CHAPTER FIVE

His mouth tasted like a Russian and a Spaniard had fought over a rotten orange and lost. As Miles gradually fell towards consciousness, he knew only one thing: he’d never be able to drink White Russians or Spanish Coffees ever again. For a split second, that was something to seriously mourn. And then it all came roaring back: the fight, the drive back to Napa, the wine and bitch session with his friends, and then the email from hell. Followed by the faux Kahlua and the fake orange liquor and what he was pretty sure was a drag of shame into the bathroom.

Yep, Miles realized, that was definitely the edge of the toilet his face was resting on. It was a good thing too, because as soon as he got ambitious enough to open one sleep-crusted eye, he got instantly, horrifically sick.

Miles wiped his mouth and settled back on the toilet seat, which thanks to Xander’s OCD tendencies, was spotless. It was also a whole lot more comfortable than he’d imagined. And conveniently close to the toilet bowl, which might be making another rapid appearance in his life at any moment.

Why had he come here? He’d known his life here was done—even if the friendships weren’t. Had he come so his best friends could plump his ego, even though they’d never done it before? Had he come here so they could clean his wounds? Salve his pride? He wasn’t sure, though he knew the decision to get drunk and write the email had been the worst of the bunch.

Never mind that he’d never intended to send it. It was enough that he’d written it, spelling errors and odes to Evan’s ass and all. And now Evan had most likely already seen it. The thought was enough to send him back to the toilet, retching helplessly because he’d already thrown most of his stomach up already.

He was fucked, and not even in the fun way.

A brisk knock sounded on the door. He ignored it. He wasn’t in any mood for Xander’s resigned “you’ve fucked up your life” bullshit.

“What?” Miles croaked when they didn’t go away but instead knocked again, with way more determination. Definitely more determination than Miles felt. He was only determined not to die, and it was feeling pretty touch and go at the moment.

“Miles, are you okay?” It was Kian, and he sounded a hell of a lot more sympathetic than Miles deserved. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t worthy of any of it.

“No,” he croaked. Might as well be honest.

“Open the door,” Kian said.

“You open it,” Miles retorted.

“You locked it, you idiot.” That was Wyatt, who was even more protective over Kian than Miles was. “There’s someone here to see you.”

It was probably Reed, here to fire Miles and demand all his signing bonus back. Some of which he’d already spent on a stupid rental car to come up here and bitch at his friends about how hard he had it. Miles wanted to vomit again, but nothing came. Somehow that felt like the final indignity.

“He’s wearing a bow tie, Miles.”

Oh god. Even worse. Evan had come here in person. Probably after reading the email. He was definitely here to commit a murder on the parts of Miles that weren’t already dead, and he wasn’t sure his friends would be inclined to stop him.

Then Miles remembered the kiss, and wondered if he could stay in here forever. He didn’t know if he could face Evan, considering what he’d done and then what he’d said.

But Miles knew he should drag himself off the floor and give Evan an opportunity for the murdering to begin.

It was a several-minutes-long process, gently and carefully unfolding his aching body from the position over the toilet, and then hefting himself up using the counter. He flipped on the light and only screamed a little bit, either at the brightness or the horrible image the mirror confronted him with.

He stole Xander’s toothbrush and splashed some water on his face, and tried to fix his hair. It was a useless exercise, but Miles guessed it didn’t really matter anyway. Nobody would care what his hair looked like when he was dead.

Unlocking the door, Miles braced himself, but it was only Kian standing outside, a worried crease between his brows. “What are you doing?” Kian hissed.

“I wish I knew,” he admitted.

“Well, figure your shit out. Your partner you just insulted ten ways from Sunday is here.”

“How did he even get here so fast?” Miles wondered, even though the thinking hurt his brain. It could only be mid-morning because Kian hadn’t left for Terroir yet.

Kian just shrugged. “He’s in the kitchen.”

Miles gingerly felt his way to the kitchen, and when he arrived, was ironically confronted by a vision of what he’d just insulted—or praised. He wasn’t sure. But there Evan was, back to him, in another pair of those tight khakis.

It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.

