by Beth Bolden
“You’ll have to forgive my titi,” Ryan said. “She thinks anyone who gives a gift over a hundred bucks is careless with their finances.”
Flor glared at him. “If you had told me how much this blender cost, I never would have taken it.”
Ryan’s eyes were guileless. “You could have given it back after you found out.”
“Hardly. It saves me so much time and energy, it’s cost-effective to use it,” she sniffed.
Wyatt found himself chuckling into his garlic while still missing his nana so much it was hard to take a breath. He’d wanted to call her again, but frankly he was afraid to, terrified that he would dial her number and a stranger would answer again.
He knew it was something he might have to get used to—not might, he corrected bitterly, he would—but he wasn’t ready. He needed more time, except that the disease wasn’t exactly clued into his timetable, or anyone else’s either.
“So what have you been feeding my nephew?” Flor directed this question Wyatt’s direction, her bickering with Ryan over the blender concluded—at least for now.
“I’ve been to the farmer’s market three times since I got here. So lots of fresh veggies. Salmon. Chicken. I made burgers the other night with roasted mushrooms.”
Flor made a tsking noise as she began to load his chopped vegetables into the blender pitcher. “He takes terrible care of himself on his own. I thought this was a bad idea, but I’ve changed my mind.”
Wyatt had a feeling that this was unusual, so he gave her a grateful nod. “It’s very different from what I’m used to, but I agree. It’s been good.”
The toughest part had probably been being around Ryan and not being able to do what he wanted to him, with him, against him, etcetera, but second toughest had been all the unexpected free time he’d found himself with. He didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t working fourteen hours a day, falling into bed, and then getting up to do it all over again.
“And you’re used to what? Very long days?” Flor shot her nephew a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re keeping him busy enough.”
“I’m only one man,” Ryan complained. “I can only eat so much.”
“Sofrito isn’t cooked, then?” Wyatt asked. He’d looked up the rudiments of Puerto Rican cooking before this day, and he’d seen many recipes claiming to be authentic, but most of them cooked the pepper and herb mix down first.
Ryan groaned. “Don’t get her started.”
Flor shot him a glare. “Each cook does it differently. This is my way, at least for this dish.”
“We’re making pasteles,” Ryan supplied. “Usually served on holidays or special occasions. Very fancy. And sort of my aunt’s specialty.”
“Not sort of,” Flor corrected. “Hijo, come here and do something besides hold up that counter. Chop up the pork for me.” She gestured to where she’d set up another plastic cutting board. A huge hunk of pork shoulder sat on it, waiting to be broken down. Wyatt’s fingers itched, because he would much rather be doing that more delicate, more skilled work, than mincing another fifty cloves of garlic.
Also, despite Flor asking him to do it, Wyatt wasn’t sure Ryan knew how. He’d acted very uneasy every time Wyatt had asked him to help with anything in the kitchen.
“Very fine,” Flor reminded Ryan as he picked up the knife. “You know how it should be.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Sí, I know.”
And to Wyatt’s surprise, Ryan very competently wielded the knife and began to break down the shoulder into more manageable pieces. It wasn’t precisely how Wyatt would have done it, but he’d been trained in professional kitchens, and he was certain that Flor had taught Ryan.
In fact, now that Wyatt was seeing Ryan chop up the pork, he realized that Flor had been more concerned about his knife skills—for ingredients that were eventually going to be blended. Wyatt didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.
“Professional skills,” Flor said, following Wyatt’s gaze to where Ryan was working. “I only trust what I know.”
Wyatt laughed. “And you taught him.”
Flor broke into a huge smile. “Exactly.” She turned towards Ryan. “I think I like this one. You don’t let me meet many—or any—of your men, hijo, but I still like this one. Don’t scare him away.”
Ryan flushed red, knife pausing in the middle of a cut. “He’s not my man, titi.”
Throwing up her hands, Flor retreated back to the blender, and hit the power button. She didn’t seem very convinced, and Wyatt was torn between embarrassment and pure satisfaction.
