Henry nodded at his own thoughts, thankful no one else was around to see him. He rounded a corner toward the single-digit rooms and, at last, wasn’t alone. Someone else was crouching down in front of one of the doors. Henry’s eyes bobbed straight down to a pert ass wrapped in navy denim.Have companyanda view. Nice.He stared longer than polite society would have allowed, but there was no harm in window-shopping.
His gaze raked up to a gray and fuchsia long-sleeved shirt, riding high at the hem to reveal a Hanes waistband and a small—but definitely present—barbed-wire tramp stamp. Higher still, those striped sleeves hugged tight to the stranger’s biceps, and cleanly coiffed chocolate hair swirled atop his head. A cigarette sat behind Mr. Surprise Sexy’s right ear.
And finally, Henry looked to the bags piled by his door. He could learn plenty about someone by seeing what they carried with them. One in particular was halfway unzipped with chef’s whites peeking out.At least I’ll have some eye candy while I’m here.He wasn’t so hopeful to think he’d get laid, but he wasn’t sohopelessto squash that dream yet.
Henry cleared his throat, earning a jump of surprise from the stranger. “You need a hand?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” Surprise Sexy waved off the offer, still not turning. “Need to stop trying to do forty-seven things at once.”
Sexy voice too. Familiar? Maybe. Sounded like one of those Hollywood hunks. It was rough with barbs, the kind of voice that hooked the listener in and refused to let go.
Henry stepped closer. “Let me hold the door open for you.”
“Well, thanks.” The stranger righted, pulling the hem of his shirt down. But when it looked like he was about to finally turn around, he jerked back and ducked to zip up the bag with the chef’s whites. “You here for the show? Or you just unlucky enough to be put out in the middle of bumfuck Egypt?”
“Show. My flight got in today.”
“Mine too.” He hauled his bag up onto one shoulder, then slipped his key card into the slot.
Henry stepped over and held the weighted hotel door open... right as Surprise Sexy shifted himself around again to grab a piece of luggage. So still no face. Henry sighed. “Well, we’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other.”
Sexy shrugged. “Unless one of us gets sent packing week one.”
Henry snickered, smashing himself as far back against the door as he could manage. “I would have to change my name and disappear for a while if that happened.”
The stranger’s laugh held onto Henry tight and left a trail of warmth in its wake. “Solid plan.” He loaded in his last two bags, then stepped back into the hallway. “So, I should probably introduce myself.”
At last, he faced Henry head-on. Smiling... and then not smiling anymore as his eyes locked on, hardening. “Isaacson. I guess we’ve already met.”
Henry couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping.Casablancaplayed through his head.Of all the cooking competitions in all the hotels in all the world, you had to walk into mine.“Tristan.” As quickly as it had dropped, Henry’s jaw clenched tight. “Congrats on making the cut.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Tristan closed his eyes and sighed. “How’s the shop?”
“Fantastic, as usual. How’s the catering?”
“Going well. Word of mouth.”
Yeah, no shit.“I should get into my room. Shower off the plane funk.”
“Well... bye.”
Tristan slipped inside with no other word than that. Henry stared at his door as though he might be able to bust it down by force of will. Tristan goddamn Delgado. The pastry chef who had put Carlita’s Catering Services at the top of the list for wedding season... and knocked Henry to the wayside before he could establish a foothold in the Seattle catering world.
Henry headed for his room, a couple of doors down. What were the odds? Had the showrunners picked the pair of them on purpose, figuring two Seattleites inside the industry would know each other? Had they somehow known that there might be drama with the two of them?Right. I’m sure these TV execs are following internal Seattle catering happenings.It wasn’t even like he and Tristan had arealfeud. Not up to Bette Davis and Joan Crawford levels, at least. They simply had... animosity.
A healthy dollop of animosity, which the Seattle high-life circulars, newsletters, and magazines did their part to keep alive, intentionally or not. For the past three years, Henry and Tristan had traded back and forth for various awards and recognition from all those stupid publications.
They were mainly stupid because Tristan was up by two awards on Henry.
The first time Henry had run into him had been at an awards event. It had been just after he’d started to get his feet under him at the shop, when he’d already been setting the groundwork to bust into catering. A small awards ceremony, because it wasn’t like the Washington LGBT Culinary Society had been about to rent out Benaroya Hall. But pleasant enough, and he’d been happy to get the nod.
It had been nice hobnobbing with his peers. He and his boyfriend at the time, Lance, had been checking out the local sexy chefs, and they’d both—of course—been drawn over to Tristan. Not only because he was lovely, which he undoubtedly was, but because he was lovely and had been standing by himself, tucked away in a corner.
“Hi. I’m Henry. You all alone?”
“Yeah.” Tristan stared at a nearby centerpiece as he spoke, not at Henry. Didn’t even try to make his lack of eye contact covert. But Henry was persistent, and they’d eventually gotten talking, mostly about food, of course.
They must have been standing there talking for an hour when Henry reached out to take his arm, lead him back to Lance, since they were getting on so well.
