Wiley rubbed buttery flour from his hands and followed her to the pantry. It wasn’t a separate room, more a clever arrangement of shelving units and bins that had depth and height for storage.
“See? He figured out how to join the top wire shelves with boards so there’s even more space and stability. There’s hooks—hooks!—he made from some of the old cooling racks we no longer use, for hook-hanging things, and he reconfigured the bins all to one side so we don’t have to fight past them to get small stuff like spices.” Carla gave Holt a squeezy hug. “This is so good.”
Holt grinned. “I try.”
Wiley could tell Holt’s grin was genuine. Pleasure and satisfaction radiated from him.
The closest he’d seen to that since getting into all this was during their dance lessons when Holt didn’t mash his foot or do a quick on the slow or a slow on the quick.
“What next?” Holt rubbed his hands together and threw a happy, sexy grin over his shoulder at Wiley as Carla led him into the front area.
Wiley admired the admittedly much improved pantry area and then kneaded his finished dough with a bit more force than usual.
As he worked he settled into the familiar tasks, reassured by the rote processes and known outcomes, and he smiled hearing Holt and Carla banter and bang things around. He wasn’t a baker and never had aspirations for it, but doing this for Carla had never been in question. Of course he’d helped; of course he showed up for half wages and all the day-old goodies he could take; of course he did what he could to make it a success. Along the way he discovered he still didn’t hold aspirations to be a baker, but he did like the work.
It was a creative outlet of sorts, let him use his hands without worrying about color choices or material pricing or centimeter details like when designing products.
The all-he-could-want day-old goodies part was pretty great too.
“Wiley, get in here,” Carla called from the doorway.
He finished getting scones onto the cooling racks and slid rolls and Carla’s croissants into the oven and went where she beckoned.
“Whoa.” He halted stock-still, even absently wiping his hands on his apron.
The front of the building had a long bank of nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. He and Carla had talked about doing some interesting feature there but hadn’t had the budget or the chance, so the line of bistro tables remained. He guessed the chance was the few hours he’d been absorbed in scones and rolls.
In place of the bistro tables was a raised platform that undulated along the windows, and on it were the love seat no one sat in that used to sit under the photo wall, and several crates turned into low tables and benches. It was casual and inviting but polished, and Wiley had no idea how they’d pulled it off.
“Right?” Carla gushed at his astonishment. “Look.” She pointed out the window to where a production truck was parked and then pointed at Holt. “He called and over a couple dudes came—not quite as brawny but as handy. We even livestreamed it. I mean, who’s up at this hour, but we figured why not. And we got those upholstered armless chairs from the weird room, see?”
He did. The weird room would one day be another bathroom, they hoped. The armless chairs were relics of the building’s past, in vintage raised velvet prints that were appealing again. Some were at the dining tables in the seating area, and some were in groups under the photo wall with more crate-table things.
Stupid, awkward tears welled up, and Wiley coughed to hold them back. “It looks good. It looks so good.” He smiled weakly. “I guess this means you can keep the apron.”
“Oh-ho, now that’s a deal.” Holt crossed to him and led him onto the platform. He bounced and grinned and kept hold of Wiley’s hands. “Super sturdy, no squeaks. We made it out of salvage pallets and lumber odds and ends from the set. I knew we had loads of MDF no one needed in one of the trucks.”
“MDF?”
“This stuff.” Holt tapped his toe on the wide hunks of smooth wood sheathing the existing floor. “Particle board meets plywood.”
“I might paint it tonight after closing. I haven’t decided.” Carla hopped up and fell onto the sofa. “The raw state isn’t bad, though. Rustic, goes with the exposed HVAC and pipes and mismatched tin ceiling.”
“Your tin ceiling is incredible. I don’t even want to price what it’d cost in today’s market.” Holt turned to Wiley, and his grin softened to an almost pensive expression. “Do you really like it?”
“What? Do I like it. I lo—” Wiley licked his lips and for some reason couldn’t say the rest. “This is incredible. Honestly.”
