Chapter 3

 

 

JORY TOOK in the sight of the walking wet dream who’d come up to the counter, and grinned. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and he had messy long hair that was just as dark, but wild and wavy, making a few lighter shades in each strand catch the light. It was pulled into a knot at the back of his head, so it was impossible to tell how long it was. A day or two of stubble had Jory tempted to lean over the counter and run his fingers over the man’s cheek, while his full lips presented a whole world of other temptations.

He didn’t dare. The man was a customer. And besides, it would hurt. Touching anyone hurt.

Desperate for something to stare at other than the man’s lips, he focused on the tiny black pug perched on his arm.

“What a cutie,” he said, nodding at the dog. “Can I give him a treat?” He offered a small bowl of Milk-Bone dog biscuits Selma kept on the counter. Missoula was the type of town where people treated their pets like their children, and it was always paid to be accommodating.

“Her,” the man corrected, flashing him a dazzling smile. “And I’m afraid she’s spoiled rotten. She’ll get more than half of whatever I order. What’s that pumpkin smell?”

“The pumpkin smell would be my almost-famous pumpkin pie cookies with browned-butter frosting. We’ve also got cherry white chocolate chunk, caramel cheesecake, and plain old chocolate chip.”

“Those are cookies?” he asked, apparently stunned.

“Those are just the cookies. Our muffins and croissants all sell out by ten, but we bring out our cupcakes for the lunch rush. The spiced apple cider cupcakes are my own recipe, and the orange, raspberry, and lemon cream–filled cupcakes are the owner’s specialty. And there’s all the usual savory stuff,” he added, gesturing to the bakery case behind him and the menu.

“Would it be lame to order everything?” the man asked with a groan.

“Lame? No. But if you don’t want the rest of the line to riot, it might be ill-advised.”

Jory’s sexy customer chuckled, a sound more like a low rumble, which made him shiver. “Can I get ten of the pumpkin cookies? And the largest white chocolate mocha you have?”

“If you buy a dozen, it’ll be four bucks cheaper than buying ten individual ones.”

“A dozen, then,” he agreed, passing over a crinkled twenty-dollar bill.

Jory was always careful accepting anything by hand. He always used his fingertips and grabbed things by the edge so he could avoid touching everybody in the city. But usually a couple of times a day, he slipped up. His knuckle slid against the man’s fingertips this time, and the jolt left him stunned. While he could map out a typical body with his gift easily enough, this guy was different. He felt like ten people all rolled into one, and somehow, he wasn’t in any pain at all. Jory couldn’t detect a hint of illness or a lingering injury either.

His customer cocked his head to the side. “You okay?”

Jory blinked out of his shocked stupor and rushed to fill a box with a dozen gigantic cookies. “If you want to wait right down there, your coffee will be ready in just a minute.”

Cookies in one hand and pug in the other, he wove his way through the crowd to an empty stool near the end of the counter. Jory grabbed a couple of small plates and the large mocha Hana passed to him, and followed.

The man took the coffee gratefully but looked confused by the plates.

“If you’re going to give her one of my cookies, she might as well have a plate.” And then he got the hell out of there, hurrying back to the register before he did something stupid like bat his eyelashes.

He made a point of flirting with his customers when he helped out at the counter. He’d flirt with women and any men who looked like they might be amenable, but only because it encouraged them to drop their extra change into the tip jar.

“I still think the man-bun thing looks ridiculous,” Hana whispered as she passed him another customer’s coffee. “But he totally pulls it off.”

“Oh, yes. Some people look good in anything,” Jory agreed.

He pressed his lips together tight, got himself under control, and returned to the register once more with a smile. Hana Hilden and her mother, Selma, were amazingly supportive of him. They didn’t care if he was into guys, aside from teasing him about it occasionally. It had taken months for him to relax enough to actually say anything, but it felt nice not to have to censor himself constantly.

“Or in nothing at all,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

At the end of the counter, the man with the pug coughed on a bite of cookie and took a long drink.

Jory turned the opposite direction, shuffling items around the bakery case. “God, do you think he heard that?”

