Chapter Fourteen

James finds himself standing outside Matthew’s bakery at half past five, work folder in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s strangely hesitant. He’s never had any problem just walking in to the bakery before, but this is different. It’s not just him and Margaret today, not just sitting at his table and flipping through paperwork and staring out the window, it’s him and Matthew spending time together, without a phone screen in between them or James trying to hide who he is. He glances down at his phone again, mentally kicking himself for being forward enough to bring up lunch. He should have known better. He can dish out lines like no one’s business. Working around celebrities and high-profile people, he’s learned to be a bit more pandering when it comes to talking to anyone, but the second Matthew had suggested they sit down and have lunch at the bakery, all of James’ composure had flown out of the window.

He can’t just stand in front of the bakery forever, though, so he takes a breath and pushes open the door. It’s exactly like every other time he’s come in. Margaret is leaning against the counter chatting with customers, a huddle of students has taken over the large table near the back wall and are talking in hushed tones, a couple of elderly regulars have their feet propped up in the armchairs to the side, newspapers in their hands. Still, James’ skin tingles with nervous anticipation. Something had shifted between him and Matthew over the past couple days; somehow, they had gone from begrudging tolerance to tentative friendship in the blink of an eye, so quickly that James can’t remember where they had drawn the line.

Karen’s voice nags at him, stuck in the back of his mind the way it’s been for the past twenty-eight years, telling him that there’s something more in the thrum under his skin than just nerves over a new friendship. If Karen were here, James is sure she would be prying as usual, picking at his defenses and trying to get him to admit there’s something more between him and Matthew. Not that he would admit it even if there were, of course. Sure, he had thought Matt was ridiculously attractive the first time they met, but he was sensible. Matthew couldn’t stand him up until a few days ago, and James refuses to get his hopes up over someone as unreachable as that, anyways.

Margaret gives him a sour look as soon as he gets up to the counter, and James crumples a little bit underneath her expression. He doesn’t know how much of the situation she knows, but he figures Matthew must have told her at least a little of it, if she’s acting this different around him.

“The usual?” she asks, her glare gone so quickly that James wonders if it was ever there at all. The sudden change gives him whiplash, and he covers up his surprise with a startled chuckle.

“Just that, thanks,” he replies. When Margaret reaches for his card, though, he stops her, clearing his throat and willing down the flush creeping high up his cheeks. “And one of whatever Matthew’s favorite coffee is, thanks.”

Margaret raises one eyebrow skeptically, disapproval edging back into her expression, but she takes the card and swipes it anyway. She pauses as she hands it back, holding it just out of reach and looking James up and down, sizing him up like he’s on display in a shop. James holds her gaze for a long moment before she finally hands back the card, leaning across the counter. “He likes tea, actually,” she says in a low voice, just loud enough for James to hear her. James coughs sharply, stammering out the beginning of an apology when Margaret laughs good-naturedly, all traces of disapproval leaving her expression. Chuckling along nervously, James gives her a tight smile, not really sure where he stands with her after all of the back-and-forth signals he’s been getting.

“You’re all right, Clarke,” she says, somehow making his last name sound like more of a friendly nickname than his actual name. “You’re not bad.”

With that, she waves him away from the counter and turns to stick her head through the doorway to the kitchen, calling for Matthew. James withdraws, sitting down stiffly in his usual seat, pulling a napkin from the dispenser as he goes and ripping it into little pieces underneath the table once he sits. It helps to ease his nerves a bit, methodically tearing the paper into bits as he waits for Matthew to come out of the kitchen.

When he does, it takes everything James has not to swallow his own tongue. He can’t let his nerves get the better of him. Really, he’s an adult, he should be better than this, but his throat goes dry as Matthew slides into the chair across from him, hair sticking up a bit on the left side and a smudge of flour across his cheekbone. He’s handsome as ever, but for some reason James likes it more when he looks like this, a bit disheveled, a blush riding high on his cheeks and the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his lips. He looks about as nervous as James feels, which is a small relief.

”I think...“ James starts, pausing to cough and clear out the dryness of his throat. He probably looks like a fool; he’s never been this self-conscious around anyone, not even high-profile clients at his work. Then again, Matthew’s always had that effect on him: James has a sudden, vivid memory of nearly tripping over his words the very first time he saw Matthew, back when he still thought Matthew was one of the baristas up at the coffee bar. “I think you promised me lunch,” he finishes lamely, wincing inwardly at how shaky his voice sounds.

That prompts a full smile from Matthew, and James almost regrets it. Matthew’s expression is bright as the sun. “I did, didn’t I?” he replies, pulling his gaze away from James (who does not pout at the loss of his undivided attention, however briefly) to wave at Margaret. She nods back, some unspoken reply to a question that James hadn’t realized Matthew was asking. “It’s in the back, if you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen. It’s a little busy out here to be bringing an actual meal out, even if I am the owner. People might accuse me of special treatment.”

”Even if I’m your boss?” James asks, a teasing note to his voice and a cheeky smile on his face. Matthew returns it, a crooked grin that makes something in James’ chest trip and stumble for a second.

“Do you want to be my boss right now?” Matthew asks, and James finds that no, he really doesn’t.

***

Matthew leads him through the door to the back room as inconspicuously as they can manage, Margaret distracting the lady at the counter that stares after them with a curious look on her face. For all James works with bakers, given the importance of good food at his job, he can’t remember ever having been to the back kitchen of a bakery. It’s nothing like his bare-bones kitchen at home; pots and pans and cooking utensils line the walls, while counters line both sides of the room, holding an assortment of doughs, batters, and mixes that Matthew has left waiting. James feels a bit out of his element, but tension bleeds out of Matthew’s shoulders the second they step foot through the doorway. He looks infinitely more relaxed when he turns back to James, and James realizes that this is the Matthew he’d been trying to talk to all along.

Sure, he had treated Matthew like a businessman when they had first started their partnership, texting him the way he would any other colleague at work. But Matthew isn’t business now. He’s not suits and ties, ordering around a half-dozen other bakers and putting on a front for the customers like most of the celebrity bakers James had worked with in the past. Matthew is just human, really, here in the comfort and familiar atmosphere of his kitchen, and James realizes with a start that he doesn’t need any other version of Matthew than that.

There’s a table set up in the back of the kitchen, cleared away and covered with a checkered tablecloth, two chairs set up on either side and a single tea light burning in the center. Matt flushes when James stops to look at it, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “You don’t think it’s too much, right? I mean, I wanted it to look like an actual restaurant.”

“It’s great,” James breathes out in a rush, cutting Matthew off. “It’s perfect. What’s for lunch? Dinner?” He laughs once, the sound coming out a little high and hysterical despite James’ attempts to keep a cool facade. “I don’t actually know what time it is any more,” he admits.

“Almost six,” says Matthew. “I think it counts as dinner, unless you want to count it as work, I have a couple samples nearly done that I could pull out instead?”

That gets a genuine smile out of James, and he lets himself relax a little. If Matthew is joking about work, they must be on good terms. God, James hopes they’re on good terms. He sits down, willing down the heat on his cheeks and the flutter in his stomach, watching the curve of Matthew’s spine as he leans over to take something out of the oven.