Holt’s grin didn’t return. Instead his eyes narrowed, burning with something Wiley didn’t try to define.
“I can’t believe you did all this.”
“Not a big job to me and the boys.” Holt shrugged. “I wasn’t lying that I’m a crap cook, but this? This kind of stuff I can do.”
“I’ll say. Thank you.”
“I hoped you’d like it. It’s for you.” Holt’s hands tightened around Wiley’s. “And Carla. The bakery.”
Wiley went onto his toes and kissed Holt, short and sweet and square on the mouth. Holt caught him and held him fast and kissed him back. Enough to steal his breath and share a dart of heat and wetness from the seeking reach of their tongues. Then he rocked back when Holt pulled away, swung their arms in a few weird flaps, and let go to stride outside to the truck.
Carla raised an eloquent eyebrow from her perch on the love seat.
“Ehhh,” Wiley grunted. “Don’t.” He ducked his head and went back into the kitchen to check the rolls.
“So. Uh.” Carla rapped the doorframe and stared at him bug-eyed a few moments later. “We kind of are swamped? And by kind of I mean there’s a line out the door, as apparently superfans are in town and one of them saw the livestream, but there’s also curious people from town who know you and Holt are here and also the regulars? So. Gird your loins and good luck.”
She nodded decisively, straightened her shoulders, and marched the trays of rolls to the display cases.
The next several hours were a blur.
But a good blur. A busy, tons of chatty customers free with their money and patient for their drinks and donuts and croissants blur. A no time to think about kissing Holt and Holt kissing him back and wanting to keep kissing Holt blur.
It amazed him how many people said they couldn’t wait to meet him or wanted a quick hello or picture.
Wiley trotted miles, between slinging bacon and drinks and trips to the kitchen, ovens, racks, and bakery cases. He kept Holt in the corner of his eye, noting the broad smile plastered on Holt’s face was the TV-grin he’d come to recognize, and not the pleased one from when it was just them and the pantry redo. That gave him a boost as he zoomed from the kitchen, loaded with rolls and cookies from dough Carla had the quick thinking to get from the freezer.
“Okay, everyone! Attention please. I’m sorry to say we’re sold out,” Carla yelled over the hubbub. “I’m glad to get anyone a drink or some water if you’ve been waiting, but every last crumb is gone.”
Some groans and ineffectual shuffling not moving toward the door was the response.
“Hey, if you didn’t get a cupcake or danish or whatever, let’s get a selfie.” Holt had been working nonstop in the seating area, delivering plates of goodies and refilling coffee and being generally stupidly charming. He sat on the platform in front of the love seat and thumped it. “C’mon, group hug time.”
The disappointment lifted from the last waiting customers as they crowded around Holt, cramming on the love seat and tucking behind him and under his arm as he held the other one way out to get the shot.
“Anyone mind if I post this?” Holt asked as he checked the photo and started tapping the screen.
A resounding chorus of “No!” was his answer, and he laughed.
“Fantastic. Look for it on my social—tag yourself and comment if you’re in the picture or are milling about not wanting in the
picture but not wanting to leave yet.”
Light laughter rose from the bakery as groups of fans and lookie-loos studied the picture wall and posed in the armless chairs or at the front door painted with Carla’s logo.
Holt held the phone out again and showed the selfie around. “There, don’t we look so good?”
The group of mostly women around him cooed and giggled and were definitely mollified.
“Can we get one with you in it?” a woman called to Wiley from the love seat. She was plump and cheerful in a red sweater and matching red eyeglasses and had her arms around two younger, much more fashionably dressed women. “My daughters and I love the show, and this episode has been amazing so far. You guys are so adorable.”
“Me?” Wiley asked even as Carla had him push-marched around the display cases and over to Holt.
She gave a little shove and Holt took over, catching Wiley in the cradle of his chest and legs to sit on the platform, and keeping him there for another few selfies.
“I’m posting this one too, everyone,” Holt said to their cheers. He kissed Wiley’s temple. “Okay, up you get.”
