Once their waiter had left, Tristan cut the croque monsieur in half and picked up one side to examine. There was the gruyere and the nice boiled ham. Hopefully boiled, if they were going to call the thing a croque monsieur.
“Well, this is an unpleasant meal.” Henry had his sandwich up too, a frown on his lips. “No offense to present company, I’m talking about the sandwich. I’m not sure about this tomato at all.” He picked at it with one fingertip, and his frown cut deeper. “And I swear they used mechanically separated chicken I could buy at the supermarket.”
“That doesn’t fill me with hope for the ham.”
“It probably shouldn’t.” Henry sighed, then took another bite. He swallowed and didn’t die, but he was still frowning. “It’s not only mechanically separated chicken. It’s under-seasoned mechanically separated chicken. And what the hell is this bread?”
“They put bakers in a hotel with bad bread?”
“I’m putting my money on mass-produced commercial Pullman loaf. So yeah, bad bread.” Henry gestured to Tristan with the partially eaten sandwich. “Well? I’m not the only one going to be suffering through this. Eat.”
“Is this how you sell so many pastries?”
“Absolutely. Guilt, insults, and peer pressure.”
Tristan snorted and rolled his eyes. But he risked a hearty bite of the croque monsieur. The crust on the bread was flaccid. The ham tasted like salt, the gruyere may as well have been warm vinyl, and the béchamel tasted of raw flour. “I apologize for inviting you to dinner here. They got zero parts of this sandwich right.” He set it down on the plate. “Not evenyoudeserve this.”
“Flattered.” Henry also set his down. “Mine’s a little better, then.” He pulled out a strip of bacon. “They didn’t mess this up.” He noshed on that and then retrieved a second, unbitten strip that he handed to Tristan. “For putting up with my late-night recipe call.”
“Sure.” Tristan took the bacon and, for a second, his hand brushed against Henry’s knuckles. Then he pulled back. “So, you ready to fess up on how much that cologne costs you?”
“Not particularly.” He sounded nonplussed, but pink worked up from his stubble, headed for his ears. “I normally don’t even give away the name so no one can see it. Gives the wrong impression.”
“Hey, as far as I’m concerned, you’re still a cocky, egotistical Seattle pastry chef. What do you have to lose?” Tristan hesitated a moment, then gave Henry a little shove he hoped came off as playful.
“That’s how you think of me?”
“Honestly?” Should this happen?Doesn’t matter, because it is.
“Well yeah, honestly.” Henry gestured to their food. “We’re not eating this crap, so let’s feast on the decadence of our mutual tension.”
Tristan would have laughed if it had been anyone else. “Yeah, then. You think pretty highly of yourself, and you make sure everyone knows it. Like your cracks about beating me.”
“Hey, I made cracks. You still kicked my ass, so what do they matter?” Henry sighed. “I could be pissed off about your assessment, but I thought you were an arrogant, elitist bastard, so I don’t have much of a leg to stand on.”
“‘Highfalutin’ was the word you used, if I remember correctly.” Another chance to get that word back in.
“Yeah, that does sound familiar.” He took another attempt at his club sandwich, then set it down with a disgusted grimace. “More honesty?”
Tristan shrugged and left his response at that. But it was apparently enough.
“I wanted to bust into cateringbad. It’s a market that would have expanded business opportunities for me, maybe freed me up from the same old, same old. And I thought I had a good chance until Carlita’s took off with some ingenue pastry chef.” He gave Tristan a shove back. “Not your fault you’re amazing, but that didn’t stop me being ticked off.”
“It’s entirely my fault. But I wouldn’t say ‘amazing.’” Still, it warmed his belly hearing that from Henry of all people. “I didn’t know you wanted into catering. Can’t imagine why you’d give up all that freedom of choice to instead stand around, making the same white wedding cakes, day-in, day-out.” Although if Lucia was right, then it would slot right into the jealousy theory. That was about the only way someone could be jealous of him.
“Yeah, well, I’m happy with the shop. But like you said, I’ve got an ego bigger than Texas. It was a blow to lose out on that business. Not to mention you’re up by two on awards and accolades and shit around Seattle.”
“You actually keep track of that?”
“How else am I going to know which one of us is winning?” He sighed and pushed his plate aside for his mug. “And the cologne’s two hundred dollars, but the bottle lasts me a year, so I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
Tristan blinked, trying to process not only the price tag, but also everything else that had just gone down. It was easier to focus on the cologne. “You’re going to hear everything about it. Two hundred dollars?”
“In one year. It’s not that bad.” Henry wafted his arms toward Tristan. “Besides, I smell great.”
He did. The cologne was coconut and tropics, all underpinned with something distinctly male that clawed into Tristan’s middle and growled demandingly, urging him to keep eye contact with Henry as his mind wandered to... unhelpful places. Bedrooms with sweat and coconut cologne in the air, warm hotel sheets, and all the too-many pillows tossed aside to make room for two bodies.
Two bodies passing the time between rounds of baking.