He’d totally dawdled through the rest of the garlic, because he’d been listening to Flor and Ryan chatter and then watching Ryan chop up the pork. So he was unexpectedly surprised when he heard a voice over his shoulder.
“You’re looking awfully smug at that garlic clove,” Ryan murmured near his ear. Only long practice helped Wyatt keep his rhythm and not let his knife falter.
“I don’t know why I’d be staring smugly at garlic,” Wyatt said.
“Okay, so you were staring at my ass at least fifty percent of the time,” Ryan said, and Wyatt looked up at him to see smiling, little dimple and all.
“I think I wouldn’t be staring smugly at your ass if I was getting it,” Wyatt groused. Hopefully quiet enough that Flor wouldn’t hear.
“True,” Ryan admitted.
Wyatt wanted to ask again, when am I going to come home to find another man in the house, the one who gets to play your boyfriend? But Flor was right there, and Ryan had shut down the last time he’d asked. So he didn’t, even though he could taste the question on his tongue.
“I’m going to smell like garlic for a month,” Wyatt said, changing the subject for self-preservation reasons. “Reminds me of when I first started at Terroir, and Aquino put me on garlic duty for contradicting him once.”
Ryan sighed deeply. “You’re only convincing me more that I have to go up to Napa and kick the Bastard’s ass. Soon.”
“Language,” Flor piped up from the other side of the kitchen. “I know I raised you better than that.”
“That’s his name,” Ryan protested.
Flor raised an eyebrow. “Okay, it’s his nickname, but it seems like a god damned accurate one,” Ryan added.
“Bastian Aquino can be . . . well . . .” Wyatt hesitated. “He can be a bit of a jerk, sometimes. Even though Terroir was supposed to be such a great place to work, I don’t miss it at all.”
“When I first came here,” Flor said, raising her voice to be heard over the Vitamix, “I work for company cleaning houses. They pay me a good wage. But the supervisor was awful. I quit, and started my own company. Less money, more happiness.” She hesitated. “But Ryan wouldn’t let you come work for him without paying you more.” She sounded fond but exasperated.
“Don’t worry, I’m not breaking the bank,” Wyatt said. “And it’s crazy how long I suffered at Terroir, just because it was Terroir, and a thousand chefs would have committed murder for my spot. Somehow that was supposed to make me like it more, I guess, but I didn’t. Leaving was hard, I only wish I’d done it sooner.”
Wyatt finished the garlic and passed it over to Flor who was still magically concocting the sofrito, mixing and matching ingredients and tasting each batch after she blended it. Once she determined a batch was perfect, she’d pour it into ice trays, and they went into the freezer.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll pop them out and stick them in freezer bags. And then they’re good as long as they last, whenever I cook.”
“I might do that with fresh herbs,” Wyatt mused. “It’s a brilliant idea.”
“Not brilliant,” she retorted. “Common sense.”
“Amazing how the two things are often the same thing,” Ryan said.
“Time for the pork,” Flor announced. The skillet she produced was massive. Wyatt probably could have sat in it and paddled it out into the Pacific Ocean. “Hijo, will you grate the yautia and the bananas for
the filling?”
Ryan groaned, but didn’t hesitate to pull out the necessary bowl and grater, and begin what looked like an arduous job.
“I thought you said your titi wasn’t going to make you work,” Wyatt teased.
“I would never say that,” Ryan loyally protested when Flor shot him a look from where she was beginning to load the pork into the hot pan.
“I hope you help Wyatt too,” Flor said. “He’s not your slave.”
Ryan laughed. “No. Unfortunately.”
“I have everything under control, usually,” Wyatt inserted. He hadn’t ever felt comfortable asking Ryan to help prepare meals because that was what Ryan was technically paying him for. Even when Ryan hung around the kitchen, which he did most days, having a beer or a bottle of water as he watched Wyatt prepare food.