“So this is where the magic all began,” Evan said without turning. Miles didn’t think he was a particularly heavy breather, but maybe Evan had sold his soul for magic powers so he could kill Miles and get away with it.

“I’m not sure it was very magical,” Miles said, and all of a sudden he didn’t know if they were talking about Pastry by Miles or their kiss. He took a breath and tried to steady himself. He wanted to cry and apologize and tell Evan just how sorry he was, but there was something deep inside holding it all back. Pride? Ego? Shame? “How did you even know I was here?”

“You used your corporate credit card, it wasn’t very hard to track you,” Evan said, and there was a hint of a sneer in his tone. Like Miles must be incredibly stupid to not be able to keep his credit cards straight—and Miles thought he was probably right. It was stupid and would have topped his most embarrassing list, if not for the email.

That was going to win for a very long time. Possibly forever.

Evan turned around. “God,” he said, and there was definitely an audible sneer now, “you look even worse than you smell.”

“Thanks,” Miles said stiffly.

If he had any embarrassment left, he'd be cringing right now.

"I guess Reed sent you up to fire me," Miles said, uncomfortable with even vaguely referring to the email. He'd already been rightly accused of being unprofessional; he didn’t even know what this behavior was. A complete aberration. A panic-induced, ego-driven freak-out. But no, that wasn't even right, because if his ego was where it was supposed to be, he would have spent this morning working to contradict Evan's words, not support them.

Evan ignored the reference. "I came here to get you, not to fire you," he said. "We have work to do, and you're not where you're supposed to be."

It was even tougher to face Evan, knowing he was right. Maybe not on every count, but on every count that mattered. Sure Evan shouldn't have gone blabbing to Reed, and maybe he should have shared his plans in a less autocratic way, but he'd at least been trying to work out some sort of compromise.

What had Miles been trying to do? Get drunk and write an ode to how much he hated Evan's face but loved his ass?

"Okay," Miles said.

Evan looked skeptical. "Just . . . okay? No arguments?"

"Some . . . discussion can be good for creativity. But you're right, I'm not where I'm supposed to be." Miles had definitely learned that during this little unplanned trip. He was done in Napa, at least for now. He still wasn't a hundred percent convinced he was supposed to be at Five Points either, but he'd given his word, and that had used to mean something to Miles.

So he'd go back and no matter how daunting it was for Miles to try to live up to Evan's Joan of Arc Julia Child label, he'd give it his best shot. Basic cooperation was the least he could do after how he'd just insulted Evan.

It turned out part of how Evan had gotten here so quickly was that he hadn't driven.

"What's this?" Miles asked, as the black Lincoln pulled into one of the side private airstrips by the Napa airport.

With a quick phone call, Evan had efficiently arranged for Miles' rental to be picked up and for their travel arrangements. Miles hadn't been listening because he'd still been trying not to vomit. He'd sort of assumed Evan had come up overnight using the car service so he could grab a few hours of sleep.

Apparently not. Miles knew that he had to stop assuming things when it came to Evan, because each wrong assumption was growing more embarrassing, and he didn't have any extra to spare.

"A favor," Evan said succinctly as the car stopped in front of a small white jet.

The driver grabbed their bags from the trunk and followed Evan and Miles to the small set of stairs leading to the aircraft.

"What, no check-in? No ticketing gate?" Miles knew he sounded stupid, but Evan's calm silence, which had lasted from their departure from the rental house to the present was nerve-wracking. He couldn't tell when Evan was going to finally explode and tell him off for the things he'd said.

Evan stayed quiet, and climbed the stairs. The captain was waiting for them at the top, dressed in a navy-blue uniform. It was only then that Miles glimpsed an insignia featuring a fish with particularly nasty teeth on his breast pocket. And he realized whose jet this must be.

Embarrassment felt like a mild word in comparison to what he felt now. He'd heard rumors that someone in the upper management of Five Points was married to Colin O'Connor, the famous Miami Piranhas quarterback, but since he didn't really follow sports, he'd assumed those were just rumors.

He'd been so wrong. He and Evan were currently ensconced in comfortable blue-and-white-striped seats with tiny light-blue piranhas woven right into the fabric.

"None of the above," Evan finally said with satisfaction as he took in Miles' stupefied expression. "First class all the way."