Hana leaned against the case beside him, not even bothering to be discreet as she stared at their customer. “Maybe. It’s hard to tell because he’s looking at the counter, but the tips of his ears are red.”

“Think we should stop embarrassing him, then?”

She stuck out her tongue and took Jory’s place at the register.

Twenty minutes later, the man with the pug shuffled out and Jory let out a sigh of relief. When the lunch rush ended, he retreated into the kitchen and busied himself prepping all of the yeast breads for the next day. Alone in the kitchen, with no tempting customers with cute pugs, he could relax.

Unfortunately, the guy came early the next day, and the day after. The third time he came in for breakfast, his hair was down. It was a mass of long black waves that fell to just below his shoulders, and Jory couldn’t stop staring when he caught sight of him through the open door between the kitchen and the front counter. After the man ordered, he met Jory’s stare head-on.

Strange people came into the café all the time, and normally he just shrugged off whatever happened. He couldn’t even say why he wanted to know more about this guy, but he did.

Feeling bolder than he had in months, Jory went out to the counter and delivered the man’s coffee and croissant himself. “Did you enjoy the cookies?” he asked, summoning his most charming smile. “I know they’re a little bit rich.”

The guy stared at him like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch Jory or fuck him. Jory tried to keep his expression neutral, but it was hard. He hadn’t dared approach anyone in so long, always keenly aware that touching someone with the flu could kill him. Finding a person it didn’t hurt to touch was unnerving, and he knew he’d have regretted it if he didn’t at least see if the guy was interested in hooking up. But when he didn’t get any kind of acknowledgment, he fumbled around the counter for a minute, then lost his nerve and retreated back to the kitchen.

The guy kept showing up, kept watching him. Jory kept trying to work up the nerve to say something that wasn’t about food, but each time he blew it.

It got so bad that his boss, Selma, noticed too.

Selma was a petite older woman, the top of her head barely coming up to Jory’s shoulder, but what she lacked in height she made up for in sheer presence. No matter what mood she was in, she moved through the café and life with all the power of a tiny redheaded tornado.

When she’d caught Jory digging through the dumpster behind the café, he figured she would likely tell him off, threaten to call the cops, and get him arrested for trespassing. Instead, she’d told him that if he was willing to wash dishes and sweep up for a few hours, she would feed him real food. Since the pastries the Black Cat threw away at the end of the day were better than a lot of what could be purchased fresh at other places, he would have agreed to do damn near anything to get access to them fresh from the oven. After an hour of washing dishes and talking about recipes, she’d handed him a clean apron and told him to impress her.

Five hours and three different cookie recipes later, the Black Cat had had a line of customers going out the door and Jory had a job. He’d been working there for four months now, earning and saving money while Selma let him stay in one of the studio apartments above the shop. He had food, shelter, and a kitchen to spend his days in, and he found that he didn’t want much else.

He kept saving, knowing he’d likely have to take off sooner or later, but it was nice.

He’d spent the entire time wondering when the other shoe was going to drop. No one ever did anything because they wanted to help, he knew. No matter how nice they seemed, there was always an angle. But as long as he could keep making money, he figured he’d be safe for a while.

“Is he the creepy one?” Selma asked, peering through the kitchen door. “Oh, he is as pretty as Hana said.”

“If you think glaring is attractive, sure,” Jory said quietly.

Selma grinned. “Hana said he asks about you whenever you’re not at the counter.”

Jory stared at his current project, trying to ignore her.

“What are the sprinkles for?” she asked, pointing at the cupcake.

“You remember that key lime cupcake recipe I was playing with?”

“Yeah, they were good.”

“Well, I changed out the sugar for agave nectar and added a shot of tequila to the mix.”

“Tequila?” Selma asked. “Aren’t you underage?”

“I only drank a shot of it,” he lied, covering the top of a cupcake with a thin layer of white icing, rolling the edges in the colored sprinkles so it looked like the salt around the rim of a margarita glass, and then handed the finished cupcake to her. “Margarita cupcakes,” he announced, thrilled when her eyes lit up. “I’m going to try hot buttered rum too, since the spiced apple cider was a hit.”

