Served Hot

by Albert, Annabeth

  “I don’t know what to say. I rehearsed on the way here . . .” He plopped down next to me. He was too close. He smelled woodsy and freshly showered and my senses kept remembering what he’d smelled like sweaty and straining. My body wanted to push him down on the bed, forget everything other than the silky feel of his skin, while my mind wanted to run.

  “This week has sucked,” I said, mainly to fill the silence stretching between us.

  “I hate Craig.” David’s tone had surprising vehemence to it. “I hate him because he’s not even here and he’s ruined everything between us. And I hate . . .”

  “Me?” I asked softly.

  “No. Never.” He grabbed my hand. “But for a bit there, I hated us. I hated how what we had kept reminding me of what I’d never had with Craig. And I tried to pretend it was because of his job or our town or our families. . . .” His voice broke.

  I squeezed his hand, lacing our fingers together.

  “But instead I kept . . . I kept seeing everything he’d cheated me out of. We could have had this. We should have had this.”

  “You deserved it,” I whispered.

  “And when I could tell that you were wanting to live together. . . everything came to a head. All this . . . rage I’d been suppressing. And I was an asshole to you.”

  “You were hurting.” I could see that now.

  “And sometimes I get so scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of losing you. Of loving you and living with you and building a life with you and then you disappearing. Gone. Some nights I’ll lay awake worrying about what could take you from me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I wasn’t. “And I get scared too.”

  I took a deep breath, searching for courage but only coming up with stale air. “I just worry . . . I’m not Craig. I’m not like him. I’ll never be him.”

  “You’re right. You’re not him.” His voice was firm but not unkind. “You’re nothing like him. And that’s probably what I love most about you. Everything with you is different.”

  “But you said it makes you sad—”

  “It makes me angry that I wasted decades on someone who couldn’t give me even a fraction of what you do. It makes me sad that I never got this with him. It makes me sad for Craig that he never got to experience this.” He shook his head. “But you? You don’t make me sad. You make me whole.”

  “I do?”

  “You do. It took walking around this week like I’d lost a leg for me to realize it. But you . . . you’ve brought me back from a dark place.”

  “I meant it when I said I love you.”

  “I know. And I think that scared me the most. Too scared to get the thing I’ve always wanted.”

  “I can see that.” My anger was draining away, like a river washing into the vast ocean of potential happiness.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Robby.” He held both of my hands. “I’m still not sure what the next step is. But I love you. And I don’t want my fears to cost me you.”

  “I was maybe rushing you a bit. We don’t have to decide right away about living together.” Talking to him made me see what a huge jump he had made coming after me. He loved me. I wasn’t fighting a ghost for his heart. Some things could wait.

  “If it helps, my sister says I’m an idiot for not jumping at the idea.”

  “You told your sister about us?”

  “Yeah. I should have told her this weekend, but . . . I didn’t want to share you.”

  “Share me?”

  “Yeah. I know it sounds crazy. But what we have here is . . . special. Magical even. And I didn’t want to take it out and look at it back home. Like it would get mud all over what we share.”

  “Are they really that bad?”

  “Mel’s not. She wants to meet you. And my mom’s not so bad either. Talked to her too. She’s happy I found someone. Said I should bring you to Easter. But the rest of them . . .”

  “My dad’s family is full of conspiracy theorists and has annual BB gun shooting contests. My uncle was on Punkin Chunkin’. Trust me, I can speak rural too. Why not ask me to go?”

  “Ask you to drive ten hours to go eat bad barbeque and lukewarm potatoes?” He frowned. “And be around my redneck relatives, who will tell you how much they like sweet and sour chicken and compliment your English? Or the other ones who will ignore us both? No. I love you way too much to ask you to deal with that.”

  “But I want to.” I squeezed his hand back. “Not for the relatives. For you.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t only want to share the happy parts of your life. I want to share all of your life. Even the uncomfortable parts. Even the sad parts. Even Craig. You wouldn’t be here right now without him.”

  “I should have been honest with you that I was struggling more with my grief recently. Maybe I should go back to that counselor . . . but I don’t think even I realized what was happening until you were walking away.”

  “I’m sorry.” I kissed his neck. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

  “No. You were right to. You say you want to share everything; I want you to trust me more. I want you to trust that you can speak up.”

  He was right. I’d been so worried about him pushing me away that I’d kept quiet far longer than I should have. I’d tiptoed around subjects and left a lot of stuff unsaid. I had my own baggage and trust issues. I kept thinking he might bolt when I too had one hand on the door, afraid to come all the way inside.

  “You’re not going anywhere?”

  “I’m right where I want to be.” He leaned in to kiss me. And I let go of fear and doubt and indecision and met him halfway, my tongue snaking into the heat of his mouth, my heart fully opening for the first time.

  I was more than a little groggy for work Tuesday. David had kept me up late, and my muscles protested the load of coffee beans I had to haul in. Suz kept grinning at me and teasing me her entire shift until I shooed her out at ten. I was pretty sure I still had a goofy smile on my face as David strolled in a little before noon.

