Chapter Five #2
Even calling this first class was being modest, and even though they’d only met a few days before, Miles didn’t think Evan tended towards humility.
He could only think that this was yet another way for Evan to put him, subtly or firmly, back in his place. A little flare of anger that he knew he had no right to feel burned through him.
He’d been puking less than an hour ago, and his mouth still vaguely tasted like rotten oranges.
It was enough of a reminder to swallow back down the retort he’d just been about to dish back.
Back at the rental house, he’d made himself a vow that he’d be professional, no matter what, even if Evan pushed his buttons.
How could Miles have forgotten how good Evan was at pushing them?
It didn’t matter, he told himself resolutely, he was going to be a professional. After the email, he owed Evan at least that much.
“I guess I should be grateful you came to get me then,” Miles said, leaning back into the soft leather captain’s chair, trying to act like it was something he did every day.
Evan just rolled his eyes and got to his feet, walking over to a little cleverly disguised refrigerator under one of the gleaming wood accents. Clearly he’d been on this plane before, and that stung even more.
He turned back towards Miles and he had two bottles of water in his hands. He tossed one in Miles’ direction. “Thought you might still be feeling it,” Evan said. “We’re about to take off soon. This might help.”
His voice was blunt, but his message was at least semi-sympathetic. It confused Miles, whose head was still pounding. “I wouldn’t expect you to care much,” he said. He kept expecting Evan to mention the email. Or the kiss. Or both, together, as two actions that didn’t make any sense put together.
“I don’t,” Evan said, with an even blunter delivery. “But Mr. Wheeler will skin me alive if you puke all over his plane.”
Miles took a sip of water, grateful even though the anger he kept trying to tamp down kept cropping up.
“Trust me, it’s all gone. You can keep your skin intact.
” He ignored the voice inside his head that decided this was a great time to mention what gorgeous skin it was.
And that it might be soft if Miles was ever allowed to touch it.
“What a relief,” Evan retorted disdainfully.
The desire fizzled. Dealing with Evan was confusing and exhausting and he was already worn out.
He heard Evan rustling around and then the all too familiar staccato punch of fingertips on a keyboard. He was working again, even though they were on a private plane. Miles was grateful though, because that meant he might have more time to gather himself for the apology he still needed to make.
Too many damn things were floating in the air around them and until they addressed them, he didn’t know how they would ever get anything done.
I really hate your face. It’s a big fat fucking lie.
He’d just close his eyes for a minute, to collect himself, and then he’d figure out his apology. It wouldn’t be as complicated as a Napoleon or his famous Paris-Brest even. Pastry was difficult, people were easy—usually, anyway.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart.” The voice, edged with derision, could only belong to one person.
Miles’ eyes snapped open and Evan’s face swam into view.
I really hate your face.
What a joke his little drunken charade was turning out to be.
“Are we back?” Miles asked groggily as he pulled himself upright. The chairs were so cushy it felt like they were sinking their padded claws into you.
“We’re back.” Evan was already facing the door, bag in hand, looking so proper and together that Miles wanted to swear. No doubt his hair, already a wreck, was a rat’s nest on his head, and he didn’t want to think what his clothes smelled like.
“Great.” Miles tried to sound enthused, but definitely didn’t pull it off.
“Don’t worry,” Evan said, not even bothering to glance back, “we’ll drop you off at your place first, so you can wash that horrific smell off. And then you’ll be coming in. We have work to do.”
“I would’ve come back today, I swear,” Miles said, because the apology was still an unformed, cloudy mirage in his head and he couldn’t seem to wring solid, concrete words from it.
“Of course you would have,” Evan said in clipped tones.
Miles knew he was lying.
True to his word, Miles was dropped off at his apartment.
He showered, letting the hot water beat him into defeat.
As he got ready, his face frosted in the foggy mirror, he told himself that he could be a professional.
He’d been a complete professional every single day of his career until he’d come to Five Points.
Letting fear get the best of him was stupid.
By the time he’d walked to the office, his head was a little clearer and he’d discovered a deep-seated determination not to let Evan push any more of his buttons.
He’d just settled in with his laptop to check the email he’d missed when Evan popped his head around the corner of his cubicle.
