Authors: Irene Preston
Garrett had called and asked him over for lunch, so they were up and dressed, right? The logic didn’t help. He couldn’t shake the image of walking in on Garrett and Matt. His normally latent imagination put together an unwelcome full-color collage of all the things he might find them doing together. He stuck the key back into his pocket and knocked.
The door swung open almost immediately, and he was faced with Matt, fully dressed, thank god, and with an expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck. Carlo forced a smile. The kid looked way too relaxed and happy this morning.
Don’t go there
. But of course it was too late.
If his own smile looked forced, Matt didn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, Carlo—come on in. He’s starting to fret about lunch being ruined.”
Carlo. His nickname on Matt’s lips grated, and he tried to push back the irritation.
“Nice camera. Lunch picture-worthy?”
“Nah, I’m headed out. I’m sure you and Garrett have stuff to catch up on. I’m going sightseeing while I have the chance. It’ll only be my first time once, right?”
Giancarlo agreed it was a nice day for sightseeing and tried not to reveal how happy the prospect of
not
eating lunch with Matt made him while he got the kid out the door.
He turned back into the apartment and headed toward the kitchen, where Garrett had appeared in the doorway.
“He’s great, huh?”
What was he supposed to say to that?
“He seems nice.”
Sorry, but he just couldn’t gush over Garrett’s latest crush. Up close, Garrett didn’t look nearly as relaxed and happy as Matt.
Carlo frowned at him. “Still jet-lagged?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Garrett’s insomnia was back.
“You take a pill?”
“You know I don’t like taking them.”
“You don’t like being a zombie the next day, either, and you look like shit. Take the damn pill tonight if you need it.”
Garrett flashed him a grin that erased all the lines on his face and lit up his blue eyes so he looked like the devil he was. “Yes, mother.”
For a second, it was like old times, just the two of them. Carlo reached out and ruffled Garret’s hair because it would annoy him, and because he couldn’t live another minute without touching him.
Garrett laughed and swatted his hand away. “Go sit at the table. I got you something special for lunch.”
Carlo stopped dead in the doorway. “In the dining room?” Like a guest?
Just like that, the camaraderie died. Carlo was as at home in Garrett’s kitchen as his own. They had lunch at the island in the kitchen—not sitting at the dining room table.
“We need to go over some stuff for Ransom.” Garrett’s voice floated out of the kitchen. “I thought it would be more comfortable at the table.”
They were having a business meeting? Not that they didn’t have them, only they were usually less formal about it. Especially Garrett, whose idea of a business meeting consisted of rattling off whatever new ideas were in his head at random. Then Carlo did his job and made those things happen. Garrett needed the freedom to be the big-picture creative end of things. He didn’t interrupt lunch with “going over stuff.” He just spouted it out when the mood hit him.
Carlo looked at the table. Garrett’s tablet sat at one end. His fingers itched to pick it up and snoop, but he resisted. Whatever this was, it was Garrett’s show.
Garrett came out with a bottle of red wine, which he poured into the two glasses already on the table. The wine was a blend Carlo wasn’t familiar with, so that told him nothing.
He returned with two plates, putting Carlo’s down with an air of smug expectation.
Carlo stared down at his plate. “You made me a meatball sub?”
“Not exactly made.” Garrett sat across from him. “I got it from that little shit-hole window in Brooklyn.”
“Joe’s? In Brooklyn? You went to Brooklyn?” He glared across the table at Garrett, suddenly afraid of what the innocuous-looking sub might mean. “Am I dying?”
“Of course I didn’t go. Why would I do that? I got it delivered. Your nephew bilked me out of a fortune to bring it up here.”
“From Joe’s? In Brooklyn?”
“Why not? It’s your favorite, isn’t it?
Maybe, but it certainly wasn’t Garrett’s. Garrett was as likely to order a meatball sub from a hole-in-the wall place in Brooklyn as a hot dog from a street vendor. Carlo looked across the table at Garrett’s plate, which contained the same ingredients in a radically altered form. Thin slices of meatballs fanned across the plate framed by a smear of sauce. The bread had been sliced and toasted into thin crostini. Garrett had added his own tapenade. It looked delicious, but….
