Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  He didn’t think it would be.

  When Miles returned, he was carrying an apron, which he handed to Evan. “You don’t wear one of these,” Evan said skeptically. It turned out he was far more interested in Miles undressing him than encouraging him to put more clothes on. And that was definitely a problem.

  Miles gestured to his worn t-shirt and jeans. “Besides,” he added, “I’m the professional, remember? I’m teaching you.”

  Evan shouldn’t have found anything endearing about Miles bringing up one of their main conflicts, but there was a self-conscious, almost wry, edge to his voice that made it obvious how embarrassed he was about the whole thing.

  And he should be embarrassed about that email, Evan thought as he plucked the apron from Miles’ hand with barely another glance. “If it’s a requirement, I’ll be happy to wear it.”

  He only looked down after he’d tied it around his waist. “Wait,” he stuttered, “this isn’t . . . this didn’t come from the kitchen.”

  “Kiss the Cook” was emblazoned across the front in bright red letters. Miles only grinned, the curve of his bottom lip all the evidence Evan needed that he was far too pleased with himself.

  It occurred to Evan then that while Miles had come in today, prepared to deal and to compromise, he’d made some plans of his own. Teaching Evan to cook wasn’t a spontaneous idea he’d just come up with. He’d planned for this to happen, even to the extent of buying and bringing this ugly apron in for Evan to wear.

  “Looks good,” was all Miles said before he turned away, but that was enough. Evan had already seen the amusement in his gray eyes, and he had to force down the answering blush.

  “Thank you,” Evan said stiffly.

  He would’ve had to be dead not to be affected by some of the things Miles said and did. The reluctant attraction he felt had come through loud and strong, in between all the silly insults and the angry kiss. But Evan already knew it would be dangerous to let Miles kiss him again. Maybe too dangerous, especially not when Miles had just proved that he was perfectly capable of arranging his own manipulative plans. Evan would never know if anything that developed between them was real or if it was just Miles trying to gain the upper hand in their power struggle.

  That was why it couldn’t happen at all.

  Evan picked up the paper Miles had scribbled the show ideas on and pointed at the first line. He needed to remind both of them that this was a professional—not personal—relationship. “This is what we’re doing today?” He hesitated, already thinking of how he’d stumble over the French. “Pain au chocolat?”

  “Oui, pain au chocolat,” Miles answered absently, absorbed as he arranged the ingredients he’d just fetched from the pantry on a rolling cart.

  Unlike Evan, French rolled off Miles’ tongue naturally. Evan was reminded that one of the bullet points on his resume was several years studying and working in Paris at one of the great patisseries there.

  Evan had never been to Europe. His childhood had definitely never afforded him a chance to travel, and he’d spent his entire adult life clawing his way up by his fingernails. There had never been time or money to indulge any of his fantasies.

  Hearing Miles speak such careless and perfect French was another reminder of how different they were, and how Miles could never find out just how different.

  “Do you speak fluently?” Evan asked before he could swallow the question back. Like he needed any more vivid dreams of those long, pliant fingers running across his skin, hypnotic murmurs of French in his ear.

  “Not as much as I should,” Miles admitted. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, like he knew what Evan was thinking—and he couldn’t, Evan knew that, but there was still a fearful thrill that he might still figure it out. “Everyone kept speaking English.”

  “Well that was a waste,” Evan said.

  “I’m assuming you don’t,” Miles said.

  Obviously Evan didn’t. The way he’d butchered the pronunciation of the recipe name would have given that away instantly. He spoke a little Spanish, because you’d have to be painfully isolated not to pick up some, and also because he’d taken the language courses required by his university.

  “It’s a goal of mine to learn another language,” Evan said.

  Miles rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.”

  Evan was instantly reminded of all those years of being made fun of because he’d had the nerve to excel in school, because he’d had the nerve to want better for himself. Why wasn’t that cool? Why did Miles, who’d certainly done some excelling of his own, find that lame?

