instinct & taste | part five
ONE WEEK LATER
SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES
“And as far as Jared goes,” Sebastian inquires, “you’re still getting along as roommates?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” he generalizes. “He makes sure I get out of the house now and then, mostly to distract me from worrying about the restaurant.”
“Does it work?”
“Sort of. It keeps me from thinking about it for a while.” But things are usually worse when I go back. “I keep telling him he doesn’t have to, but he’s too good of a guy to let me wallow in my own misery.”
“I wonder if you realize,” Sebastian says, “that the way you talk about Jared is different from the way you talk about anyone else in your life, professional or otherwise.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
Sebastian folds his hands over his notebook. “I think you know that it does. Your relationship with Jared goes beyond friendship, doesn’t it?”
This time, Jensen stares down at his hands. He’s not sure how to answer. The situation simmering between Jensen and Jared is complicated. For so many reasons.
Friday night had been the diversion from work he’d urgently needed. Genevieve led Jared and Jensen uptown to Fuel, a Caribbean-influenced cantina and bar that kept the original architecture of the classic gas station that used to occupy the corner of Rutledge and Coming Streets. Under strings of colored glass lights, they shared a high table on the open patio and sipped dark rum drinks until last call, warmed by the strategically placed outdoor heaters.
With the rum’s effects spreading throughout his body, Jensen relaxed until the tension of the last few days was the furthest thing from his mind. He caught up with friends from other kitchens who he hadn’t seen in months, traded gossip with line cooks and servers who introduced themselves by restaurant first and names second. Genevieve split her time between their table and a group of her girlfriends from school, jokingly reassuring Jensen and Jared that she’d already warned her friends that flirting with them would be useless.
Jared caught Jensen’s eye mid-laugh, cheekbones pink with the same flush Jensen was trying to blame on the alcohol. They had the table to themselves-Genevieve’s ringing laugh could be heard across the small patio-alone in a group of people who were all focused on something different. No one was looking at them; it was the perfect time to shift towards one another and erase the awkwardness that had plagued them since Wednesday night.
They didn’t.
Then on Sunday, Jared cashed in his rain check and insisted they take the dogs to the beach. The trip went as expected, with Jared and Jensen chasing after Paisley’s constant attempts to fetch driftwood, other people’s Frisbees and tennis balls, and in one harrowing instance, a transparent sack of what they thought was plastic, which turned out to be a dead jellyfish. Scout behaved, trotting happily after his sister through the sand with a palmetto husk he refused to let go of.
Back at the house, Jensen helped Jared wrangle the squirming dogs under the back hose to wash off the sand and saltwater. The combination of high-pressure water, heat, and Paisley’s shaking had been a recipe for soaked t-shirts and dripping hair, and Jensen found himself sucked into a water fight with Jared, the dogs barking happily in between. And there had come a moment in the midst of the chaos where Jensen found himself looking down into Jared’s face, sunlight diffused through their eyelashes and catching the water drops raining around them. He could have dipped forward then, touched cool lips, and drank the water from their inevitable softness.
He hadn’t.
The worst-or maybe the best; Jensen’s having a hard time sorting it into the right category-came on Sunday night. While Jared showered, Jensen focused on dinner, sautéing leeks and dicing tomatoes they’d picked up from the farmer’s market on the way home from the beach. He heard the water stop running in the middle of adding garlic (less than he normally would) and a romano cheese sauce to the browned strips of pork.
The sundried tomato pasta was cooling in the sink, perfectly al dente, when Jared walked into the kitchen.
“I thought you were gonna miss din-” He stopped mid-jab, tongue frozen as he read the crimson letters on Jared’s heather gray t-shirt.
D.A.C.A. The Dallas Academy of Culinary Arts.
“Where’d you get that?”
Jared tracked Jensen’s stare down to the print that ran across his chest. “Oh crap, this is yours. I grabbed a pile of shirts from the laundry room that I thought were mine, and I didn’t check. I can change.” Jared began lifting the shirt from the bottom, revealing the hip-clinging waistband of his jeans.
“Hey,” Jensen said before he could stop himself, “you don’t have to. It’s fine.” Jared paused with the t-shirt above his navel, a slice of skin sandwiched between cotton and denim, still moist from the hot water. Water stains ringed the collar where Jared’s wet hair swung across the material. “Keep it on.”
Saying that brought Jared’s eyes back up to Jensen’s, a flare of something coursing through his pupils before it was lost. Jensen entertained the idea that Jared wearing his shirt was a calculated move, and that Jared would come around the island and force Jensen back against the counter, decisively ending the standoff with his mouth.
Obviously Jared hadn’t, or Jensen wouldn’t be sitting here with Sebastian, conflicted about the answer to a simple question. What the hell is Jared to him?
“I don’t know,” is what Jensen finally admits. “But I don’t want to ruin what we’ve got by trying to figure it out before I’m ready.”
“What defines ‘ready’?”
Jensen rolls his eyes; he’d left the door wide open for that. “Maybe when I’m not dealing with so much shit-sorry-at the restaurant. Maybe I’ll be ready when I have my kitchen back.”
Pausing in his note-taking, Sebastian asks, “Do you still consider that a possibility?”
“What?” Jensen sputters. “Of course it is. That’s what I’ve been working towards for months!”
“With little to no improvement in the situation.” Sebastian sighs when Jensen tosses an accusing glance in his direction. “You’ve won a handful of battles, that’s true, but I don’t think this is a war you’re likely to win.”
Jensen bristles. “You don’t know that,” he says in a flat tone. “Who the hell would run that kitchen if I wasn’t there?” On his fingers, Jensen counts, “Dom’s never wanted the responsibility, no one wants to work for Mark ‘cause he’s a scary bastard, Libby would drown the place in debt buying up Bluefin tuna, and Saban isn’t the type. And despite what everyone seems to think, there’s a finite number of quality chefs in this city; the rest will never have what it takes.”
“I was under the impression that Ms. Carlton-Jennings had already made her selection.”
“Paul?” Jensen folds over laughing. “You’re kidding, right? Paul is so wrong for that kitchen.”
With a smile meant to placate, Sebastian points out the flaws in Jensen’s logic. “I think you know that it’s not a matter of him being the right chef for the restaurant.”
And maybe Jensen does, but it’s not a thought he likes to have hanging around. “Miranda’s just playing her games,” he says, putting enough conviction behind it so he believes it too. “She’ll get sick of it.”