“This is fabulous,” she said, taking a tiny bite of the one he handed her. “If you can come up with a few more recipes, we can do a different cocktail cupcake each day of the week.”

“I can try,” he said, frosting a second one and rolling it in sprinkles.

“Take one out and see if it can’t soften that glare a bit,” she said, shoving him into the café with the second cupcake. “It might even get him to smile.”

He managed to stay upright and not crash into the counter, but he found himself right in front of the man he’d been avoiding, and the way his entire face lit up in a smile left Jory too stunned to run away.

“You finally escaped the kitchen?” he asked, leaning over the open sketchbook he’d been focusing on.

“Ah… I bake. I work in the kitchen. I only help up front when things are busy,” he tried to explain.

“Things are busy!” Hana called from the espresso station.

He watched Carly taking orders at the counter with a quick, professional ease. Hana was moving through coffee orders quickly, keeping up just fine. There were two people in line, and a massive influx of customers at three in the afternoon wasn’t likely. “Liar.”

“What’s that?” the man asked, nodding to the cupcake in Jory’s hand.

“It’s a new cupcake,” Jory said, trying to work up the nerve to offer it. “It’s a weird tequila, lime, agave thing. Do you want to try one?” he asked hesitantly.

The man cocked his head to the side, grinning. “It looks like a margarita in a cupcake wrapper.”

“Exactly!” Jory exclaimed.

“Are they good?”

“I don’t feed other people things that don’t taste good,” Jory insisted. “But I don’t know if it’ll taste enough like a margarita.”

The man stood up and leaned across the counter, holding out his hand. Jory carefully handed him the cupcake, slipping his hand away before he could risk skin-on-skin contact.

He unwrapped the cupcake and took a huge bite. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Are they okay?” Jory asked, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter so he had something to focus on other than the way that sound had affected him.

“They are almost margarita flavored,” the man said, finally opening his eyes. “They’re damn good, but they need a hint of orange to really match the drink.”

“Orange?” Jory asked, frowning. He was pretty sure those cupcakes were amazing, and constructive criticism hadn’t quite been what he was aiming for. Maybe he was reading the situation wrong. “Huh. I’ll have to give that a try.”

“I didn’t say they were bad.”

All Jory could do was shrug. He felt like an idiot for saying anything.

The almost-angry look was back in an instant, but it vanished just as fast. “Do you do anything but bake?”

“Not really, no.” He caught sight of the sketchbook sitting on the counter. “You draw?”

“Always,” the man said, turning the sketchbook so Jory could see a dark ink drawing of the valley, which must have been done from near the top of one of the mountains surrounding them. “I paint too. Just watercolors, because they can go anywhere. Usually I bring whatever fantasy novel I stumble on, because sometimes it gets so crowded it’d be rude to monopolize your counter like this.”

“It gets busy,” Jory agreed. He was about to walk away when a soft smile stopped him in his tracks. He was going to be thinking about that look all day.

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Movies, TV, books? Everybody’s into something.”

“I read a lot,” he admitted. “But mostly because I can’t afford a TV. I always kind of wished I could do something creative like that.” He nodded to the sketchbook. “I don’t really have an excuse for not trying it, though, since I don’t have anything to do outside of work.”

“I don’t believe you can’t find any other way to spend your free time. Do you go out? Clubs or something like that?”

“No,” he said, lowering his gaze. “I’ve got shitty luck with people.”

“I don’t believe that. I bet you could pick up anyone you want.”

He shrank back a little. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get back to the days when he could walk into a club without having a panic attack every time he brushed up against someone. Before, he’d always managed to find company if he went looking for it. But now the thought of being trapped in a room with that many moving, churning bodies made his chest hurt.

One more reason dragging out this conversation was stupid.

“I don’t bother,” he said simply. “If I had to choose between going to a club or spending a few hours working my way through a cookbook, well… it’s no contest. I’ve got to cover for my coworkers so they can take their lunch breaks.” He cocked his head toward the counter.

