Dine With Me

by Layla Reyne

  Clancy loved the next one too, of course. The beef Wellington Miller served as the main, with its rare tenderloin center and Madeira mushroom gravy was umami personified, but before things got too dark and earthy, the light-as-air pastry the beef was wrapped in delivered just the right amount of texture and sweetness. The bitter wintergreens on the side, together with a smoky, rich French Bordeaux to drink, rounded out the course and palate.

  By the time they reached dessert, and Miller strolled out of the kitchen with the silver tray of goodness, as Clancy had come to think of it, Clancy was primed and ready. And when he tasted the chocolate soufflé with Earl Grey crème anglaise, it was beyond semi-orgasmic. Hell, beyond orgasmic. It was a night full of hot-sweaty-blow-your-mind-sex, in a baking ramekin and gravy boat. He eyed the latter, debating whether to turn it up and drink the remaining crème anglaise right from the boat.

  Miller followed his gaze, accurately reading his intent. “I will think less of you.”

  “I’m not sure I care right now.” The sauce was calling his name, loudly. But he didn’t want to be rude. How else to tackle the problem? A moat! He scooped another spoonful of soufflé into the middle of his dessert bowl and drowned it in sauce until the fluffy chocolate cake floated. “There.” He spread his hands over the dish. “Problem solved.” He loaded his spoon with a tiny bite of cake and as much sauce as he could manage without making a mess.

  “First time I tried the profiteroles at Bouchon,” Miller said, “I almost tipped the gravy boat to drink the rest of the Valrhona chocolate.”

  “Then who the fuck are you to judge?”

  Those deep, attractive lines appeared at the corners of Miller’s eyes. He reached across the table and snuck a fingertip into Clancy’s moat.

  Clancy knocked his knuckle with his spoon. “I will defend my castle.”

  They both busted up laughing, louder even when Miller built a castle and moat of his own. They eventually stopped giggling long enough to finish the soufflé and sauce, and Miller loaded their empty dishes onto the tray, taking them back to the kitchen.

  Clancy, needing a stretch and some extra room for his digesting food, stood and wandered over to the window, loving the reflection of the harbor on the dark, inky water. He could only imagine what it was like here during high season, when the docks and boat slips would be packed. In off-season, there were people walking along the docks still—locals, some seasonal travelers—but the overall sense of the place was unhurried and peaceful. A vacation town on vacation. In any event, he bet Oscar’s had been packed year-round, the location prime and the homey food enjoyed by locals and tourists alike.

  “Madeira?” Miller, chef-coat undone over his T-shirt and jeans, strode his way with a squat bottle, its details hand painted on, and two tulip-shaped glasses in hand.

  His ease and confidence were so sexy Clancy had to stop himself from lunging. “Sure,” Clancy managed, hoping his voice didn’t sound as strangled as his dick felt in his jeans. Miller filled the glasses and handed one to him. He sipped the nutty, sweet-tasting wine and stared back out the window, looking away from the too-attractive man at his side. “Greg was right,” he said, aiming for distraction. “The sauces were amazing.”

  “And the rest of the food?”

  “Even more so.”

  “Good.” Miller turned and rested back against the window ledge. “The least I could do for the amazing job you did out here.”

  Tearing his gaze from the water, Clancy mirrored Miller’s position, taking in the space and his Santa’s helper handiwork again. “The place has great bones. I can only imagine the vibe was as comforting as the food, when it had a full dining room and bustling kitchen.”

  “It’s my favorite place I’ve chef’ed. My favorite place to cook.”

  “I know.” Clancy set his glass down and shifted, hip against the ledge. He raised a hand, tracing the laugh lines that had tempted him all week. “It’s all over your face, Miller.” The warmth, the peace, the sense of home.

  Home. Comfort. Here.