“Also he’s way out of my skill level,” Ryan said. “He’s playing dumb now, making sure not to overpromise and underdeliver, but he’s got serious talent.”
“Maybe he could teach you to take care of yourself better,” Flor said, her voice going steely. “You eat out too much.”
Teaching Ryan how to cook sounded like heaven and hell, all wrapped up in one delicious package. But Wyatt couldn’t tell Ryan’s aunt that he wasn’t sure how much more time he could spend with him before giving in and dragging them both back to the bedroom.
Frankly, they might not even make it that far. The living room had a really nice soft carpet that had been figuring in Wyatt’s imagination a lot lately.
“I do fine,” Ryan argued. “You worry too much.”
But Wyatt chimed in before Flor could. “That’s her job,” he said. “Just like yours is to hit a baseball really, really far.”
“I do more than that,” Ryan said. “I also run around in a circle and catch balls sometimes.” The slanted, teasing look he shot Wyatt was almost more than he could bear. His fingers clenched around the edge of the counter.
Flor must have been at least partially aware of the undercurrents running through the kitchen because she waved Wyatt over and proceeded to distract him by giving him a long list of ingredients to be added to the browning pork. He was a food nerd, so it was an effective move.
“I’ll send you the recipe later,” Flor said when Wyatt was trying to remember everything they’d added. “We want it to be nice and cooked down. So we’ll let it simmer a little, while Ryan finishes up the masa. Do you need the achiote oil yet?” She directed the question to Ryan, not even glancing his direction as she turned the pork mixture with a wooden spoon.
“Soon,” Ryan said.
“When he was little he’d always beg to have pasteles,” Flor confided in Wyatt. “But I told him he’d have to make the masa, and that usually cured his craving.”
“It’s a thankless job,” Ryan pointed out loudly.
“But you’ve got a nice pair of muscles to get it done fast,” Flor said.
And Wyatt couldn’t exactly complain when he craned his neck to see Ryan straining against the old-fashioned box grater, biceps bulging. It was definitely a view worth turning around for.
The smug look Ryan shot him made it crystal clear he knew just how sizzling hot he was, and that he’d let Wyatt look and then keep looking any time he wanted.
He didn’t know if the sudden heat in the kitchen was from the hot stove or the tiny sluggish fan pumping warm air lazily around the small room, or Ryan sweating over the grater—but Wyatt knew his polo was sticking to him in damp patches, and there was sweat beading along his hairline.
But from the way Ryan kept gazing at him, all smolder and no stop sign, it was clear he didn’t mind. Maybe he even liked it.
If they’d been alone, maybe Wyatt would’ve stripped his shirt off and even though his abs weren’t quite the caliber of Ryan’s, let him look his fill anyway.
Except there was a reason they’d stayed mostly fully clothed around each other. They were dry matches desperate to burn, and all they craved was a single flame to set them alight.
But he couldn’t set them on fire, because it might burn too hot, and then they’d both be caught in the backdraft.
“Earth to Wyatt,” Flor interrupted his increasingly distracted thinking.
“Sorry,” Wyatt said, turning his attention back to Flor. “I got distracted.”
Her smirk told him that she knew exactly why he’d been so out of it, but she didn’t say anymore about it, for which he thanked all the kitchen gods.
“Are you ready to finish the filling?” Flor asked and Wyatt nodded.
Flor moved it off the heat, and they each gave it a taste. Wyatt was impressed by the complexity of the flavor, even though she’d added a fraction of the ingredients they’d used at Terroir and some of the other restaurants he’d worked at.
“Do you think it needs more oregano?” Flor asked him, and the sly light in her eyes informed him this was a test. He’d always been an achiever, and he was desperate to pass.
“He doesn’t know if it needs more oregano,” Ryan inserted, but Wyatt ignored him, and closed his eyes, rolling the flavor across his tongue, tasting each separate ingredient. Savoring each component, and how they became more than the sum of their parts.
“No,” Wyatt finally answered. “But it does need more pepper. And a dash of red pepper, if you have it.”
