CHAPTER SIX

As far as Evan was concerned, Miles’ agreement to do things his way was just a little too easy.

Sure, he’d strong-armed him, half-drunk and one hundred percent nasty-smelling, like an orchard gone bad, into Colin O’Connor’s jet, then dragged him to the marketing meeting that Reed regularly said was the worst day of his week, all while walking a delicate line between outright and only inferred blackmail.

And sure, he’d had to wake up at six this morning after a mostly sleepless night, tossing and turning and agonizing over what Miles had meant by kissing him. And then he’d had to read the email Miles had clearly gotten wasted and then written, probably because he’d kissed him and didn’t know what to do about it. But in between the not-very-imaginative and poorly written insults had been some insights into both Miles-the-Chef and Miles-the-Man.

After all, was something really insulting when it started with the playground taunt of “I really hate your face”?

Evan didn’t really think so.

Even if Evan had actually been offended by the email, he still would have used the material the same way. The sick look on Miles’ face this morning hadn’t just been the bad liquor talking; he’d clearly been overwrought with guilt and confused as hell.

Guilt, Evan thought with satisfaction as he swept into the Five Points kitchens the next morning, was the best fucking motivator in the whole world. Better than love or revenge or whatever petty shit those comic book villains were always preaching about.

They could keep their world domination via childhood insecurity. Evan was going to take guilt and shame right to the bank.

Lucy, the kitchen manager, called out good morning from her spot on the other side of the gigantic space, where she was probably writing up next week’s kitchen schedule. Even if she hadn’t been, Evan still would have smiled big and waved. As it was, he smiled extra big because it was a fucking fantastic morning.

His espresso had been the perfect blend of hot milk and bitter, rich coffee and he’d slept like a baby the night before. But most importantly, he’d finally fixed his problem.

“Hey.”

Evan looked up to see his fixed problem staring at him inscrutably.

“You look better,” Evan said judiciously. Now that Miles was no longer a thorn in his side, Evan was fine with being civil. Besides, Miles could hardly look worse than he’d looked yesterday. So his statement also had the bonus ring of truth.

“Actual sleep and no booze works wonders,” Miles pointed out.

There had been a tiny worried part of Evan that had been concerned that after a good night’s sleep, Miles might recant his agreement of the day before. Or even worse, decide he wanted to talk about the two major events of the last forty-eight hours. But when Miles stayed silent, Evan forged on with his plan.

“I’m going to suggest,” Evan said, “that we use the peanut butter dark chocolate cookie recipe as our first episode of the series. It’s a strong introduction to your point of view as a chef—your sort of high-end, low-end combo that you used with the strawberry raspberry tarts that went viral—and it’s a great introduction to basic concepts of baking, like creaming together butter and sugar and sifting dry ingredients.”

Miles looked grudgingly impressed. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Evan couldn’t quite help the chiding look he shot Miles’ direction. He had a problem being a little smug after he knew he’d won, and this morning was no exception. “If you’d give me half a chance, you’d learn that I have more than a few of those.”

“I told you yesterday I’d listen,” Miles said, a grumpy expression crossing his face. But unlike the inscrutable, lofty frowns of earlier this week, this one was almost adorable. Like a pissed-off cat.

“We talked yesterday about you coming up with a list of higher concepts you thought would come across good on video.”

Miles pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his jeans and slid it across the counter. It was a sunny morning and the tall windows in the kitchen were all open, lightening his eyes and making them tougher for Evan to read. But if he had a guess, Miles looked the way Evan felt: smug.

Scanning the list, Evan had to admit that Miles had done a really good job. Which didn’t surprise him all that much, because he’d personally selected Miles for a reason. They’d gotten off to a bit of a bumpy start, but there was no reason everything couldn’t go smoothly from now on.

“This is good,” Evan said.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Evan glanced up, surprised at the hard, defensive edge to Miles’ voice.

“I know I haven’t shown it here, but I’m a professional,” Miles said and there it was again—the little thread of shame for the way he’d behaved earlier.

Evan couldn’t have planned it better if he’d orchestrated the whole damn thing. He wanted to break into a song and dance of victory.

“Of course you are.” Okay, if he sounded a little patronizing, then it was payback for, “I really hate your face.”

“Which of these would be good for the next episode in the series?” Evan continued.

“They’re actually in order—or the order I’d suggest they be in,” Miles said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Thoughtful,” Evan said approvingly. “Next up is chocolate croissants?”

