by Layla Reyne
Clancy’s crush went nuclear.
* * *
“Why’s it always Pearl Jam?”
Miller glanced over his shoulder and almost dropped his tasting spoon into the soup pot. Clancy stood leaning against the kitchen side of the stone hearth, trying to be casually suave, but the plaid knit sweater with the crocheted dancing gingerbread man was the farthest from suave ever created.
“Please, God,” Miller said. “Tell me there’s not one of those for me.”
“No.” Clancy sulked. “They didn’t come in giant.”
“Thank fuck.” He nodded at the fire. “You know, you can put both of us out of our misery and make it go away.”
Green eyes wide, Clancy clutched at the front of his sweater in exaggerated horror. “Are you threatening Gingy?”
Miller struggled for air between his guffaws. “Gingy?”
Clancy smirked. “I sense a Shrek marathon in your future.” He pushed off the hearth and walked the length of the prep table toward the fridge at the other end of the space. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
Miller barely beat him there, throwing out a hand, palm to the stainless steel. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it out.”
Clancy looked like he wanted to argue, but decided against it, instead vaulting onto the closest clean edge of the prep table. Miller bit his tongue, silencing the “Off!” on the tip end of it. He’d never let that fly in a professional kitchen, not even after hours. The prep table was sacred, the final place a plate was inspected by him and the expeditor before it was handed off to the waiter and then on to the diner. But this wasn’t a professional kitchen tonight. It was just him and Clancy sharing Christmas Eve dinner.
“Hey.” Clancy nudged his hip with his foot. “This okay?” he asked, as if sensing his raised hackles.
Miller pressed his leg down by the shin. “Just keep your feet and legs clear so I can move about.” He opened the fridge enough to poke his head in without giving Clancy an eye to what he was preparing. “Now, what did you want? I need to get back to cooking our dinner.”
“Bubbly, if you got it.”
“Of course I got it.” Noticing Doc had a thing for champagne, Miller had grabbed a bottle at the store and put it in the back of the fridge, with two glasses, to chill. He presented the Bollinger to Clancy, as the somm had done the Monte Bello the other night. “This do you?”
Green eyes lit with delight. “More than. You know what else would?”
“What’s that?”
“An answer to my question.”
Miller handed the glasses to Clancy and peeled off the foil from around the bottle’s neck. “Persistent thing, aren’t you?”
Clancy shrugged. “Doctor.”
Miller tossed the foil into the trash, yanked the dishtowel off his shoulder, and used it to twist the cork free, the pop and hiss two of the most satisfying sounds to his ears. Much like the music. “It’s what I grew up on.”
“Nothing is that simple with you.”
“Oh, is that right?” Miller said, as he filled the glasses.
“Every stop on this trip has had special meaning to you. What does this music mean to you?”
Miller set the bottle on the prep table next to Clancy’s hip. “You’re too fucking perceptive.”
“Again, doctor.” He circled one of the glasses in front of his face, gesturing at himself, and he held the other out to Miller.
Miller sipped as he moved up and down the line, checking on his dishes roasting in the ovens, stirring the soup and sauces, venting the pressure cooker. Everything was right on schedule. He leaned against the counter opposite Clancy. “We didn’t have much money growing up. We couldn’t afford concerts, especially since most of them were up in Charlotte and we were four hours away on the coast. But after our first summer season here, Sloan and I had saved up enough to go see Pearl Jam play at the amphitheater in Mansfield.”
“Were you always a fan?”
He shook his head. “They were on the radio all the time back then, but I wasn’t really into music. Not like Sloan was, and Pearl Jam was her favorite. She was obsessed with them, and it was her birthday.”
“Some present.”
“To this day, her favorite.” He took another sip, remembering that late August day. It was hot, humid, and packed. He’d never seen anything like it, and the perma-grin on Sloan’s face that entire night, hell the entire week before and after, had been worth every lock he’d fixed, every hedge he’d trimmed, and every dish he’d washed that summer. “Once I saw them in concert, I got it.”