“Might I suggest a backup plan if that doesn’t turn out to be the case?”
“Feel free,” Jensen tells him. Sebastian can talk all he wants; Jensen’s a well-greased skillet and other people’s suggestions have a tendency not to stick. With steel in his voice, he adds, “But Riverside has always been my kitchen, and that’s never going to change.”
HOME
“We should go out tonight.”
Jared ambushes Jensen with the suggestion as soon as he gets back from walking the dogs around the neighborhood. However, as he is barred from his own kitchen for the night, Jensen’s loathe to impose on anyone else’s.
“I have plenty here to make a decent meal.”
“Nope.” Jared shakes his head, leaning against the back of the sofa where Jensen’s working, laptop warm on his thighs. “Tonight’s your night off, so we’re going out where someone else will cook for us, and we’ll watch sports like two regular guys.”
Jensen scoffs.
“Fine,” Jared says, “I’ll pay for dinner and drinks if you name one sport that’s having a season right now.”
“Golf!” Jensen exclaims, grateful that he needed to scroll past a few of the sports channels on his way up to the cooking block.
“Golf is not a sport-sport,” Jared rules. “That doesn’t count.”
“Whatever, I watch real sports.”
Jared laughs. “Locker room porn doesn’t count either.” When Jensen snaps his eyes in his direction, Jared shrugs. “I’ve seen your DVD collection. Nice variation, by the way.”
“Dude, I know we’re close, but we’re not ‘sharing porn’ close.”
Jared cracks up, laughing as he winds around the dogs who are sprawled out on the hardwood floor while their human roommates bicker. He disappears down the hall and Jensen is almost ready to believe he’s off the hook when Jared calls back, “Get your ass up and dressed, Jensen!”
“I am-” he begins to say before looking down at his shirt and realizing that, no, he never changed out of windpants or the nearly faded Art Institute tee he’d been wearing since his post-lunch shower. “Fine,” he concedes, knowing Jared can hear him based on the whoop that follows, “but I get to pick where we go.”
“Too late,” Jared shouts, and Jensen watches Scout turn towards the voice. “I know the perfect place.”
GOLDIE’S BAR
FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA
It’s not perfect, but Jensen can’t argue with Jared’s choice.
The retro gulf-fisherman-slash-Jimmy-Buffet décor inside Goldie’s doesn’t put Jensen off his appetite (he had sampled palate-revolutionizing cuisine from shadier establishments). Jared walks straight up to the bar with comfortable familiarity, ignoring the stack of finger-smudge menus piled next to a bin of paper napkin-wrapped silverware bundles.
“Two of the mahi-mahi tacos,” Jared begins listing off to the bartender, an older man with long hair and a longer beard with more gray in them than gold. “Two sirloin, two honey shrimp, and two of the tilapia. Throw ‘em all on a platter and we’ll sort it out.”
“Drinks?” Goldie-Jensen presumes-asks gruffly.
“Coronas,” Jared says, cutting Jensen out of the order entirely. He’s not complaining-the mix of spices and seasonings drifting into the bar from the kitchen in back makes his senses come alive.
“I’ve come in here a few times since you hired me,” Jared explains after they choose a wide booth made of varnished wood. “Drove by it on my way to Folly Beach and I figured, ‘why not?’ Fish tacos sounded pretty damn good.”
“My cooking’s not good enough for you?” Jensen asks, lip cocked against the rim of his Corona.
“You expect me to hold out ‘til ten or eleven every night? My body has needs, man.”
They drink at a moderate, matched pace, Jensen listening as Jared strings together comments about the baseball game-another sport that’s apparently in season-on the bar’s mural-sized flatscreen. Jensen licks a hint of lime from the corner of his lips, smug in victory when Jared stutters over a coaching analysis Jensen couldn’t care less about.
Goldie delivers two more Coronas along with their platter of tacos. Jared insists Jensen try one of each, dividing food between their plates. “Trust me, you’ll love ‘em.”
There’s little doubt about that; Jensen’s awash in bright colors and the promise of full flavor. Fat red peppers, decorated with dark stripes from the grill, pop out between searing strips of sirloin tucked into a soft, corn tortilla. Sweet pieces of fish, liberally dusted with chili lime seasoning tucked between slices of avocado and fresh chopped slaw. Glancing up to see how many tacos Jared has devoured while he was busy staring, he’s surprised to see Jared’s plate untouched.
Jared is looking at Jensen’s plate, mouth tilted down and his dimples hidden, and Jensen understands the problem.
“If you don’t like it-”
“Quiet,” Jensen laughs. “I’m just deciding where to start.”
The tacos deliver on promised flavor, each bite a spicy explosion for Jensen to wrap his tongue around. Jared’s eating with gusto now, moaning with his mouth full, and Jensen spares half a thought to be jealous of the way Jared’s swooning over someone else’s cooking. But he totally gets it.
“Oh my god”-it’s Jensen’s turn to swoon-“the mahi-mahi?”
Jared laughs, muffled thanks to his mouthful. “Right? I think he soaks it in Patron or something.”
Jensen wonders if Libby has ever thought to marinate her fish in tequila. Then again, bottles of liquor never last long in high-pressure kitchens.
He’s savoring one of his last bites when Jared asks, “So why don’t you have your own restaurant?”
Swallowing and chewing gives him time to form an answer. “I thought Riverside was going to be my restaurant,” he says, grabbing his Corona and taking a long sip to counter the tightness in his throat. “Guess I was wrong.”
“You didn’t foresee anything like this happening,” Jared tells him, holding up two fingers when Goldie passes by their table. “Miranda taking over, hiring Paul.”
“Forcing me out.”
Jared sets his empty bottle on the table. “Is that really what you think they’re doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Jensen swallows what’s left of his beer and sets the empty next to Jared’s. He’s had a little time to think since his last session with Sebastian and it is obvious. Miranda’s picked her horse (more like a horse’s ass) and Jensen’s not even in the race.
Jared thanks Goldie when he drops off their next round, clearing plates and bottles from the tabletop. To Jensen, he says, “Maybe Riverside’s the wrong place for you.”
Jensen’s tempted to ask if he and Sebastian have been comparing notes. When he scoffs, Jared shakes his head. “Seriously, you’re too good for that restaurant.”
“That restaurant has my menu,” Jensen argues, feeling his face flush. “I poured every inch of myself into building that kitchen. It was supposed to be my future. Why does everyone think that’ll be so easy for me to give up?”