Miles nodded. “And even better, last night I thought of an even better way we can learn to cooperate.”

Later, Evan would come to think of this moment as the one where he stumbled and fell over his own ego.

“You’re teaching me all about marketing,” Miles said, oh-so-innocently—so innocently that Evan should have realized what was coming, but he was too busy celebrating such an easy win. He should have known that anything too easy to believe was just that—too damn easy. “And so I thought I could teach you how to bake. Starting with these recipes. You want me to teach an average person. I figure,” Miles said, flashing another one of those charming smiles that made the housewives across America fall in love with him, “you’re about as average as it gets.”

Evan didn’t know whether to be pissed off or very reluctantly admiring over the way he’d just been out-maneuvered. It was almost a masterstroke of genius, and from the lack of smugness emanating from Mr. Ego, it was hard to tell if he even realized he’d struck gold.

As far as Evan was concerned, that was the worst part of all. If you were going to meet Evan on a field of victory and snatch it out from under him, then you’d better be damn aware you’d done it.

“Average?” Evan asked, definitely conscious of how his voice crept up at the end of the word.

“If you want me to teach anyone, then I sure as hell better be able to teach you,” Miles said. And suddenly, there was just a flash of the egotistical chef Evan had come to know.

Evan had never failed at anything in his life. He definitely wasn’t about to start now.

“Sure,” he said breezily. “I’m sure you can teach me.”

Evan had fully expected another kitchen session observing Miles and taking notes. He hadn’t anticipated touching anything—unless it riled Miles up again—and so he’d worn one of his favorite bow ties, a beautiful summer-blue plaid.

The last thing he expected was Miles to take a few steps closer, and reach up, resting one of those slim, capable hands on his shoulder, then edge towards his throat. Evan might have worried Miles was finally going to strangle him, except those fingers were hesitant but sure of their destination, which was his bow tie.

“This needs to go,” Miles said, and Evan wasn’t sure he imagined it, but his voice seemed lower, almost gravelly. Earthy. Evan might have imagined it was sexual, but he couldn’t quite reconcile the Miles who wrote, “I really hate your face,” and had kissed him like he was attacking him, to someone who might be sexually interested in him. It didn’t compute.

And yet here Miles was, fingers capably and nimbly undoing his bow tie and gracefully tugging it out of his collar. He still couldn’t seem to form words—maybe that was the sheer shock of Miles choosing to touch him, maybe it was that his actions fulfilled so much of what Evan had daydreamed about before they’d ever met—and he stood in silence as Miles thumbed open one collar button and the next, with efficient movements.

If Evan hadn’t had sexual fantasies about Miles’ hands before now, he definitely was going to now.

Miles Costa was undressing him.

It seemed too unreal to be actually happening, but Evan could feel the floor under his feet, and the brush of Miles’ breath on the skin he’d exposed.

“There,” Miles said softly, and Evan swore his voice wobbled for a second. “Much better.”

“I thought it was the khakis you didn’t like.” Evan knew only the most shocking event would have forced him to refer to the email and the things Miles had said to him. He figured his slip was pretty justified, considering what had just happened.

“They’re distracting,” Miles said, but instead of continuing that line of thought, he turned away and headed towards the supply pantry, leaving Evan confused and sort of bereft. He wondered that if Miles kissed him again, if it would still be so angry.

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 having 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.”

Evan picked up the spatula and gently, carefully mixed the dough until it came together into a ball. He wasn’t taking any more chances for Miles to ingratiate himself. Mistakes were an opportunity for Miles, and Evan wasn’t giving him any additional openings.

“That’s good,” Miles said. The murmured intimacy in his voice had lessened somewhat, and Evan was glad. It was exhausting to fight the attraction all the time. Sometimes he just wanted to get some stuff done without all the distraction.

Shoving his hands back into the dough, Evan copied Miles’ demonstrated kneading techniques until Miles pronounced it ready, and got another bowl out, to set the dough into. It went into the freezer to chill.

“What now?” Evan asked.

“Have you ever eaten a croissant?” Miles asked.

“Of course I have.” Evan tapped a foot impatiently. It felt like they’d wasted hours, even though it had only barely been one, if the clock on the far side of the kitchen wasn’t lying to him.

“Then you know about the flaky layers it has. We need to create that, and to do that, we use a sheet of cold butter, folded in between layers of dough. When the croissants bake, the butter evaporates and creates pockets of air in the dough.”

