Dinner for One (8 page)

Once the filling is done, they move on to cooking the batter they’d left to sit. Carefully they pour a little of it into the skillet, waiting for just the right moment to flip it and cook the other side. This is a more delicate process, as they don’t want to damage the crepe. It needs to not be bent or broken.

They repeat the process three more times.

He moves the crepes onto a plate and leaves them to cool, handing the apple filling over to James who lets it simmer on low. It needs to be reheated after being set aside during the baking of the crepe batter. Once it’s hot enough, they spoon the apple filling onto the crepes and carefully fold them in, forming perfect quarters.

His house smells like heaven when the crepes are done, the cinnamon and apple scent permeating every corner. He inhales greedily, moving two onto his plate and two onto James’s. His mouth waters.

“We can eat on the couch,” he says. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Bottled water if you have it.”

He grabs two waters and follows James to the couch. They sit with their backs to the armrests, their legs entwined in the middle.

James holds up his bottle like he’s giving a toast and smiles. “Bon appétit,” he says, trying to mimic Bastien’s accent.

His attempt is horrible, but Bastien laughs, knocking their knees together. He repeats the sentiment, saying it the correct way, and James rolls his eyes.

“We’re so good,” James says on a moan after the first bite, flicking his pink tongue out to lick up a stray drop of filling that’s clinging to the corner of his mouth. “These are ace.”

Bastien agrees. They melt on his tongue, the taste just the right amount of strong and savory. “I guess you are decent,” he says, smirking.

“High praise from the chef, indeed.” James leans forward, reaching out to swipe his thumb over Bastien’s lower lip. He pops it in his mouth, sucking off the filling that must have been there. He sits back like he hasn’t just given Bastien an instant hard-on.

It’s inevitable that once their plates are empty, they end up on the coffee table, and Bastien ends up under James. He’s painfully aware of how little time they have before he needs to leave, and he still needs to get ready. But he can’t stop kissing James. His hands are underneath James’s shirt, fingers tracing muscles and dips, flicking over perfectly tiny nipples. His leg is thrown over James’s hips to keep him in place. He makes breathy noises into their kisses, bumping their noses and chasing the taste of cinnamon in James’s mouth.

“You’re going to be late for work,” says James eventually, laughing as Bastien cranes his head to follow his retreat.

Bastien lets his head thump against the cushion. “What time is it?” His lips are tingling; he licks them absently.

James squints to see the blurry digits on the DVD clock. “10:43,” he says. “Don’t you have to be in at eleven?”

“Fuck.” He pushes at James till he slides off him, laughing. His staff is never going to let him hear the end of it. “I’m definitely going to be late.”

“Setting a bad example for your employees,” teases James, propping his chin on the back of the couch to watch Bastien rush to get ready. He follows him a minute later, though, coming into the bedroom while Bastien’s trying to pull his slacks on and will his hard-on down.

They dress quickly, and Bastien finds an extra toothbrush that he gives to James. They brush their teeth side by side, moving around each other as easily getting ready as they had cooking.

He makes it out the door at 10:52.

James flags him a cab, pressing a quick peck to his lips before he ducks in. “Have a good day at work,” he says, smiling. He gives a jaunty little wave as the cab pulls away.

JAMES GETS
halfway home, is in the middle of contemplating what a good date would be, when he stops midstep and stares down at his ringing phone. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. Feeling like the biggest moron ever, he swipes to pick up the call. He’s going to have to figure something out.

“Someone didn’t come home last night,” singsongs Laurence.

James scrunches his face up. “How do you even know that?” he demands. Does he have an alert set on him or something?

“So I’m walking down Barkley, and I see this guy in front of me. He’s wearing black dress pants and a white button-down, all of it very wrinkled. I think to myself, that’s a guy doing the walk of shame. And then the guy turns to cross the street, and I realize I know this walk-of-shamer. He’s my brother. And see, I know my brother, and I know he wouldn’t be walking around in wrinkled clothes—or in this area—unless he’d stayed the night for some reason.”

James turns around, gaze scanning for a familiar blond head. “I must have missed the memo about you turning into a PI,” he says dryly. When he still can’t spot him he asks, “Where the hell are you?”