  He had to wait through a cluster of corporate women, all ordering skinny lattes and leaving even skimpier tips. We exchanged secret smiles over their heads, and my heart went gooier than my big bottle of dark chocolate syrup.

  “Your usual?” I said as the ladies departed.

  “I’ll take the special,” he said, leaning on the counter.

  “You sure?” I hadn’t seen him glance at my sign. “It’s a Mexican mocha. Has a tiny amount of chili pepper in it.”

  “I’m sure. I trust you.” Our eyes met and held and I felt the power of his trust.

  I set about making his drink but looked up at a clanking noise. He’d dropped something in my tip jar.

  “What’s this?” I set aside the drink to fish a gold object out from the bills and change. “A key?”

  “To my place. I should have given you one a lot sooner. I just . . .” He shrugged. “Not good at figuring these things out.”

  “It’s okay.” I smiled up at him, happiness lighting me up like the sunlight filtering through the atrium’s skylights. “I’m not either.”

  “We can figure it out together.”

  “Deal.” I slid the key from hand to hand, savoring the weight.

  April: Coconut Frappé

  Chapter 11

  “I hope you can live without coffee for two days.”

  “What? You didn’t tell me that was part of the bargain.” I faked outrage.

  “That right there is the only place to buy coffee in town—” David pointed at a gas station across from the solitary stoplight. “And it tastes like boiled gym shoes. Mom has drip coffee, but it’s usually decaf store brand.”

  “Decaf! Take me back to Portland.” I took on a princessy tone to make him laugh. Anything to get him to lighten up. As soon as we’d passed the SMALL BASIN, POP. 1,112 sign, David’s back had tensed up, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. It was Easter weekend and someone had put two large
wooden eggs in front of the sign. A piece of poster board taped to a street pole pointed the way to an egg hunt. Downtown was a single street, half the buildings shuttered, others looking like their last good coat of paint was thirty years ago. A couple of knickknack shops and a used bookstore. Big feed store at the end of the block with pickups lining the lot.

  It was quaint and homey and made me want to check in a mirror to make sure my hair wasn’t sticking up too much. David was dressed as preppy as ever, so I’d tried not to fret too much about how Portland I looked. David had laughed when I’d gone back and forth between glasses or contacts that morning.

  “That’s the school over there.” He pointed out a small cement-block building with a red metal roof. I looked over at the sports fields, trying to picture a young David there, chasing after Craig. The high school undoubtedly still had trophies and pictures of him. Somewhere in this town was a cemetery with a headstone that had Craig’s name on it. I’d asked David if he wanted—needed—to visit it, but he’d shaken his head. “Nothing left to say,” he said. And I’d believed him. The last few months, David had seemed happier, freer with his emotions, and the cloud of sadness that used to follow him around seemed to have evaporated.

  His Civic didn’t exactly fit with the town full of trucks and SUVs. It was a cute little valley town, surrounded by gorgeous evergreen scenery and mountains in the distance, but every corner seemed to underscore what a lonely life it had been for someone like David.

  “So, don’t take this wrong, but there’s a lot more flannel and denim here than in your closet.”

  “You noticed?” He raised an eyebrow over his sunglasses.

  “When did you start the whole business attire thing?”

  “You saying I’m preppy?” David swung the car onto a narrow road leading out of the town. “I had this math teacher in high school. Mr. Gold. He always said a man should dress like the job he wanted to have.”

  “So you took that as permission to get your inner accountant on?”

  “Something like that.” He laughed. “My mom always called me her odd duck. I was always begging to wear my church clothes to school, even in grade school. In middle school, I made her teach me to iron so I could iron all my own stuff.”

  “You’re cute.”

  “You’re biased.” He reached across the console to squeeze my knee. “And you need to stop worrying about who’s wearing what.”

  “Hey. I only made you look at three different shirts.”

  “My point.”

  He could joke, but I wasn’t the only nervous one. We’d been invited for Easter dinner, but I didn’t kid myself that Mel would probably be the only one happy to see us there. I’d met her a few weeks earlier, when she’d come to Portland. Several years older than David and several times more talky, she had a broad smile and a bossy, good-hearted nature.

  She’d liked me, though. Told me I was good for David. And she was probably behind why David’s mom had pushed for him to come home for Easter dinner. I didn’t care how awkward it was; I was just happy to be making the trek together.

  The car bounced down the country road before David turned at a metal gate, taking a long driveway up to a low-slung ranch house.

  “Well. This is it.” He took a deep breath as he parked the car. “I’m . . .”

  “It’ll be okay.” I grabbed his hand. I wanted to say more, but Mel was coming toward the car, black Hunter boots picking their way across the swampy, still-thawing yard. Two elementary school–aged kids trailed behind her.

  “Uncle David!”

  “See?” I said before we got out of the car. “You’ve even got your own welcoming committee.”

  David’s mom stood at the door as we came across the yard. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with a sturdy build that said she’d had no problems corralling four kids. In addition to David and Mel, there were two older brothers. I’d meet them—and a whole bunch of David’s cousins—later. The Gregory family was expecting more than forty people at Easter dinner tomorrow. My dad’s side of the family wasn’t exactly small, but it seemed like David must be related to half the county with the list of relatives he’d rattled off to me on the drive up.