“Cayenne,” Flor confirmed, and in her hand was the jar of bright red powder. “Agreed.”
“You’re pretty good,” Flor said, after both peppers had been added, and the filling was off the stove, cooling. “Not many people could have figured out what was missing without knowing what it was supposed to taste like.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Some people have a nose for smells. Some people are good at figuring out flavors. I happen to have a combination of both. I can usually tell what’s in any particular dish by smell. Definitely by taste. Makes it pretty easy to tell what’s missing.”
“Seriously?” Ryan asked. “You can really do that?”
“It came in very handy, especially at Terroir. If you think your aunt is terrifying, Bastian Aquino’s tests were legendary.”
“And you always passed,” Ryan stated, with a quick grin. “I bet you did.”
“He stumped me once or twice.” A lie. Bastian Aquino had never stumped him, even though he’d worked hard at it. He’d called Wyatt a freak, even in his hearing, and even implied once or twice when he was particularly nasty that all Wyatt’s skill revolved around something he’d been born with, not developed.
But Ryan was glowing, he was basking in it, and Wyatt already knew what lay that direction: disaster. They couldn’t go down that road again, and then end it before it ever began. If that happened, he’d end up halfway to heartbroken, and then he’d have to quit.
Wyatt needed this job. He also needed Ryan, but he was figuring out how to justify only tiny nibbles. Hanging out, being buddies, that was enough to keep his hunger at bay.
If he had another real taste . . . all bets were off.
“Finally ready for the oil,” Ryan said. He was sweating too, his forehead damp. Wyatt wanted to press his lips against his skin, taste the salt and the unique taste that was Ryan.
Thank god Titi Flor was right there. She was an excellent dissuading tactic.
Wyatt watched as Ryan finished the masa, mixing in the achiote oil for color, flavor, and to bring the grated fruit together to form a thick dough.
“Finally time to stuff the leaves,” Flor announced. She set up three stations and for the next half an hour, they worked like crazy, layering in masa and pork filling, and then bundling it together in the banana leaf, a perfect packet of tastiness.
“How do we cook these?” Wyatt asked Flor.
“Boil for an hour or so,” she said. “Salted water. They also freeze beautifully, which I’ll be doing with about half these.”
“Really?” Ryan pouted. “I promise to take those off your hands.”
“Even you do not need a hundred pasteles,” Flor said sternly. “Besides, you
have a very competent chef in your employ who will make them any time you ask.”
“You really think so?” Ryan asked, shooting Wyatt a speculative look from under his thick, dark lashes. Wyatt felt pinned. Exposed.
“I’m not sure they would ever measure up to your titi’s,” Wyatt said quickly.
“Maybe I want to see what you can do with them,” Ryan insisted.
“They’re a lot of work,” Wyatt protested, even though it was weak. He’d been making complicated meals all week because he was bored and also because he wanted to give Ryan something, a little return for everything Ryan had offered so selflessly.
“Like you wouldn’t do anything he asked when he bats his lashes,” Flor scoffed, putting an end to the question once and for all.
Wyatt turned back to his stack of banana leaves, cheeks burning with heat and embarrassment. Was he so obvious? He thought he had his feelings at least partially under wraps.
“Well, he’s not alone in that,” Ryan said quietly, and Flor made an approving noise.
* * *
Wyatt and Ryan climbed back in the Tesla an hour later, fifty pasteles richer, with a load of unspoken, raw emotion boiling between them.
Flor had seen them off with a tight hug each. “You take care of him,” she’d murmured to Wyatt under her breath during his. “He cares more than he lets on.”
The problem was that Ryan already seemed to care, so if he cared even more, felt even deeper, Wyatt was afraid of what the future held for them.
He couldn’t give Ryan what he wanted—what they both wanted—but they were both drowning here, and there were no good ideas left to hold onto.
“Thank you for bringing me today,” Wyatt said, because trying to re-establish their friendship seemed like the safest bet.