Chapter Four
“H ow do you think it’s going?” Reed asked, leaning back in his desk chair, looking relaxed because he had no idea how it was actually going.
Evan had a feeling that if he had an inkling, his question wouldn’t have been nearly so casual.
“Uh, it’s . . . well . . . it could be going better.
” Evan believed one hundred percent in being truthful and straightforward in business, but he genuinely liked Reed and wanted Reed to not only appreciate his professional skills but to like him too.
And the truth about how Miles felt about him and his ideas didn’t reflect well on Evan at all.
“What happened?” Reed still didn’t look worried. Evan didn’t want to tell him he should be, but he really should be.
“We’re still trying to come to an agreement about the direction of the show,” Evan said with diplomacy.
Reed finally frowned, and sat up straighter in his chair. “The direction? I thought we talked about this.”
“We did.” Evan paused. “Miles is very committed to having complete creative control over the content of the show.”
“And he does, right?” Reed asked.
Evan nodded. “I keep telling him that there’s a very happy middle ground between the production and marketing and the vision he has, but he’s not really interested in compromise. Of any kind.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Reed asked, sounding very much like he did not want to moderate the discussion.
That might be the right way to proceed, but Evan didn’t want to fix his problems with Miles by just dragging him in front of their boss and pointing at the part in his contract that said he retained creative control, but had relinquished production control to a Five Points representative.
Because that wouldn’t really solve anything, and if Evan knew anything about this business, it would only lead to terrible shows that nobody ever wanted to watch.
He didn’t just want to successfully produce Pastry by Miles—he wanted it to be a fucking smash.
“No. I want to try to fix this without forcing you to intervene.”
“Okay, how about this,” Reed said, and Evan was reminded that not only did he manage sixteen employees and sub-contractors at Five Points, but that he’d very successfully run a high-end restaurant with a full staff in Chicago. “What is Miles’ point of view?”
Evan slumped back in his chair. “I’m a super special pastry chef who makes rainbows and orgasms but I won’t tell you how to make them.
You need to bow down to my superior ability; I’m not going to actually teach you.
You just watch my videos to bask in my cute hair and dimples and imagine you could make pastries like I do. ”
Evan ignored that this attitude of Miles’ was what had attracted him in the first place. Or that he’d wanted to be the one Miles gave rainbows and orgasms to.
Reed chuckled. “I hate to tell you that nearly every chef is like that, to some extent.”
“Oh, and I forgot,” Evan added. “You must also let me follow my beautiful chef muse, even if that means baking fifteen batches of cookies. When the first batch was plenty fine.”
“I thought I smelled cookies,” Reed said, then sighed. “I warned you this is how chefs are.”
“You did. But I’ve worked with them before—you, and Quentin and even others. And nobody has ever been this stubborn and difficult.”
“You’ve never worked with me in a kitchen before,” Reed corrected warmly. “Trust me when I say that I’m probably way more difficult than Miles.”
Evan was plenty loyal to his boss, but he was also a realist. “How would I convince you to compromise?”
“Tell me your vision for Pastry by Miles.”
That was the easiest thing Reed had asked since he had sat down.
Reed had seen him walking by the open door of his office and had waved him in to discuss the progress of their newest show.
Evan had learned after working for Reed for over two years that he hated formal meetings and much preferred organic conversations.
Evan had been actively trying to avoid this organic conversation, but the only way to get to the break room was to walk by Reed’s office.
“I want a great pastry chef who is willing and wanting to teach the housewives and teenagers and bored retirees how to bake with skill and conviction. I want clear, easy-to-follow recipes, paring down difficult concepts to easy steps. Miles should want to help people, not condescend to them.”
Reed didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Finding a compromise there is going to be tough, Evan.”
Evan knew it. It was why he had spent the last two hours alternatively wanting to beat Miles’ head and his own against a wall.
“But I think there’s hope in even the most dire situation,” Reed continued, which Evan thought was probably total bullshit.
He was probably just hoping that they didn’t kill each other in the next few months.
Evan had read that leadership manual before.
“But if you do need me to intervene, just say the word.”
“I will,” Evan said, getting up from his chair and feeling more frustrated than he had before sitting down.
