CHAPTER 15
Will
It was a Saturday afternoon, and the clouds outside Vaughn’s apartment hung heavy and gray, a light drizzle pattering the windows. Vaughn was muttering at his paperwork—he did a lot of paperwork. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he was scowling at the pages spread out on the low coffee table. I thought it was cute that he talked to himself while working.
He must have felt me watching him, because he looked up from his papers. He was wearing his reading glasses, which I secretly wished he’d wear all the time. They were frameless with a silver nosepiece—simple and elegant, like everything of Vaughn’s. “I’m talking to myself again, aren’t I?”
I smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you are.” I didn’t say it was cute, but surely he heard it in my voice that I thought it was. After all, he’d gotten to know me pretty well. We’d begun spending most weekends together. In fact, lately I’d been spending more time at his homes than at my own.
He yawned, and made a sound of pure frustration. “I’m sorry I have to spend time doing this when you’re here.”
I shrugged. When he put it like that, it made me feel like a guest, which wasn’t how I wanted to feel. I wanted him to just…be himself when I was here. Do whatever he usually did on Saturdays. Think of me as belonging here.
He was wearing jeans and a sweater even though I was still in pajama bottoms and an old FBI t-shirt. I knew Vaughn owned pajamas, but I’d never seen him wear them out of the bedroom. I had a feeling if I wasn’t there, though, he’d be lounging around in his PJs and a bathrobe. I wanted him to do that too. I didn’t want him to dress up for me, or think he needed to impress me.
“It’s probably better than this book,” I said, holding up my paperback. “I should know better than to read anything featuring FBI agents. They either get everything wrong, or make us out to be unlikeable dicks who just want to ruin the lives of the local sheriff or whatever.” I glanced at the table, where I’d set my messenger bag. There were files pertaining to my latest case in there, and I supposed I could be looking over them. Instead, I’d opted to read something mindless, unsure if it was because it was the weekend or if I felt conflicted doing my job around Vaughn. Especially since it was a reminder that I hadn’t done my job when it came to him.
Vaughn gave that elegant shrug of his. “You’ve mentioned a few unlikeable dicks to me.”
“Yeah, but we’re not all like Brett Lawson,” I groused, referring to my least-favorite colleague.
“Maybe you should stick to something that doesn’t aim for realism,” Vaughn suggested. “Paranormal romance. Space opera.” He gave me a sly smile. “Pornography.”
“Do you have pornography around here somewhere?”
“William, I have Google Fi and you have a laptop.”
I snorted and shook my head, standing up. “I meant in book form.”
“I repeat. Google Fi and laptop.”
I rolled my eyes at him and pointed him back to his papers spread out on the coffee table. The coffee table that he would never, in a million years, allow anyone to drink coffee on. Even me. Because the coffee table was on the rug.
I didn’t know what the rug was made out of, but I knew that the first time I’d stayed the night here, I’d wandered over to look out the window the next morning while holding a cup of coffee and seen a look of apprehension on Vaughn’s face ten times that which I’d seen when I’d accused him of grand larceny. Vaughn, who had made a point of fucking me on furniture from every century since the founding of America, had been watching me with my cup of coffee like I was a child with a bowl of chocolate sauce.
“I didn’t realize the rug was an antique,” I’d said, teasing him.
“It’s not,” he’d said. “It’s an Alanna Vale Allen.”
After explaining (needlessly, I was sure) that I wasn’t up on the latest names in rug design, Vaughn had told me more than I’d ever needed, or wanted, to know about the rug. Which was white—because of course; why have a ridiculously expensive rug in any other color? Admittedly, it was very soft, but my joking suggestion of having sex on it had been vetoed severely and without Vaughn’s usual humor. I was amused to have found a weakness. Something Vaughn actually worried about ruining.
“I can stop working, if you’d like to do something else,” Vaughn said. I glanced meaningfully at the rug and raised an eyebrow just to watch the panic flicker over his face. “William, we’ve been over that. But I’m not adverse to going back to bed.”
“Do your paperwork, and I’ll blow you. On the couch. Unless…” I teased, running a fingertip up his thigh. “Unless that’s too close to the rug?” He gave me a severely put-upon look and went back to his papers. I went into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cabinets. I was thinking about how good a few of those handmade chocolates from the Halloween fundraiser would be right now, and that’s when I got the idea to make cookies.
Which was odd, because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d baked anything.
Ever since Charlie discovered that you could make up your own recipes at the age of twelve, she’d been the one to do all the cooking and baking. From that moment onward, she was constantly tinkering in the kitchen, doing whatever our mom would allow, from birthday cakes to cookies to elaborate dishes with names I was pretty sure she made up. Once she began Fox Fêtes, and got to dream up the ideas and have other people do the dirty work, she liked it even better.