“That’s ridiculous.” Carlo pointed at the arty little plate. “Why can’t you just eat a damn sub like a normal person?”
“I’m not normal. Normal is boring. And you’re not dying. Eat your sub. It took me half an hour to make them understand how to pack everything so the bread wouldn’t get soggy, and now it’s going to be cold
and
soggy before you take the first bite.”
Carlo could have told him that it wouldn’t matter if the bread got soggy. Therein lay the beauty of a Joe’s meatball sub. You could leave half of it in the fridge overnight, and it would still be just as drool-inducing the next morning, soggy bread or no. And you could eat it standing in front of the fridge in your shorts. It didn’t require plating.
But, whatever the reason, Garrett had made a special effort. He had not only gotten the very thing that Carlo would want for lunch, he had assembled it with his own hands, and,
ah
, Carlo’s eyes rolled back and he thought he might have moaned. Maybe he was going to have to revisit his stance on the bread and the cold sub. Whatever Garrett had done while assembling and warming it….
Or maybe it just tasted better because Garrett had made it special for him. A thing Garrett would never make for himself. Yeah, Carlo was that pathetic because that could be it. He took another bite and let all the flavors have a party in his mouth. He followed it up with a sip of the wine, which got kinky with the sausage and red sauce and set off another explosion of flavor.
He came up for air when the sandwich had been reduced to a few drops of sauce on the plate.
Garrett’s plate was mostly untouched.
“What? You went to all that trouble slicing and dicing, and you’re not going to eat it?”
Garrett took a fussy bite of the meat. “The meatball is actually pretty good. Maybe a tad salty.”
“Fine. I give up. I don’t know what you have against regular food.”
“I could make a better one.”
“No. Don’t. Please, just don’t even.” Because he was sure Garrett could make a better one. Except the meatball would probably be the size of a pea. He would serve it in a spoon or some shit and call it an amuse bouche. It would be delicious. Real meatball subs everywhere would curl up and die of shame. He loved Garrett, god help him, and Garrett was a freaking genius in the kitchen, but he drove Carlo up a wall sometime with his quirks. Turning every damn thing he ate into a work of art was the best and worst of them.
Well. Not the worst. The worst was the never-ending string of men. Until Matt.
Matt, who was completely unlike the flashy, preening men Garrett usually had in tow. Matt, who really was a chef, as in his last job was at
Yes?
in L.A., which put him somewhere in the same league as Garrett. In fact, judging by his performance in the kitchen last night, he might give Garrett a run for his money in a few years. They were both young, talented, successful, hot. They were so fucking made for each other.
Now he was totally off task and depressed as well.
He set his napkin beside his plate and leaned back in his chair, trying to look relaxed.
“All right,” he said. “What’s up?”
****
Garrett pushed his plate to the side. The meatball really wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t eat it. Eat like a normal person? That was a laugh and a half.
Carlo loved meatball subs with a kind of religious fervor. Despite the grief he gave Carlo about it, Garrett loved watching him eat them. Meatball subs were meaty and manly and messy and suited Carlo perfectly when he wasn’t all slicked up and on display at Ransom. When Carlo bit into a perfect sub, an expression of blissful ecstasy spread over his face. And that moan down deep in his throat? Better than porn. And yes, Garrett was also the perv who got hard watching his best friend eat.
Off limits
, he reminded himself. Carlo thought he had made the rule. No banging the staff. But it had been Garrett’s secret rule first. No banging Carlo.
No banging the staff. And he hadn’t. Technically.
He should bring that up. Carlo probably wouldn’t be impressed with his grasp of the technicalities, but it was a valid point.
“I hired Matt as Ransom’s new
chef d’cuisine
.”
Or he could just blurt it out.
Shit
. No lead-in. No explanations. Just “hey, I hired Matt.”
He snuck a peek across the table. Carlo hadn’t moved, but suddenly he wore his game face.
“I’m sorry?” The same voice he used with an unreasonable guest.
The tiny bite of meat Garrett had eaten balled up in his stomach and threatened to make a re-appearance.
“I hired Matt.”