“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” Jared says, chasing the statement with beer, “but I think you deserve something better.”
Jensen has no argument against that. “I’ve never done it on my own.”
“Sounds to me like you could if you wanted to. You wouldn’t have to put up with someone like Miranda cutting you off at every turn. Riverside is a great place,” Jared adds, earnest and sharp despite the alcohol they’ve already consumed, “but people go there for your food and your reputation, because you’re one of the best chefs in the city. Don’t you think they’d follow you?”
The faith Jared has in him is astounding; it may add up to more than Jensen has in himself. “I need to see it through.”
“Says who?” Jensen can see that Jared’s eyes are slow to focus, and realizes they’ve put away a significant number of beers over the course of dinner. “It’s not a test to see how much you can put up with. If it were, congratulations. You’ve already won the gold medal”-Jared heaps on the sarcasm-“so get out of there already.”
“You really think I should?”
Their eyes meet; neither man flinches. The intensity in Jared’s gaze holds Jensen in place, and the taco bar virtually disappears around them. Television muted, conversations turned down to a low buzz, lights dimmed until all Jensen sees is Jared staring back. There’s a promise to be read in Jared’s expression, but Jensen ignores it in favor of the lust overriding his senses.
Jared breaks the cover of silence first, shuffling his eyes away from Jensen and reaching for the bottle in front of him.
“Yeah, but…” Jared wavers. “I know it doesn’t mean a lot, coming from me.”
No matter what Jared thinks of his own opinion, Jensen gives him more weight than anyone else in his life, save Josh.
“Trust me,” Jensen says, “it does.”
And Jared may be blushing, Jensen can’t tell thanks to the beer, but he knows his own face feels warmer. Abandoning the heavier topics, he asks Jared about classes and the countdown to graduation. It’s a successful diversion; Jared leaps to fill him in on final projects and commencement plans (which seem to include Jensen, a fact that makes him smile behind the rim of his Corona).
Jensen studies Jared while he’s talking, the thin film of a beer buzz making everything soft around the edges, and resolves to replace every fantasy version of Jared he has-except for the vivid reel involving nudity and tiramisu-with the one sitting across the table. Jared is relaxed, forehead smooth and free of tension-wrinkles, tongue caught between his teeth and lower lip as he finds amusement in something he says. The light in the bar catches the low chestnut hues in his hair where it’s flipped casually against his shirt collar, and Jensen decides that he needs to cut himself off if he’s starting to name the tones in Jared’s hair.
He’s gay, not a romance novelist.
After Jared finishes another beer, Jensen can’t take it anymore. Jared hasn’t said anything, but the looks he’s been tossing across the table are as subtle as Jensen’s pastry chef wielding a butcher’s knife. He’d blame it on the alcohol if it weren’t for the fact that they’ve been building up to something, and Jensen’s patience is almost non-existent when he drinks.
“You ready to get out of here?” Jensen’s tongue slips out across his bottom lip. His smile turns smug when he sees Jared track the gesture and swallow.
“Yeah,” Jared says, slightly breathless. “You good to drive?”
He nods. “We’re five minutes from home.” Faulty logic when it comes to drinking and driving, but Jensen’s in much better shape than Jared, and lust is having a profoundly sobering effect. They each make a quick stop in the restroom before waving to Goldie-with promises to come back-and leaving.
The next five minutes are some of the longest Jensen’s had to sit through. He concentrates on the road as much as he needs to, but there’s six and a half feet of distraction in the passenger seat, contorting and stretching his long limbs.
“Why can’t you drive a normal car?”
Jensen takes offense on the Prius’ behalf. “There’s nothing abnormal about my car.”
“It’s a clown car.” Jared tucks his back against the door, angled so that his crotch is right there in Jensen’s periphery.
“Dude, I’ve been in trucks with less leg room than this.”
Jared seems to consider the argument, head rolling back against the window. Jensen makes it through the one traffic light between Goldie’s Bar and their neighborhood, and Jensen thinks he’s in the clear.
Until Jared opens his mouth and says, “At least with this car, I know you’re not trying to compensate for anything.” Then, with a leer Jensen can hear: “Not that I had any doubts.”
Jensen’s foot is like lead on the accelerator (and he almost misses the roar of a non-eco-friendly engine) the rest of the way home.
HOME
The air is thick with notes of white jasmine and tea olive. Jensen fills his lungs with the humid, fragrant air as he steps onto the porch with Jared flush against his back. Personal space is a forgotten luxury as they walk in and make their way towards the kitchen where they’re immediately corralled by Paisley and Scout demanding to be let outside.
“We should put-”
“-let them out in the yard,” Jared finishes the thought as they both reach for the back door at the same time, fingers meeting on the handle. The dogs rush out, barks fading as they romp away from the house, leaving Jared and Jensen free to focus on each other.
The touch of Jared’s hand against his is like hitting the ignition; Jensen’s core heats and roars, breath fighting to get out of his lungs as he stares Jared down. Without breaking the gaze, Jared nods, and the green light’s on in Jensen’s mind.
Momentum sends them crashing into the living room wall. Jared paws and pushes at Jensen’s shoulders, trying to force him away for a few seconds before moaning, physical protest disintegrating. Their first kiss if off-target, but Jared hooks Jensen’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs until they’re exhaling into the same space.
Jared splits his knees, slides his ass down the drywall, and grinds into Jensen. He can feel the thick promise of Jared’s cock behind his jeans, slow to fill with the way his blood’s thick as molasses from the alcohol. If Jensen weren’t so keyed up, he’d be tempted to let Jared get hard in his mouth; taste the flavor and musk as his cock-which is going to be impressively long-grows and expands across his taste buds. He wants to suck Jared off so damn bad (he’s a chef, of course he’s orally fixated) but the air’s closing in around them, almost too heavy to think.
What little gentleness their lips might have shared disappears quickly, Jensen roughing up Jared’s mouth. Their shadows melt together on the wall as Jared refuses to let Jensen put any space between them, his shoulder blades chiseling into the paint.
Jared whips his head back, sucking in the deep breath Jensen wasn’t letting him have. He bares his throat and Jensen moves in, fitting his body into the spaces and angles Jared has left open for him.
“It’s so hard…”
Jensen’s lips curl against Jared’s neck. “Tell me about it.”
“No, living with you. Seeing you and not having you.”