When he spun away, Jory could almost feel the man’s gaze fixed on him, just like it had been every day for the past week. The sensation was making some parts of his anatomy respond in entirely inappropriate ways, but he ignored it. Again.

He offered Carly a break in a whisper, then took her spot at the register. His customer left a minute later. Jory didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved.

After Carly and Hana had both had a lunch break, he returned to help Selma in the kitchen. Ten margarita cupcakes were left, so he ate a few quickly and then began to pull ingredients for tomorrow’s pastry dough out of the cooler.

“I don’t know where you put it all,” Selma said, looking at the plate of cupcakes. “I would give anything to eat like you and stay so skinny. How did your boyfriend like the cupcake?”

“I don’t even know his name,” Jory pointed out. “And he said they needed a hint of orange and glared at me some more.”

Selma’s eyes went wide. “He did what?”

Jory shrugged and forced himself to smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

She leaned through the doorway, peering out at the café. “Is he still out there?”

“No. Thankfully. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be acting like some kind of drama queen just because I can’t….”

Selma snorted. “He keeps coming back and asking for you specifically, just to glare at you or insult you. If anything justifies acting like a drama queen, honey, I’d say this does.”

He groaned. “He tried to make up for it by talking to me, but I screwed that up. I’m just being stupid.”

Selma frowned. “All joking aside, if he’s bothering you, I’ll deal with him when he comes in.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m great at pretending to be good with people. I can smile through damn near anything.” He grinned as if he needed to prove it. “I’d rather start croissant dough than talk about it. And maybe make some eclairs.”

“The mocha hazelnut ones? With the chocolate pastry?” she asked, looking hopeful.

“If you want. But how does lemon cream custard topped with white chocolate and a raspberry drizzle sound?”

“Either will be fabulous, so it’s up to you.” Selma nudged the cupcakes toward him. “But eat first. Everybody else has already had lunch.”

He stared at the block of butter, sighed, and gave in. “Yeah, okay.” Jory took the plate of cupcakes and headed through the kitchen, past the dishwashing station and mop closet, and out into the back alley. It took a few minutes of sitting there on the steps, holding the cupcakes like he was trying to coax a stray cat out of hiding with food, before Neal appeared.

When Jory’d woken up in the hospital the first time, with only a vague memory of the homeless man from the church who was hovering over him, he hadn’t been able to move. He had a breathing tube shoved down his throat, so being too weak to flail was probably a good thing. Despite not having much faith, he’d been so frightened he’d prayed.

The second time he woke up, when a young nursing assistant was trying not to blush while she gave him a sponge bath, he’d wondered if praying was what had eased his pain and made it easier to breathe. But then he’d felt it. The same way he could feel diseases and injuries in the people at church, he’d felt something from the young woman sloshing soapy water around his groin. A trickle of energy that flowed into him from every spot she touched him, and instead of making him feel worse or transferring whatever happened to be wrong with her, it eased the tightness in his lungs. Energy and life flowed into his body everywhere she touched—a constant trickle of power that proved more effective than all the drugs they were pumping into him.

The next day they’d taken the tube out of his throat and switched him to an oxygen mask. The day after his third night-shift sponge bath, the fire in his lungs had improved dramatically. He still felt exhausted, but he could move again and he was healing. After he’d walked away from the hospital, he’d tried begging for money to grab a bite to eat, and when that failed, he’d resorted to a few simple cons to get some cash. He’d gotten enough money to eat and to get a set of warm clothes; then he’d gotten the hell out of there. He’d barely made it half a mile down the highway before he collapsed again.

That was where Neal found him—again. Neal had fed him and hadn’t asked for anything in return, which had Jory on edge and ready to bolt all by itself. When Neal showed up again in Montana, Jory blew up, demanding to know what the hell Neal wanted. He’d asked for a couple of cookies. And so far all he’d done was bum food off Jory now and then. The wind picked up a little and Neal appeared, walking down the alley as if he’d actually been there the entire time.