It was well and good to be able to accomplish the impossible on a regular basis because he put his head down and got shit done, but it would’ve been nice for Reed to acknowledge just how impossible of a task this was.
Unfortunately, the task began with convincing Miles to consider compromising his artistic vision. And Evan had no freaking idea how to do that.
Reed wished him luck again, and Evan stepped into the hallway and right into Mr. Artistic Vision himself, thunderclouds in his eyes.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing in there?” Miles demanded, in a hushed, angry whisper that was not nearly as effective as he probably thought it was. He sounded raw, almost betrayed. Which, as far as Evan was concerned, was a serious overreaction.
“None of your business,” Evan said.
Miles gaped at him. “You really mean that, don’t you? You really mean to make me some sort of pastry Julia Child Joan of Arc, don’t you?”
Evan rolled his eyes. “The problem with eavesdropping is that you have no context for anything I said.”
“Oh, no, I heard it all,” Miles challenged. “I heard what you said about me. All about my insufferable ego. And then how you want to bring it down to earth. Bury it. That’s never going to happen.”
It had been a long day. Scratch that—it had been a long two days, and the blame for that could be laid directly at the feet of the man in front of him.
Without Miles’ ego, they could’ve already been working towards filming their first episode.
Instead, Evan was trying to figure out a way to placate it all the damn time.
All while not trying to fantasize about what he looked like bent over the kitchen counter.
“Listen,” Evan said, grabbing Miles by the forearm and dragging him further down the hall towards the break room, which was certain to be empty at this hour in the early evening.
When he reached the room, he dropped Miles’ arm like it had stung him.
Touching was bad. Touching would expose what he really wanted.
“Listen,” he repeated. “I am sick of your bullshit. I’m trying to get something done here, and instead of you even trying to listen, you just keep pontificating about how fucking awesome you are. Get over your damn self.”
“Me?” Miles retorted. He pushed a finger right against Evan’s chest and pushed him back towards the soda machine. Caught off guard, Evan’s back hit the machine and he couldn’t escape before Miles crowded right in front of him.
This close, his eyes were definitely thunderclouds. It shouldn’t have been sexy; it sort of was.
“Definitely you. You’re ninety-nine point nine percent of the problem here,” Evan argued.
“You walk around like the hottest thing in chinos, all spreadsheets and calculators and stupid bow ties,” Miles muttered. “You don’t know a damn thing. You don’t even like dessert!”
“Not even yours,” Evan retorted, which was only sort of true. He shouldn’t, but he wanted to taste Miles’ dessert more than ever.
Not just his desserts if he was being completely honest.
Miles’ brows drew together like two dark slashes against his olive skin. “You’re an asshole.”
Evan found himself almost pinned and almost breathless. And only mostly because of the argument he was currently having. “It takes one to know one.”
Evan could see that he was breathing hard, fists clenched together at his sides. Evan had never considered the possibility that Miles might punch him, because Miles worked in a kitchen, for god’s sake, physical violence couldn’t be up his alley, and yet, he seemed tempted to do it.
Evan got it. He’d been punched more than once growing up because he was an asshole. Or maybe because he was smarter than his parent of the week, or this month’s brother.
“I’m not doing this with you,” Miles finally spat out. “I’m not going to let you ruin me.”
“Ditto,” Evan said. And between the two of them, he was definitely convinced that he was the more determined of the two. After all, look at what he’d forcibly put behind him. Nobody was more motivated than he was to do this job and to do it to everyone’s satisfaction.
He had already come to terms with the knowledge he’d never be able to satisfy Miles. There was no point crying over that spilt milk.
Miles had at least three inches on him, and he leaned in, expression both intense and inscrutable. “Are you even going to tell me what you were doing in Reed’s office? I heard you complaining about me.”
Complaining? Evan hadn’t even gotten started complaining. “At Reed’s request, I was giving him a fair assessment of our situation.”
“I’m not an egotistical prick!” Miles said hotly. Evan knew just how hot it was, because he could practically feel Miles’ very firm thigh pushing against his own. He didn’t know how they’d suddenly gotten so close, but he wasn’t sure he could complain about it.