Wiley got practically dead-lifted to a stand, Holt rose behind him, and Wiley thought about the hard, strong, muscly thighs he’d just sat on and blanched, then blushed.
“Thank you.” The woman who’d asked stepped from the platform and shook Wiley’s hand. “This has been the best day already! Congratulations on the wedding. But really, the marriage—that’s the important part.”
“Too right,” Holt smoothly cut in, dropping an arm around Wiley’s waist as Wiley only stared. “And we thank all of you for showing up this morning, and your good wishes. Wow.” He covered his heart with a hand. “I’m near tears, but that’s because you got all the danishes before I had one. I won’t hold it against you.”
He laughed with the utterly charmed group and gently but firmly ushered them all toward the door, gathered the stragglers, and got everyone outside and the door locked behind them.
Carla slid her arm in front of them to lower the shade, and they stood for a bit in the sudden quiet.
“There’s a few weirdly shaped danishes, two slightly overdone croissants, and one crushed cupcake in the back.” Carla looked from Holt to Wiley. “Race you.” She darted off.
“Unfair advantage,” Holt called after her.
A sticky “Hah!” drifted to them from the kitchen.
Wiley exhaled. “So. I was a disaster.”
“No.” Holt’s whole face wrinkled earnestly. “You kept up with the crush way better than me. I walked in circles pretending like I know how to wait tables.”
“Not that part. The selfies and small talk with fans—why do I even have fans? I don’t have fans—part. I’m not good at small talk, period. Small-talking strangers eager for a glimpse of you was a whole new level of not good at.”
Holt scoffed. “You were fine. Not one of them left here thinking you are anything but as cute and polite and funny and kind as they hoped.” He started toward the kitchen. “Come on before Carla eats everything. And don’t worry overly about it either. Just like getting used to being on camera takes practice, so does being around fans. I wasn’t good at small talk at first for sure.”
“I’m sure you also did fine. You’ve always been polite and funny and kind too.” Wiley chuckled and followed Holt behind the display cases and prep area. “I bet Kit had it down from moment one.”
“But not cute?”
Wiley stopped. “What?”
“So you think I’m polite, funny, kind,” Holt counted off on a hand. “But not cute?”
“Nope,” Wiley said too quickly.
Holt looked aggrieved.
Wiley blushed and made big eyes. “You’re not the cute type, is all.”
“Hm—so what type am I?”
Holt swiveled toward Wiley. His tone hadn’t changed much, but it was enough. Deepening, a resonance, not giving anything away, but Wiley got the definite sense Holt wanted to know his answer.
“Is cute bad?” Holt ran a light fingertip along Wiley’s jawline. “I don’t think it is.”
“No. It’s good. I don’t mind—I mean. You know.” Wiley shook his head. “You’re very handsome, okay? I wasn’t implying you’re lacking in the looks when I said—didn’t say—that.”
“Very handsome is nice. I like very handsome.” Holt wasn’t teasing. He laid his thumb on Wiley’s chin and closed his eyes before taking in a long breath, but after a moment he stepped back again. “Thank you.”
Wiley’s thoughts were too muddled to form an answer and his skin where Holt had touched him was on fire, which was an added distraction he didn’t need.
“Get in here if you want anything! I’m about to devour the rest,” Carla yelled in an effective interruption. “Croissant?” she asked Wiley as he walked into the kitchen after Holt.
He gratefully accepted it and the coffee she had ready and slumped into the comfy chair.
“That was incredible. I hope it never happens again.” Carla laughed. “What a ravenous horde! And I’m not talking about the locust effect on the food. People bought all the T-shirts and buttons we had lying around from our grand opening, asked if they could have or buy the paper doilies from the display cases and the creamers and sugar bowls, I caught someone trying to sneak into the kitchen ‘for a look around,’ and at least three spoons are missing. It’s a good thing I use mismatched sets of everything, found at thrift shops.”
“Yikes, I’m so sorry.” Holt dropped his danish and started doing a spot inspection.