Even calling this first class was being modest, and even though they’d only met a few days before, Miles didn’t think Evan tended towards humility.

He could only think that this was yet another way for Evan to put him, subtly or firmly, back in his place. A little flare of anger that he knew he had no right to feel burned through him.

He’d been puking less than an hour ago, and his mouth still vaguely tasted like rotten oranges. It was enough of a reminder to swallow back down the retort he’d just been about to dish back. Back at the rental house, he’d made himself a vow that he’d be professional, no matter what, even if Evan pushed his buttons.

How could Miles have forgotten how good Evan was at pushing them?

It didn’t matter, he told himself resolutely, he was going to be a professional. After the email, he owed Evan at least that much.

“I guess I should be grateful you came to get me then,” Miles said, leaning back into the soft leather captain’s chair, trying to act like it was something he did every day.

Evan just rolled his eyes and got to his feet, walking over to a little cleverly disguised refrigerator under one of the gleaming wood accents. Clearly he’d been on this plane before, and that stung even more.

He turned back towards Miles and he had two bottles of water in his hands. He tossed one in Miles’ direction. “Thought you might still be feeling it,” Evan said. “We’re about to take off soon. This might help.”

His voice was blunt, but his message was at least semi-sympathetic. It confused Miles, whose head was still pounding. “I wouldn’t expect you to care much,” he said. He kept expecting Evan to mention the email. Or the kiss. Or both, together, as two actions that didn’t make any sense put together.

“I don’t,” Evan said, with an even blunter delivery. “But Mr. Wheeler will skin me alive if you puke all over his plane.”

Miles took a sip of water, grateful even though the anger he kept trying to tamp down kept cropping up. “Trust me, it’s all gone. You can keep your skin intact.” He ignored the voice inside his head that decided this was a great time to mention what gorgeous skin it was. And that it might be soft if Miles was ever allowed to touch it.

“What a relief,” Evan retorted disdainfully.

The desire fizzled. Dealing with Evan was confusing and exhausting and he was already worn out.

He heard Evan rustling around and then the all too familiar staccato punch of fingertips on a keyboard. He was working again, even though they were on a private plane. Miles was grateful though, because that meant he might have more time to gather himself for the apology he still needed to make.

Too many damn things were floating in the air around them and until they addressed them, he didn’t know how they would ever get anything done.

I really hate your face. It’s a big fat fucking lie.

He’d just close his eyes for a minute, to collect himself, and then he’d figure out his apology. It wouldn’t be as complicated as a Napoleon or his famous Paris-Brest even. Pastry was difficult, people were easy—usually, anyway.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.” The voice, edged with derision, could only belong to one person.

Miles’ eyes snapped open and Evan’s face swam into view.

I really hate your face.

What a joke his little drunken charade was turning out to be.

“Are we back?” Miles asked groggily as he pulled himself upright. The chairs were so cushy it felt like they were sinking their padded claws into you.

“We’re back.” Evan was already facing the door, bag in hand, looking so proper and together that Miles wanted to swear. No doubt his hair, already a wreck, was a rat’s nest on his head, and he didn’t want to think what his clothes smelled like.

“Great.” Miles tried to sound enthused, but definitely didn’t pull it off.

“Don’t worry,” Evan said, not even bothering to glance back, “we’ll drop you off at your place first, so you can wash that horrific smell off. And then you’ll be coming in. We have work to do.”

“I would’ve come back today, I swear,” Miles said, because the apology was still an unformed, cloudy mirage in his head and he couldn’t seem to wring solid, concrete words from it.

“Of course you would have,” Evan said in clipped tones.

Miles knew he was lying.

True to his word, Miles was dropped off at his apartment. He showered, letting the hot water beat him into defeat. As he got ready, his face frosted in the foggy mirror, he told himself that he could be a professional. He’d been a complete professional every single day of his career until he’d come to Five Points. Letting fear get the best of him was stupid.

By the time he’d walked to the office, his head was a little clearer and he’d discovered a deep-seated determination not to let Evan push any more of his buttons.

He’d just settled in with his laptop to check the email he’d missed when Evan popped his head around the corner of his cubicle.