“Behind you.” He taps James’s back.

It makes his heart skip a beat as he whirls around. “You are such a dick,” he says, shoving at Laurence as he starts laughing so hard tears leak from his eyes. If this were anywhere other than New York City, people would be staring. He shoves at him again. “Stop it.”

Laurence wipes at his eyes. “Oh man,” he says. “You’re so easy.” He gets a sleazy grin on his face. “Literally.”

“Ugh.” James walks around him, determined to get home and pretend he never saw Laurence.

His brother has other ideas. He trails behind him, teasing him. “Is that a hickey on your neck? Man that shirt’s wrinkled. Is it inside out? It might be. How fast did you run out of this guy’s place? I see you didn’t fix your hair.”

People do start to look at that. He gets more than one thoughtful look, from both men and women. He politely ignores them. He’s tempted to touch his neck, as if he’ll be able to tell by touch alone if his brother is right and he has a hickey or not. He doesn’t give in to it.

Laurence trails him the entire way home, because he’s a troll with no life. James thinks about shutting the door in his face, but opts not to because he knows Laurence and he’ll just pound on the door till James gives up. Older brothers are a pain in the ass.

He takes off his shoes, putting them in their empty slot, and heads for the kitchen. If he’s going to deal with Laurence, he’s going to need tea.

“Ooh,” says Laurence. “Can you make me a cup too?”

“No,” says James, putting the kettle on the burner. “I don’t think you deserve a cup.”

The pout Laurence gives him looks remarkably like the one Jordan flashes around whenever he wants something. The twins definitely take after Laurence. Poor kids.

“Don’t you have a job?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. His brother is a freelance editor. His work hours resemble James’s—in that they’re more of a “whenever I sit down and do it” type of thing.

“Between projects,” says Laurence, getting up even though he’d just taken a seat. He riffles through James’s pantry. “Have any Cheez-Its?”

“Bottom shelf, on the right,” he says.

Laurence groans when he sees them. “Reduced fat!” he mutters like a curse. He takes the box back to the island with him, though, already opening the top and digging his hand in. “So, where’d you meet this guy? Was he a cute waiter at some place you’re reviewing? Are you going to bestow wealth and fancy dinners upon him?”

“Sometimes I think you think life is a chick flick,” muses James. “He’s not a waiter.”

Laurence sounds genuinely upset when he says, “Awwww.”

He doesn’t really want to admit he was with Bastien. He thinks the gloating will be uncontrollable. But if this is going to work—and he’d like it to—then Laurence is going to find out eventually. He might as well rip the Band-Aid off.

“He’s a chef,” he says and watches the dawning look of understanding filter across his brother’s face.

“Oh my God,” he says. “No way. Mr. Hottie from the bake sale?”

James turns to the kettle as it starts to whistle, grateful for the distraction. “His name is Bastien.”

“You booty-called the chef.” Laurence whistles lowly, being his usual obnoxious self.

James scowls down at the tea bag seeping in his mug. “It wasn’t a booty call.” Well, it is until he gives Bastien his number. Should he go back to Bastien’s and leave it on his door? Or is that weird?

Laurence whistles again, and James doesn’t have to look to know his expression will be insufferably smug. “When’s the next date?”

He taps his spoon on the edge of his mug. “Well,” he says, “we may have forgotten to exchange numbers.”

“Booty call,” sings Laurence annoyingly. He makes a tsking sound. “How amateur. You went to his restaurant, then, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Just go back and leave your number there for him.”

And that is, surprisingly, a good idea. He’s a little worried about all the advice he’s taking from Laurence recently. He turns to face him, crossing his ankles and leaning against his counter. “Since when did you get so good at this?”

Laurence points obnoxiously at himself. “Married,” he says, like that explains everything. James thinks it probably does. Out of all his siblings, he’s the only one in a committed relationship. That is truly scary.

He can’t keep giving Laurence too much credit, though, so he tells him he’ll think of something on his own and eventually manages to shoo him out. Once he’s shut the door behind him, he starts to write out a note. He ensures his number ends up in the message, and then stares blankly down at the paper. He wants to ask him on a date, but what should he do?