  David’s mom hugged him for a long time. It was easy to see in her misty eyes how much she missed him.

  “So. Let me look at you.” She stepped back, still holding his shoulders. “Are you sleeping better? Eating more than bean sprouts and rice?”

  “Portland does have meat, Ma.”

  I had to repress a very inappropriate snicker. Then his mom turned her appraising eye on me, looking me over like I was a calf she was considering buying. Finally, she gave a slow smile.

  “So. You must be the coffee guy?”

  “I’m the coffee guy.” I smiled back, and I knew then that no matter how awkward things got later, we were going to be okay.

  After the greetings, we headed into the house, David’s mom leading the way.

  “So tell me, Robby,” she said over her shoulder, “how do you feel about venison?”

  “I’m sorry,” David whispered next to me.

  “It’ll be fine,” I whispered back, leaning toward him a little. “But I’ll let you make it up to me later, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “You sure I’ll like this?”

  “Of course I am,” I lied.

  “Well, I suppose I do owe you.”

  “You do.” I grinned up at him, all teeth and sass. It was good to be home.

  “Well. It’s only paint. And only one wall.” David glared at the living room wall like he was daring it to object. Three of the walls were a pale cream shade called Coconut Frappé that I’d fallen instantly in love with—and named this week’s drink special after. However, all cream would be as boring as beige, so I’d talked David into a light teal accent wall. Of course, by talk I meant arrived home with paint.

  Home. It was still such a fragile, new word. We’d lucked into a rental off of Alberta—walking distance to our brunch place and close to transit for me. And when the landlord offered us a chance to paint the place in our own choice of colors, I did a little happy dance right there in the property management office. The past owners had made some seriously bad choices. We’d painted the blood-red bathroom pale silver and the dank gray bedroom a cozy taupe. Now, here in the living room, it was time for some color.

  “You’ll see. You’ll love it.” I hope. I smiled encouragingly as I pried open the paint can. “You can take out your stress on the paint rollers.”

  “Flinging paint as therapy?”

  “If it works.” I dipped a fingertip in the blue paint, threatening to flick a drip at him before he captured me in a hug.

  “It’s my legs that need a workout more than my arms. All that driving. I’m still stiff.”

  “I have a cure for stiff.” I leaned into him. We’d gotten back from Easter with his family the day before.

  “I know you do. But you’re the one who wanted to paint. Three days with no sex and you would rather hang out with Benjamin Moore here.”

  “Three days? Does this morning not count?” We’d collapsed into bed together after the long drive but had ended up rubbing off together before I’d had to leave for work and David went back to sleep.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Hey, I’m just happy your mom let us share a room.” She’d turned bright pink when she’d shown us to David’s old room, but at least his folks hadn’t insisted on separate rooms or something equally archaic. But separate room or no, convincing David to do more than cuddle in Idaho had been a no-go.

  Lack of sex aside, it hadn’t been nearly the ordeal David had feared. No one force-fed me venison or any of the other seven meat dishes on display at Easter dinner. I’d eaten my mashed potatoes and listened to David’s siblings tell stories about how he used to wear ties to elementary school. Sure, there were plenty of people at the dinner who didn’t talk to us. And there were more than a few stupid questions. But they were David’s town
and David’s family and David’s past, and because they meant so much to David, it mattered a lot that he had shared them with me.

  And I was David’s future. So was this house. It had challenges like horrible paint—which we were taking care of—and a backyard with some sort of weird six-arched pagoda thing happening, along with some funky raised garden beds, but there was room to grow here.

  “Are you sure we have to paint?” David hugged me tighter, snuggling into my neck.

  “We could paint really fast first—” I ended on a squeak as his hand snaked down the front of my pants. “Or paint second. Second totally works too.”

  As he pulled me toward the newly taupe bedroom, I thought, this is what hope feels like. Since David had come into my life I’d learned a lot more about hope. It looks like ivory sheets and stacks of paint cans and two pairs of shoes next to the bed. It sounds like rustling bedcovers and murmured endearments. Hope tastes like skin and soap and victory and coffee. And I can say now with absolute certainty that hope does come in a paper cup and smells an awful lot like a vanilla latte to go.

  If you loved Served Hot, keep reading for a special sneak preview of the next Portland Heat romance, Baked Fresh, coming in May . . . And don’t miss the third in June . . .

  This baker’s going to get his man

  Vic Degrassi is a resolution maker. He’s given up smoking, gone back to school to be a pastry chef, and lost over a hundred pounds. But this year, he’s taking on his hardest challenge yet—winning the heart of Robin Dawson. The two friends volunteer each week at a Portland homeless shelter, and when Vic learns that Robin has recently been dumped, Vic knows this is the chance he’s been waiting for.

  But Robin’s not sure he’s ready for another relationship. When their friendship turns to passion, Vic wants more than just a single night of sheet-searing action, but Robin is haunted by past mistakes. Vic agrees to keep things casual, yet tries hard to sneak into Robin’s heart. However, when tragedy strikes the shelter, love may not be enough to keep these two friends together.