“Marketing meeting in the conference room, you’re already five minutes late,” was all he said in clipped, straightforward tones.

Personally, Miles thought every meeting they’d had so far could be categorized as a “marketing meeting,” but Evan just tilted his head, tempting Miles to challenge him. And Miles wasn’t stupid. If Reed knew about the email, he’d already be fired.

Reed might preach more touchy-feely now, but he was still the same man who had run Garnet with a velvet-covered iron fist and the expectation that everyone brought their A game every single day. Which meant that Evan hadn’t told him about the email.

Miles didn’t like blackmail, whether it was inferred or directly stated, but he couldn’t be pissed because he’d handed it to Evan on a silver platter.

“Fine,” Miles ground out, and picked up his laptop to follow Evan.

When Evan opened the door to the conference room, he was a little shocked to find it was full. Lots of employees, including Reed, were sitting around the table. He and Evan were able to grab two of the last free seats right before it started.

What followed was the most interminably boring bunch of bullshit that Miles had ever sat through. There were multiple presenters, and everybody had slide decks with more charts and keywords and strategies than Miles had ever wanted to see.

His head was still pounding behind his eyes and he’d barely gotten any sleep, but every time he even briefly considered closing his eyes, he saw Reed sitting across the table, taking attentive notes and asking questions that seemed to be relevant.

Plus, there was Evan beside him, no doubt ready to pick up on any wavering from Miles.

It was like being bored to death.

When the torture was finally over, Reed stopped by and clapped Miles on the shoulder. “I couldn’t believe it when Evan said you’d expressed interest in coming to one of these. I only come because I don’t have a choice. But I guess you really meant it when you said you wanted to reach the people.”

Miles could only nod mutely. Miserably. In acute pain and wishing he could inflict even a tiny bit of it on the man next to him.

He couldn’t. Never mind his own vow to stay professional, he knew if he took even the tiniest step out of line, Evan would bat him right back with the email.

Grinding his teeth together, Miles forced himself to smile. “Working in the kitchens doesn’t give me many opportunities to see stuff like this,” he said, which was all true. And he’d been one hundred percent okay with that situation.

“I’m impressed,” Reed said, and he sounded it too, which was even worse. Normally Miles craved approbation from his bosses, but not like this. Not for something he basically loathed.

Miles didn’t have to look over at Evan to see the smug smile on his face as Reed departed.

“Lunch?” Miles asked, aware of how desperate he sounded. He didn’t really care about food yet, but coffee was going to be a necessity.

“We have another meeting,” Evan said.

“I didn’t really have to come to this one,” Miles said slowly as they walked towards one of the smaller meeting rooms. “Did I?”

Evan just shrugged. “I thought it would be educational.”

“If you understand what they’re saying, probably it would have been,” Miles grumbled. It was clear that Evan wasn’t going to trip up and admit that the meeting had been clear punishment for the email—or maybe for the kiss—or that he was essentially blackmailing Miles into compliance.

Evan was too smart for that, which Miles sort of admired and definitely hated.

“So, what’s this meeting about?” Miles said, slumping into a chair.

“We only have a few short weeks to plan your first slate of episodes before we have to film,” Evan said, and that hard, determined edge to his voice was back. “We need a plan of attack. Now.”

“Okay, tell me what you think Joan of Arc Julia Child would do,” Miles said, because he might as well hear the worst of it, all completely spelled out.

Evan flipped open a folder. “I’m glad you finally asked.” Even this statement was pointed at the end, like he was insinuating Miles should have asked that right away. And frankly, Miles probably should have. Except it wasn’t entirely Miles’ fault because he’d never really done this before. As his producer, wasn’t it Evan’s job to guide him?

Miles watched Evan as he gathered papers and tried to bury the seething resentment that somehow Evan had wanted him to fail. But that didn’t make any sense either, because hadn’t Evan picked him? Not Reed?

Miles didn’t know what to think anymore. So he decided that if he’d asked the question, he might as well listen.

“Joan of Arc Julia Child, as you put it, is essentially a pastry course built into the first season. Each episode is a dessert that showcases a particular type of technique, and we work forward from there. The idea is to build on knowledge, but I’d like it to be accessible to anyone, at the same time.”

