CHAPTER 8. TANGLED #3
Xavier shoots me a withering look and ignores the jab. Instead, he heads for the kitchen, then glances back. “Come on. I need you.”
I trail after him, amused. “What exactly should I do?”
“Well, usually when one person cooks, the other sits there and talks. So—talk.”
“Alright,” I say, dropping onto a chair. “What are you making?”
“Figure it out when it’s on your plate,” Xavier mutters, already focused.
He sets his phone aside, washes his hands, then studies the fridge with a critical eye. Humming under his breath, he pulls out ingredients one by one, lining them up on the counter. I watch, trying to figure out what’s gotten into him today.
“Xavier,” I say, keeping my gaze on him. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?”
“What?” He barely glances up, turning a bottle of olive oil in his hands, inspecting the label like it’s some kind of code.
“Today. Yesterday. With you.”
He sighs. “How many times are you going to ask?”
“Until you answer.”
“I told you—nothing’s going on.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Okay,” I sigh, crossing my arms.
Xavier flicks me a glance. “Wait—are you mad at me now?”
I exhale. “No, Xavier, I’m not mad at you.”
“You always cross your arms when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I say honestly, clearing some space on the table for the ingredients. I grab the plates with what’s left of our half-eaten breakfast. “You’ve just been surprising me a lot lately, that’s all.”
Xavier freezes, bag of flour in hand, looking so genuinely confused that I instantly feel a twinge of guilt. “Sorry?” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say, softer this time, already regretting I brought it up. “So…are you going to tell me what you’re making? Because right now it looks like you’re just throwing in everything we have in the fridge.”
He perks up. “You can guess, if you want. We’re missing tarragon and white wine.”
I glance at the ingredients spread across the table and the counter—chicken, flour, cream, butter, olive oil, salt and pepper grinders, an onion, four carrots, and a bag of mushrooms.
“Uh…mystery stew?”
“Brilliant deduction, Newt. Nailed it.”
“Wait—seriously?”
“No. Chicken fricassee with tarragon.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you just making this up right now?”
Xavier feigns offense, shooting me a mock glare before his lips twitch into a smile. “How dare you.”
“How dare I?” I snort. “Okay, Chef Ormond, where exactly am I supposed to find tarragon and white wine?”
“Can you go fetch me some, please?”
“Oh sure, I’ll just pop upstairs and grab my secret stash,” I say dryly. “I keep some under my mattress, right next to my emergency caviar.”
Xavier arches an eyebrow. “Interesting your mind went straight to the mattress. You hid the newspaper there too. Were you stashing porn mags under it as a teen or something?”
Heat rushes to my face. “No, I wasn’t!”
He smirks, lips twitching. His voice drops, almost teasing. “I was kidding—but I love that color on you.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, fully flustered now. “Just go to the store. We don’t have tarragon or white wine.”
“The journalists are probably still camped outside,” Xavier says, tipping mushrooms onto a plate. “Picture tomorrow’s headline—Xavier, Newt, and Tarragon: A Love Story.”
I try to keep a straight face, but it’s useless. We both crack up.
Once I catch my breath, I suggest, “Maybe the Waverlys have some? They always have herbs. I could ask them.”
“I’ll go,” Xavier says abruptly, shooting me a look. “Mrs. Waverly will have you stuck there for an hour. You never know how to say no to that woman’s podcasts.”
I snort. “I actually like talking to her.”
Xavier rolls his eyes, gives me one last look, and heads out of the kitchen.
Left alone, I find myself staring at the wall, that strange, all-encompassing happiness bubbling up again. It’s not butterflies this time—more like a whole swarm of bees, buzzing and restless, ready to burst free. The stupid thing is, I don’t even know why I’m so happy.
And then, unbidden, the image flashes through my mind: Xavier Ormond on his knees in that dark bedroom. On his knees in front of me.
I swallow hard, pulse stuttering, my cock already hard in my pants.
Shoving down the voice of reason, I let myself linger on the thought a moment longer.
I picture my hands in his curls again—but this time, while his mouth is around my cock, his eyes on mine as he sucks the head, then takes me deeper…
Xavier’s phone buzzes sharply, yanking me back to reality. Shame floods in—fuck, I shouldn’t have let myself fantasize like that.
Another buzz. My eyes flick to the screen—2 new messages: Ernest.
I fight the urge to check. Tearing my gaze away, I grab the olive oil bottle and start reading the label like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
Buzz.