  An arena full of stadium lights blasted on in Clancy’s head. “Why don’t you do this then, again?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The fine dining concept didn’t work for you. So try this.” Clancy waved a hand toward the dining room. “This is what you love. It’s clear as day here.” He cupped the side of Miller’s face. “Do this. Cook what you love. And do it here.”

  Miller set his glass aside and circled Clancy’s wrist, drawing the hand away from his face. “It’s not that easy.”

  Clancy, though, was on a roll, ideas and visions spiraling. “It’d be amazing, Miller. Comfort food is all the rage, and you can put a classier finish on it. But only if you want to. And you’ll have investors lining up. You don’t have to conform to the fine dining expectations.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.”

  The harsh snap of Miller’s voice drew Clancy up short, making him blink. A gray shadow had fallen over the man who’d previously been alight with warmth.

  “Shit, Miller, I’m sorry.”

  But now Miller was on a roll, dropping Clancy’s hand and stepping away, the storm clouds gathering. “You’re standing here telling me to go against expectations, and what are you doing with your life? With your future?”

  What was that about needing more room for food? Because suddenly Clancy’s stomach was on the floor.

  Miller kept right on landing hits. “You’re going into your father’s plastic surgery practice, like the good little son, and it’s not what you want at all, is it, Dr. Rhodes?” The words and glare were as cold as the biting wind outside. “To spend the rest of your life nipping and tucking Hollywood’s richest?”

  Clancy cast his gaze back out at the ocean and struggled for the words he’d never said to anyone, much less himself.

  Before he could summon them, Miller snatched his glass and downed the rest of his wine. His voice was close, his breath hot with anger, when he spoke again. “Don’t tell me how to live what’s left of my life when you can’t admit what you really want out of yours.”

  Chapter Eight

  Miller cursed himself, and Sloan, for planning this trip in December. Granted, there wasn’t another option, not with the ticking time bomb in his body, but right now, he’d much rather be hiding in a corner on the SeaStreak Ferry or in a random cab on the train, than stuck in a car all day with the man who was making him question all his decisions.

  Once they’d hit the mainland, it should have been a five-hour drive to New York, but between intermittent snowfall and Christmas Day traffic, they were way past the five-hour mark when they’d hit the tunnel into Manhattan. They’d both made attempts at polite conversation, but every effort had fallen flat. Miller regretted how he’d acted last night, how he’d snapped at Clancy and what he’d said, but figuring out how to apologize without opening the door to a conversation he didn’t want to have was challenging. And the pall of regret and awkwardness was stifling their usual easy rhythm. Making matters worse, Miller had had to pay closer attention to the road. He’d insisted on flying into Boston versus Martha’s Vineyard on Saturday so Toby and their pilot could more easily depart again. Ditto the driver. He was unwilling to have them miss Christmas Day with friends or family on their account. They’d meet back up with both tomorrow, assuming Miller got himself and Clancy to the hotel in one piece. He did, barely, and by the time they got there, Miller was wound so tight he had to pry his fingers off the steering wheel. At least tonight’s “meal” wasn’t at a set time. He could crash for a few hours, get some distance from Clancy, and get his goddamn head out of the clouds where it’d been spinning all last night and today, coming up with concepts, branding, and menus for a revived Oscar’s.

  Which he wouldn’t be around to open.

  And even if he got treatment—which he also cursed himself for considering—if he lost his sense of taste, t
hen what the fuck good would all his planning do? He wasn’t putting out food he couldn’t taste. His balls weren’t big enough for that, especially after the failure of his first solo venture. The chance of success—at defeating his cancer or opening a new restaurant—was in the single digit percentages, at best.

  Pointless.

  Hopeless.

  No matter how strongly the idea he’d first had and ignored, until Clancy so eagerly brought it up again, had taken root.

  Just like the man himself, like the attraction that kept driving Miller closer to that smile, to that laugh, to that joy that brightened everything.

  All Miller had to offer was death and darkness.

  More pointless.

  More hopeless.