Miles ran a hand through his hair. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, it can’t be accessible to just anyone.”

“Why not?” Evan retorted. “Anyone who can read can follow a recipe.”

“It’s not all about following a recipe,” Miles countered. “Or else we’d just be publishing recipes online, and not filming videos. There’s technique that you can’t teach through words.”

“Then teach,” Evan challenged, dark eyes spiking with temper across the table. “Or . . . is that something you aren’t capable of?”

“What I’m trying to fucking tell you is that I don’t care about people learning how to bake,” Miles said, all too aware that even though he was trying to listen, trying to understand, he was beginning to lose the control over his temper. It was funny, even Xander had never provoked it the way Evan did. Until this job, Miles would have insisted he didn’t even have a real temper.

“Then what do you want to do?” Evan questioned, still even and calm.

“I want to bake what I want to bake,” Miles said testily.

“Why can’t we do both? It’s not that great of a restriction, showcasing one technique each episode. And it’s not like you didn’t have restrictions at Terroir.”

“Yeah, well there’s a reason I’m not working there anymore,” Miles mumbled.

“So, if I asked you what you wanted, you’d tell me you want to make videos that don’t do anything except look pretty and impressive. Bolster your ego, so to speak.”

Miles had never thought of it that way before, but put the way Evan did, he certainly sounded like a petty egomaniac. It wasn’t an attractive look, and they both knew it.

They both knew Evan was going to win this round.

And really, Miles justified to himself, Evan was sort of right. There was a small restriction on each episode, but there wasn’t any reason he couldn’t go a little wild and crazy. And maybe the wilder and the crazier he went, he might pay back Evan for painting him into this corner.

“No,” Miles said. “That’s not really me.” He could tell from Evan’s face that he was definitely not convinced of that. “We’ll try it your way.”

It didn’t sting as much he’d expected, saying those words, but Evan’s smug face still needed something—a punch maybe? But that wasn’t right either, Miles thought as Evan started taking notes. No, something else, something to surprise him.

It shouldn’t have surprised him when the thought of kissing Evan popped into his head. Evan already had an ass he admired—which unfortunately they were both aware of now—but nothing would probably drive Mr. Bow Ties up the creek more than something messy and complicated, which was what all sexual relationships were, as far as Miles was concerned.

Definitely worth considering, Miles thought.

Miles landed on the couch with a heavy oof. It had been an extremely long day and he was exhausted but he still dragged out his phone from his back pocket. He felt a pulse of shame when he noticed that he hadn’t texted Gina since telling her with many emojis and exclamations that he was moving to LA. Of course, she hadn’t texted or called him either, but she was in college. He’d never been but he had a feeling you were so tired when you finally hit your bed, regular correspondence was basically impossible.

His fingers hesitated over the keys. Finally, he typed out a quick, you free to talk? and sent it.

He was so tired, it was a genuine worry that he might fall asleep before she replied, but instead, the phone rang almost immediately, jerking him awake.

“Big brother,” Gina crowed on the other end of the phone. Miles switched it over to speaker and laid the phone on his chest. “Long time no talk.”

“How is your philosophy class? Did it improve at all?”

She laughed, and he couldn’t believe how much better he felt, just hearing her voice and her high-pitched giggle. Something tight in his chest loosened.

“No, not really.” She paused. “What’s up?”

Miles felt a little bad about not talking to her for three weeks and then dumping his horrible situation on her, asking for her advice, but he couldn’t go to Xander or Wyatt. Kian would look at him uncomprehendingly. There was only one person he always felt he could go to, and she was listening right now.

“I think I fucked up, Gee.”

“Do you think it was a mistake to move to LA?” she asked quietly.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. That’s not exactly it. LA was the right choice, I don’t think I shouldn’t have come. But everything after I showed up. That’s the problem.”

She sighed, sounding like she’d been around the block a hundred times and knew the score. “Who is he?”

“How do you know it’s a he?” Miles squawked. “It could be the job. It could be my boss.”