  But Evan had long learned there was no point in asking those questions. He’d do whatever he believed he needed to do, damn everyone else. He pushed the hurt away because there was no point in wondering why Miles would judge him for it too.

  “What are pain au chocolat?” he asked, carefully attempting to copy Miles’ effortless accent.

  “Chocolate croissants,” Miles said. “And they’re important because learning how to make pastry dough is vital to French baking. Also because they’re delicious and impressive.”

  Evan was definitely impressed but he kept his lips pressed tightly together because he wasn’t about to tell Miles that.

  “We begin,” Miles continued, “by putting the basic dough together.” He gestured to a gigantic glass bowl that he’d placed on the counter.

  Evan walked over to the bowl. He was only going to follow instructions and mix some stuff together in a bowl. How hard could this really be?

  “I don’t suppose you have this recipe written down yet,” Evan said.

  Miles smiled and leaned against the counter, a little closer than Evan felt comfortable with, his gray eyes the warmest they’d been since he’d arrived at Five Points. He was a long, lean temptation and Evan needed him a little further away. A little more unattainable.

  “I’ll walk you through it,” Miles promised. “Flour first.” He pointed to a big metal bin.

  Evan tugged it over to the bowl and opened the latch. “How much?”

  “Four cups.” Miles pointed to a variety of measuring cups and spoons that he’d laid out at the workstation.

  Picking up the cup measure, Evan tried not to be self-conscious as Miles watched him intently measure out four cups of the flour and dump it into the bowl.

  “No,” was all Miles said, picking up the bowl and dumping all the flour back in the container. “There’s a way to measure flour correctly when baking.” He leaned over and suddenly was right in Evan’s personal bubble, forearm brushing against his chest and plucked the measuring cup from his hand. Despite fighting his attraction, Evan knew he was breathing heavier, while Miles, who was just as close, didn’t seem to be affected at all. Evan didn’t know whether to remind himself of what Miles had said in the email or to try to forget it completely and believe the charade Miles was playing at.

  “We fluff up the flour first,” Miles said, voice casual but precise as he took the metal cup in his hand and with a few flicks of his wrist, churned up the flour. “We want it light but uniform. Flour can clump together, making the measurement imprecise.”

  Then he handed the cup back to Evan. Flour sifted gently over his fingers as he dipped his hand into the container and tried to replicate Miles’ movements. “Now,” Miles said, snagging Evan’s wrist, his fingers making a loose bracelet around it, “you dip the cup in and level it off with your other hand.”

  Flour was coating both their hands now, specks sifting down across the counter as Miles guided Evan’s movements. Finally there were four new cups of flour in the bowl. The amount seemed very similar to Evan, but Miles was the expert, and if he said this was how flour should be measured, then he’d do it.

  “Half cup of cold water,” Miles said, releasing his wrist gently, more flour sifting to the counter, to the floor, even onto Miles’ jeans. He seemed unconcerned. Evan hadn’t thought he’d ever be grateful for the apron, but he sort of was.

  Evan sorted through
the selection of measuring cups, and he’d just found the right one when Miles’ voice stopped him again. “Nope,” he said. “Those are just for dry ingredients.” He gestured to the nestled glass measuring cups on the side. “These are for wet ingredients, like water.”

  Not about to let Miles stop him again, Evan slowly measured water from the faucet into the cup, ducking down so his eyes could double-check the liquid had rested exactly at the little red line.

  Miles gave an approving little nod as he poured the water into the flour. “Same amount of milk,” he said, and Evan dutifully measured that too.

  “Wait,” he said, as he was pouring the milk in, “didn’t you make all sorts of excuses when I asked you the other day about measuring? You didn’t measure anything in those cookies.”

  “You’ve got to learn the rules to break them,” Miles said a little smugly.

  Evan was tempted to tell him he was an asshole, but that wasn’t exactly in the spirit of cooperation and compromise they were working on right now. Plus, if he’d actually said it, it probably would have come out disgruntled but endeared, like he found Miles’ insistence on teaching Evan how to measure kind of adorable.