“Which makes it flaky.” This baking thing, Evan thought, was a lot more complicated than he’d realized. He re-thought what Miles had said. “A sheet of butter?”

Miles shrugged at Evan’s astonishment and pulled over a single sheet of waxed paper, on which was spread a thick even layer of butter. “I came in early and made this, and chilled it,” he said. “It needs to be very cold, or else it’ll all just melt into the dough. It’s like pie dough.”

When Evan continued to look at him blankly, Miles continued. “You know, like the pies you bake on Thanksgiving? You need cold fat mixed into the dough to prevent it from being tough.”

Evan knew what Miles was getting at, and while he had no intention of sharing just how far his Thanksgivings had been from family pie-making, he couldn’t exactly pretend like he knew what Miles was talking about.

“We always had store-bought,” Evan said, which was only partially a lie. He remembered years when he’d been fortunate and lucky to get a piece of store-bought pie. Homemade pie was a figment of his imagination, a dream that he’d never gotten to share.

“It’s the same concept,” Miles said. “The water in the butter or the lard evaporates in the heat of the oven, leaving the dough pocketed and airy. Here,” he handed a rolling pin to Evan, “let’s roll out the butter a little while the dough finishes chilling.”

Evan felt like he did a really good job getting the butter perfectly flat and even, as Miles grabbed the dough. Finally, his A-plus personality and perfectionist instincts were coming in handy in the kitchen.

The dough was far trickier to roll out. Miles kept tossing flour on the marble and insisting Evan flour his hands and the pin so many times that he was sure that flour had made it past the apron to his clothes beneath. Good thing he didn’t have any other meetings scheduled for today.

When Miles felt like he had the dough flattened enough, they worked together to carefully transport the butter from the wax paper to the dough rectangle. This time, Miles didn’t offer to lick the residual butter off his fingers, and Evan shouldn’t have been disappointed, but he was a little.

He certainly thought about offering to return the favor as Miles lifted one of his hands to his mouth for a surreptitious lick. But that would be insane and Evan prided himself on his sanity.

“Now, fold the sides of the dough over the butter, like a Christmas present.” Evan held his breath and waited for Miles to try the same thing he had with the Thanksgiving pies, but he didn’t. Which meant nobody else in the office had blabbed and Miles didn’t know yet. A small blessing.

“We’re done?” Evan asked hopefully after the folding was complete.

Miles shot him an incredulous look. “Not even close. The dough needs to be re-chilled, and then we’ll re-fold to make more layers. And then rinse and repeat.”

Jaw dropping, Evan stared incredulously at the man next to him. “How many rinse and repeats?”

“Four? We’ll see how it looks at four,” Miles said, piling up bowls together and walking over to the sink. “Pastry isn’t a race to see how fast you can get something on a plate.”

“Or in my stomach,” Evan grumbled. “Am I allowed to work at non-baking tasks in between layers?”

Miles waved a hand as he started running hot water in the dishes. “Whatever you want.”

Checking email usually didn’t fill Evan with quite so much excitement or anticipation, but he was so ready to get back to the familiar, he nearly forgot to take off his flour-dusted apron before venturing back to his cubicle to retrieve his laptop and his notes.

He could only imagine what the reactions would have been if he hadn’t detoured to quickly shed the ugly apron and brush off his clothes. He left the bow tie lying on the counter next to his notepad, and considered it a worthy sacrifice for a little bit of Miles’ trust.

The problem was that Miles wasn’t just after trust. That much was becoming very obvious, and even though it was difficult to imagine a world in which Evan could resist him forever, he still had to make a decision about giving in.

What would it mean? What would it look like? How could he make sure he maintained the upper hand while giving in?

Since he’d turned eighteen, Evan had been professionally ambitious and personally careful. It was a combination that served him well until now, and he saw no reason to throw caution to the wind. If he was going to let Miles—and himself, if he was being very honest—have their way, he needed to at least do it on his own terms, in his own way.

Laptop in hand, Evan swung by the restroom and when he was washing up, gave his face only the most perfunctory look over. Even with the briefest glance, his flushed cheeks and bright eyes gave away the story.

Miles evoked all sorts of emotions in him—frustration and annoyance and impatience, but also something warmer and more indefinable. Something he’d always avoided because he wasn’t sure he could control it, and until this moment, that had felt like the scariest risk he could have taken.

This time it felt scarier not to take it, like he didn’t know what he was missing out on if he let it pass him by.