by Beth Bolden
It wasn’t too hard to imagine him feeling regret at taking this step, but Evan still believed they could make this work. There was a reason they’d been spending months looking over the market and the talent available, and had ultimately decided on Miles.
“Maybe you can give Reed some suggestions on how to improve,” Evan said. “He doesn’t technically run the food service, but he has a lot of influence and works with them frequently.”
“We already discussed it,” Miles said, making it very clear that he was done discussing food-related topics with someone who apparently couldn’t understand them. Which was going to make the next two hours rather difficult.
Evan decided there was no point in further procrastinating. “I thought it might be helpful to start with a rundown of the videos you’ve produced so far, and talk about where we might make improvements, and what facets we would want to keep for your show here.”
But instead of just agreeing, Miles shoved his long, tapered fingers through dark curls and pinned Evan with an adversarial look that Evan knew he should have found entirely obnoxious, but instead of simply being annoying, it was intense and left Evan feeling unsettled. Exposed. Warmer than he liked.
“So you bring me in here,” Miles said, “and claim you want me so badly to sign with you, so badly you send a famous chef to meet with me, then when I agree to film videos for you, you stick me with some marketing guru who doesn’t know anything about pastry who wants to change everything.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “Why?”
“I didn’t send anyone,” Evan argued. “Reed wanted to go, and he’s the boss.” Technically true, but also partly a lie.
“I think you’d understand, being some marketing expert, what false advertising is. You lured me here with Reed, because you knew I’d never agree to work with you.”
“You’re working with me because your show needs to improve its marketing angle and develop some polish,” Evan said through gritted teeth. “And I bet you that’s what Reed told you when you complained to him at lunch.”
Miles gave a short bark of laughter. “Sort of, yeah." For the first time, Evan felt the spark of Miles' natural charm. He wanted to pettily reject it, but also bask in the novelty of experiencing it for the first time in person.
“You want things to be perfect, even if they’re unstudied in their perfection,” Evan said, pulling out every persuasive technique he’d learned in a lifetime of bad living situations. “I can help you with that.”
Miles looked intrigued, but not completely convinced, but Evan decided that maybe it would be better to show, not tell. “For example,” he said, pulling out his notes from the folder he’d brought in, “you experimented with a lot of different camera angles and placements while you were filming. Every episode is slightly different. I can help figure out the best one and then standardize it. Do you want to be featured on camera? Not on camera? Just a pair of hands?”
“Someone told me my last video was so successful because I was on it more,” Miles said, but he sounded skeptical.
Evan did not want to say that yes, everyone ate up that footage because there was nothing hotter than a good-looking person absorbed in what they were creating. Even to the point of missing a smear of pink pastry cream across one chiseled cheekbone.
“There were definitely factors that helped that video spread virally,” Evan said. “I can help you recreate them.”
Miles nodded. It wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but it was something, and even Evan couldn’t work with nothing.
“I didn’t think I’d care if people watched my videos or not,” Miles admitted, and Evan barely restrained from doing a little cheer at the man finally revealing something about what he was looking for from this partnership, “but I liked it. I started making them for me, and I never thought about my audience. But then a million people watched the last one, and that was pretty cool.”
“Try five point six million,” Evan said.
“Jesus, I had no idea it was that high.”
Evan realized that Miles wasn’t being humble; he really had no idea what his stats were like. And that did shed some light on how the man ticked. He lived for his work and his kitchen.
“So you didn’t get into this for the fame, obviously,” Evan said. “Why did you start?”
Evan couldn’t believe it, but Miles flushed. It was almost very nearly a blush. Evan felt his own skin flame hotter in response. “I was bored at work, if you could believe it. And my sister missed seeing me bake. So I posted it for her, really.” Miles went a tiny bit darker red and Evan had a sudden visceral image of their bare skin pressed together, damp and warm. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it? I made the first video just for my sister, and five point six million people saw the last one.”
“It’s actually pretty incredible.” Evan paused. “And it’s just the beginning. The sky’s the limit.”
Miles leaned back in his chair, and actually laughed. “You really mean that.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “Like Reed said, I’m annoyingly honest.” What Evan didn't say was that he had believed in Miles almost as much as he'd always believed in himself. The belief was currently a little tarnished, but Evan knew it wouldn't take much encouragement from Miles to bring it—or his ill-advised crush—back to their former states.
Considering how far they’d gotten in the last five minutes by just talking, Evan decided they could do an analysis of the old videos later. He didn’t want to do anything to remind Miles that he was the interloper trying to take over the show he’d started as a way of keeping in touch with his sister.
That was sort of cute, actually. It made Evan wish that he knew how to bake. Or that he’d had a sister.
Still, it was better to stick to non-confrontational topics. So Evan opened up his internet browser, and another food site that did videos. He turned the screen so Miles could see it. “I didn’t know they let you watch those,” Miles said wryly. “Aren’t they the enemy?”
“It’s research,” Evan said. “We’re going to go through these videos and you tell me everything you like and everything you don’t.”
Evan figured that criticizing other people would probably keep Miles from going rogue until Evan could figure out a new way to plan the next season of Pastry by Miles.
