by Layla Reyne
“If you loved it here, why’d you leave?”
Miller claimed the chair beside him. “First Greg and I went to work in other kitchens in the City, and then after Katrina, Greg left. With his hometown hurting, he couldn’t stand to be away. When I hit thirty, Sloan got it into her head that we should ‘settle down’ and start living like grown-ups.”
“Sounded to me like you two had been doing that since you were teens.”
“Po-ta-to, po-tah-to,” he tossed back at Clancy.
He grinned. “So you decided to move across the country to the second most expensive city in the US?”
Miller pointed his bottle at him. “Okay, Mr. Never Left Home...”
Wincing, Clancy rolled his empty glass between his palms. “Touché.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.”
“But no less true.” Clancy rested back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I envy you that, having been all these places.”
“California was the right move. I love this, but it’s tiring after a while. And the kitchens are different too.”
“More screamers?”
As if on cue, one of the groups behind them shouted, as did Eli, calling an order into the kitchen to fire more bangers. Miller chuckled. “More like everyone’s a screamer here. I got the opportunity to chef and improve my craft somewhere new, and Sloan was ready for sun.”
“How’d she handle that first summer in San Francisco?”
Miller dropped his head back and groaned, remembering that first Fog City summer full of rants and tears. “I have never made so much pastry dough in my fucking life.”
Clancy’s bright laughter brought him back upright.
“That said, she appreciated the difference between firm offices. She’d still be an associate here, if not already burned out, and she’d be fighting a very entrenched old boys’ club. She still has to work her ass off in California—the Bay Area is its own special kind of rat race—but she’s already a junior partner and she gets to wear jeans to the office. It worked out for us.”
“Would you come back here and chef?”
Miller glanced out over the balcony again. Would he, yes. Could he, no.
Clancy quietly cursed. “Shit, I apparently can’t not overstep.”
Miller looked back and Clancy had hung his head, his glasses sliding down his nose. Miller reached across the table and pushed them back up. “You’re a doctor, kind of your job. I know you mean well, but my future isn’t here.” It wasn’t anywhere. Not here, not with Greg, Sloan, or Clancy, no matter how much he might want that to be true.
Clancy closed a hand over his, holding it to Clancy’s cheek where it’d drifted, Miller unable to resist the present. “Your future is wherever you want it to be.”
But it wasn’t really, even if he wanted it to be right here with this man.
“Hey!” came Greg’s shout from below. “No long faces.” Miller tore his gaze from Clancy to find his friend standing on the end of the bar top closest to them. “And why aren’t you drunk yet?” He shouted over his shoulder at Sloan. “Negroni for your boy, another whiskey for his.”
“How about a Vieux Carré instead?” Clancy said, long face long gone. “Made with Sazerac, please.”
His smile chased away Miller’s long face too. “Make it two.”
Greg clapped merrily, as both Eli and Sloan swatted at him to get down. “Let the debauchery begin!”
Miller laughed. “Here we go!”
* * *
After several bumbling attempts, Clancy finally got his Eli O’s menu tucked into the leather binder. He nestled the book back in his luggage, then plopped down onto the end of the hotel bed, bouncing. He planted his hands in the mattress, pushed up, and bounced again, giggling.
A stern-faced bear glared back at him. “This is a five-star hotel, Doc, not a bounce house.”
Clancy threw his scarf at him. Or rather, he tried, but the damn wool wouldn’t detach from his hand.
The angry bear transformed into an unbearably handsome man. And why did he have to stand so close and smell so damn good? Wanting more, Clancy flailed and made it extra hard for Miller to help get his scarf and overcoat off.
“You know...” Clancy started, loud. He cringed at his lingering bar volume.
The bar, where he’d lost count of how many cocktails he’d tossed back. Enough for him to climb on top of the bar and dance with Greg, wailing out the lyrics to Pearl Jam songs. Dancing and singing for Miller, who swayed behind the bar with Sloan, but whose eyes never strayed from Clancy, tracking his every move. The attention had only driven Clancy higher. Spinning faster.