“Got what? I’ve never seen them.”
“To watch someone do what they truly love, in this case music, and to actually see and hear them feel the music and words in every bone of their bodies, it was incredible. They were the music.”
Almost like Clancy had been on the dance floor in New Orleans, his body swaying in time to the R & B, bringing Miller’s along with it, whether Miller had wanted to or not. But he had, so very much, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t since thought about dancing close with him again.
He’d also thought about Dr. Rhodes. Like Pearl Jam onstage, and Clancy on the dance floor, Miller could only imagine Clancy’s brilliance in full doctor mode. He’d seen tiny glimpses of it already. In Wyoming, when Miller’s body was hurting, then across the table from him in Chicago and beside him on the ferry, when his heart was hurting too. Clancy knew how to care for people. It’s what he did best.
“Like you here in the kitchen,” Clancy said, reflecting his thoughts. “You’re practically glowing.”
“I’m hot and sweaty.”
Clancy swiveled his empty glass. “Po-ta-to, po-tah-to.”
Miller chuckled. “Fine, you’re right. These are the first dishes I learned, and while they’re nothing fancy, I do love them.”
“There’s no price tag on love.”
Miller glanced away, downing the rest of his champagne, the sentiment hitting harder than expected. He’d thought so many things were priceless but now... Now, he knew what price was too high for even love. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—ask his loved ones—Sloan, Greg, his family—to pay it, especially not when he didn’t have the emotional or physical capital himself.
The tap of the bottle on the rim of his glass drew Miller back from the darkness.
“More?” Clancy asked.
“Yeah, please.” He waited for Clancy to fill both glasses, then took another long swallow, ignoring the darkness in favor of dissecting the flavors of his favorite champagne. With each bubble that burst on his tongue, fresh brioche mixed with hints of spice and pear, and a lingering nuttiness rounded out the mellow finish. Mellow, plus Sloan’s favorite song on the kitchen speakers, brought to mind a question that’d been nagging Miller for a while. He didn’t want to consider why the question or answer mattered, telling himself he was just curious. “Why don’t you blink when I mention Sloan?” Why was Clancy so mellow about it?
“She’s obviously the most important person in your life.”
He stated it so matter-of-factly, without the least bit of judgment or resentment, that Miller would have stumbled had he not been braced on the counter. “Not everyone gets that. Past...friends...have felt...threatened.”
“I’m guessing your past friends didn’t have my parents.”
Ignoring the implication Clancy had clearly picked up on, Miller gestured for him to go on.
“It’s different from you and Sloan in that my parents were in love once, high school sweethearts, but they grew up and apart, fell out of love. It happens, but it doesn’t mean they don’t still love each other. And they still have me and other things in common. Mom and Dad share a wine collection, and she and Robert stay with Dad whenever they’re in LA. Mom and Dad are still tight, they talk at least once a week, and Robert is cool with that. Why would I e
xpect you and Sloan to be any different?”
Why would he, given those family dynamics? And that’s what it was, refreshingly dynamic. “Not everyone has that experience, or is as enlightened.”
“I know I’m lucky. I’ve had friends whose parents can’t stand to be in the same state as each other.” He took another swallow of his drink, then set the glass aside. “Plus you’re gay, so nothing’s happening there with Sloan.”
“I could be bi.”
“But you’re not. You said you’re gay, not my place to question how you define your sexuality. If you were bi, I still don’t see the problem. Men and women can be friends.” He spread his hands wide, like his eyes. “Shocker.”
Miller hung his head, laughing. Oh, how many times had he heard the opposite. “I repeat, not everyone is as enlightened.”
A foot entered his periphery and nudged his knee. “I’d like to try and make an enlightened guess as to what’s on the menu tonight, if I’m allowed?”
Miller smiled, grateful for the return to a safer topic and questioning again why he’d led them down the other potentially awkward path. “Okay, Doc, what’s cooking? See if you can sniff it out.”
