It was the first time Henry could recall seeing his mom sohuman. How often did she butt up against those fears, that voice? How often did she think he would fail? And how many times over the last eighteen years had he proven those fears right? He’d put money down on “more than once.”
She didn’t make any further comment, but the words played as a constant chorus in the back of Henry’s mind, even as he filled out his applications for the Northwest Culinary Institute and the Culinary Institute of America. He didn’t want to be a burden on her thoughts like that.
Henry had vowed before he even graduated high school that he’d erase any need for her to worry. As long as he never stumbled, he could never fall and he’d never feed her fears... which might have become his own fears too.
He rolled over and padded to the bathroom. It really could all fall apart if he couldn’t keep up with Tristan and Willa. Or even Bertha. The most in-demand cake ladies down south might make a dozen a week or more. Good, classic cakes. She hadn’t seemed intimidating at first... but she did now. And what kind of training did the others have?
Thinking like this isn’t doing you any good.He turned the faucet on and splashed some cold water across his face. He couldn’t think of anything else to do that was nonalcoholic. Maybe it would shock some sense into him.
Or more likely, it would do nothing and he’d get some good practice making cakes while exhausted tomorrow. Times like this, he’d have turned to a friend to calm him down. Probably Carrie. She was always good at keeping him on the level. It had been that way since they’d met back in culinary school. He slipped out his phone to check the last text from her, received a few hours ago. Just a series of kissy faces, but he smiled anyway.
He tapped out a late response, knowing she wouldn’t be awake to get it this late.San Fran sucks without you.We had to make pies.And a frowny face.
Texting was something, but in the big empty hotel room, it wasn’t close enough to real contact. So he took another splash of cold water, for all the nothing it did, then headed back into his bedroom to stare at the ceiling.
A tiny, stupid voice in the back of his mind reminded him that therewassomeone here he knew. There was someone he could potentially talk to. The problem with that stupid voice was that somebody was Tristan Delgado.
He was sexy, yes. He was good at baking, yes. But there was zero love wasted between the two of them. Professional respect was there, yet that wasn’t enough excuse to get them chatting about Henry’s problems.Maybe we don’t have to talk. They could just make out and fuck until they were both too tired to have any concerns left.I bet Carrie would tell me to go for it.
She lived to meddle in relationships. She’d kept him from running back to Lance after the big argument. She’d convinced him to go home with a few guys who were shockingly good lays. It was a gift.
Henry’s phone buzzed, and he checked it to see a late-night response from Carrie.Yeah, well, Seattle sucks without you.And a crying face.
Maybe she would be enough to keep him level, even from afar. Maybe.
“So they’re keeping you around for another one?” Lucia failed to stifle a yawn. “That’s awesome, Tristan.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to answer. Voice mail is a thing.” It had been approaching ten by the time filming had wrapped and he was back in the hotel, showered, and feeling moderately human. “I was planning to leave a message and apologize. They have us shooting the whole round in one day, so I don’t know how late I’m going to be during those. But I’ll call you at five on the three practice days in-between.”
“You call me whenever. When have I ever been an early riser?” She chuckled slightly. “Okay, I admit ten is pretty close to bedtime, but it’s fine. You’re not allowed to freak out if I don’t pick up at one in the morning, though.”
He wished he could say he’d never take that long, but what did he know? Any one of these filming days could drag on that late. Bread week would, maybe viennoiserie with all the leavened doughs and puff pastry that came along with it. “If it’s one, I’ll wait for a reasonable hour.”
“Deal.”
Tristan sighed. “So I told you about Henry Isaacson?”
“No.” She paused a moment. “You’re saying he’s there too? The guy with the pastry shop in the U?”
“Yeah. The one with the ego. He's still a prick, too, but I want him.” Telling his sister that was embarrassing. But not as embarrassing as telling anyone else, and maybe if he said it, the lust wouldn’t be so all-encompassing inside him. “It’s stupid, but he’s sexy, and he’s good at cooking, and if he wasn’t an egotistical dick, I’d probably be even more tempted.”
“Wow. Sleeping with the enemy, huh?”
“Not exactly sleeping with him. But frustratingly turned on to the idea of it, that’s for sure.”
“Would it be so bad?”
“What?” Tristan shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Lucia, no. That’s not happening. He called me a damn highfalutin caterer today. ‘Highfalutin’ of all things! Plus heknowshe’s good and has no problem reminding everyone of that fact.” Thinking about him raised Tristan’s blood. “There wouldn’t be enough room in the bed for me, Henry, and his ego.”
“Then do it on the floor.”
Tristan squirmed. “I’m not getting intothatsituation with anyone who comes along. Especially not someone I don’t like.” There was too much on the line, too many potential emotions and too much ofhimselfout there. Tristan wasn’t showing off his body to any Tom, Dick, or Henry who made the blood rush to his crotch.
Especially when the Henry didn’t like him all that much.
“Well, look, I don’t know what to tell you. You can either bang it out of your system or you can ignore it.” Lucia sighed. “‘Highfalutin caterer,’ huh?”
“Yeah.”
