Chapter Two
“Now that the yolks are room temperature, beat in the sugar until you have a thick, whitish foam.”
Smirking to himself because he had the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old, Rafa paused the YouTube video on his iPad, which he’d propped up on the windowsill. The whir of the hand mixer filled the small kitchen, and he peered out the window by the sink at their little square of a backyard.
A gray bird pecked at the crumbs on the round patio table in the light from the window. Rafa had opened the sheer curtains, and the corners fluttered in the early evening breeze. It was barely six p.m., but already dark.
Even though the beach was a few blocks away, sand and salt permeated the air. Rafa’s shoulders ached, and he rolled his neck as he beat the eggs. The swell alert on his phone had pinged earlier, and he’d tugged on his wetsuit and carried his board down to the water, catching a few good sets.
It was still crazy to think that he was actually in Australia. That he was actually surfing like he’d always dreamed. He wasn’t half bad, although he had a lot to learn. Shane had taught him the basics and been so patient. As Rafa turned off the mixer and released the beaters, he realized he was grinning.
He was in Australia. Surfing. With Shane.
He washed the beaters in the sink, drying them with a wave-blue tea towel he’d bought up the coast in Surfers Paradise. How much did he love that there was actually a city in Queensland called Surfers Paradise? So far, Australia had been better than he’d even imagined.
Humming to himself, he whisked together honey and warm milk. The kitchen in their little house wasn’t huge, and was actually about the same square size as the Diet Kitchen in the White House. No room for a table, and the white cupboards needed repainting.
Ugly, faded beige linoleum covered the floor, but it was smooth under his bare feet. There was a double sink, and even though the oven ran hot, it was good enough. It was his. Well, for as long as they rented the house, at least.
It was just a little one-bedroom, single-level bungalow, but it was enough. They’d furnished it with a reclaimed Victorian ash square dining table, a soft leather couch, and a king-sized bed. The floors were pale wood aside from the kitchen and bathroom, and the walls were painted a sunny cream. Sometimes Rafa would just walk around grinning, marveling that this was now his life.
He was about to start the video again when Skype bing-bonged. He stared at his mother’s picture on the screen—her dark hair perfectly coiffed in a long bob, lips a deep red, and white teeth sparkling almost as much as the pearls around her neck. Tension snaked up his spine, and he patted at his unruly hair. It was useless, so he tapped the screen.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, darling. How are you?”
“Good. Great! Just doing some baking. Need to get more practice before school starts.”
“Ah. How lovely. What are you making?”
“A Viennese sponge. Going to do a vanilla buttercream and serve it with fresh mandarin slices on top. They’re in season now down here.”
“That sounds absolutely delicious. Did I tell you that your father and I had dinner with Christian and Hadley in the city the other night at Bergadine? It was exquisite. The chef is known for his desserts. Trained at the culinary institute here.”
“Mmm-hmm. Sounds awesome.” One of the many upsides to his relationship with Shane was that Rafa’s mother was now very interested in his culinary aspirations—particularly in him returning to the States to train, or going anywhere Shane wasn’t.
“It’s an excellent program, I’m told. If circumstances change, I’m sure we could get you enrolled right away. Or of course you could go to Paris. The original Cordon Bleu would be wonderful to experience. Ashleigh loved it in Paris, didn’t she?”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Circumstances” was code for Shane. “Uh-huh.”
“And Ashleigh’s having a ball in New York. Hadley was saying they had lunch at the Public Kitchen. It’s a real hot spot. I’m sure you’d love the food there.”
Breathe. Smile. “I’m sure I would, but I’m happy here, Mom. Everything’s amazing. Anyway, what are you up to? Wait, what time is it? Isn’t it the middle of the night?” He squinted at the unfamiliar room behind her, which had some kind of framed art on the wall. Head shots?
“Just past four in the morning. I’m doing The Today Show. Talking about proper nutrition in schools.” She smoothed a hand over her perfect hair. “Waiting in the green room.”
“Oh, cool.”
“And how are things in Curl?” Camila asked.
“Curl Curl. Lots of Aboriginal names are repeated, remember? And things are awesome.”
“Excellent. I just wanted to go over a few items on our itinerary for next week. We’ll all be having dinner with the prime minister and her family.”
Rafa groaned. “I have to be there? Why?” He started whisking the milk and honey again. Is Shane invited too? Maybe they should cross that bridge later.
