Or make a damn good chiffon cake.
Maybe not as cock-twitchingly exciting as a singing, dancing, black belt pastry chef, but every part of Henry’s body warmed as he took in what Tristan was all about. A deep, sinking-into-a-hot-bath-on-a-winter-day warm.
Tristan rolled his eyes again, and the tiniest bit of red crept up dusky cheeks. “How are you holding up? I’m guessing you were in your head about the baking?”
Therewas the subject change Henry had forgotten to make. “The judging was a little bit surreal. I don’t want to say it was like almost getting shot, because how the hell would I know, but that kind of thing.” Henry mimed a gun and fired his finger at the window. “If the judges’ sights had been an inch to the left, so long Henry.”
“Well, I guess I wouldn’t know about that.” Tristan gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve been right at the top of the pack, haven’t I?”
“Andsohumble. I thoughtIwas the cocky one, here.”
“I’m trying it on for size since you don’t seem to have any self-confidence to bring to the table.” Tristan clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “Sorry. That was too far.”
Henry snorted. “That wasnottoo far, trust me.” Maybe too true, but it wasn’t malicious. Besides, trading barbs back and forth? That was the most natural interaction he could think of with Tristan Delgado. “I think it’s impressive you can be so full of yourself after losing to Willa twice.”
Tristan chuckled and his face relaxed. “At least it wasn’t three times.”
A week ago, Henry would have fought the urge to sock Tristan for that. Now he didn’t resist it, but punched him right in the shoulder while laughing. A little punch. “Douche.”
“Hey, assaulting the competition is probably grounds for removal.” Tristan punched back, light, playful, with a broad smile. “Anyway, I’m going to get my ass handed to me on bread. I’m a pastry chef. Carlita has someone else she uses to make breads if we need them.”
“You’ll be fine. Bread’s the easiest thing in the world. Don’t underprove it and the rest’ll probably fall into place.” It wasn’t quite that simple, but now wasn’t the time to overcomplicate. “I’ll show you tomorrow if you want.”
“You’re just making up for punching me.” Tristan got in another shove at Henry’s shoulder, a little harder than before. “You help the competition like that, you’re going to end up losing. To me. How will you ever show your face in Seattle again?”
And Henry shoved back, a strange and sudden giddiness bubbling electric through his veins. That warmth was only increasing too, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t help. Make sure you pour your salt directly on top of your yeast.Reallyhelps that first rise.”
Tristan shoved again. Hard. For a pastry chef, he had decent strength. Probably some nice, firm muscles that Henry failed to stop thinking about.
“Even I’m not that hopeless with bread.” Tristan got in a second shove. “And if you’re going to start something, you’ve got to be faster than that.”
“Come on, hitting a guy with glasses? That wouldn’t be terribly fair.”
“That’s your excuse?” He slipped off his frames and set them on the end table. “There. Now I’m fair game, Mr. Chivalry.”
Henry had punched Tristan because he hadn’t known what else to do with the mess of emotions in his belly begging him totouchthe tawny-skinned catering bastardandhis sexy-ass biceps. And now? Now Henry was reading a hell of a lot into the way Tristan played back.
“Fair game.” There was a hitch in Henry’s breath, a renewed lightning pulse in his muscles, and then he did more than shove. He pushed Tristan back on the bed and willed his cock to stay soft as he shifted, climbing on top of him.
And his will to stay soft? That did nothing to help.
Henry straddled him in such a way ithopefullykept his “growing problem” a secret. “Did I mention I was a wrestler in high school?”
“I alwaysknewthat was a gay sport.”
“It’s the ultimate gay sport.” Henry patted Tristan’s cheek, then jumped off and sat back down, adjusting himself so he wasn’ttooobviously erect. “Of course football was a close second. Spandex-covered men in piles fighting over balls.”
“You could say that about most sports.”
“And I do.”
Tristan sat up. His face was more than tinged pink. It flushed his skin, especially his ears. “So do you always get a hard-on when you wrestle, or is that a recent development?”
So much for keeping it a secret. Go me.Henry shrugged nonchalantly, avoiding eye contact. “Not every time. Only when the guy I’m pinning is cute and I haven’t had any in a while.”
“Oh, well then, no wonder.” Tristan was totally red, and a glance in the mirror told Henry he was matching. Tristan looked into the far corner by the window. “I am pretty sexy. For a guy who makes a living eating wedding cake and buttercream.”
Henry couldn’t think of anything to say. Sweat trickled cold down the back of his neck, and his limbs suddenly locked into place, leaving the room still and silent for too long.