I usually got home from work starving, so the last thing I wanted to do was cook anything elaborate. Somewhat to my surprise, Vaughn actually enjoyed cooking. He had someone who kept his house stocked with food and prepared meals when he entertained at home, but when it was just him—or us—he usually cooked. I poured the wine. It worked out well for us.
But suddenly, I remembered a time when I’d been sick and stressed out over a case at work, and Charlotte had baked me cookies. Just the smell of them baking in my subpar oven had made me feel comforted, cared for.
“Hey, what’s your favorite kind of cookie?” I asked Vaughn, thinking I could make him feel as cared for as I had. Make him feel like I really did belong here.
“Hmm? Oh. Well, I’m not sure.” Vaughn chewed on the end of a pen distractedly, a gesture so unlike him that I found it charming.
God, if I stopped to think about how much time I spent smiling around Amory Vaughn, I’d probably freak out. It was just that I’d never liked anyone quite so much. Which scared the hell out of me.
“I had some brandied fruit tartlets at a tea in London,” Vaughn said vaguely. “Do tartlets count as cookies?”
I had no idea. “Nope.”
Vaughn wrinkled his nose and stared up at the lofted ceiling. “Those pine nut cookies with rosemary your sister served at the gala were very good. People still ask me for the recipe.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “They were good, yeah, but seriously, they can’t be your favorite. That wasn’t that long ago.”
“Well, I’m very sorry, Agent Fox, I didn’t realize your question came with so many codicils.”
I rolled my eyes, but hearing him call me Agent Fox after what happened in his study back in Falls Church made my cock stir. “Your favorite cookie, Amory. This shouldn’t be that hard.”
“Green tea shortbread?” I could practically see him running through a list of Vaughn Foundation function desserts.
“When was the last time you had those?” I demanded.
“I can’t recall. Why? Are you asking me for a cookie alibi?”
I laughed. “No, I just meant…your favorite cookie can’t be something like green tea shortbread.”
“Why not?”
“It’s like…” I waved my hand. “The cookie you ate when you were a kid. The ones you always hoped would be waiting for you when you got home from school. You know.” Then it struck me that he probably didn’t. From what I’d heard about Amory’s childhood, he probably had mostly eaten cookies at Vaughn Foundation functions. His parents seemed to have treated him like a business partner since the time he could walk.
“My mother always served Venetian butter cookies at parties. Everyone loved those,” he said vaguely. He was staring out of the window at the rain and didn’t meet my eyes.
I didn’t think that was the answer. In times like these, I wondered how lonely he must have been as a child. Who took this long to answer a question about cookies?
Someone who never got to have anything just for himself.
Every single answer he’d given me was something other people chose, something other people found delicious.
“Yeah, but Amory.” I made my voice soft. “What was your favorite?”
He bit at his lip, and darted a glance up at me, then looked away. This time when he answered his voice sounded different. “Chocolate chip.” He still wouldn’t look at me, like he was afraid what my argument with that answer might be.
“All right, then,” I said softly, feeling a surge of emotion. “Chocolate chip it is.”
I changed into jeans and grabbed my jacket, and when I kissed him goodbye he still wouldn’t quite look at me. At the corner market a few blocks down I grabbed the ingredients I needed, got half soaked on the walk home, and changed right back into my pajamas before going to the kitchen.
I caught Vaughn looking at me a few times, but he never said a word. I fixed him some coffee, and when he came to drink it far away from the rug, his eyes strayed toward the mess I was making. “You have flour in your hair.”
“Don’t worry. If I get it on the rug, it’ll blend in.” I winked at him. I’d said the same thing about having sex on the rug too.
He just shot me a look over the top of his glasses and went back to the paperwork. I put a dozen cookies in the oven, wrapped the rest of the dough in Saran Wrap, and put it in the freezer. When he was there during the week, he could bake some more.
“I’m not bringing these near your precious Allen rug,” I said, placing two freshly-baked cookies on a plate on the counter.
“Vale Allen,” Vaughn said without thinking. He stretched and his sweater rode up so I could see the muscles of his beautiful torso shifting as he reached toward the ceiling. He padded over, slid onto the barstool and looked at the plate. I couldn’t read his expression as he bent slowly over the counter and inhaled the smell of fresh-baked cookies. But his eyes flew to mine and there was something open there. Something raw and unmanaged and just for me. He picked up a cookie and slowly took a bite, like he was afraid of what it might taste like. Then he closed his eyes with a smile that passed through appreciative and landed on happy as he ate the rest.
That was the face of a man enjoying his favorite cookie. Green tea shortbread. Honestly. “They’re good, then?”
“They’re delicious,” he said, opening his eyes. He snagged the second cookie—which I’d put there for myself—and dug in. “Is this a Fox family recipe?”
I blinked. He had to be kidding. The empty bag of chocolate chips with the recipe printed on it was right there on the counter. Then I realized that Amory Vaughn had probably never eaten a chocolate chip cookie made from the recipe on the back of store-bought chocolate chips in his life.