“Because you’re a guest in her country, and she has three teenage children. You and Matthew will keep them engaged.”
“Wait, Matty’s coming?” He stopped mid-whisk. “Since when?”
Her smile tightened. “Since he tore his rotator cuff a few days ago. He needs to rest it, and his coaches agree getting him away will be the best medicine rather than moping around his apartment.”
“Oh. That sucks that he’s hurt, but I’m glad I’ll get to see him.” Even though it twinged that Rafa’s brother hadn’t told him himself.
As if reading his mind, she said, “Darling, he didn’t tell anyone else yet. Christian and your sister don’t know. Matthew’s very upset. It could mean the end of his swimming career, and he doesn’t want to face that. He’s very much in his own head right now. But I know he’s excited to see you.”
Hurt gave way to a sticky swirl of guilt. Rafa had bottled up so much for so long—he shouldn’t begrudge his brother time to figure out his shit. “I’m really excited to see him too. It’ll be awesome. Even if we have to make small talk with the prime minister and her kids.”
“Yes, it will, and yes, you do.”
Chuckling, Rafa registered belatedly that the front door had opened, the wooden floor creaking with steps. As Shane came into the kitchen carrying cloth bags of groceries, Rafa opened his mouth to say he was Skyping, but Shane was already giving him a kiss, his lips dry and stubble scratchy.
“Hey, baby.” Shane dropped the bags to the floor, then ran his hand over Rafa’s ass. “What’s cooking?”
“Hello, Agent Kendrick.”
Inhaling sharply, Shane stumbled back and almost tripped over the groceries. He cleared his throat and stood straighter, tugging at his T-shirt. They both wore jeans and tees most days. “Hello, Mrs. Castillo,” he said in his deep, calm Secret Service voice. “And please, call me Shane now.”
Which Rafa had reminded his mother of only a zillion times. On-screen, she smiled tightly and pointedly didn’t say he should call her by her first name.
Rafa cleared his throat and said to Shane, “I was just making a cake and talking to Mom. Mom, I should get back to it, or I’ll have to whip the yolks again. We’ll see you next week. I’m looking forward to it.”
And he was!
Mostly.
A little bit of the ice cracked free, and there was genuine warmth in his mother’s eyes. “So am I, darling. We can’t wait to see you. We’ve missed you so much. Happy baking.”
Rafa tapped the red button and sagged against the counter. “I don’t know why she has to make everything so…” He waved his hand, milk flying off the whisk. He put the bowl on the counter and grabbed a cloth to wipe the cupboards that had been hit.
Shane snorted as he grabbed a Toohey’s Extra Dry from the fridge and twisted off the cap. “Because it brings her a twisted sense of joy?” He took a gulp, then grimaced. “Sorry. Look, if you were my kid, I wouldn’t want you shacking up with me either.”
“Shacking up?” He laughed. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“Yep.” Shane drew him close and gave him a long, slow, filthy kiss that sent blood rushing to Rafa’s dick. “Living in wonderful sin. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Rafa’s smile froze, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Like, not ever?”
“What?” Shane frowned.
Grabbing the bowl and metal whisk, Rafa frothed up the now-cold milk and honey again. “Huh? Nothing. Forget it.” It really was stupid. He and Shane had only been together, what? Barely six months. If they were going to get married, it wouldn’t be for ages. Probably years. He shouldn’t read anything into Shane’s off-hand comment.
Shane was still staring at him with that furrow between his brows, and Rafa leaned over and gave him a kiss. “My mom just gets me all worked up. Hey, Matty’s coming with them. So maybe it’ll be slightly less awkward? Oh, and we have to go for dinner at the prime minister’s house. I mean, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
Shane smirked. “I think it’ll be better for all parties if I sit that one out.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Although Shane was his partner, so why shouldn’t he come? If Chris and Hadley were visiting, no one would expect Hadley to stay at home. He whipped harder, the whisk clanking on the sides of the bowl.
Shane started unpacking the groceries. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time. Does this go in the fridge or cupboard?” He held up a jar of Vegemite.
“Hmm. Cupboard, I think? We could google it. I imagine Australians will have some very strong views on the subject.”
“I imagine they will.” He opened the jar and sniffed. “I don’t think we’re going to like this.”