Bounding off the counter, Clancy scrunched up his nose in an exaggerated sniff, then hilariously had to save his glasses from falling off. After a second, his face morphed—eyebrows climbing, eyes widening, mouth rounding into an O—as if he’d discovered a secret. “Clams and steak.”
Miller threw the cork at him. “You know that from the grocery store, goofball.”
Clancy snatched the cork out of the air, laughing, but then his brow furrowed, doctor-face on, as he sniffed more seriously. He strolled up and down the line, pausing over the stock pot and using a hand to waft the escaping steam toward him. “Seeing as we’re in New England, I’m guessing clam chowder.”
“Okay, genius, what’s in the oven?” Miller scooted over, blocking Clancy mid-bend, and blocking the oven door window. “Nuh-uh-uh, no peeking.”
“Hardball, much,” Clancy grumbled, squinting with one eye closed. “Well, that—” he pointed at the saucepan on the stovetop “—is béchamel, and I’m guessing the steak you bought at the store is in the oven, and by the smell...” He inhaled again. “A wine sauce, maybe Madeira.”
“Good nose.” Miller hip checked him out from in front of stove, so he could check again on the simmering soup and sauces. “And dessert?”
Genuine shock crossed Clancy’s face. “You do dessert?”
“Sloan has the sweet tooth of a twelve-year-old. If I didn’t feed her dessert at every opportunity, she’d have murdered me years ago.”
“Can she be my best friend too?” Clancy threw a smile over his shoulder, as he ambled back down the line, toward the pastry station at the far end of the space, away from the hearth and ovens. He ran a finger along the cutting board and stuck it in his mouth, tasting. “Flour, cream, and...Earl Grey tea?”
Miller checked again on his pots, stirring sauces to hide his blush. Clancy probably didn’t intend for that maneuver to be erotic, but Miller’s body had other ideas.
“And something with chocolate.” Clancy held up a baking chocolate wrapper from the trash can, grin cheeky.
“Fucking cheat.”
Clancy sidled back to his side. “You gonna tell me if I’m right?”
Miller held him in suspense a few extra seconds. “Nope.”
Clancy shoved his chest, laughing. “Now who’s the fucking cheat?”
“I’m the chef. My kitchen.” He tried not to think about how right that sounded, or how right it felt to have Clancy in it with him.
* * *
“Save the chowder!”
At least that’s what Clancy guessed was in the covered ceramic bowls on the silver serving tray that wobbled precariously on Miller’s hand. He’d walked around the hearth, into the dining room, and rocked to an abrupt halt, seemingly forgetting about the tray, which had Newton’s first law of motion on its side. For a second, Clancy was afraid he might have to dive across the table and ruin all his hard work, but at his shout, Miller’s latent serving skills kicked in and he corrected, saving not just the soup but the entire tray.
“I wasn’t expecting this.” Miller’s eyes roamed around the dining room as he approached the table. A wide smile bloomed on his face, teeth gleaming in his beard. “It looks amazing.” He unloaded the tray—tossing the balls of mistletoe at Clancy with a laugh, and a blush—and took another look around. His eyes, twinkling with merriment and the white lights overhead, caught on the mistletoe by the window and his blush deepened.
“I didn’t mean to be presumptuous,” Clancy said, about the mistletoe and the decorations, generally. “I just wanted to make the place look festive.”
Miller lowered himself across the table. “You succeeded.” His gaze met Clancy’s and the heat in those blues was turned up to at least an eight on the stove-top dial. “It’s lovely,” he said, voice gravelly, sounding like he meant more than just the decorations.
Make that a nine.
Clancy was grateful for the table and napkin covering his lap. “Thank you,” he said softly, his own cheeks heating.
Their gazes held another beat before Miller reached across the table and palmed the silver dome atop the bowl in front of Clancy. “Let’s see if my efforts in the kitchen can live up to your efforts out here.” He lifted the cover and the smell alone was enough to answer, Yes!