* * *
Evan came home to his apartment—and tried not to think of Miles doing the same, only a door away. The first thing he did was pour himself a very large glass of wine.
It was a Tuesday but he had fucking earned this wine. Miles had spent almost three hours complaining about everything in the other videos. He had lots to say, though most of his criticism was culinary-based. Even though the plan was to keep Miles focused on other people than Evan, every time Miles had pointed out something that was wrong, he’d pointedly glanced over at Evan. Basically, he was never going to let Evan forget that his degree was in business and not croissants.
Usually Evan did some form of work in the evenings, but tonight he didn’t even want to open his laptop. Miles had managed to make Evan hate his job, albeit temporarily. He was a horrid pain in the ass, and Evan tried to dig up some motivation because he needed to find a way out of this situation. Not out, Evan corrected, he wasn’t going to give Miles what he wanted and quit.
No, he needed to figure out a way to change up the dynamic. He needed something to put Miles at ease and stop feeling like he needed to fight Evan all the time. Goddamn it, he wanted Miles to like him. Even if it wasn't ever in that way.
Tomorrow had to be better than today was. If it was any worse, Evan was seriously considering smacking Miles for being an asshole. And that wouldn’t make Miles like him any more than he already didn’t.
Evan’s stomach grumbled, and he opened his fridge with a glare and a wrench. Empty, of course. A half-empty bottle of orange juice and a sad glass jar of mustard adorned the shelves. He was going to need to order in, again. And then it hit him.
He needed to emphasize to Miles that they agreed food was
at the center of his videos. What better way to convince him than to put him back in the kitchen?
Pizza first, Evan thought, plan later.
* * *
Miles poured himself a big glass of red wine and thought, I fucking earned this.
He’d known this transition would be hard. He’d spent his entire professional life in prestigious restaurant kitchens where marketing was something the PR reps dealt with so diners would pay hundreds of dollars to eat at the latest and greatest.
Miles had personally always thought of it as an inside joke, something completely made up. Not something real and concrete that people spent time and effort to research. He sort of figured that he’d design the show, film the episodes, and then the marketing guys would come in and figure out what sort of bullshit they needed to say about it so people would watch.
As it turned out, that was not how it worked at all. It turned out that Miles was going to be saddled with some marketing “expert” who would be criticizing and forcing him into changing everything along the way until the end result only vaguely resembled Miles’ initial vision.
That Evan guy was determined, Miles thought as he opened his fridge and perused the contents. Cute, because Miles was human and he couldn't avoid thinking it more than once today, but annoyingly determined.
At lunch, Reed had said they’d had the fridge and pantry stocked for him. And it had definitely been done with a chef in mind, with a plethora of fresh ingredients. The apartment itself felt like an accidental luxury, all open rooms and this enormous kitchen with fantastic natural light.
Miles had planned on coming back to his apartment and getting so drunk that he wouldn’t have to think about Evan’s sour milk expression every time Miles opened his mouth—or his light-brown, crème brulee eyes that reminded Miles of one of his favorite desserts. But maybe there was something he could do to make tomorrow marginally better. Maybe there was a way he could win Evan over to his side. Maybe there was a way to control Evan other than disparaging him. It wouldn't be a hardship, Miles thought as he sipped the wine, he was good-looking, and Miles was attracted to him. Of course, Miles was attracted to most good-looking men, but with all the couples at Five Points, there wasn't a reason not to act on it. It wasn't against the rules. He could see Evan flustered and warm, bow tie dangling, sleeves rolled up, a slight dusting of flour on his cheek. Lips swollen pink from Miles' mouth.
It would be easy. Maybe too easy.
Miles turned back to the fridge. Maybe there was a way to kill two birds with one stone.
Chapter Three
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Miles looked up to see his brand-new partner standing in the doorway of his cubicle. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the cubicle thing, but he definitely knew how he felt about Evan. Miles gave himself a little mental pat on the back for the annoyed edge in Evan’s voice, and then another that he was ignoring how incredible Evan’s ass looked in those tight jeans.
Maybe it was petty or childish, but it felt so satisfying. Miles had spent time around lots of egotistical perfectionists over the years, but none of them had ever had a stick up their ass quite the same way Evan Patterson did.
“I’ve been sitting right here. For at least an hour.” Miles leaned back, and enjoyed the way Evan’s face struggled to find control. He also just plain enjoyed Evan’s face, but those gorgeous brown eyes or his blond hair, and not even the slim, cute body he was showcasing in those skinny jeans could entice Miles to get in bed with someone so uptight.
Evan walked into the cubicle, and glanced down at Miles’ laptop screen. He pointed to the left of the laptop, where a neon-green Post-it note read, “Join me in the kitchen when you get here,” in what must be Evan’s neat handwriting.
Miles thought Evan could have sold his handwriting to some font website, and hipsters would be falling all over themselves to buy it.
“Oh, I didn’t see that.” Miles didn’t even attempt to sound convincing. Anyway, they both knew he was lying.