Jensen stops. It’s as if he’s listening to Jared speak a thought he's had so many times. “All you had to do was ask.”
Jared drops his chin, bringing the anxiety in his eyes to light. He cranes his neck away from Jensen’s teeth, strokes down Jensen’s spine. “I thought about it, but I didn’t want to mess things up,” he says, beer-laced slur hitting Jensen on the cheek.
“You think this is a bad idea?”
Jared shakes his head. Jensen exhales and sags forward, swaying his hips to gauge whether or not Jared’s interest has waned. He’s glad to feel Jared’s pleasure swelling, girth he can dig into and grind against.
If Jared’s got any other protests, he holds them behind his teeth, and Jensen makes certain he’s silenced with mouth-to-mouth pressure, tongue sweeping the words away. Jared moans beautifully, recklessly, and that’s when Jensen knows he’s pressed past the point of return.
And Jensen can’t help himself when Jared’s just offering it like this, legs angled against the outside of Jensen’s thighs, undulating. If Jared weren’t so willing, the alcohol might be enough to keep Jensen from tearing into Jared’s jeans, knuckles scraping over the zipper when he reaches in and weighs the heft of Jared’s cock in his palm, knees buckling at what he finds.
“Fuck, Jen…”
Jensen takes that as an offer. “I can’t wait,” he says, already thrusting when Jared shoves his hand into Jensen’s pants. “Otherwise I’d want you spread-eagled on my bed, begging me to get between your legs and-”
Jared keens, and Jensen allows himself a satisfied smirk before Jared’s mouth is crushing his, the span of his palm working their cocks with the same stroke-and-twists. Belts and zippers jangle as their pants fall to their knees leaving warm thighs bare to increase the friction. With the reins firmly in Jared’s hands, Jensen redirects his energy into his mouth, rolling his tongue behind Jared’s teeth, pressing further every time he hears a moan. Soon enough, half of those moans are coming from him as Jared squeezes and jerks, digging the fingers of his other hand around the curve of Jensen’s hip.
Jensen’s not ready to come-feels like he could fuck Jared’s hand for hours and not get enough of the knuckles and ridges and spaces between his fingers-but Jared makes the decision for him, dropping his own cock and fondling Jensen’s, slipping his fingers down to work Jensen’s balls at the same time. Jensen ruts against Jared’s dick, tries to work his hand in to help, but he shudders and folds before. His semen wets Jared’s fingers and drips in sticky trails across his upper thigh.
With a whine that goes straight past Jensen’s tongue, Jared bucks and adds to the mess between them, panting as soon as Jensen lets go of his mouth.
“I feel too good to move,” Jensen says a few minutes later. The laugh that rolls through Jared’s belly warms him, but then Jensen’s being pushed back, shifted to the side. “Huh?”
“The dogs,” Jared says. “I can hear Paisley scratching at the door.”
“I’ll feed them,” Jensen says, hiding his grin against Jared’s collarbone before he moves away. Obviously they can’t stay propped up against the wall all night-Jensen’s knees are already quaking-so it’s time to move somewhere more comfortable, see what other explorations they can accomplish before the sun comes up. “Can you lock up the front?”
“Yeah, sure.”
The dogs dance around Jensen’s feet when he lets them in, but they’re quickly enticed away by the food in their bowls. Jensen kills the kitchen lights while he listens to Jared lock the front door and check the thermostat.
They meet in the hallway to the bedrooms.
“So,” Jensen says, rocking back on his heels, “my bed’s plenty big enough-”
Jared cuts him off, eyeing the guestroom door. “I’ve got an early class and I’m kinda…” he sighs. “Too many beers, I guess.”
That throws Jensen, especially since he can still feel Jared’s come cooling on his stomach. “You don’t want to stay with me?”
“Jensen, we live in the same house.” He smiles while he says it. “It’s not like I’m leaving. I’m just really, really tired, and if we sleep together…”
“I get it,” Jensen lies. He’s no stranger to how the blow off works. He didn’t write the book but he’s read most of the chapters, and it wouldn’t matter if Jared lived across the hall or across town-he’s giving Jensen the slip. “You gonna be around for breakfast?”
“Depends on what time you get up,” Jared says, and his expression shifts to something a little more honest. “I-thanks though. For tonight. For coming out, I mean, and for-”
Jensen’s allergic to awkwardness. “You’re right, it’s late and we’re tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” Before Jared can prolong their discomfort, Jensen shoulders past and shuts himself in the master bedroom, purposefully walking into the bathroom so he can’t hear whether or not Jared lingers in the hallway.
RIVERSIDE GRILL
“Jensen.” Miranda’s voice is cool, her painted teal manicure tap-tapping on Jensen’s desk. “This is becoming a problem.”
“You sitting in my chair? You’re right, that’s a problem.” Jensen says lightly. Miranda’s mouth twitches, but there’s nowhere he likes seeing Miranda less than in his office.
“Your attitude. With Paul,” she needlessly clarifies. Jensen’s been less-tolerant of his sous chef than normal this week. “It’s affecting business.”
“That’s a lie-I check the receipts every night. You’re making plenty of money, Miranda.”
To Miranda’s credit, she doesn’t squirm. “But you do have a problem with Paul.”
“Of course I do, I’ve been telling you that since you hired him. He berates the floor staff for the tiniest mistakes-”
“I’ve seen you get angry, too.”
“Yeah,” Jensen says, “when someone messes up badly enough to cost us money, not for modifications or pairing mistakes. And Paul’s had more than one plate sent back when he decides to make something differently than the menu describes it.”
“As if you don’t add your own signature touches,” Miranda points out, and Jensen wants to throw himself on one of Libby’s filet knives.
“They’re my recipes, and I’m not adding anything that the menu doesn’t cover, or that the servers won’t know was on it if a customer asks. What happens if Paul adds something that a customer is allergic too?”
“That hasn’t happened.”
“But it could,” Jensen tells her. “So yeah, I have a problem with him.”
Miranda spins the chair in a half circle, pale stalks in designer heels peeking out from the side of the desk. “It goes beyond that, though. Your issues with Paul are personal.”
Jensen’s jaw twitches. He’s so damn sick of people telling him what his issues are; he tolerates it from Jared, and he has to stomach Sebastian’s insights, but he refuses to swallow Miranda’s stale perceptions. Especially when it comes to Paul. There aren’t enough bricks in the world for the mental wall Jensen would need to block out the memory of Paul groping him in the walk-in, the way his words had slithered across Jensen’s lips until he wanted to spit out the bitter taste.