“I thought we made those decisions together?”
“I know but—” Oh god, he didn’t want to argue. Not with Carlo. Never with Carlo.
“Ransom has a
chef d’cuisine
.” Carlo’s voice wasn’t angry, just flat, final. End of discussion.
If only it were that easy.
“No. You know Hector never held that position officially. He’s been filling in while we looked for a permanent chef. He hasn’t been to culinary school and—”
“That’s bullshit.” Anger.
He deserved it, but it still hurt.
“We were lucky to find Hector. He works twice as hard for us as anyone else we could hire, and he puts up with….”
Yeah, here it came.
“…everything we ask him to do.”
Ahhh, Carlo had wimped out. But Garrett knew what he wanted to say.
He puts up with all your bullshit
. The unspoken words sat on the table, nasty bits of gristle.
“Hector can come out to California with me.”
“And do what? You won’t give him a title, but you’re going to put him on TV?”
Not on TV, no. Garrett opened his mouth to explain, but Giancarlo held up a hand, forestalling him.
“And it doesn’t matter anyway. Hector won’t go. People aren’t game pieces you can move around where you need them, Garrett. Hector is here because he followed his girlfriend to New York from Flagstaff, or where-the-hell-ever he met her. You aren’t going to pry him away from her to follow you out to California.”
“Then he can keep working here.”
“Exactly.”
“Under Matt.”
A muscle twitched at the corner of Carlo’s eye.
“No. Send Matt back to California. Give him whatever job you were going to give Hector there.”
“I can’t. I already offered him Ransom.”
Carlo’s hands slapped down hard on the table, making Garrett jump.
“We. Had. A. Deal.”
And here is where he explained how he hadn’t
technically
broken their deal. But somehow the words wouldn’t come. Because he had. Maybe not the letter of
no banging the staff
. Matt hadn’t been staff when the whole thing started, and there was no way Garrett could bang him from the opposite coast, but hiring him now definitely fell under the type of situation that the rule had been designed to avoid.
Garrett studied Carlo’s face, which told him nothing. That terrified him like not much could. He should stop now. Regroup. Toss the charred remains of this conversation and re-fire the dish.
Except he had never reacted well to fear.
“It’s my restaurant. He stays.”
The words were tiny bombs, and time slowed while they found their mark. Carlo’s head jerked back when they hit, one by one, and then the impact sent shrapnel flying back at Garrett.
Carlo’s game face broke, and Garrett flinched at the pain underneath. He hadn’t meant to do that. He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t.
“Fine.”
But at least he had won. He could talk Carlo around later. Explain.
“Matt stays. Hector stays. He can have my job.”
There was a buzzing in his ears, and it was hard to think. War zone. Shock. He had finally found a way to detonate their friendship, and it was going up in smoke just like every other relationship he had ever had. His voice betrayed none of it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not just a manager. You’re my partner.”
“No, apparently I’m not.” Carlo stood up. “I’m out.”
Garrett sat at the table and watched Carlo walk out the door. After he was sure Carlo wasn’t coming back, he got up and went to the toilet where he dry-heaved up the tiny bite of meatball.
Chapter Three
Carlo wasn’t sure how he had gotten home. Shit. He didn’t know how he had gotten here period. Somewhere he had taken a wrong turn, and now his life was sideways in a ditch.
He looked around his apartment where everything appeared distressingly normal. Had he really just quit his job? Ended things with Garrett? Better question, had there ever really been anything to end? Or had he spent the past decade on a fantasy there was
something
between them?
Ransom. He had just quit Ransom. He should probably call Andi. But that wasn’t his problem anymore, was it? It was not his concern that some schmuck was going to ditch a shift at the last minute. It struck him as hilariously funny that he didn’t need to call in his own absence.
He found himself in the bedroom, lacing up his running shoes. A run made as much sense as anything else. Then he was downstairs, blowing past the doorman to the sidewalk. No warm-up, no stretching, just go.
He hit his half-mile marker panting. Wrong. He adjusted his pace from a sprint to his regular steady jog. Slowed his breathing. Headed for the park. Let the pound of feet on pavement replace thought.