“Me either, but I want to at least try it so I know what it tastes like. Apparently you’re supposed to have it on toast with butter.”
“Sounds like a waste of perfectly good butter.”
Rafa laughed. “It really does.”
He finally got the cake in the oven as Shane told him about a potential security contract, then Rafa quickly made the frosting and set it aside for when the cake cooled. He gave Shane one of the beaters from the electric hand mixer, keeping the other for himself.
Shane licked the metal slowly, groaning. “Now this is an excellent use of butter.”
Twisting his tongue in and around his own beater, Rafa mumbled, “Uh-huh.”
“Come here.” Shane watched him, his blue eyes avid.
With a low pulse of desire, Rafa closed the distance between them. Shane caught his lips, licking at a blob of frosting in the corner of Rafa’s mouth. Their tongues were coated in sugar, the creaminess of the butter lingering in their kisses.
Rafa murmured, “Gives umami a whole new level.” The so-called fifth sense described aftertaste and “mouth feel,” and in that moment, he couldn’t imagine anything better.
With a chuckle, Shane licked the last of the vanilla cream from his beater and kissed Rafa with it still on his tongue, the frosting sweet and light, yet thick and rich. “Mmm. The things you do in the kitchen. And with your tongue.”
“Only downside to getting a KitchenAid one day. Can’t have a beater each like with the hand mixer.”
“I can just use a spoon.” Shane took another lick of Rafa’s lips. “Which color did you want? We can buy one tomorrow.”
Of course we really meant Shane, since Rafa still wasn’t making any money. He’d planned on getting a job in a restaurant, but the media shit-storm once his relationship with Shane was revealed had been more intense than he’d expected. He should have sucked it up and tried to get a job anyway, but Shane had insisted money wasn’t an issue. Still, it made Rafa uneasy.
Rafa shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I want to buy one when I get a job. Or I guess I could take money out of my trust fund like I did for tuition and my car, but… After school starts, I can figure out when I can work, and I’ll pay you back for—”
“For nothing.”
“For my half of the rent, for food, for gas, for…” Rafa waved his hand around. “Everything. I want to contribute.”
Shane took his hands. “Baby, you contribute more than enough just by being here. Don’t stress about getting a job. Settle into school first. There’s no rush. We’re partners. This isn’t about keeping score. I don’t give a shit about money.”
Rafa exhaled, some of the tension easing. He knew Shane meant it, although he also knew the money would run out eventually. “Okay.” His timer dinged, and he went to test the cake layers.
Partners.
Rafa rolled the word over in his mind, smiling to himself as he pulled a toothpick out of the center of one cake. It came away still a bit gooey, so he closed the oven door and reset the timer. He would still pay his share when he could so their joint bank account wouldn’t only be funded by Shane.
He could ask his parents for more money from his trust—which he couldn’t freely access until he was twenty-five, which wasn’t for three years. But trust-fund money came with guilt-trips and stress. He told himself that Shane was right. They were partners in every other way. In the ways that really counted.
Shane puttered about, folding clothes in the dining room where their laundry basket always seemed to end up once clothes were brought in off the line. The washer did have a drying function, but it took a ridiculously long time, and Rafa understood why laundry was always flapping in Australian backyards.
He boiled fresh noodles and heated up leftover beef khao soi he’d made, the Thai curry spicy and creamy. When the cakes were on cooling racks, he checked the clock and called, “Can you turn it on?”
A few moments later, the murmur of the TV filled the house. A few ads played as Rafa drained the noodles and cut fresh lime wedges. Then the volume went up and a familiar male voice intoned, “Previously on MasterChef Australia.”
Rafa listened to the recap and plated their dinner, scooping tender beef chunks and sauce over the hot noodles, then sprinkling crispy fried noodles on top and tucking a lime wedge on the side. He hurried into the living room and passed Shane a plate and cutlery. “Do you want another beer?”
“That would be great, thanks. Mmm, this smells amazing.”
“It’s just the same as yesterday.”
Sitting back on the couch with his feet on the low wooden coffee table, Shane grinned as he squeezed lime juice over his dinner. “It was amazing then too. I could eat this every day.”
Returning with two beers, Rafa settled beside him, sinking into the dark leather couch. The contestants were being interviewed about how nervous they were for that day’s challenge. He grinned in anticipation. Australian reality shows were on five nights a week, which was completely insane—and completely addicting.