Spinning ideas he wasn’t supposed to have.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
Miller finally freed him of his outerwear and threw it, with his own, on the sofa. “You know what, Doc?”
Oh, he’d spun right away from his earlier thought, which he couldn’t remember anymore. He closed his eyes and fell back on the bed. “I’m kind of glad for the smaller room now. Not so much of it to spin.”
A tug on one foot, then the other, and Clancy’s shoes were off, his toes freed too. The better to curl when another strong waft of bourbon, sweat, and kitchen flopped onto the bed beside him. “I told you not to try and out-drink an Irishman,” Miller said, head propped in his hand, looking down at him.
“I’m Irish!” Clancy waved a hand at his green eyes, and managed to knock his glasses askew.
Miller’s answering smile was crooked, half out of focus, and no less gorgeous. “Did you grow up in an Irish pub like Patrick?”
“Point taken.” Clancy aimed an index finger at the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to right his glasses. “But I dance better than him.”
Miller removed the pestering glasses altogether. Much better idea. He reached behind him and put them on the table, then turned back, resuming his model pose. “I won’t argue you that. The leprechaun’s got two left feet.”
“Did you and Sloan dance at your wedding like you did tonight?”
“No, we got married at the courthouse. We left for Boston that same afternoon. And ‘Black’ wouldn’t have been my song of choice.”
The lyrics flitted through Clancy’s mind, all too fitting as he thought about them now. “Would it be now? Is that how you feel?”
“About Sloan? No.” Miller tilted toward him, fingers weaving through his hair like they had on the dance floor in NOLA.
Clancy couldn’t see his expression. Everything was a blur, inside and out.
Things got more confusing when Miller levered up and removed his shirt. Not confusing. Hot, everything was hot. Sparks raced up and down Clancy’s spine, through his blood and along his skin.
Skin. Inked skin.
Miller stretched back out beside him, tattoos on full display. Clancy scooted closer and before he could stop himself, traced his fingertips over the dark lines, feeling more than seeing the abstract designs. “Did you get these here?”
“Some of them.”
“Is it Maori?”
“Not exactly. More like a recipe buried in abstract line work.”
Clancy whipped up his gaze. “A recipe?” Miller nodded, and Clancy returned to squinting at the design on his left arm. “I don’t see it.”
Miller chuckled, the warm breath and warmer sound sending another riot of sparks through Clancy. “Because you’re blind, and drunk.”
And inherently curious. Doctor, duh. He reached out, tangled his fingers with Miller’s, and brought their joined hands to his opposite arm. “Show me.”
Miller inhaled sharply. Clancy cursed and retreated—shit, he’d overstepped again, thinking and wanting things he wasn’t supposed to—but then Miller, hand still in his, drew him back in. “Close your eyes,” he whispered hoarsely.
Clancy snapped his eyelids
shut, willing to do anything to prolong this closeness. Miller guided his hand back against his skin and began tracing what Clancy recognized as shorthand. When he finished spelling out the last ingredient, Clancy opened his eyes and smiled. “Oscar’s béchamel sauce?”
Miller flattened their hands over the tattoo, like a benediction. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarser still.
Clancy looked up. Something wet glimmered on Miller’s face. Before Clancy could reach a hand up and feel for himself, Miller switched one hand for the other in his and began tracing the tattoo on his right arm. Clancy tried to put it together, but couldn’t make the pieces fit. “Some sort of dessert.” Butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and other baking staples. “But I don’t remember anything like it.”
“Because we haven’t had it.” Miller rubbed the spot between Clancy’s eyes, and Clancy relaxed his brow, closing his eyes under the soft caress. “It’s my mother’s chess pie recipe.”
Pie sounded good. Warm like the body he was resting against. Comforting like the smell of the kitchen. Clancy buried his face in Miller’s shoulder and inhaled. “Will you make it for me sometime?” he mumbled, the cocoon lulling him closer and closer to sleep.
Lips brushed his forehead and big, strong arms closed around him. “I don’t know if I’ll have time.”