The screen goes dark before I can see who the last one was from. I try to focus—cold-pressed extraction, notes of green apple, whatever—but my mind’s already elsewhere.
And then—before I can stop myself—my fingers move.
I tap the screen.
3 new messages: Ernest.
Could be urgent, right?
My fingers hover for a second. Then I give in, type in Xavier’s password—one I know by heart now—and open the messages.
The first one hits me like a rock.
Ernest: “I know you want to be a real boy, Pinocchio, but I don’t think this one is for you.”
I frown. That’s…weird. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I scroll down.
Ernest: “I can find you a better one, nephew. I know it’s scary trying something new, but I think you’re idolizing this one a little too much.”
Ernest: “I don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s why I’m prying.”
My pulse spikes. There’s no mistaking it anymore—Xavier and Ernest are hiding something. I just need to figure out what.
I’m about to scroll up, see what else is there—
But then I catch the sound of footsteps downstairs.
Shit.
I move fast—close the messages, lock the phone, set it back exactly where it was.
I barely manage to keep my face in check when Xavier strolls back in—wine bottle in one hand, a bundle of tarragon in the other, looking way too pleased with himself.
“Got it,” he says, grinning. Then his smile falters. “You okay?”
Right. My face must’ve slipped.
I nod, forcing something close to a smile. “What do you need me to do for your fancy chicken thing?”
“Fricassee, Newt,” he says, mouth twitching. “Wash the carrots and mushrooms?”
“Sure.”
I turn to the sink, grateful for the excuse to keep my hands busy. But the texts are still rattling around in my head, a dull weight pressing against my ribs.
After a minute, Xavier glances over. “You’ve gone quiet.”
I pull it together, plastering on a casual smile. “Just thinking. Hey, tell me about this dish,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Xavier raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You know, like on cooking shows—where the chef talks about what they’re making,” I say, rinsing the last carrot. “Funny stories, random facts, whatever.”
He gives me a look. “You’re watching cooking shows now?”
“The Waverlys do,” I reply, a little defensive. “Come on, what’s the story behind your fricassee?”
Xavier pauses, thinking.
“Alright,” he says, placing the chicken fillets on a cutting board and picking up a knife.
“Back at university, I had this professor—Paul Cassé. Taught French and speech. First-generation immigrant. Grew up with nothing but built this incredible academic career. Spent most of his life studying and teaching languages.” He slices the fillets, looking up at me now and then.
“He spoke nine fluently. Sometimes after class, I’d hang out in his tiny office, and he’d just ramble about the history of linguistics. ”
“That’s sweet,” I say, smiling a little—Xavier sharing something personal like this feels rare. “Is this his recipe?”
Xavier nods, meets my eyes, then his face goes serious. “One day, he gave me this chicken fricassee recipe. The next day, he died of a stroke.”
“Oh god,” I murmur, heart sinking. “I’m sorry, that’s awful.”
I stand there, water dripping from my elbows, holding his gaze, my throat tightening at the thought of young Xavier hearing that.
Then his expression shifts—almost panicked. “No, that was a joke,” he says quickly. “I made it up.”
“What?” I blink. “Which part?”
“All of it,” he says, a flicker of guilt in his voice. “I didn’t think it’d actually upset you.”
I blink again, feeling a little dumb now. “So…there was no Professor Cassé?” I mutter, trying not to sound too annoyed.
“No,” Xavier says, stepping closer to wash his hands in the sink. “Cassé—fricassee. Didn’t it strike you as odd his name rhymed with the dish?”
As it hits me, I feel painfully slow. “I…didn’t catch that.”
“Sorry,” he says, offering an apologetic smile. “Wine?” He reaches for the bottle.
“Wasn’t that for the chicken?” I ask, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.
“We only need a splash,” Xavier says. “The rest’s for us.”
“Alright,” I say, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cupboard. “But we have two bottles of red.”
“We’ll start with the white,” he replies, giving me a perfectly innocent smile.
“Start?” My cheeks flush, but when he nods, I don’t argue. Honestly, I could use a drink.
***
Forty minutes later, the food’s ready—and we’re a little tipsy. Well, I am, at least. I drain my third glass and plate the chicken, glancing over at Xavier. I’ve got to hand it to him—it actually looks pretty damn good.
“Hope it tastes as good as it smells,” I say with a grin.
Xavier gives me a small, cryptic smile. “I hope so too.”
There’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. I wonder if wine makes him a little fizzy too.
We move to the living room, set down our plates and glasses, drag the coffee table closer, and settle onto the couch. I pick up the remote and flip on the TV.