Shane’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “I need to take this, sorry. It’s about that security contract with the Chinese corporation.”
“You want me to pause it?”
“Nah, this’ll only take a minute and they recap everything a million times anyway.”
Shane went into the bedroom and closed the door. Commercials came on soon, and Rafa muted the TV and chewed a mouthful of spicy, milky noodles. He listened to the comforting murmur of Shane’s voice and got up to straighten the painting over the TV, pushing up the right side just a hair.
They’d bought the painting of two surfers at a gallery in Bondi. Shane had insisted he wanted real art for the first time, not something generic from IKEA or Bed, Bath & Beyond. Rafa stepped back and made sure it was straight.
The oil paint swirled in rich strokes of blue, green, turquoise, and golden white, depicting two surfers straddling their boards out on the ocean, waiting for a swell, silhouetted against the sun above them. The point of view was from beneath, the sun’s rays penetrating the clear water, their feet dangling. Nothing was sharp, instead flowing and soft, dreamlike.
It filled Rafa with peace, and he smiled to himself. The endless commercials were still on, and he grabbed a duster from the drawer under the TV stand and ran it over the framed pictures on a side table.
There was one of his family taken at an event, all straight backs and wide, presidential smiles. His curls were slicked straight and his chinos pressed. Rafa blinked at the image of his former self, remembering how sad and scared that young man had been.
He really needed a new, informal family picture. He’d have to make a point to take some shots when his parents and Matthew visited. Too bad Adriana and Chris couldn’t come, but they had jobs they couldn’t abandon for three weeks.
There was a pic of Rafa and Ashleigh from their UVA graduation in their gowns and mortarboards, arms slung around each other, her golden hair flowing and cheeks dimpling with her grin. A pang rolled through him. Shit, he really needed to Skype her soon and catch up.
She was busting her butt as an admin for a nightmare, Miranda Priestly type of boss. Apparently it was a necessity to live your own The Devil Wears Prada experience to make it in the fashion world.
He ran the duster over the silver frame holding a picture of another college graduation. Shane had a lot more hair and fewer lines around his eyes when he smiled. The Kendricks beamed so brightly Rafa could practically feel the warm glow of their love and pride.
Shane’s mom had been short and a little frumpy, his dad balding and paunchy. They’d looked utterly normal in the best way. He knew Shane still blamed himself that they died in a fire and he wasn’t home, even though he’d been an adult living his own life across the country.
Rafa ached that he’d never meet them. Would they have liked him? Or would they have thought he was too young? He dusted the frame again needlessly. It was the only picture of his parents Shane had left after the fire had destroyed his childhood home. He shivered. As frustrating as his parents could be, the thought of losing them was unbearable.
Back on the couch, he unmuted the TV and returned to his dinner, getting swept up in the competition. Before long, Shane flopped back down beside him and asked, “Okay, what do they have to do here?”
“See all those light boxes on the long table? Each box has a super thin slice of food on it, and they go in turns and identify which food it is. All the easy ones are gone—kiwi fruit, tomato, lime. First three people who get one wrong end up having to cook in the elimination round.”
Shane nodded and took a mouthful of beef and noodles as they watched. He squeezed Rafa’s thigh. “Delicious as usual. Thank you.”
Rafa shrugged, warmth filling his chest. “Anytime.”
As the competition went down to the wire, Rafa grabbed the little notebook he kept on the coffee table and jotted down a few of the food items he’d never heard of, like rambutan.
Shane asked, “Have you used that black garlic? I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”
“It’s usually in Asian cooking. I’ll get some at the market if I can. I have a few ideas for a new recipe.” Since he’d be learning the French basics at the Cordon Bleu, he was brushing up on other cuisines in the meantime.
He paused the show before the cook-off, and he quickly iced the cake and peeled a few juicy mandarins while Shane did the dishes. They didn’t have a dishwasher, but Rafa had gotten used to that in the Diet Kitchen. Shane didn’t seem to mind either, humming softly.
Giving the side of the cake one last swipe, Rafa licked the extra icing off the knife. Shane cleared his throat loudly and cocked an eyebrow. He asked, “Aren’t you going to share?”
With a grin, Rafa slid his hand behind Shane’s head and pulled him down for a long, sweet kiss.