“It is okay. Really.” Carla pushed from her lean on the counter and pulled Holt back to the bench he’d been on. “I’m actually glad to have the T-shirts and buttons off my hands. Now I can justify making more to commemorate your episode happening—and sell them online.”
“I’d say they mean well, which most do, but it is a lot. I had no idea that many fans were even in town. We’ve heard a few rumblings of minor thefts around town. I hope it’s not related.” Holt frowned. “At least let production reimburse you for the spoons. And if you find anything else missing.”
Carla waved him off. “That doesn’t seem necessary, especially after what you and the crew did for me this morning.”
“I mean it. Firmly. That bit of lumber and time isn’t a fair trade—this is.” Holt got out his phone. “I’m texting Elaine right now that you’ll get her an invoice including if you went over your planned budget on baking goods to keep up with the crush, starting today through end of filming. You might not get an apocalyptic swarm again, but they will be back.”
“How ominous.” She wrinkled her nose. “Pride would like me to refuse—but yes, it’s a deal. Thank you.” Carla rolled against the edge of the counter and stood hip-shot so she could write in the ideas notebook she always kept handy. “I’m reminding myself to get you an invoice. And designing that commemorative T-shirt tonight.”
Wiley listened through a pleasant doze, but that got his attention. “I can do that for you.”
“You have enough on your plate as it is. I might not even have as many plates to wash today as usual.”
“Don’t be silly. I still have the art and files from the grand opening design, and mine will look way better.” Wiley finished his coffee and made himself stand. “It won’t even take an hour.”
“But this is your day off.” Carla pouted, but her eyes danced in hopeful anticipation. “I don’t want you to, but I really want you to.”
“I know.” Wiley kissed her cheek and dumped his dishes in the sink. “I’ll let you clean up alone. Fair trade.”
“Done.”
“Okay, then I’m away. I will upload the design and make a product page for it and text you.” Wiley walked comically slow toward the door and then paused once he had it open. “Okay. Have fun cleaning.” He glanced at Holt but didn’t want to make demands or have groundless expectations. “Yup, g’bye.”
Carla crossed her arms and opened her mouth, but before
she said whatever she looked ready to admonish, Holt jammed the rest of the danish in his mouth, downed his coffee, and took his dishes to the sink.
“Hold up, Coy—I’ll come with you. Those village houses aren’t going to shelve themselves.” He patted Carla’s arm as he went past. “I had a great time. I think Elaine already talked to you some about setting up the cake stuff—but let me know if you have any questions or if Kit is being too relentless about any whim or detail. Talk soon.”
Wiley waved and pushed the door so it’d swing wide, but he didn’t wait. He couldn’t risk Holt getting a good look at his huge grin and what had to be a too-pleased expression.
It didn’t take much for Holt’s long-legged stride to catch him.
Holt hooked Wiley’s waist and drew them together, and the sudden sideways movement made it feel only natural for Wiley to let his head rest on Holt’s chest.
“One for the lurking fans,” Holt said lowly and kissed Wiley’s forehead. He tightened his hold and settled them into an unhurried pace.
“Yes, of course.” That dimmed some of the immediate pleasure from Holt’s seemingly spontaneous kiss and gathering of him to keep close, but Wiley didn’t pout.
A pout might be caught on camera and posted online and nitpicked for days, after all.
He didn’t see anyone lurking but that didn’t mean anything. Wiley didn’t actually want to cause ripples of gossip and negative speculation. Any more than it didn’t matter the kiss wasn’t real.
Holt didn’t let go as they approached his house, and so they bumped their way up the narrow path to his porch and front door. Wiley dug his key from the pocket sealed to Holt’s side and put it in Holt’s waiting palm. He grunted as Holt went in sideways and pulled him in after.
“I’m practicing,” Holt said and, still without letting go, carefully turned them to face each other in the small space of his entryway. He changed his hold to a loose version of their dance frame and hummed a few bars over some not-terrible steps. “We are supposed to practice. I’m not facing Miss Sarah without it. She’d know in a half second we were lying anyway.”
Say Yes to a Mess (Dreamspun Desires Book 103) Page 11