In all his years bouncing around foster homes and then working in the church, Jory had never met another person who was honestly more than they appeared. He’d met tons of folks like Adam, who would claim to be whatever they thought might help them exploit a given situation, but he’d never encountered someone real. It was weird, but it was also a relief to know he wasn’t the only one who had to live with the unexplainable.

Neal was wearing an additional layer now that the weather was getting cold. He waved at Jory and eased himself to the ground, leaning against the wall.

Jory handed him the entire plate. “You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”

Neal took the plate with a nod. “Won’t be empty for long,” he said, the words as clear as ever, despite the reek of alcohol. “That stray still hanging around?”

Stray was how Neal had referred to Mal ever since Jory had wistfully described him a week ago. It was always in the same insulting tone Neal had used to describe Adam. Neal asked about him, what he’d said and done, and how long he’d stayed, every time he showed up.

“Why do you keep calling him that?” Jory asked.

“Because he’s alone,” Neal said. He finished an entire cupcake in two bites, then grabbed another.

“Yeah, no surprise there,” he muttered.

Neal waved his hand. “You shouldn’t worry about him. On his own, he’s harmless enough.”

“But you don’t like him.”

Neal shrugged. “I wish he’d leave, that’s all.”

Jory gave Neal a curious look.

Neal dug into a cupcake, pointedly not elaborating.

“You know, I doubt Selma would care if I made you a couple of sandwiches too.”

“She does seem sweet, fire and all,” Neal said, glancing toward the café door, wearing the special smile Jory had quickly realized was about as normal as his ability to pop out of thin air. When he and Jory talked, he was always covered by weeks of grime, a snarled beard, and a nest of blond hair. But when he mentioned Selma or caught a woman’s eye on the street, he’d break out that smile and change completely. The grime vanished. The beard became rugged stubble, and everything about him seemed to radiate sex appeal.

Jory had learned it was better to be blunt. “Please knock that off?”

Neal seemed to come back to himself abruptly. He gave Jory a sheepish look. “Sorry. Habit. Hey, your stray aside, it might be time to think about moving on.”

A chill ran up and down his spine. The last time Neal had casually warned him to relocate had been a half an hour before Adam tried to kill him. “Might be, or is?”

Neal shrugged. “I wish I knew. A buddy of mine, he sees the whole damn world in music, and he said something was off in your melody,” he said vaguely.

“Is this one of those Your aura is yellow! You must buy a hundred dollars’ worth of rocks and herbs or you’ll die of cancer! things?”

“No,” Neal said, chuckling. “If it’s not music, he’s not interested, no matter how shiny something might be. He said your melody’s tempo is changing, getting all fast and dramatic, but he didn’t say anything specific. It’s probably just something to think about, you know?”

Jory nodded slowly. “Should I think about hopping on the first bus I can catch, or do I have some time?”

He began to draw up a list of things he’d have to do. He hadn’t acquired much beyond a backpack and some clothes, so packing would be easy. He didn’t want to leave Selma scrambling for someone else to cover his evening shifts when she already handled the ridiculously early mornings herself. He hoped he had time to give her some notice. He’d sound crazy quitting because of the vague warnings of the homeless guy sleeping off a hangover in the alley, but crazy was better than dead.

And selfish as it was, he’d rather survive and inconvenience her than risk the alternative.

“From the way he talked, I’d say you’ve got a few days.” Neal reached for the plate again. “Tequila fucking cupcakes… this takes talent.”

“I figured you’d like them. You think I’ve got time to try something else?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Bring me something different for the next recipe?” he asked, passing Neal a twenty.

Neal pocketed the money, then reached for one more cupcake. “You’ve already made some with rum…. How about whiskey? It’s got a smoky, oaky bite to it.”

“I like a challenge.” He left Neal sitting against the wall, humming to himself, and went back to work.