Miranda doesn’t seem to mind Jensen’s silence, letting him stew and adding more salt.
“I’m not going to fire him, Jensen, so you either need to deal with him, or you can pack up your knives and leave my kitchen.” Miranda doesn’t blink when Jensen jerks forward, a growl on his lips. “And you’d be taking your crew with you.”
That needles him. “What?”
“I need a staff that’s loyal to me, not you, and definitely not to my ex-husband.” She uncrosses her legs, stakes her pointed elbows on Jensen’s desk. “He’s not coming back, if that’s what you’re waiting for. Pierre’s gone, and he didn’t care enough about this restaurant to fight for it in the divorce,” she says, tone no more expressive than when she’s discussing liquor orders.
“As long as he got to keep his South American whore, he didn’t care what he signed away. Maybe Pierre knew this place was your dream, but it didn’t matter-he wasn’t going to fight for it.” Miranda’s eyes begin to smolder. “But I did. I wanted Riverside and I made sure I got it. I had a dream too, Jensen, only I wasn’t going to stand idly by while it was stolen.”
A chill slices through him. “I’m not letting you poach my menu and my kitchen,” he says, resolute. “I’ll fight for them.”
“Just don’t fight me. Or Paul. I’m not blind, Jensen. You’re a very talented chef, and I’d hate to have to let you go. But I own this restaurant and you’re in no position to take it.” Miranda stands. “Either learn to work with Paul or work somewhere else.”
“Is that all?” he asks, crossing his arms so that he won’t strangle her with a towel. “I have a full house to prep for.”
“By all means,” she says, waving Jensen out of his own office. Not that he wants to stay-he’d gag on her eau du toilette. “Oh, and let Paul run the shift meeting today.”
Jensen walks out.
When the Saturday night rush hits, Jensen has already settled into his rhythm. Pulling tickets, calling orders, and trusting in (the majority of) the crew behind him. Libby and Saban keep the back half of the kitchen on point while Dom oils the front of the line. And with nothing overly-taxing to concentrate on, Jensen’s mind drifts.
Jared remains the bright point in Jensen’s life; the pilot light which keeps him functioning from day to day. And that’s the crux behind why Jensen hasn’t brought up their against-the-wall, grinding slash make-out session. He can’t stand the thought that if he pushes too hard it won’t happen again.
And Jensen wants more; having Jared once was like taking the first bite of an amazing meal and then watching someone remove your plate. Jared hasn’t said he regrets what happened, but he hasn’t mentioned the incident at all. Instead, Jensen and Jared coexist the way they have been since Jared moved in: individual orbits that overlap once or twice a day, shared looks that linger until one of them passes out of view.
After the shift is over, Dom sidles up to the bar alongside Jensen. Julie pops a couple of tops and sets two beers in front of them, sweeping away with Jensen’s empty.
Dom glances around, making sure they have some privacy. “What’d Miranda say to you?”
“How d’you know she said anything?” The look Dom throws back means Jensen won’t be bluffing his way out. “Apparently I haven’t been showing enough respect for Paul’s culinary skills.”
Dom scoffs. “Maybe if he had any.”
“She threatened to fire me if I don’t stop trying to burn him out,” Jensen admits. “Me and my crew.”
He’s expecting derision, but Dom drowns his reaction with a hefty swallow before saying, “If she’s willing to dump one of the best crews in the city to keep one of Capriccio’s throwaways, then she and Dawson deserve each other. Without us, she’ll turn this place into an Olive Garden, albeit one with nicer plates.”
Jensen smiles. What he’s got with Dom-with Saban and Libby and Mark (on his less sociopathic days) -can’t be quantified on a traditional social scale of friendship, but it’s full-bodied, robust and loyal.
“Maybe I should start handing out gold stars.”
Dom is forced to swallow before he spits beer all over the bar. “Oh shit, the indignity! It’ll be just like sixth grade home-ec up in here.”
One by one, some in pairs, the staff files out until it’s just Jensen and Dom at the bar, plus a handful from the cleanup crew in the kitchen. The lights are dim, beers ice-cold as Jensen pulls them from the bar fridge. There are nights Jensen craves the constant buzz of a bar packed wall-to-wall with well-dressed flesh, drinks lined up and ready. But not tonight-he’d rather fill one of Riverside’s expensive barstools and savor the quiet.
“You know,” Dom says after a while, “it’s not a bad idea. Trying to get along with Paul, I mean.”
The worst part is, Jensen’s beginning to figure that out. “I’m getting that.”
“We all know this place was yours from the get-go, and if Pierre hadn’t dropped outta the picture, we’d be running the best place in the city. But he’s not coming back. You know that, right?”
“Some partner he was,” Jensen mutters.
“And I don’t think Miranda’s ever gonna trust you,” Dom says, going 2-for-2. “You and Pierre were too close-you were like his goddamn ingénue or something. No matter how good of a chef you are, Miranda’s set against you. It has nothing to do with you, Jensen. Pierre really tried to fuck her over, and she’ll put a stop to any ambition you try to drive past her, no matter if it’s for the good of the restaurant or not.”
Jensen swallows the truth along with the rest of his beer. “So what am I supposed to do now?”
Lifting himself over the bar and dismounting on the other side, Dom pulls two more bottles. “You get drunk and we figure out the best way to deal with Dawson.”
“Oh my god.” Jensen’s upper body collapses; he thunks his head down on his crossed arms. “This is gonna suck.”
“Hey”-Dom presses cold glass against his arm-“just because you have to play nice, doesn’t mean the rest of us do. And I know Libby’s got a few new tortures hiding up her sleeve that would make Mark proud.”
HOME
“You should go on this show,” Jared remarks without looking up from his laptop.
Jensen rolls his head along the back of the couch. “On Chopped?”
“Why not?”
He responds in the form of a non-committal grunt, and Jared smirks at his screen. Jared has commandeered the armchair, notebooks balanced beside his elbow and the laptop on his thighs, while Jensen arranged his own paperwork around him on the couch. Jensen breaks Jared’s concentration every time he critiques a contestant’s choice of seasoning. Or sneers at a piece of undercooked meat. Or laughs outright when a course is poorly plated.
Well, if Jared really wanted to concentrate, he wouldn’t be sitting with Jensen in front of the television during a Chopped marathon.
