Drew is so goddamn screwed.

He just wanted to go to the bar and drink the taste of the competition out of his mouth. He just wanted to have a few beers and maybe a couple shots and find someone to take to his hotel room that wasn’t the guy across the street.

But of course, the guy across the street stumbled into the bar when he was four beers in and fucking stared at him and, well, Drew had never said no to a challenge before.

He hadn’t meant to stare back. Hadn’t meant to walk right into his space and taste his breath on his tongue. Hadn’t meant to lead him to his truck and hadn’t meant to let the guy fuck his fist until they were both coming all over themselves, messy and desperate. It was like he was still fucking sixteen, but instead, he was a grown man, obsessed with the one guy in the dumb as hell town he shouldn’t have been in.

He wipes his hands down the front of his pajama pants, grimacing at the sweat gathered there. The shower he’d taken when he’d stumbled into the hotel room, body spent and mind whirling, barely helped wash away the feeling of Peter Jacob’s hands on him.

Drew throws himself onto the bed, thoughts rumbling as loudly as his pulse.

He hadn’t meant to get involved with Peter at all. But, whatever.

So his boss will be mad if he finds out—the rivalry is stupid and makes little sense to Drew anyway. Who cares that the two restaurants are competition to each other? That’s how businesses in the same town work. And, the two don’t even really serve the same food. The fact that Sal’s and Amelia’s seem so determinately pitted against each other is a dumb, idiotic thing.

And, besides. If either of the restaurants is going to win, it’s going to be Amelia’s. Sal’s is doing well now, sure, but the place is new and the guy is a jerk. As soon as Drew gets enough money to leave town, he’ll gas up the junker and be out before Sal can even beg him to stay. Then the place won’t have good pastries and everyone will realize Sal is a bonehead and Peter’s little ramshackle diner will be the reigning champion.

So if he wants to fuck the future reigning champion, it’s whatever. It’s not like they’re dating or anything. And it’s not like he owes anything to Sal anyway.

He glances at the clock, grimacing when it blinks back two a.m. at him. He’s got to be at Sal’s by nine and at the rate his thoughts are going, he’ll be obsessing over this new development all night if he doesn’t stop himself.

Drew shuts off the lights and crawls under the covers. With the same amount of practiced single-mindedness Drew uses when he leaves a city without saying anything to anyone, he closes his eyes and focuses on the darkness until he fades off to sleep.

—

The next morning is a rush of crafting cheesecakes and dabbling with the recipes left behind for cakes. Drew knows that dark german chocolate will be a thousand times better in the cake recipe that John left for him than the shit milk chocolate recommended, but convincing Sal of that takes the majority of the morning.

By the time Sal begrudgingly tells him to go on break, Drew’s sweating and pissed. He’s made half a dozen desserts and they’re all fantastic, he’s sure of that, and even after Sal admits that they’re really good, he still says customers will want what they’re used to.

They’re used to shit, but Sal doesn’t necessarily take kindly to hearing that.

Lunch time rolls around and Drew would rather eat dirt than eat anything made in Sal’s kitchen. He shucks off the apron and tosses on a large hoodie to hide the flour stains and leaves the restaurant, only barely stopping himself from flipping the entire staff off when he leaves.

He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, brushing the sweat there away. He squints in the bright sunlight and gives it about two seconds of thought before crossing the street and going into Amelia’s.

The bell above the door rings and even though he knows it’s unlikely, Drew feels as if every head in the place swings to him.

He blinks, then glares, and then saunters over to the corner-most booth and throws himself into it.

A bubbling waitress appears almost instantly.

“You’re new,” she says, grinning. “I’m Allison, your waitress today.”

Drew softens his glare because he might be a prick but he’s not going to be rude to service workers. He keeps enough of it on to appear unapproachable, though. “Menu?”

She offers him one, unfazed by his gruff tone. He takes it and then shrugs. “What’s good?”