 

 

WITH HIS weekend approaching, he had a couple days free to check bus routes and think about where he’d go next. East was out of the question, since the only reason he could be in danger was if Adam was looking for him. Hana dragged him out a couple times for the novelty of getting coffee and sandwiches somewhere other than the café. When they got together, he always listened to her ramble about trying to pick a topic for her doctoral thesis, then angrily rant about a few freshman guys who’d shown up to the Physics 101 lab she was teaching who’d refused to believe she was actually their TA.

Normally he was happy to let her fill the silence, but this time he paid close attention, trying not to think about how much he was going to miss her. There’d never been anyone in the church he could just be friends with. He’d always had to be one of their pastors, or even their link to God. He didn’t want to stay long enough to meet whatever doom Neal had casually warned him about, but he needed a few more days of feeling like a normal person.

At ten o’clock on his first shift back at work, Hana ducked into the kitchen, grinning.

“He’s asking for you,” she said, nodding toward the front.

“Don’t care,” he insisted, piping rosettes of mango-flavored pastry cream into cookie tarts. “I’ve accepted that people just aren’t my thing.”

Hana sighed and went back out, and Jory hoped she might leave him in peace for a bit. He bent over his task, letting himself zone out as he fell into a familiar rhythm. When the door opened again, he knew who it was in an instant.

“Uh… can I talk to you?”

“I’m busy,” Jory said, not looking at him.

“I get that. I do. I just wanted to talk.”

Jory risked a glance at him and immediately wished he hadn’t. He was wearing a turtleneck this time, its form-fitting shape highlighting his broad shoulders and chest. With his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, he looked amazing.

“I said I’m busy. You shouldn’t be back here anyway, it’s employees only.”

“Look, I’m not quite sure what I keep doing wrong here, but I didn’t mean to come across as an asshole, okay? You confuse me. A lot. Last time I was trying to ask you out, and that… well, it didn’t work. Can I try again?”

Jory twitched so hard he ended up piping a mess of pastry cream over the side of the tart he was filling and the four around it. “Gutsy. How do you know I’m even into guys?”

“You are into guys. And you’re into me. I can tell. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, not since I first saw you. Every time I try to talk to you, I can’t figure out what to say, and then I screw it up, then you get angry and bolt. I figured I should give up, but… I don’t want to.”

That surprised him.

“I brought you this,” he said, looking dejected. “Just because.”

Jory looked up at him, then down at the large book with a glossy photo of a glass of milk and an artfully formed cookie that looked like a caramel moon pie on the cover. “Bouchon Bakery.”

“Not that you need it. You absolutely don’t. It’s what the lady at the bookstore recommended. I get that it looks more like a coffee-table book, but she said she’d tried a lot of the recipes and they were really good.”

“You’re giving me a cookbook?” he asked, grinning despite himself.

“And asking you if you’ll get a drink with me. I’m Mal.”

Jory freaked out for a moment, worried Mal would offer to shake his hand, but he just smiled. “Jory,” he said, some of the tension that had been coiling through him relaxing a little. “Since you’re here, do you want to try something new? As a thank-you? I keep trying cocktail cupcakes. This one’s a peach Bellini cupcake,” he explained, grabbing a tray with the few cupcakes that remained from his most recent experiment. “Peach jam, peach schnapps, champagne, and champagne buttercream.” He passed over a cupcake, the smile on Mal’s face making him hopeful.

A whimper from beside Mal’s feet drew his attention.

“You brought your pug into my kitchen?”

“She goes wherever she wants, I’ve got no control over her. Her name’s Louise,” Mal said, unwrapping the cupcake with a look of awe. He glanced down at the pug and shook his head. “And I’m not sharing.”

“It probably isn’t good for her anyway,” Jory said, pulling off his gloves and crouching down to look at the pug. The pug came right to him, wagging her tail happily. “You’re so cute,” Jory said, rubbing her head and ears as she leaned against him.

Under his touch, she felt… all wrong. He hadn’t touched many animals in his life, since state foster homes weren’t allowed to have pets because of the risk of allergies, but the animals he’d had a chance to meet didn’t feel like this. The tiny pug felt like a dozen different dogs and a woman, all rolled into one. And while there was nothing wrong with her physically, she felt worn-out.