“I bet you’d win.”
“Duh,” Jensen laughs. “I’m amazing.”
“And clearly modesty’s not a problem.”
“No such thing as a modest chef.”
“No?”
Jensen yawns. Sundays make him lazy, especially after another one of Jared’s monster brunch spreads (and no, that’s not a euphemism for sex on the kitchen counter). “It’s one thing to cook well, but you’ve gotta make sure everyone else knows it, too. Just another part of being a good chef.”
Jared considers him from across the coffee table. “So you’re all a bunch of unstable, cocky, self-asserting, and borderline-alcoholic insomniacs who’ll stop at nothing to get ahead?”
“Hey, I sleep,” Jensen says, grinning. “Sometimes.”
Jared laughs. “I still think you should go on this show.”
“And when I win?” he asks, watching Jared set his laptop on the coffee table and plug it in with the cord snaking across the rug. “What should I do with the prize money?”
“Open your own restaurant.”
Jensen wonders how much Jared’s been thinking about this. If it’s anything close to the amount of time Jensen’s spent thinking about Jared, well-“It takes more than ten grand to get a place going in this city.”
Jared pretends to be more interested in the appetizer basket Ted’s introducing than arguing with Jensen. The truth is that he has thought about his own restaurant-more like fantasized during tense moments when Paul reached across his chest or pressed against his back, too suggestive to be written off as incidental. It remains little more than a dream on the horizon.
“Weren’t you telling me about a couple interviews you have coming up?” he asks Jared during a commercial.
“Interview,” Jared says, “just the one. With finals coming up, I haven’t had the time to try for more.”
“What’s the job?”
Another sigh. “Bank teller.”
“You want to be a bank teller?” Skepticism lends Jensen’s voice an edge. “Seriously?”
“No, of course I don’t,” he says, frustration in his gestures. “But there’s not a lot out there for new graduates and I’ll have to go down to part time once I start classes for my MBA in the fall. Plus, it pays well and I’m gonna need the money when I move outta here.”
“Whoa, wait-” Jensen mutes Chopped as the four competitors are frantically plating their appetizers. “You’re moving out?”
“Aren’t I?” Jared sounds as if he’s not sure it should be a question. He nudges at the power cord with his foot. “I didn’t know whether or not you’d be moving back downtown-”
“Josh won’t be state-side for at least another year,” Jensen says, leaning forward. “If you want to stay, you’re more than welcome to.”
“But I’m not paying rent.”
“You don’t need to. Josh’s firm is paying the mortgage while he’s in Hong Kong. And I would never ask you to pay rent since you still insist on taking care of the dogs and the property because, let’s face it, I’m pretty useless. Listen”-Jensen knows Jared’s getting ready to protest-“you don’t have to move out. I don’t want you to move out. As far as getting a job…maybe I could help you with that.”
“How?” The lines on Jared’s forehead betray his doubts. “I told you, I don’t want to work brunch.”
“Dude, no one wants to work brunch. Hiring you to run a brunch shift is like sending you into a living hell, complete with old lady zombies.” When Jared stops laughing, Jensen adds, “I can make a few calls.”
“I’m not a chef.”
“Don’t be dense. I’m saying that there are always opportunities, especially with the larger restaurant groups, for the business-minded. Accounting and marketing and acquisitions-stuff that really turns the crank for paper-pushers like you.”
“God, acquisitions get me so hot,” Jared says, fanning himself. Jensen can’t help laughing, and the sound rouses Paisley who scampers in, four paws clicking. Jared stands, ready to swoop her up, but she jumps on the couch wriggling all over Jensen. And Jared’s there, perched on the edge as Jensen’s bowled backwards with a lapful of spaniel.
“Get him, girl,” Jared encourages, hands tickling down Jensen’s side, chest blocking the television.
Jensen can’t stop to catch his breath. He can’t remember the last time someone freaking tickled him, but that doesn’t stop his body from bucking in spasms against the cushions, trying to bend away from Jared’s hands and into them at the same time.
Just as suddenly as she’d appeared, Paisley yips and jumps down, leaving nothing between Jensen and Jared but warm air. Untangling their legs is complicated and Jensen’s boxed between Jared’s arms. Without Paisley, the situation transforms from silly to serious in seconds. Lips parted, heat building-this isn’t the first time they’ve been close since Wednesday night. Jensen’s been ticking them off like hash marks in his mind; Jared’s never gone further and Jensen has refused to push. But it’s hard (God, is it ever) to hold himself in check when he’s able to see right through Jared’s ‘buddy’ façade and empathize with the longing that lies beneath.
Right now, it’s on Jared to lean away and he does, levering himself off the couch in one move. Looking at the television, Jensen sees they’ve missed the majority of the entrée stage and Jared’s computer reflects the black screen of sleep mode.
“I guess I should…” Jared sighs, raking his fingers across his scalp. “My paper’s not gonna write itself.”
Jensen adds another hash mark.
SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES
“I’m trying to be nice to Dawson.”
“How’s that going?” There’s no need for Jensen to look over; he can hear Sebastian’s smirk.
“It’s not,” he admits, mood as gray as the sky outside Sebastian’s windows. The weather has been threatening all day with low, ominous clouds being pulled down river by the wind. “I’m still in the planning stage,” he adds wryly.
“Was this a personal resolution or…”
“Miranda’s idea. Well, less of an idea and more of a directive. She thinks it’s impacting my performance.”
“Is it?”
Shaking his head, Jensen says, “Riverside’s doing as well as it can, I think. Profits are where they should be, though there’s a bit of a salary crunch in the kitchen, but that can be managed.”
Apparently it’s not what Sebastian wants to hear. His blue eyes narrow and he asks, “I meant on a personal level, Jensen. Is the tension between you and your sous chef preventing you from enjoying your work the way you would otherwise?”
Not for the first time, Jensen wonders if Sebastian had hypnotized him at some point during their sessions. He can’t help thinking Sebastian knows what happened between them: the visceral reason behind Jensen’s aversion to Paul.
“I see Paul and I start thinking about why he’s there-that Miranda’s just waiting for me to fuck up badly enough to warrant replacing me.”
“Has she threatened to fire you?”
He sighs. “More than once.”
Behind Sebastian, fat drops of rain splatter the glass and begin gravity’s race to the ground. “She’s put you in a terrible position, and if she were my client”-Jensen can see a hint of deviousness in his expression-“I’d have more than one stern lecture for her, but I can’t change the way she’s doing business.”