“No. Definitely not. Because one, you’re ridiculously good at your job—crazy intimidating good, if I’m being honest—so there’s no way it’s the job. Two, you already told me your boss was Reed Ryan, and he didn’t ever strike me as an asshole you couldn’t get along with. I mean, you get along with Xander.”

Miles regretted introducing his sister to Xander for so many reasons.

“Did Xander tell you about his crush on Reed? Is that how you know about him?”

Miles could feel her disapproval radiating through the phone line. Even her silences could say a hundred words. He’d always envied that about her. He knew he tended to be both too open and not open enough; charming but opaque.

“Don’t you remember when he was on Kitchen Wars?” Gina asked, referring to a reality TV show that Miles vaguely remembered and definitely hadn’t watched. The name probably only sounded familiar because Xander had likely DVRed it and then had refused to delete it. Especially if Reed had starred in it.

“No?”

“Right,” Gina said with amusement, “I always forget that it’s Xander who has a crush on Reed, not you.”

“Thankfully not. Considering he’s now my boss,” Miles retorted. He really hoped he had distracted her from the topic at hand—the mysterious he she had already correctly identified—by the topic change. He’d initially wanted to ask her advice, but now that he was talking to her, he realized he didn’t know what he would even ask her. Besides, talking to her had already made him feel better, like none of this was truly permanently fucked, and he could still salvage it.

He loved his little sister a whole damn lot.

“So, who is he?” she persisted, and Miles groaned out loud.

“You’re not very good at subtle,” Gina pointed out with a laugh. “I can always see you changing the subject from a mile away. So who is he?”

“He’s my producer,” Miles reluctantly admitted.

“And?”

“And I was stupid.” Miles didn’t really want to detail every way he’d messed up with Evan, but knowing Gina, she’d drag it out of him.

“Big bro,” Gina said patiently, “you’re stupid about a hundred times a day. Did you hit on him? You hit on him, didn’t you. Like five seconds after meeting him.”

He couldn’t exactly blame Gina for coming to that conclusion, because if he hadn’t been so on edge when arriving at Five Points, he probably would have taken one look at Evan and done exactly that. But he’d been scared and worried and apprehensive, and so afraid those would show, he’d done the exact opposite.

“Not exactly,” Miles hedged. “I sort of insulted him. And then kept insulting him.”

He could tell Gina was speechless because there was a long, loaded silence.

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Gina finally asked.

“He was afraid he was out of his depth and acted like an idiot,” Miles said.

“Then he should apologize,” Gina reprimanded, sounding so much like their mom, Miles had to do a double take.

“Yeah, he didn’t do that,” Miles said.

“So, he should start there,” Gina said. “And then he should definitely stop referring to himself in the third person, because that makes him sound even weirder than he already is.”

“Noted,” Miles said with a laugh. He definitely felt lighter. He wasn’t sure how he could even begin to apologize to Evan for what he’d said, but he knew Gina’s advice was sound. It was Gina. It couldn’t be anything else.

“Good,” Gina said.

“How is that guy in your philosophy class?” Miles asked.

Gina groaned. Miles couldn’t help but think that the sound they had both made when confronted with their nemeses—Miles with Evan, and Gina with Philosophy Class Guy—were eerily similar.

That could be because they were related, or it could be for an entirely different reason.

“Believe me, I feel you,” Miles said.

“How can you want to kiss someone and kill them all in the same breath?” Gina demanded to know.

“I really don’t know. When I figure it out, I’ll get back to you.” He paused. “And no kissing! I like to think of you as one of those nuns in the Sound of Music.”

He could hear the force of Gina’s eye roll over the phone. “You’re an idiot,” she said. But there was so much love in her voice, he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden wave of emotion.

“I miss you, Gee,” he said. “We need to figure out a way to hang out. Soon.”

“Soon,” she promised. “But I’ve got a midterm to study for, so I’d better go.”

“Good luck on your test,” he said.

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “And, Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Just fucking apologize.”

Miles knew it would be so much smarter to just listen to his sister, but he already knew he wouldn’t. The only way he intended to apologize, after the way Evan had manipulated and blackmailed him today, would be if he could leverage it as a way to control the producer.

After all, he’d never admitted to being a smart man, only a driven, determined one.