The taste of the soup—Clancy had guessed correctly, clam chowder—pushed the answer to a resounding YES! It was rich and hearty, with enough pepper and herbs to balance out the sweet cream and briny clams. Like a whiff of the sea on the cold winter breeze, chased away by warm comfort that trickled out from Clancy’s stomach all the way to his fingers and toes.
“This is so much better than the stuff I eat between rounds.”
Miller glared. “I thought we agreed never to speak of such heresy again.”
“Residents can’t be choosey, though the explosion of food trucks parked in the hospital lots has been a godsend.”
“One of the best food trends to come out of LA.”
“You think so?” Clancy scooped out his bowl with the light and fluffy bread Miller had picked up at the bakery. “Dad and I agree wholeheartedly, but I’d be curious to know what restaurant chefs think of them.”
“I can’t speak for all brick-and-mortar chefs, but I think they’re brilliant. Physical restaurants are expensive. Rent, servers, supplies, marketing, and so on. You bleed more money than you can ever imagine, especially up front. Food trucks aren’t cheap, but they’re cheaper. The advertising is on the side of your truck, literally, and social media gets the word out. You can serve more people per minute than a restaurant, it’s more appealing to the younger, on-the-go crowd, and the menu is usually limited. The successful ones don’t try to do too much. And it takes real skill to do the work in such a tight area. The folks who run them, who cook in them, are no less a ‘chef’ than I am. Hell, they’re probably more so.”
“You’ve thought about it?” Clancy asked, then worried he’d stepped in it when Miller rose.
But Miller had merely stood to clear their plates, stacking the bowls and silverware, then loading them onto the tray to take to the kitchen. “Not really. Those fine dining expectations we talked about.” He disappeared behind the hearth, but his booming voice carried on the conversation. “And those trucks aren’t really built for a guy my size.”
“I’ve seen some massive trucks,” Clancy said, raising his voice so Miller could hear him as well. “I bet you could fit.” He topped off their glasses with the white Burgundy Miller had poured for the soup course and the next mystery dish he wouldn’t reveal. “What concept would you do?” he asked, as Miller reappeared. Balanced on his left hand was a sterling silver tray carrying fresh silverware and two square charger plates with individual-sized cas
serole dishes on top.
Aromas of béchamel and ham tickled Clancy’s nose, making his mouth water, but Miller held the tray high and out of view, laying out the utensils first. “Truck’s not for me.” He gestured around them. “I love the vibe of a dining room too much.”
It was empty but for them tonight but Clancy hadn’t missed how Miller had repeatedly and fondly surveyed the dining room, as if he could imagine it full of diners.
“And there are dishes I love to cook, like this one—” he set a plate in front of Clancy “—that would not work out of a food truck.”
Clancy stared at the cheesy baked goodness and thanked all that was holy. And unholy, because it was equally possible that’s where this deliciousness had come from.
Miller laughed. “I didn’t think your Oh-God-Truffles face could be beat, but there we have it.”
“I’m sorry. I was working my way through the pantheons and thanking all the gods.”
“You just have to thank some old French farmer for this one.”
Clancy picked up his fork and knife and poked through the cheesy top layer. More of the rich aroma wafted up and he bent over his plate, inhaling deep. When his eyeballs righted, he cut deeper through the layers and stalled in surprise. “Wait, is that some type of lettuce?”
“Welcome to my idea of a salad course,” Miller said with a wink.
It was the best “salad” Clancy had ever had, though the endive had lost all of its nutritional value, wrapped as it was in ham, coated with béchamel, and baked under a layer of freshly grated Swiss cheese.
After savoring the last bite, Clancy rested back in his chair and patted his belly. “I don’t think that salad is on anyone’s diet.”
“You liked it?”
“Loved it.”
Their gazes caught and locked. Miller’s blue eyes, reflecting the flickering candlelight, flecks of gold on fire, without the cloud of darkness swirling in them, were lovely. He still had that glow about him, brighter now as he enjoyed the dishes he loved, here in this place he loved. Miller broke the stare down first. “Well, if you loved this one,” he said, standing, “let’s see what you think of the next dish.”