find out what kind of results we get.” He took a deep drink from his coffee. “Will you work with the programmers to get the new ordering set up? I’ll arrange for the organic brands.”

  “Deal.” Harper pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned.

  BY THE end of the week, they’d gotten a hell of a lot done. Remy had arranged with five organic brands to give Merced a special price for the trial, and if it was successful, Remy promised they’d buy in volume, possibly even do a private-labeling deal.

  Harper and the programmers had shown him progress on the ordering options, and while he shuddered a little at giving customers so many choices to make, he’d approved the plan and the coding was underway.