“Marketing meeting in the conference room, you’re already five minutes late,” was all he said in clipped, straightforward tones.
Personally, Miles thought every meeting they’d had so far could be categorized as a “marketing meeting,” but Evan just tilted his head, tempting Miles to challenge him. And Miles wasn’t stupid. If Reed knew about the email, he’d already be fired.
Reed might preach more touchy-feely now, but he was still the same man who had run Garnet with a velvet-covered iron fist and the expectation that everyone brought their A game every single day. Which meant that Evan hadn’t told him about the email.
Miles didn’t like blackmail, whether it was inferred or directly stated, but he couldn’t be pissed because he’d handed it to Evan on a silver platter.
“Fine,” Miles ground out, and picked up his laptop to follow Evan.
When Evan opened the door to the conference room, he was a little shocked to find it was full. Lots of employees, including Reed, were sitting around the table. He and Evan were able to grab two of the last free seats right before it started.
What followed was the most interminably boring bunch of bullshit that Miles had ever sat through. There were multiple presenters, and everybody had slide decks with more charts and keywords and strategies than Miles had ever wanted to see.
His head was still pounding behind his eyes and he’d barely gotten any sleep, but every time he even briefly considered closing his eyes, he saw Reed sitting across the table, taking attentive notes and asking questions that seemed to be relevant.
Plus, there was Evan beside him, no doubt ready to pick up on any wavering from Miles.
It was like being bored to death.
When the torture was finally over, Reed stopped by and clapped Miles on the shoulder. “I couldn’t believe it when Evan said you’d expressed interest in coming to one of these. I only come because I don’t have a choice. But I guess you really meant it when you said you wanted to reach the people.”
Miles could only nod mutely. Miserably. In acute pain and wishing he could inflict even a tiny bit of it on the man next to him.
He couldn’t. Never mind his own vow to stay professional, he knew if he took even the tiniest step out of line, Evan would bat him right back with the email.
Grinding his teeth together, Miles forced himself to smile. “Working in the kitchens doesn’t give me many opportunities to see stuff like this,” he said, which was all true. And he’d been one hundred percent okay with that situation.
“I’m impressed,” Reed said, and he sounded it too, which was even worse. Normally Miles craved approbation from his bosses, but not like this. Not for something he basically loathed.
Miles didn’t have to look over at Evan to see the smug smile on his face as Reed departed.
“Lunch?” Miles asked, aware of how desperate he sounded. He didn’t really care about food yet, but coffee was going to be a necessity.
“We have another meeting,” Evan said.
“I didn’t really have to come to this one,” Miles said slowly as they walked towards one of the smaller meeting rooms. “Did I?”
Evan just shrugged. “I thought it would be educational.”
“If you understand what they’re saying, probably it would have been,” Miles grumbled. It was clear that Evan wasn’t going to trip up and admit that the meeting had been clear punishment for the email—or maybe for the kiss—or that he was essentially blackmailing Miles into compliance.
Evan was too smart for that, which Miles sort of admired and definitely hated.
“So, what’s this meeting about?” Miles said, slumping into a chair.
“We only have a few short weeks to plan your first slate of episodes before we have to film,” Evan said, and that hard, determined edge to his voice was back. “We need a plan of attack. Now.”
“Okay, tell me what you think Joan of Arc Julia Child would do,” Miles said, because he might as well hear the worst of it, all completely spelled out.
Evan flipped open a folder. “I’m glad you finally asked.
” Even this statement was pointed at the end, like he was insinuating Miles should have asked that right away.
And frankly, Miles probably should have.
Except it wasn’t entirely Miles’ fault because he’d never really done this before.
As his producer, wasn’t it Evan’s job to guide him?
Miles watched Evan as he gathered papers and tried to bury the seething resentment that somehow Evan had wanted him to fail. But that didn’t make any sense either, because hadn’t Evan picked him? Not Reed?
Miles didn’t know what to think anymore. So he decided that if he’d asked the question, he might as well listen.
“Joan of Arc Julia Child, as you put it, is essentially a pastry course built into the first season. Each episode is a dessert that showcases a particular type of technique, and we work forward from there. The idea is to build on knowledge, but I’d like it to be accessible to anyone, at the same time. ”