He reaches for his phone. He can ask Marcy for advice; that’s less painful than getting it from Laurence. He types out two words before he realizes how ridiculous he’s being, and he goes back to the note, scribbling out a dinner invitation before he can change his mind.

He’ll drop it off at the restaurant on his way to the new Indian place on Twenty-Fourth.

AS PREDICTED,
Bastien’s staff is obnoxious when he walks in ten minutes late. They start a slow clap, and there’s the odd wolf whistle or two.

“You do know I can have you all fired?” he asks them, heat crawling up his neck.

It only earns him more laughter.

Jenna, one of his waitresses, comes up and presses her pink-tinted lips to his cheek. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, wiping away an imaginary tear. “You’re all grown up.”

He lightly pushes her away, laughing. “Hate to break it to you, but I’ve been all grown up for a while now.” He’s well into his thirties, edging toward his forties. Just three more years to go.

Jean comes into the kitchen in time to hear that and claps him on the back. “Don’t act so surprised. None of these guys have seen you get laid before. They’re just impressed you can pull off a one-night stand.”

Bastien opens his mouth to protest it wasn’t a one-night stand, when he realizes he didn’t get James’s phone number. His stomach plummets right to his feet. He forces a fake smile. “Well now you guys know. I’ve got game.”

There’s a little more ribbing after that, and he makes sure to look like everything’s okay, but once they let it go, he buries himself in work. He doesn’t want to think about how lovely the night before and this morning had been when the chances of it happening again aren’t good. James made it sound like it would happen again.

Bastien had never had a one-night stand before. Did they all say that to make it feel more real in the moment?

Of course, James could be the exception, but Bastien didn’t want to let himself hope. That just meant more disappointment down the line.

Charley whistles at him, interrupting his sulk. “Wow,” he says. “Sex does not make you less tense.”

Bastien stares blankly at him. “What?”

He nods at the vegetables Bastien is chopping. “That’s some angry cutting, man. Be careful you don’t take off a finger or a chip of the board.”

“Oh,” he says. He looks down at the vegetables. They’re all cut evenly and look fine to him. He’ll ease up on the chopping anyway. “I’m not normally tense,” he adds after a minute of much calmer chopping, when Charley’s first words actually sink in.

“Sure you’re not,” says Charley, lightly bumping their shoulders. He’s smiling indulgently.

He must not do a good job of hiding how off-kilter he is, because Jean corners him on his dinner break. He’s moving way too casually when he plops down in the chair across from Bastien’s desk. Bastien wrinkles his nose when Jean props his feet on the corner of his desk. He stares silently till Jean removes them.

“I’m guessing one-night stands aren’t for you,” Jean finally says, once Bastien has taken a large bite of his sandwich. “You’ve been moping all day.”

He chews slowly, not wanting to have this conversation.

Jean doesn’t take the hint. “My brother knows a guy,” he starts, and Bastien has to stop him there.

No. Just no. He swallows quickly. “Not happening,” he says firmly. “Do not set me up. I can do just fine on my own.”

“You haven’t dated in ages. This is the first guy I’ve seen you with since we opened this place, and you come around the next day looking like someone kicked your dog.”

Bastien doesn’t know what’s worse: that they’re having this conversation or that Jean looks so concerned. He rubs his forehead, spreading his finger and his thumb to really dig into the budding ache. “Look,” he says. “It wasn’t supposed to be a one-off. Okay? I thought it was going to be more.”

Jean’s brows furrow. “And it’s not?”

He shrugs. “I forgot to get his number.”

“So it did actually go well?” Jean verifies.

Bastien nods, can’t contain the smile that tugs at his lips. “Very well.”

It’s Jean’s turn to wrinkle his nose. “Other than the sex—which spare me the details, please—what did you guys do?”

He ducks his head, feels his cheeks flush.

Jean sighs. “You do know when you take a guy home like that, it doesn’t actually scream ‘oh I want commitment.’”

Bastien thunks his head against his desk. “He talked like it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.”

“Maybe it won’t be. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing you are right now,” says Jean. Bastien doesn’t think he sounds like he believes it, but he appreciates the effort nonetheless.