He pulled his hand away, cradling his left hand against his chest.

She looked up at him with the most knowing eyes he’d ever seen, and then she whimpered.

Mal set his hand on Jory’s shoulder. The warmth and fire Jory’d felt two weeks ago at the cash register ignited all over again. It seeped through his clothes, pushing the fatigue from the pug away. But other than feeling filled with vitality, the energy was exactly the same as the pug’s, down to the jumble of canine shapes that filled Jory’s mind.

He froze, his entire body stiff as he fought to keep himself from freaking out. There were two layers of fabric between his skin and Mal’s, but that didn’t stem the flow of energy enough to stop him from flinching back. His heart was pounding so loud and so fast he thought it might burst from his chest.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, remembering that the clothes between them had prevented him from getting a good read on Mal, and the pug was still too fresh in his mind to ignore. The panic kept increasing, though. He’d been through this before—he knew how easy it was to start hyperventilating—so he forced himself to count to five between each breath, hoping to curb the downward spiral before he broke completely.

Mal’s grip changed immediately. He opened his fingers and the tingling vanished. “I’m sorry,” Mal said, stepping away from him.

“She’s…,” he said, forcing the words out. “She’s not a pug.”

“I didn’t mean—” Mal sighed and shook his head as if he was struggling to find the right words. “She’s a little weird, I know. But in her heart, she’s a pug.”

Jory managed to get to his feet again, determined not to touch the not-a-pug at Mal’s feet.

Mal leaned against the counter, carefully unwrapping the cupcake and finishing all but a quarter of it in a couple of bites. “Damn, your cupcakes are amazing. I didn’t mean to criticize the other ones.”

Louise whimpered again and stared up at Mal.

“Fine.” He passed down the last bit of cupcake despite his insistence that he was going to eat the whole thing himself.

The moment she finished that bite, she stared up at her master again, her eyes moving between him and the counter. She didn’t even have to beg.

“I don’t have any more,” Mal muttered, setting both hands on his hips.

Whatever she was, that look was too sweet to be malicious. “She’s got you wrapped around her paw, doesn’t she?”

“And then some,” Mal agreed.

Jory couldn’t help but watch him, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. He’d found another person like him. He couldn’t begin to guess what Mal’s unique quirk was, but he seemed less cryptic than Neal, so Jory might be able to learn something solid if he was tactful about it.

“I still think your pumpkin cookies are my favorite,” Mal continued. “Those are in a league of their own.”

“That is one of my favorite recipes,” he admitted. “I was kind of worried they were so boring that they put you to sleep, the first time you came in.”

Mal stared into the space between them before finally meeting his gaze. “I wasn’t myself that day. I’d just gotten into town and I was exhausted. I’d been on the road for days. I thought I was okay, but when I got close to town, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Coffee seemed like a good idea. But those cookies….”

He smirked. “You figured out my evil plan. Lure people into a sugar-induced coma and trap them here forever so I have a perpetual supply of customers.”

“That’s devious. Or genius, I suppose.”

“So what brought you into town? You said work?”

Mal shrugged and smiled. “I’m traveling for work. It seemed like an interesting place, and the scenery is definitely nice.” He didn’t even pretend to be discreet about looking Jory up and down, dragging his gaze across his body. “Plus, I’ve been able to take Louise into damn near every shop and store I’ve checked out, which is cool.”

“You lucked out. This is probably the most dog-friendly city I’ve ever been in,” Jory added, glancing down at Louise. “Of course, I haven’t lived a lot of places and I don’t actually have a pet, so who knows?”

“Are you allergic?” Mal asked, looking horrified.

“I live in a third-floor studio apartment. Keeping a dog in a place where it wouldn’t even have space to lie down would be cruel.”

“Living in a place where you don’t have room for a dog is cruel,” Mal countered.

Jory chuckled and grabbed the piping bag again, using the time to consider his answer. “Bigger apartments around here are expensive. The ones I can afford that allow pets are far from the café, so I’d have to save up for a car before I could look for something else.”