Clancy ignored the flitting thought of ticking clocks and nuzzled closer, nose under Miller’s chin. “Want more time with you.” Wetness from above made his nose twitch, but he ignored it too. “I really want to kiss you, but I’m about three seconds from passing out. Will you hold a three second kiss against me?”
The kiss lasted a respectable ten.
Ten seconds of gentle lips moving against his. Of the spicy sweet trace of cocktails, tinged with fresh salt. Of the fleeting promise of home on Miller’s breath and in his touch.
Ten seconds. More than a brief touch, but not nearly enough.
Miller pulled away first and tucked Clancy’s head under his chin, dropping another kiss on his forehead. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Clancy curled his fingers around Miller’s right arm, around the recipe he’d yet to taste. “Please,” he murmured, clinging to the promise of it and holding on to the man who was becoming the center of his world.
* * *
For as fuzzy as he’d been when he fell asleep, Clancy woke completely clearheaded. He startled at first—at the heavy arm over his waist, the furnace blazing against his back, and the gentle breaths ruffling the hairs at the nape of his neck. But the next second he remembered where he was, who he was with, and the kiss they’d shared last night.
His chest ached. It wasn’t enough.
One night wrapped in each other’s arms. One barely there kiss, even though that brief, gentle touch had been the best kiss of Clancy’s life. One trip together, experiencing something they loved in common.
Clancy wanted more nights, days, and years to get to know Miller. The picture was as clear as day in his head. Of Miller in an open kitchen, the center of a lively restaurant, featuring the simple dishes he loved best. Of Clancy strolling in at the end of his day, teasing, kissing, guessing dishes and ingredients. Of tasting the pie that’s recipe was inked on the arm Clancy still had his hand curled around. Of Sloan and Greg visiting with their families, Uncle Miller their favorite, Clancy a distant second. Wouldn’t bother Clancy one damn bit. Miller was the center of their world, and he wanted him alive and happy.
Not dead.
Clancy wouldn’t let that happen. The world would not be a better place without Miller Sykes. He had to do everything—anything—to make sure that bleak future didn’t come to pass.
It was time to call an audible and shatter some expectations.
Chapter Nine
Miller woke feeling more rested than he had in days. More rested than he usually did after an hour flight, that was for sure. Retrieving his phone from the seat pocket, he flipped it over in his hand and did a double-take at the time. He hadn’t just been asleep for the sixty minutes it took to fly from New York to DC, where they were supposed to dine tonight at a funky seafood spot in Georgetown. Being stuck in the land of Dungeness crab, Miller wasn’t leaving the East Coast, for possibly the last time, without some Maryland blue crab.
But according to his phone, he’d slept for over four hours. And they were still in the air; descending, judging by the pop of pressure in his ears. He glanced out the airplane window and squinted, blinded by the bright sun. Once the spots in his vision faded, he looked out again, hand over his eyes to reduce the glare. He took in the unexpected landscape, his brow lifting until it tickled his fingers. They hadn’t been circling DC for three hours. Below were hills of green grass and brown brush, dissected by freeways ten lanes wide, packed with slow-moving traffic. He touched the window. Cool, but not East Coast winter cold.
He popped out his earbuds and glanced across the aisle to where Clancy was staring out his window. “What’s going on, Doc? Where are we?”
The smile he turned on Miller was almost as blinding as the sunlight. He tilted his head toward his window. “Come see for yourself.”
Miller unlatched his seat belt just as they hit a bump of turbulence, and the seat belt light dinged on a split-second later.
“Hurry up.” Clancy used his foot to spin the chair across from him outward, toward Miller. “I’m not going to tell.”
Miller quickstepped across the aisle and fell into the offered seat. He rebuckled, rotated, and looked out the window. Palm trees, high sandy cliffs, and the ocean, stretching as far as Miller could see.
“We’re back on the West Coast?”
Clancy nodded. “OC, technically.”
Orange County. Well, that explained the view, on both sides of the plane. But... “Why?”