Evan crossed his arms and his eyes shot bullets. It made him look cuter—and also more terrifying, if you were into that sort of thing. Which Miles was not. Definitely not. He’d told himself last night that he wasn’t going to try to seduce Evan to control him. This morning, the prospect looked a lot more appealing.
Or maybe that was just Evan.
“What have you even been doing?” Evan asked.
This was the opening Miles had been dying for. “I’m so glad you asked. I decided to do a little show-and-tell experiment.”
Evan didn’t look convinced. Or amused. Which only amused Miles further. He wasn’t usually such an asshole, but he wasn’t going to share control of Pastry by Miles with anyone, especially a marketing “expert” like Evan. He’d only had to be in his new partner’s presence for approximately ten point two seconds to realize that Evan was the kind that didn’t give up easily. Thus, Miles’ attitude shift to being as annoying as possible. Miles had a little sister; there was no way Evan could hold out against the pain and suffering Miles could bring him.
Miles clicked on the video he’d been working on. Evan watched it soundlessly and Miles watched Evan. Other than a very subtle eye twitch, Miles gave Evan a handful of points for reigning in his explosion of annoyance.
“You filmed an episode of your show in your apartment last night,” Evan stated.
“I did,” Miles said unrepentantly.
“You made a Twinkie.”
“Actually,” Miles drawled, “it’s better known as a Ding Dong. And it’s a homemade Ding Dong. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried the store-bought version, but this one is infinitely better. Tastes a whole lot less like cardboard.”
Evan’s eye was twitching harder.
“A Ding Dong,” he repeated in disbelief. “How did you even film this? With your phone?”
“Yep,” Miles admitted happily. “Rigged it up on one of those fake house plants with some duct tape. Had to drop by Reed’s office this morning and let him know how much I appreciated such a stocked apartment. And not just the fridge.”
“That was me,” Evan said. “I stocked your apartment.” He was looking like he’d love to march right over and un-stock it. Miles was delighted. He’d anticipated how this might go, and it was going better than even his wildest expectations. He ignored the little voice that said just how much he’d enjoy it if Evan lost it and threw him down on the desk.
He also ignored what came next in that little fantasy.
Miles shot Evan his most charming smile, but the recipient did not look particularly charmed. “Oh, thank you. It all came in handy, as you can see.”
“I can definitely see that.” Evan leaned down, and Miles caught a whiff of his cologne. Something tart and lemony. It suited him. “Now you’re going to come with me to the kitchen, and we’re going to figure out how to work together. On a video of you doing something impressive that isn’t a Ding Dong.”
“You don’t think that would be cute?” Miles asked, and thought maybe he’d taken it a step too far because the look on Evan’s face was suddenly not playing around. Having worked in very tough kitchens and then Terroir, Miles was used to people wanting to kill him. He was not used to people who looked like they wanted to kill him slowly, and might enjoy it the whole time.
“Okay,” Miles added. “I can do that.” He was still chalking this up as a win because anything that put that look on a man’s face was worth the effort it took to rig up a phone on a fake ficus tree.
“I know this isn’t easy for either of us. But I do think we can make it work.” Evan looked like he was repeating something out of a handbook for crisis management. The problem was that he also looked like he meant it. Miles tried to ignore the pulse of guilt at how he’d deliberately tried to rile him up, and mostly failed.
“If you say so,” Miles said. He didn’t see either of them relinquishing control to the other anytime soon, and he had a feeling that Evan liked compromise just as much as M
iles did—basically, not at all.
“I do.” Miles was pretty sure Evan was grinding his teeth together. Then he turned and stomped right out of the cubicle.
Miles was still seeing that look of Evan’s—the one that promised a slow and painful death if he didn’t follow—so he followed.
And if that also meant he got a nice back view of those skinny jeans, he wasn’t exactly complaining.
They got to the kitchen, and Evan breezed right by the schedule board that he’d so helpfully and earnestly pointed out yesterday. Miles had just enough time to see that they definitely had not been scheduled for this morning.
Evan stopped by one of the long counters, and gave Miles a frank look that shouldn’t have been hot, but apparently was. Miles didn’t have a history of liking confrontational men, but either his tastes had changed, or he apparently found Evan a lot more attractive than he wanted to admit.
“Let’s see what you can do,” Evan said. He gestured around the kitchen. “This is your domain. Bake me something.”
Miles ignored the jibe about what he could do. It wasn’t worth his time to refute it, and they both knew it. Bastian Aquino wouldn’t tolerate someone in his kitchen who didn’t know what he was doing.
“What do you like?”
“Me?” Evan sounded disbelieving, like he couldn’t imagine Miles wanting to personally bake him something. And honestly, Miles didn’t want to, but he had a feeling there was only so much he could fight back against this arrangement without making Reed pissed at him. Reed, while admittedly giving up Garnet, was still Reed Ryan. The thought of pissing him off was not a pleasant one.
“You said, and I quote, ‘bake me something.’ Tell me what you like.”
Evan waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t really like sweets. So, anything, I guess. It doesn’t matter.”
There was roaring in his ears as Miles tried to process this statement. “You . . . don’t . . . like . . . sweets.”