“Neither can I,” Jensen sulks. “But you can tell me how to deal with both of them.” He’s out of his depth when it comes to enduring Miranda and Paul’s constant attacks. If Sebastian can help him, Jensen’s at least willing to listen. “No more answering a question with a question, doc. I need something I can take with me.”
“I don’t think further confrontation is going to get you anywhere,” Sebastian says. “From what you’ve told me, they’re both the type to respond negatively.”
“I can’t believe I’m paying you for insights like that.”
“I’m quite brilliant, I’ll have you know,” Sebastian admonishes with a smile. “Just wait for it. But back to the issue at hand,” he says. “I think it’d be best for you to ignore them as much as you can. Don’t speak to either of them unless necessary, but don’t be closed-off if they approach you. You need to seem focused on other things, rather than petulant. It might seem like a retreat on your part, giving them more power over the way you carry yourself, but it’ll give you a chance to redirect your energy into what you actually love doing.”
“You know,” Jensen says, “that’s not too bad. I thought you were gonna tell me to sit ‘em down and ‘talk it out,’ and in that case I’d be taking back the chocolate torte Mark had me bring over for you.” They both look at the innocent plastic clam container sitting on the side table. Sebastian twitches, like he’s ready to jump if Jensen so much as lifts a finger towards it. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“Old friends,” Sebastian says.
“Oh, you’re not his therapist, too?”
“Some personalities are beyond my skill.”
That explains a lot, Jensen thinks, although it’s actually somewhat frightening to imagine his therapist and his pastry chef together.
“We still have a few minutes left,” Sebastian reminds him. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
“Like what?”
Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Last week you mentioned that the anniversary of your parents’ death is approaching,” he says, gaze solid as Jensen begins to squirm beneath it. “How would you usually spend that?”
“With my brother.”
Sebastian mmm-hmms. “And since he’s not here?”
“It’s been eight years,” Jensen says, “I should be able to function without him.”
The wobble in Jensen’s voice must be obvious, because Sebastian looks up. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling?” Jensen sighs. “It’s better if I’m working, because then I won’t have to think about it, and I know you’re gonna say that I’m avoiding the issue, or whatever, but craving the distractions the kitchen provides is a hell of a lot better than sitting by myself, wishing Josh were around. There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“Josh called me a few days ago,” he admits. “Wanted to make sure I’d be alright without him.” Remembering his conversation with Josh brings a heavy weight down to settle over his heart. “Which I am,” he says just in case Sebastian’s getting ready to pounce on another issue, “it’s easy to get by with the day-to-day stuff, but when something like this rolls around…I guess I just never thought we’d be spending this anniversary on opposite sides of the world.”
“I’m sure he feels the same way.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t do a whole lot to help.”
“With something like this,” Sebastian offers, “very little does. If you feel you need to work in order to get by, that’s fine, but don’t overlook your other options. You may not have your brother, but there’s no reason for you to be alone.”
“What other options?” Jensen asks, but Sebastian’s already looking at his watch and folding the cover over his notes.
“I believe that concludes our hour,” he says. “Tell Mark thank you for the torte, but remind him that it’ll take more than dessert to make up for what he did to my Audi.”
“Wait, what happened?”
Sebastian merely purses his lips, eyes smiling. “Trust me, Jensen. You do not want to know.”
RIVERSIDE GRILL
“You don’t have to be here, Jensen.” Dom’s suggestion doesn’t carry the weight of pity, but Jensen tenses regardless. “It’s not like we’re gonna have a full house, and we’re all set on prep.”
There’s no reprieve for the baby leeks on Jensen’s chopping board. “Tomorrow’s my night off, remember?”
“Sure, but you’ve never-”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Jensen.”
Despite his muscles telling him to stab something, he sets his knife on the board and shakes the ripple of tension out of his arms.
“You’ve just never worked-”
“You don’t have to remind me, man,” Jensen cuts him off. “Seriously, I’m okay. I’d rather be here.” Which is a lie, of course, but Jensen’s not sure he can be anywhere else.
“I’m gonna prep extra goat cheese soufflés for tomorrow.”
Before Dom opens his mouth to assure him that they have plenty, Jensen stalks off to the walk-in, hoping the cold, filtered air’s going to do something for the pounding behind his eyes.
Only, he’s not alone.
“Jensen.” Paul nods, pulls his hand back from the cartons of butter. His grin is chillier than the recycled air being pumped into the metal box. “Need something?”
Be nice. Jensen frowns, remembering Sebastian’s advice. Okay, be neutral. “Goat cheese.”
“Prepping more soufflés? Good idea. I haven’t gotten the hang of making those yet.”
Paul sounds friendly but Jensen can’t raise a response. All he wants is kitchen furor; barring that, busy-work. He doesn’t want to face Paul and pretend.
“You know, we didn’t think you’d show up tonight.”
Jensen bristles. “No one owns a calendar in this place? Today’s Tuesday.”
“Miranda mentioned-”
Jensen’s voice has grown icicles. “Stay out of my business, Paul.”
Paul’s chuckle hits Jensen as a cloud of condensed breath. “And here I thought we were finally getting along,” he says. “This place is my business, too, Jensen. If you’re not up to the pressure-”
“Where the hell do you get off?” Jensen snaps. “I don’t care what it says on your coat”-he flicks the embroidery on Paul’s whites-“you’re my assistant and I expect my staff to stay in line.”
“Oh,” Paul laughs, “I know exactly how you keep your staff in line.” He slides forward, forcing Jensen to shuffle in the opposite direction, putting a wide berth between them.
Jensen has no response for the vinegar in Paul’s tone. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I don’t have to listen to this shit,” he says. “Now get back on the line before we really have a problem.”
Part of him wants Paul to argue-the tenderized part of his psyche that bleeds for conflict-so he’d have an excuse to vent the pressure building up between his ears. But his sous chef turns and walks out, leaving Jensen alone in the midst of cold metal hardware and valuable inventory.
And suddenly, Jensen knows for a fact that he should have listened to Sebastian. Coming in tonight was a mistake.
HOME
“So this is what you do when I’m not around.”