He could pretend the only thing he had to worry about was balancing rent, beer money, and saving up for a car or college. He could sound just like every other kid who came into the café. He could even lie to himself about how things might go if he could stay here for another six months, maybe even a year.

Neal’s warning had been in the forefront of his thoughts for four days, though. Staying wasn’t an option, and he’d always known it. Having enough money for a bus ticket and food was more important than having a big apartment or a pet he’d have to leave behind.

“Most people make car payments,” Mal said, his tone skeptical.

“There’s college too. It’s expensive, but it seems more worthwhile than a car.”

“What would you study?”

“Ah.” He cast around for something solid, something he could actually talk about. “The college has a culinary arts program. It looked cool.”

Mal laughed and grabbed yet another cupcake. “What could any culinary arts program teach you that you’re not already doing?”

“How to cook,” Jory said immediately. “I love making desserts. Growing up, I was always hungry, and desserts were calorie-dense. I couldn’t get enough. I can whip up an awesome pastry cream, but there are a lot of elements of classical French and Italian cooking I’d love to learn. They offer classes on restaurant management too.”

“If you just want to learn the cooking stuff, you should try YouTube. There’s a tutorial for pretty much any food you could want to make.”

“I know,” Jory admitted. “But how do you know that whoever made the video is doing it right?”

“Well, the people who have chef’s coats and stuff have to do it for a living, right?”

“Says who? A chef’s coat costs about fifty bucks. I don’t know what a computer and a video camera run, but if the money they can make off ads is more than the cost….” He shrugged. “If there’s money involved in any scheme, you can’t trust it.”

“But college costs money. You pay for it,” Mal pointed out.

Jory grinned. “But it’s a nonprofit,” he said, falling into a song and dance he’d used far too often with parishioners. “The money you put in goes to pay for the facilities, the staff, and for the resources they need to make a strong contribution to the community.”

Mal smirked. “You don’t believe a single word of that.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted without missing a beat. “My friend Hana is in grad school. She wants to be a physics professor, and she’s really convinced that college is necessary for everyone. She’s always trying to get me to enroll. I’m not sure I could do it. Watching her shoot action figures out of an air cannon is fun, but I take one look at the math involved and I feel like I’m looking at a foreign language. The argument sounds good.”

“If ‘good’ means ‘practiced,’ then yes, it does.”

“Going to school is what people are supposed to do when they’re my age.”

Mal smiled, and something in his expression looked almost triumphant.

“You look entirely too pleased with yourself.”

“I can tell when you lie. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to, but I can.”

Jory cocked his head to the side, considering him. Technically, almost everything he actually said was a lie, even if he was just making conversation. “I kind of doubt that.”

“I can, and it makes you uncomfortable enough that you’re trying to convince yourself it’s not possible,” Mal continued. “I’m guessing you’ve spent so much of your life spinning bullshit that it’s easier to make up what you think someone expects to hear than it is to try to remember the truth.”

“And you still want to go get a drink with me?”

“Honestly? I’d rather skip the drink and drag you back to my hotel, but dinner seems like a better option.”

Jory grinned. When his fingertips had brushed against Mal’s skin the day they’d met, he’d been so shocked by the fact that it didn’t hurt that he’d only briefly considered the possibilities. His skin felt warm and almost electrified when they touched, but it didn’t hurt.

Even when he was sixteen and fooling around with another kid for the first time, the pleasure of feeling someone else fucking him and jacking him off was undercut by the bruises littering his partner’s body. He’d had matching bruises and a cracked rib the next day, but it had been worth it. Things had gotten complicated, though, when he learned that every single injury had been dealt by a zealous disciple of the Solid Rock Bible Church because Adam had insisted the beating would save his wayward son from damnation. Maybe it was just shitty luck, or the clubs and back alleys he’d resorted to when he wanted to get laid, but every person he’d been with had brought him some measure of pain along with pleasure.

This time, though, was tempting. He didn’t know how long he had before Neal’s warning became obvious and he had to run. But when would he ever meet another person it didn’t hurt to touch?

“My shift ends at six.”