She hums and taps a finger to her lip. “I like the burger the best. Classic, easy,” she kisses her pinched fingers, “magnificent.”

He bites back a smile. “Yeah, sure. Fries and a coke, too.”

“Perfect!” She takes the menu from him and grins again. “Coming right up.”

Allison bounces away. He watches her dart off to the kitchen, then looks around the rest of the place.

So. This is where Peter works.

He brushes the thought aside instantly. He didn’t come here because of Peter or last night or anything like that—just because he’s thought about the way Peter sounded all night, plaguing his dreams, doesn’t mean he came here for that. He just needed food and this was close enough to be a good option for his lunch break.

The place is desperately in need of a makeover. He knew that just from looking outside, but being inside makes it all the more obvious. It’s almost shameful that the place is so outdated. Drew’s worked in dozens of restaurants across the country and barely any of them looked this bad with an owner who cared that much.

Not that he knows how much Peter cares, but he can kind of guess. Their first meeting didn’t inspire a lot of “I don’t care” vibes.

It’s not exactly bustling and it’s not as busy as Sal’s was when he left, but the place isn’t doing too badly. There are some people there and they all seem jovial and happy and the place does smell pretty amazing. Drew’s willing to bet his pastries are twice as good as anything this joint’s got, but the savory food smells great and that’s not something Drew would willingly say about Sal’s.

There’s something about this place that Drew can’t quite put his finger on. It’s not necessarily the atmosphere and it’s not necessarily not; it’s just something about the place that feels comforting. It feels like when he’s driving sixty down an empty interstate on his way to somewhere new—feels like no expectations and like he’s not bothering with anything or anyone but himself. It feels selfish in the best way possible.

His food comes, breaking his musings, and Allison sets it down with more flourish than is strictly necessary. He thanks her and digs in.

He understands instantly why Peter cares so much about this place.

The food should be simple and greasy and completely unremarkable. It’s a cheap burger in a small town in Kansas. But it’s—it’s really good and it reminds Drew instantly why some people stick around places.

Peter must love to cook. He must love the heat of the kitchen the way that Drew sometimes loves the heat of the oven; the feeling of creating something so pleasurable, so brief. He eats the meal with few breaks, his focus singularly narrowed on the experience of understanding someone from tasting what they’ve created.

It reminds him of baking with his grandmother when he was young; the smell of cinnamon and the feeling of dough giving way beneath his kneading knuckles.

He doesn’t know how a goddamn burger has done it, but he realizes instantly he picked the wrong team by going into Sal’s that day.

It’s not until he’s polished off the last bite and chased it down with a long pull of his coke, that Drew realizes he’s being watched.

He looks up and locks eyes with Peter.

Peter stands at the kitchen door, long legs crossed and his arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing a half apron tied around his waist and the button up is pushed up to his elbows. His brown hair is messy but not half as messy as it had been last night. Drew feels alight with the look.

The attraction between them is nearly as strong as the hatred between their restaurants. The two contradicting feelings bristle against one another, even from across the room.

Drew’s eyes drop to scan Peter before darting back up, a magnet unable to avoid Peter’s big blue eyes. The dome of silence between them crashes with the contact and then Peter is crossing the room and sliding into the seat across from him.

Drew is thankful for the seclusion of the corner booth he chose when Peter settles in front of him.

The man holds his shoulders straight and his face is blank, but it’s also burning bright red and he swallows over and over again as if regaining his strength. Drew thinks it must have taken quite a bit for the man to gather the confidence to cross the room. They might not have spoken much last night, or ever, but Drew’s pretty sure confidently sliding into a booth of the guy you fooled around with in your truck last night isn’t something Peter’s done often.

“Hey,” Drew leans back in the booth, trying to pretend like he hadn’t been thinking about how much he goddamn liked the way Peter moved or sounded or cooked for the past twenty-four hours. He lets his face relax into a smirking impassivity, something he mastered at sixteen and hasn’t quite let go of yet.

