Chapter Ten

“You did what,” Karen deadpans, staring at James from the front doorway. James shifts on the couch, tucking his feet underneath himself to keep them warm as he makes his best attempt at working. Karen isn’t having any of it, though; she stalks forward and pulls the blanket off of his shoulders, ignoring the distressed noise he makes in the back of his throat at the sudden rush of cold air. “I told you to talk to him, did you manage that much at least?”

James makes a noise halfway between a groan and an actual response, and Karen rolls her eyes. “I talked to him, all right? I just didn’t exactly introduce myself.”

Karen freezes where she’s leaning over the table, rearranging the fake flowers sitting in the center, and narrows her eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“He—” James starts, then breaks off and sighs. He doesn’t want to explain all this to anyone, much less Karen. He doesn’t know what had prompted him to keep up the conversation, to let Matthew think that James and Nicholas were two different people, but by the time he had realized his mistake, Matthew was halfway through talking about how he had met Margaret, and the bright-eyed look on his face was too much for James to end it all there. “He didn’t recognize me,” is all he says eventually, hoping it’s enough of an explanation to satisfy Karen.

It isn’t, of course.

“Does he not know you’re his boss?” Karen asks, voice slow and measured, as if James is a kid who wrote on the walls and not a fully functioning, successful adult. Frankly, he’s a little offended.

“He thinks I’m an interior designer,” James whines, burying his face in the nearest throw pillow. “He’s tall and beautiful and his voice sounds like honey and he’s perfect and he thinks I’m an interior designer that’s never talked to him before.”

“I mean, you’ve technically never had a face-to-face conversation with him until now,” Karen offers, and James shoots her an unamused look.

“I talk to him nearly every day, Karen,” James deadpans. “Except most of the time, he calls me Nicholas or Mr. Clarke and chews me out for not giving him enough time to bake.”

“Why can’t you just go back tomorrow and clear everything up?”

James rolls his eyes and huffs, pushing himself off the couch to pace around his living room impatiently. Karen watches him as he goes, eyebrows raised and mouth set in a flat line. “Because,” he says, dramatic emphasis on his words just for the effect, “He can’t stand me as Nicholas. Said so himself, actually.”

That had probably been the worst moment of the entire conversation. James had done his best to fake a sympathetic smile and nod when Matthew had sighed and complained about his boss ‘never giving him the time or respect he needs,’ and how Margaret apparently suggested at least once a week that Matthew just quit and wait for some other event company to snatch him up. Realizing that it wasn’t just irritation that Matthew felt toward him—that he really, honestly got under Matthew’s skin enough that it made him consider just quitting that often—makes guilt and disappointment crawl underneath James’ skin. Karen gives him a pitying look, dropping the righteous older sister act for a moment and letting him deal with his problems without interference for a brief moment.

“But he liked you as James, right?” Karen says after a few seconds, voice softer than it had been, with a note of sympathy. Reluctantly, James nods. Matthew had seemed to like him, genuinely enjoyed his company and asked him to come back when Margaret came to hustle him back into the kitchen. If he had just been “James the bakery regular” instead of 'Nicholas J. Clarke the overbearing and unfairly demanding boss', the two of them might really have had a chance at something.

“Yeah,” he says, “I think he did.”

“You have to tell him,” Karen says, with a smile that’s half a grimace. “You know you do.”

James sighs. He knows she’s right. She usually is, but this is one situation that he really, genuinely wishes she was wrong about. He supposes that he could just drop off the face of the earth, give up going to the bakery for his late lunches, return to texting Matthew about business and nothing else, tell Margaret that he’s sorry but she shouldn’t try and get Matthew to talk to him anymore. He doesn’t want to do that, though, something in his chest twists hot and sharp at the thought of leaving behind the one place he’s managed to be himself, to find something close to friends that aren’t forced to be around him because of work.

“I know,” he says, and his answering smile is sad and slow, laced with bitter disappointment.

***

I’ll come in to pick up the samples tomorrow, he texts Matthew, heart hammering in his chest at the thought. It was the best way he could think of to explain everything: come in as himself, see Matthew in person and smooth everything over, since Matthew seems to like him so much better in person anyway. Still, he’s more than half convinced that Matthew will drop him in a heartbeat once he finds out; if he does, at least James was able to have one good conversation with him before everything went downhill.

In person? Matthew replies. Then, a few moments later, I didn’t expect that. I thought you would send Karen again. James shakes his head, hovering his fingers over the screen to tap out a reply when another message comes in.

Looking forward to actually getting to meet you, it says. James stares at it, stunned for a moment. Matthew has never been this civil with him, not since their first few interactions. Most of their conversations have been fiery banter, irritated messages back and forth that James used to mistake for sarcastic. He knows better now, knows that Matthew really does mean the vitriolic things he says, but they had never been this openly...well, nice before. Even if it’s just a bit of small talk, nearly meaningless in the greater scope of the day, James feels a strange swooping sensation in his stomach at the glimpse of the Matthew he talked to in the bakery coming through in the texts.

I’ll be there at five, he sends back, not willing to say anything more familiar in case he gives himself away. Five should be a good, safe hour to come in. Almost everyone is gone for the day, except for a few regulars and Margaret, who probably won’t ever let him live all this down. It’s a comfort, though, that the shop will be relatively empty. If it all goes wrong, at least only a few people will be there to witness it. Karen had offered to go with him, to ease the blow a bit, but James had waved her off. This is something he needs to do on his own, otherwise Matthew might not actually forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself, at the very least.

Looking back down at his phone, James scrolls back up through the few texts they had sent each other over the past couple days. There was nothing in their conversation that would warrant a sudden shift in Matthew’s personality, at least toward Nicholas. Toward James, though, there was no way he could have known, but the timing of the change seemed a little too neat to be coincidence alone.

You’re in a good mood, James sends Matthew, before he can stop himself. He sucks in a sharp breath as soon as the message sends, holding it as he watches the text at the bottom of the screen that tells him that Matthew is typing.

What, I’m not allowed to be nice to you? It’s terse and snappish, the sort of thing that Matthew would normally send him, and somehow it makes James feel relaxed and uneasy at the same time. His phone buzzes again, and another message pops up. It’s just been a good day, I guess.

The swooping feeling returns, leaving James unsteady on his feet. Matthew had a good day. Matthew had a good day today, of all days, the first time James had ever talked to him in person. It could be a coincidence, of course, but something in the back of his head tells him that it isn’t likely.

Yeah, he sends back. Mine, too.