The scene in front of Jensen is the first thing that’s made him smile all day. Every square inch of the couch is covered in beast-canine and human. Jared’s real estate is the center cushion, legs like a log bridge over to the ottoman, and the dogs have moved in next-door. Paisley’s stretched out with her head on Jared’s thigh (that doesn’t look like such a bad place to be), one ear flopped backwards, and Scout’s bulk is encroaching on Jared’s other side.
“Hey, wha-” Jared blinks until his eyes open all the way. “What are you doing home?”
“Decided to take the night off,” Jensen says, “and I’m glad I did because this whole show is hilarious.”
“Umm…I just sat down and the dogs pounced. Warm body, you know?”
No, but Jensen would love to find out.
Hemmed in on both sides, Jared can’t move. He tilts his head against the back of the sofa to ask, “So, why tonight? It’s Tuesday.”
“If I’d stayed, I’d probably be calling you later on to ask for bail money.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” Jensen says, scrubbing over his face. “But hey, Miranda’s always telling me to let Paul have more shifts…”
“You left that douchebag in charge?”
“Hell no!” He laughs. “I told Dom to take over for me, and-what the hell is that smell?”
“Shit!” Jared squirms before he realizes he’s not going anywhere with at least seventy pounds of sleepy dog bookending him. “I was making dinner.”
Going to investigate the odor coming from his microwave, Jensen finds a congealed, colorless mass marinating in a petri dish of black, number two plastic.
“Jared! This isn’t dinner-it’s not even real meat! It’s a piece of cardboard soaking in chicken-flavored chemicals.”
From the couch, Jared accepts his chastisement. “I didn’t have the energy to cook and there wasn’t much in the fridge.”
To Jensen, that sounds like a challenge, and he’s happy to have something to focus on. “You’re lucky I came back and saved your ass, literally. This abomination would’ve wrecked you.”
“I can make something else-”
“Sit!” Jensen orders with a smile. “I’m cooking. You just stay there and be a good warm body.”
Jared laughs. “I am so glad you came home, man.”
Jensen silently agrees as he starts pulling ingredients together. But first things first: he needs to get Jared’s digestive atrocity out of the house before the smell imprints on his clothing.
To his credit, Jared waits until they’ve finished eating before he asks, “Gonna tell me what happened?”
“At work?” Jensen resituates himself on the couch next to Jared where the dogs had lost the battle of occupation. “Paul was being a dick.”
Jared shakes his head. “Paul’s always a dick. There’s something else though, so what’s up?”
Jensen expects the question to scrape his nerves raw, but he feels nothing besides the urge to bare the truth. “My parents died eight years ago today. It’s not like I don’t think about it every other day of the year, but there’s something about the exact day…and normally I’d take today off and spend it with Josh, but that wasn’t exactly an option so I thought working would be the next best thing.” Jensen tells himself that if he keeps talking, Jared won’t be able to lower his eyes and say ‘I’m sorry’ the way so many people do. “But that didn’t go the way I planned. Dom’s been around long enough to know what the date means, and I guess Miranda knows because Paul was giving me shit about it.”
He takes a breath, waiting for Jared to say something.
“Have you talked to Josh today?”
“Yeah, he called me the earliest he could get away with it.”
“So, like, noon?” Jared’s smirk is barely there, but it’s enough.
“Nine.”
“Holy shit, that’s practically dawn to you,” he teases and ducks Jensen’s swipe. “It sucks that you guys can’t be together. That’s gotta be rough for both of you. I’m sure your day would have been much easier if Josh were here.”
“Maybe,” Jensen says, “but it’s better than I thought it’d be, you know? I know Josh has Gemma to talk to, and I’m doing okay now that I’m here instead of at the restaurant.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “I escaped without doing something that would have led to an assault charge, got to have a nice dinner, and threw that microwave gunk masquerading as food outside in the trash where it belongs.”
“So glad my culinary shortcomings amuse you.”
“Dude,” Jensen says, “your entire existence amuses me.”
“Hey.”
Jared throws him a lopsided smile. “Hey yourself.”
Leaning at opposite angles on the couch, they scan through the upper channels before settling on a commercial-riddled showing of Chocolat.
“I’d have sex with this version of Johnny Depp,” Jared remarks after a few minutes of easy, relaxing silence.
“Yeah?” Jensen asks. “I’d have sex with that ganache Vianne’s making.”
“Can I watch?”
“That’s a little kinky, even for you,” Jensen says, well aware that he’s not exactly in a position to know anything. The comment’s hangs there, but Jared doesn’t snatch at the bait. He nudges Jensen’s leg with his foot, wiggles so that he’s sitting even lower on the couch and his shoulder touches Jensen’s. On screen, Roux’s playing his guitar on the gypsies’ boat, but Jared’s no longer watching; he catches Jensen’s eye and shifts his body so that their chests are squared up. Jensen is lying when he tells himself he’s ready for Jared’s next move.
And though Jared kisses him, Jensen’s not about to start erasing hash marks in his mind. Jared’s mouth is warm and inescapable, but there’s little weight behind it; he lets the kiss take shape, softly, while Jensen’s open and willing, waiting for something deeper. It never comes.
This kiss isn’t meant to be more; it’s meant as a comfort.
There’s no spark where their lips meet. Not chaste, but not yielding to prurient interests. Tongue pinned behind his teeth, Jensen folds his lips over Jared’s, loiters there to memorize the shape and the curve and the pliability. He can’t remember a time when he craved this kind of knowledge about his partner’s features, but Jared makes him long for the previously unimaginable. If patience is the price, Jensen can afford it.
“I’m glad you’re doing okay,” Jared says when they break apart, confirming Jensen’s guess. “I know you’ve got your own way of dealing, but if you need to talk…or if you need-”
Jensen doesn’t want him to finish the offer; he’s afraid he’ll say yes. “What I need is the rest of this movie and some of that blueberry streusel I brought home.” His heart applauds the move while his dick is plotting a mutiny.
Jared’s eyes flash. “The stuff Mark makes?”
“He wouldn’t let me leave without it,” Jensen says, turning back to the movie. But a few minutes later, he can’t ignore the fact that Jared’s lost focus, practically salivating next to him. “You can’t wait for a commercial, can you?”
“Hell no. I can already taste it. Please, Jen?”
“Dude, do I have to dish it up for you or something?”
As soon as Jared figures it out, he’s off like a shot. Scout and Paisley, always alert to someone in the vicinity of their bowls, take off after him. Jensen laughs and follows the rest of his pieced-together household into the kitchen.
PART SIX