Peter’s lips flicker down into a frown before smoothing them out again. “You’re at my restaurant.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, not bothering to respond with words. What could he say? Who cares? Is that okay? Sorry? He doesn’t want to get into any of those options.

Peter looks around before letting his eyes fall back to Drew’s. It seems as accidental as it does effortless and Drew decidedly does not feel his pulse quicken.

He doesn’t know what the fuck it is about this guy that keeps him looking. He doesn’t mean to stare but then he can’t stop. Maybe it’s that this town is boring as shit otherwise, or that his boss told him not to get with the guy as if he’s a child, or maybe it’s because something underneath Peter’s skin is begging for Drew to draw it out with his tongue and teeth.

His skin flashes with heat at the thought and from the way Peter squirms in his seat, Drew thinks he might be thinking along a similar line.

“What can I help you with?” Drew asks, as if he’s not the one that came to Amelia’s in the first place.

Peter blinks at him. “Well, nothing.”

It’s necessarily a harsh statement but it bothers him all the same. “Good.”

“Good,” Peter repeats. Then he shakes his head. “You’re the enemy.”

Drew feels his eyebrows climb his forehead. He opens his mouth before letting it fall shut again. He’s the enemy?

“I am not.”

“You are,” Peter insists. He leans forwards, arms on the tables, his fingers intertwined. It gives him a serious demeanor as if he’s not saying the stupidest shit. “You’re my enemy.”

Drew mimics his stance, because he’s making fun of him and definitely not because it lets them lean close enough that he can see the green flecks in Peter’s eyes.

“And why is that?” Drew asks, his voice dipping low and his eyes flickering across Peter’s face. Peter’s breath hitches and his eyes narrow in on Drew’s neck where he knows dark marks are bruised into his skin. It gives him the smallest thrill inside his chest to see the way Peter’s pupils blow, just a little wider. “Because I’m Sal’s pastry chef?”

“Yes.,” Peter’s drawn his gaze away from Drew’s neck and Drew can’t help the grin that pulls his lips wide.

“Didn’t seem like I was your enemy last night,” Drew manages to keep his voice low but the indignant squeak Peter makes gives the topic away. He’s pretty sure he sees the waitress, Allison, flickering a curious look their way.

“That,” Peter says, “is not what I’m talking about.”

Drew lets his tongue slip out to wet his bottom lip. Peter’s eyes track it. “What are you saying then?”

“You’re why that goddamn Sal is doing better,” Peter says after a moment of silence, having spent that time dragging his focus from Drew’s lips. It feels akin to victory.

“I don’t give a shit about Sal.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Or this dumbass rivalry.”

“You’re a part of the rivalry now.”

“I really am not.”

“I’ve been told your pastries are the best in town.”

Pleasure so surprising shoots through him. Drew freezes his muscles to stop himself from visibly preening under the attention. Momentarily, he’s stunned silent from the reaction he had. He knows he’s a really good pastry chef; it’s why he gets away with half the shit he does. He’s been told a dozen times by a dozen different people in a dozen different places that his stuff is the best in town. But something about the way Peter says it, respectfully and begrudgingly all at once, forces something to unravel inside of Drew.

He hates it. He glares just to compensate. “I don’t give a shit,” he repeats, “about this dumbass rivalry.”

Peter stares at him hard. Then, quietly, “Prove it.”

“How?”

“Spy for me,” Peter says, laughing a little. It’s a joke and Peter knows it and Drew knows it.

Again, Drew only thinks about the decision for two seconds before aligning himself with Peter.

“Sure,” he agrees. He aims for flippant but the agreement itself denies flippancy.

Peter’s eyes widen. He gapes at Drew for nearly a full minute before, dumbly, asking: “What?”

Drew leans closer again. They’d both straightened through the conversation but now, they both move towards each other, as if falling into the space. “I’ll be your spy.”

“You will?”

“Yes.” Drew licks his lips. Peter’s too busy staring at him without blinking to even notice this time and somehow, it endears him to Drew.