I turned to get myself a cookie, suddenly at a loss for words. I had a million memories of helping my mom, my dad, my grandparents and my sister make these. Being ten and making them with friends at a sleepover, just to eat the cookie dough. “It’s…your standard recipe,” I said, clearing my throat and nonchalantly whisking the empty chocolate chip bag into the trash.
“Well, now you know what my favorite cookies are,” Vaughn said, and smiled at me so sweetly it made my heart pound. He grabbed another cookie off the baking sheet and ate it too.
“I left you the rest of the dough in the freezer,” I told him. When he kissed me, he tasted like chocolate. “You done with that paperwork yet?”
“Almost.” He snagged another cookie and went back to the sofa to finish up. I set about doing the dishes, and my phone vibrated on the counter, distracting me from the cookie-dough-laden spoon I was cleaning. With my tongue.
It was an email from Patty, our constantly overworked secretary. This one was a reminder about the upcoming seminar in Durham, on diversity and sensitivity in the workplace. She wanted to know whether we’d be arriving Friday night or Saturday morning, and if we were bringing a significant other.
I stared at the message, and then looked at Vaughn. I thought about how I’d been reticent about anything pertaining to my job around him, and yet, how badly I wanted to be part of his life. Maybe I should stop trying to keep my job so separate, especially if this was going to work long-term. If I wanted him to just be himself around me…then that meant I had to do the same.
Not that I was going to go over my latest case with him—a stolen painting that had turned out to be a forgery. There were laws governing how much I could share, after all. But that didn’t mean I had to keep him away from the FBI completely. Maybe, if he wanted, he could come with me to this diversity seminar. Work trips were terrible. This one even more so because diversity wasn’t something many agents were that open to discussing. But it did mean a weekend away and paid-for accommodations.
Nothing fancy. Nothing that would meet Vaughn’s standards, to be sure—he was a complicated man in a lot of ways, but the fact that he was a snob was pretty damned straightforward. This was the final reminder about the seminar and accommodations, and I’d been putting off answering because…well, should I ask Vaughn to go with me to an FBI retreat? Would he think spending a weekend with me was worth having to do so in below-his-standard accommodations? Probably not.
There was also the small fact that next weekend was my thirty-fifth birthday. I didn’t necessarily want him to know that. I hated people making a big deal out of it. Imagine growing up with a budding party planner, extroverted twin with a thousand friends. But I wanted to be with him for it regardless.
“You busy next weekend?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Let me see.” Vaughn had a lot of engagements and obligations, so I knew it was likely he wouldn’t even be able to go with me. “No, it appears I’m free. Why?”
“I, uh.” I couldn’t believe this was making me so nervous. “I have a thing. A work thing, in Durham. I was thinking maybe…if you wanted…you could come with me.” The instant I said it, I felt incredibly stupid.
But Vaughn looked intrigued. “Is it about catching art thieves?” He winked, and his eyes flicked to the wall, just momentarily, where Oliver, the James Novack painting from the student art show, was now installed.
I flushed and gave him a severe look. “No. It’s about diversity and sensitivity in the workplace. You know. How to do my job with respect for all races, religions, genders and sexualities.”
Vaughn cocked his head at me. “Do you require that lesson?”
“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I couldn’t be racist, or prejudiced against Muslims or women.”
“William, you’re not any of those things.” Vaughn’s voice took on that low, warm quality that made me shiver with pleasure. “Shall I produce letters of reference to free you from this tedium?”
“Sometimes you talk like a character in a novel,” I told him.
“Well, there is a character in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel with my name. Not the one everyone knows.” He took off his glasses and folded them. “It’s a lovely area. Have you been?”
“No, two years ago it was in Asheville. They try to make it…not tedious, I guess. By having it somewhere nice, and telling us we can bring someone. If we want.” I was beginning to feel stupid that I’d brought it up, but I kept talking. “I have the training during the day on Saturday and Sunday, and a dinner thing on Sunday night, but Saturday evening free.” Which was my birthday.
“I won’t be expected to attend the seminar, will I?” Vaughn asked. “I have participated in many a diversity training already.”
“I think we’ve got rich white male covered, but you might step in for bisexual.”
I shook my head and Vaughn walked over to join me in the kitchen. At first I thought maybe it was to make good on the blowjob I’d promised him for finishing his paperwork, but he went right for the plate of cookies I’d set on the stove. “I’d be delighted to accompany you to Durham. I have some work I can get done while you’re learning how to be sensitive.”
“Yeah? All right, if you’re sure. I can pick you up here Friday after work, if that’s all right? I’ll have to drive, of course, and we have to stay in the hotel where the conference is, but they’re usually pretty nice.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Vaughn. “As I am to this blowjob I believe I’ve now earned.”
But as I reached for his pants, Vaughn took a step in and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. He held me close for a long time, the smell of fresh-baked cookies mingling with the scent of his hair.