  Lacking the energy or patience to fight the crowd at the reception desk, Miller let Clancy handle check-in while he hung back, skirting around the edge of the packed hotel lobby to the entrance of the attached restaurant. It was popular, well known, and busy with holiday revelers. He’d hoped for that kind of traffic at his place, had counted on it being located in a hotel, but it’d never materialized. Maybe Clancy was right. The hotel was upscale and the same had been expected of the restaurant. Was it that obvious Miller’s heart wasn’t in it? Or was it that the wine country dining scene was already so saturated with places like it? Both? His name had drawn crowds early, but the buzz wore off, and with it, the crowds.

  What was it about this place that worked? The open kitchen, the lively vibe? Something about it spoke to the part of Miller that’d worked for ten years in New York. By contrast, nothing about his old restaurant, except the hidden farm table and the employees he loved, spoke to him. Not the space, not the concept, not the food. And if it didn’t speak to him, how could it speak to diners? There was no story there. No life. Fitting...

  “Are we having dinner here?” Clancy asked, reappearing at his side.

  “No, but close by, and much more laid-back.”

  “As long as there’s gelatinous cranberry sauce on the menu.”

  Miller spun, horror-stricken. “Did we not learn our lesson about food heresy?”

  A wide grin split Clancy’s face. “That’s the most expressive I’ve seen you all day.”

  And smile gone, as Miller was reminded of his terrible mood. Clancy tried to hide his own disappointment by shoving a room key in Miller’s hand. “Room’s ready.”

  Miller couldn’t get an apology in as they dodged guests and bellhops across the lobby, nor did he want to speak it in the packed-to-capacity elevator. They were in the hallway, on the way to their suite, before he finally managed to grab Clancy’s arm. “Doc, I need to apologize.”

  “For?”

  “My shitty mood. On Christmas Day, no less.”

  “I’m the one who overstepped last night. It’s my fault.” Avoiding his gaze, Clancy shook himself loose, took the last few steps to their door, and swiped his card in front of the electronic lock.

  Miller put his hand on the knob, preventing him from opening it. “But I didn’t have to snap like that.” He lightly clasped Clancy’s chin and tilted his face up, forcing his gaze. “Or throw your own life decisions back in your face. I overstepped too. I’m sorry.”

  “You were just so happy. I liked seeing you like that.” He cast his earnest green gaze aside again. “And then my mouth got ahead of my head.”

  “It’s okay.” Miller pushed Clancy’s glasses up his nose. “I wish Oscar’s was the answer, but it’s not.”

  “What is?”

  There wasn’t one, simple as that. But rather than bringing the mood down further, Miller said, “Right now, rest.”

  He pushed into the room and halted, Clancy stumbling into his back.

  “What’s wrong?” Clancy poked his head around Miller’s shoulder. “Hmm, that’s not right.” He stepped back, swinging the door partially closed to check the room number. Yep, it matched the room number written on the paper holder in Miller’s hand. Clancy squeezed in next to him, the both of them considering their “suite.” While the room was luxurious with top-of-the-line furnishings, as Miller had come to expect and had held his tongue over the last two stops, it was exactly that. A room. Not a suite. There was a sofa in a tiny seating area, a desk, and a bed. As in one. One room, one bed.

  Clancy checked the door to their left. Bathroom.

  Miller checked the one to the right. Connection to the other bedroom, through which he heard the squeal of small children.

  “There must have been a mix-up.” Clancy crossed the room and picked up the phone on the desk. “I’ll call down.”

  There was a knock on the door behind them, and Miller dealt with the very harried valet, who didn’t give him an option of not taking their bags, Clancy’s escalating argument with the front desk be damned.

  “We seem to have very different definitions of suite,” Clancy said into the phone.

  Miller tuned it out, knowing what the conclusion would be. It was Christmas week in New York City; there were no more rooms. He stared out the window onto Central Park, the light dusting of snow giving it a magical quality in the setting sun. At least the view was good.