“I—I was kidding,” Peter mutters.

Drew shrugs. “So what? Sal’s a jackass. And I’m not your enemy.”

He doesn’t know why it matters to him that Peter knows it. Sure, the guy is hot, but clearly being his so-called enemy doesn’t actually prevent anything from happening between them. The bar last night proved that they could consider each other indifferently and still have a real nice time. Also, the entire concept of having an enemy when they’re just goddamn chefs in restaurants is laughable—it’s a childish idea that Drew shouldn’t even be entertaining, let alone interacting with.

So it doesn’t matter how Peter considers him—enemy, stranger, friend, something else. Drew doesn’t care about this guy and he doesn’t really care about this job. He’s only here for a few weeks, two months tops, before he’s saved enough cash to get the hell out of this goddamn town. So however Peter considers him, it really, truly doesn’t matter.

He swallows anyway, waiting a bit too breathlessly to find out what Peter will say.

Peter considers him and it takes more effort not to squirm than Drew is happy admitting to. After a spout of silence, the only thing breaking through their quiet interaction being the occasional scrape of a plate or ding of the bell above the door, Peter nods.

“Good,” he says. “Welcome to the team.”

“The team?”

“The Amelia’s team,” Peter elaborates. “Team Anti-Sal’s team.”

Drew shakes his head. “Jesus. Okay.”

A smile breaks across Peter’s face. It shifts something on him, eases the tension he was holding. It looks good on him and Drew nearly smiles back. He wants to glare. Instead, he smirks. It’s the only compromise his body and mind can make at the moment.

“How was the food?”

Insanely goddamn incredible. “Pretty good,” he says.

Peter’s shoulders rise as if he gave the compliment that he’d wanted to instead of the half-hearted one he’d shot out. “Oh! I’m glad. Good.”

For some reason, it makes Drew feel badly that he didn’t actually tell the whole truth with the compliment. So he adds, “I can see why Sal’s worried.”

Peter’s mouth opens and he looks bright.

They look at one another, a bit too long, too much staring and too much quiet. It feels acutely nice and Drew breaks it when he realizes that. Something bubbles in his throat and he has to tear his gaze fully away from the man. He looks around for a clock. There isn’t one in sight.

“It’s half past two,” Peter supplies when Drew huffs out in frustration.

His head snaps up. “Shit, I’m late.”

Peter reaches across the table and pulls Drew’s plate to him before standing, gathering the dirty dishes. “Can’t have that. Need my spy to have a job.”

Drew rolls his eyes, grabbing the hoodie he’d discarded earlier and throwing it on again. He hesitates before standing. Peter fills the space by sending him a little three finger wave around the empty coke glass and then turns, heading back to the door that must lead to the kitchen.

Drew puts money on the table for his meal and stands up, carefully aware of the waitress and several patrons’ eyes on him as he weaves his way through the restaurant. He darts out as inconspicuously as he can, trying to keep a blank mask over his expression.

The bite of cold outside refreshes him. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him or why he’s so hellbent on making poor decisions. Every one of his interactions with Peter goes against what he sets out to do.

Sure, Peter is hot. His short hair and broad shoulders give him that good, old All American look that Drew has been known to go after. It doesn’t help that the guy is clearly Kansas born and bred, with the freckles and drawl to prove it.

So he’s a hot, bumbling country guy and Drew’s a cynical asshole who has a type. He’s never really been one to act crazy over a cute guy before, but, fuck it. Poplar is boring as hell, his boss is an asshole, and if he wants to go a little crazy for the hot guy next door, fuck it, he will.

The walk back to Sal’s is slow, especially considering he’s over ten minutes late from his lunch break. When he gets there, Sal’s red-faced and sweating and Drew decides that, yeah, he doesn’t really mind helping to sabotage the guy the best he can.

And if that means he gets to see Peter a little more, maybe get to have a repeat performance of last night, or even something more, in an actual bed, well—Drew isn’t going to complain about that.