“You’ve shown me so many places that are special to you. I wanted to show you a place that’s special to me.” His smile softened, full of that same sweet eagerness that’d first appeared in Napa. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Miller’s stomach tightened. The warmer stopover sounded delightful, maybe even more delightful than the crab he’d miss, but he couldn’t help feeling like there was more to this than Clancy was letting on. Things had spiraled the last few days—the blow-up with Greg in New Orleans, the unintentionally romantic Christmas Eve gone awry in Martha’s Vineyard, Sloan and Greg’s surprise visit, then last night with Clancy, after Eli O’s...
“I know it’s an extra back-and-forth before the last stop,” Clancy said, interrupting Miller’s thoughts before they reached the place they’d gone all morning, and in his dreams too. “But as much as you like a good view, I think this will be worth it. And I promise you’ll still get your blue crab.”
“You knew where the next stop was?”
“A little birdie told me,” he said with a wink. He reached across the space between them and lightly grasped Miller’s right arm. “Please.”
Clancy’s long, slim fingers bisected his mother’s chess pie recipe, and Miller’s thoughts picked right back up where they’d left off. Remembering how those fingers had traced his tattoos last night and ratcheted up Miller’s building need for him. How they’d clenched around his arm when Miller had brought their lips together, unable to resist the cresting need any longer. It hadn’t been the crushing kiss he’d anticipated, but it was all the more perfect for its sweetness, for the hint of flavor. If he’d tasted more, he’d be even more of a wreck than he already was, second-guessing all his decisions.
Thanks to the drinks, he’d fallen asleep shortly after Clancy, the ongoing debate in his head silent for a few hours, until the alarm had woken him to an empty bed. Clancy had left a note on the table—At brunch downstairs with Sloan and Greg. Miller had missed waking with Clancy in his arms, but the remembered heat of his hand on his arm had lingered. Now the heat was real, Clancy’s hand there again, and against his better judgment, Miller wa
nted to keep it there.
He laid a hand over Clancy’s. “All right, Doc, show me what you got.”
What Clancy had was quite possibly the best view of the Pacific Ocean Miller had ever seen. Standing on the balcony of their corner suite at the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Nigel, Miller watched as the sun slowly descended over the water toward the far-off horizon. The hotel sat high atop a cliff, the waves crashing with a thunderous boom on the beach below. In the gazebo on the cliff’s edge, Clancy chatted with a suited older gentleman while waitstaff bustled around them, setting up a space heater in one corner, a champagne bucket in the other, and a dinner table in the middle. Miller had no idea what they’d be eating—he’d held himself back from looking at the in-room dining brochure—but regardless of the cuisine, the view and the company would be spectacular. The relatively balmy sixty-degree weather was icing on the cake. If someone had told Miller he’d be dining al fresco on this tour, he would have laughed, but it felt right. Something else he wouldn’t have wanted to miss, one last time.
He was just rolling up his dress sleeves when a sommelier approached the gazebo. Recognizable by his sharp suit, the tray of drinkables he balanced, and the white towel over his arm, the somm handed Clancy a cocktail glass first, a Negroni judging by the color. Clancy placed it on the table, turned back around, and at seeing the bottle the somm presented, Clancy burst out laughing, some joke between them that Miller couldn’t hear.
Didn’t matter. Miller’s chest ached all the same, Clancy’s laughter like a warm blanket full of hidden knives. Was it luck or a curse that’d brought this wonderful man to him now, when he had so little time left?
As if sensing the attention, Clancy shifted his gaze toward their balcony. His sparkling green eyes locked on Miller, and he smiled, wide and bright.
Miller had his answer. He was the luckiest man alive, at least for tonight.
Same as he’d had no business stepping onto the dance floor in New Orleans, he had no business stepping off the balcony and cutting across the lawn to the gazebo. No business accepting the invitation in Clancy’s eyes or his offered hand at the bottom step of the gazebo. But Miller was as powerless to stop himself as the waves crashing against the beach below. One more memory. One more night to enjoy an amazing meal, with this amazing view and an amazing man. He prayed Clancy would forgive him afterward, and if he didn’t, well, his reserved seat in hell would be worth it.