  And it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. His heart just hadn’t gotten the memo from his brain yet.

  He dutifully measured out the sugar, and then the salt, per Miles’ specific instructions, and then poured out the packet of yeast into the bowl.

  “Last ingredient,” Miles said, pushing over a small glass bowl filled with butter. “This is really important—more important than measuring things right. Some recipes call for room temperature butter. Others call for cold butter. You need to make sure you follow the instructions. That can make or break a recipe.”

  “Like I have a recipe I’m actually following,” Evan grumbled.

  Four days ago, Miles probably would have shot something grumpy and ill-tempered right back, but this time his smile was as soft as the butter. “You’re following my recipe,” he said, and his voice edged just enough on proprietary that despite all his good intentions, Evan went hot all over. It felt like he’d just been blasted by the heat from an open oven, but there wasn’t one. Only Miles.

  How had Evan ever thought he was cold and unfriendly? The man could melt chocolate at a hundred paces. Evan wanted to believe it had something to do with their unspoken attraction, but he knew better. It didn’t have anything to do with him. Not really. It was all about who was going to be in control, and Miles just wanted it that bad.

  Badly enough to bother charming Evan, when, if Miles had been paying attention at all, Evan had been charmed—despite his best intentions—from day one. From the first moment he’d watched a Pastry by Miles episode, if he was being painfully honest.

  “Well, what does your recipe say?” It was stupid to flirt back, but Miles’ charm made it too easy.

  “Soft,” Miles murmured, easing closer, and god, yes, that was his finger, brushing casually yet purposefully against Evan’s arm. He was probably touching more flour than skin, but even that teasing touch was enough to shoot lightning up his nerves.

  It nearly killed him, but Evan took a step away, disguising his need to put some breathing room in between him and the gorgeous man next to him by grabbing a thin flexible spatula from the pile of equipment Miles had set out earlier.

  “Just plop it in?” Evan asked and even he was impressed by how cool he sounded when the reality was so much different.

  Miles still smiled though, like he knew the truth, and Evan hiding it only added an extra edge of anticipation. “Yep, right in the bowl. And then we get to the fun part.”

  Evan was almost afraid to ask what the fun part was. But he did because he needed to have some kind of plan of how to resist Miles going forward. “What’s that?”

  “You mix it up.” Miles eyed the spatula in Evan’s hand. “And not with that.”

  “With my hands?” Evan squeaked. “Isn’t that unsanitary?”

  “Not if you wash them first,” Miles said.

  Evan did, spending a lot of time unnecessarily scrubbing, like a dose of water and soap could extinguish the fire that Miles kept trying to start.

  “You’re trying to clean them, not take the skin off,” Miles pointed out, leaning over near the sink, eyes bright with amusement. Evan kept telling himself that Miles couldn’t read his mind or understand why he was doing anything, but it was getting tougher to believe it.

  “Just want to make sure they’re clean of laptop cooties before I shove them in the bowl,” Evan retorted, reaching for the paper towels next to the sink.

  “But laptop cooties are my favorite,” Miles said, his lips forming a crooked, lopsided smile and his eyes crinkling.

  This was the most blatant lie Miles had told him yet, and it had the opposite effect than he’d probably anticipated. Instead of enchanted, Evan felt cold and clammy, like he’d just sobered up.

  No matter how much he liked Miles—and desperately wanted Miles to like him back—the truth was Miles was only trying to charm him so he could have the upper hand. Miles thought the stuff Evan did with his laptop was pointless and a waste of time.

  “How should I mix this?” This time it was easy for Evan to drag his attention back to the task. He should have been happier, but he wasn’t.

  Miles’ expression was perplexed. “Mix . . . it?”

  “Never mind,” Evan huffed. “I’ll figure it out.” He stuck his hands in and started swirling the ingredients together. Way too quickly his fingers were caked with the sticky flour mixture.

  “Wait,” Miles said and Evan hesitated, still fingers-deep in the gluey mass. “I think . . . I think maybe we need to approach this differently.”