  Clancy slammed down the phone. “There was some sort of mix-up,” he said, hands on his hips. “This is technically a suite, and there’s a sofa bed.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Doc, I’m six-three. I haven’t fit on a sofa bed since I was in high school.”

  “I’ll call Mom,” he said, digging out his cell phone. “See if she can find us something else.”

  Miller closed his hand over Clancy’s. “One, don’t interrupt her and Robert on vacation. Two, it’s Christmas Day in New York City. We’re not going to find anything else, definitely not anything this nice.”

  Clancy glanced helplessly around. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  His gaze whipped back to Miller, eyes wide. “What are you saying?”

  Shit, what was he saying?

  A stray thought of Clancy only being a couple inches shorter than him, no better suited for a sofa bed, had been why he’d suggested it, wasn’t it? Not because those green eyes looking up at him were darkening. Not because there was color rising on those winter pale cheeks. Not because the desire to taste those full, curved lips had only gotten worse since Friday night. Not because Clancy had played a starring role in all those daydreams of reopening Oscar’s that had been plaguing Miller since last night.

  Before Miller could sort an answer out of his mess of feelings, another knock sounded against the door.

  “I told them I’d call back down,” Clancy said, brow furrowed.

  Miller crossed the room ahead of him and opened the door.

  Sloan’s smiling face greeted him. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

  Another person appeared at her side, his dark brown eyes full of mischief. “Is it time to party yet?” Greg said with a wink. “Because we need to party.”

  * * *

  Miller waited for the door to close behind Clancy, who, rest assured, would get nowhere with the front desk, before he rounded on his two best friends. “What are you doing here?”

  “Wasn’t gonna miss the annual reunion at Eli O’s,” Greg replied.

  Sloan unwound her scarf, ginger curls tumbling loose, and tossed the plaid cashmere onto the bed with her coat. “And I’ve spent every Christmas with you for almost twenty-five years.” Stepping to Miller’s side, she wrapped her arms round his waist and smiled up at him. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t spend this one with you too?”

  He kissed the top of her head. The sentiment tugged at his heartstrings, but as much as he appreciated it, as much as he hated to admit seeing her here was the best Christmas present he could have hoped for, he couldn’t be that selfish with her time anymore. “What about Tyler?”

  “He’s here too, out
on Long Island with his family.”

  “And Tony?”

  “Also with them,” Greg answered. “Wedding planning.” At Tyler’s family’s Hamptons house where the double wedding would be held next summer, after Sloan had the baby, after Miller would probably be gone.

  By the narrowing of Greg’s eyes, he’d followed the direction of Miller’s thoughts. “Which is the other reason I’m here,” he said. “You should have told me.”

  “You told him?” Miller said to Sloan.

  “How else was I supposed to explain my lack of surprise that you refused to be our best person?”

  Miller ripped out of her arms. “It wasn’t your place to tell him.”

  “Bullshit!” She stepped forward and rose on her toes, getting as close to in-his-face as possible. “He’s a part of this family too, and how would he, or I, or hell, Miller, your family back home that you haven’t told yet either, feel when you drop dead and we didn’t get a chance to say a proper goodbye.”

  The gut punch robbed Miller of his words.

  But not Greg, who pushed off the windowsill and came to their side. “Or convince you what an idiot you’re being.”

  “I’ve heard it all from her already.”

  “And all of a sudden you’ve decided not to listen to her?” He thumped the back of Miller’s head. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? She’s always right.”

  “This isn’t her decision,” Miller barked back.

  “Isn’t it? She’s your—”

  Miller held up a hand. “Not anymore.”

  Greg slapped it away, bringing them nose to nose. “I was going to say best friend. And family. Like I am. We’re not letting you go that easily.”

  Sloan slid in between them, hands on Miller’s chest, voice far too much like the fifteen-year-old he’d found in the town park almost twenty-five years ago. “I’m sorry, baby, but it’s been killing me not telling him the truth. Trying to plan this wedding and thinking about you not being there with us...”