  Evan hoped the glare he shot the other man said pointedly that he had tried to ask ahead of time, and Miles hadn’t understood.

  “I know, I know,” Miles murmured as he approached Evan, a little like he was trying to calm an upset dog, “it’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I don’t think so,” Evan retorted. “I think we’re pretty fucked.” His voice wobbled on the last word as Miles reached in and plucked out one of Evan’s hands. Whenever Miles was in the kitchen, his own hands were always quick and efficient—certain. Now, he took his time, carefully and thoroughly cleaning off the caked-on mass of sticky flour off each finger.

  It couldn’t be impersonal, because there was so much touching—way too much touching for Evan’s peace of mind—but it felt even more intimate with Miles bent over his fingers, so meticulously making sure every bit of the “dough” was off, his lashes dark against his cheeks as he concentrated on the task.

  “I’m sure . . . I’m sure I could manage,” Evan stuttered helplessly. He was caught. Literally. Metaphorically.

  “Almost done,” Miles said, his soft voice still roughly hypnotic, pinning Evan in place even further. He could have moved. He could have protested—he should have protested. But the truth was he didn’t want to stop touching Miles, even if it didn’t mean what he wanted it to.

  “Why don’t we start over?” Evan asked. “We’ve got lots of ingredients.”

  “Because I was slow and you were too fast? There’s no reason to. We can salvage this.” Miles glanced up, his gray eyes almost green in the light, and it was like he could see right through Evan and all his token protests. Like he meant something else by his words. Like maybe he was admitting he’d been too slow out of the gate and was just now catching up.

  “There,” he finally said, releasing the second hand. The sticky mass was mostly gone, but Evan knew he needed to wash them off still. And then they needed to do whatever Miles came up with to salvage the half-mixed ingredients.

  But he didn’t move, and neither did Miles, even though their hips had somehow aligned. If they took a step closer, more than just their fingers would touch. Evan had a sudden flash of memory: Miles crowding him close against the wall when they’d argued only a few days ago. Then, he’d been hot with anger and the indignity of havin
g Miles push him around. Now, the anger had faded and all that remained was an indelible memory of Miles’ body against his. And the memory was filled with a whole different kind of heat.

  It was annoying that even when Miles was an ass, Evan somehow found him irresistible. Evan figured that must be a commentary on his poor taste in men. Nice men didn’t register; it was only when someone went out of their way to be a dick that he paid attention.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Miles murmured, and that was the worst of all, because that was his doughy fingers brushing his cheek, and if he leaned in another few inches, they might be kissing.

  The very last thing on earth that Evan wanted to discuss was the email, and he definitely didn’t want it to be used against him, especially not when it was only fair and equitable that Evan get to use it against Miles.

  After all, it hadn’t been Evan who’d up and run away and then gotten drunk and written a nearly incoherent email filled with vague insults and even vaguer compliments.

  The good news was it was the push Evan needed to pull away and put some space between them. He turned towards the sink and told himself that he imagined Miles’ disappointed face. “Tell me,” Evan said briskly, scrubbing with more cold water, “how do we fix it?”

  “I don’t know, I’m trying,” Miles said, and there was too much raw honesty in his voice.

  Evan looked up and his own was sharp in response. “I meant the dough.”

  “Oh. The dough. Right.”

  Evan ignored how sulky Miles sounded. Was that all he thought he needed to do to fix things between them? Some charming lines and some vague flirting? And a few moments where he considered kissing Evan again?

  Yeah, no.

  Miles had made Evan’s life hell since he’d showed up at Five Points, and then he’d gone out of his way to insult him.

  Finishing up with his hands, Evan wet a paper towel and scrubbed at his face, sure that Miles’ fingers had left some traces of flour even though they’d only brushed his skin for a split second. It had been long enough.

  When Evan returned to the workspace, Miles was staring into the bowl like it held all the mysteries of the universe. “I think if we mix with a spatula to get the mixture into a rough dough then we can knead it by hand.”