Chapter Ten #3
The other persuasive argument had been that they wouldn’t need to spend weeks or months getting Miles comfortable in front of the camera. He wouldn’t need a single ounce of training because he’d already given himself the best training regimen he could—tons and tons of experience.
But that was before, and this was after—though before and after what, specifically, Evan didn’t want to think about—now everything had suddenly changed.
Miles was stiff and awkward on the first video. He spent a lot of time second-guessing both his words and his actions. Even worse, he kept directing hesitant, almost questioning glances at the camera, like he was asking Evan if he was doing the right thing.
This was not the Pastry by Miles superstar that Evan had been ready to finish molding.
Evan was at a complete loss. He didn’t even want to look at Miles, currently elbow-deep in sudsy water, washing dishes, because then Miles might know how bad things were, and that would make them even worse.
He was self-conscious now, but he wasn’t aware of it yet.
As soon as he became aware of it, it would be even more pointed.
“Was it that bad?” Miles asked, from over at his spot at the sink.
Evan didn’t know how he could’ve given it away, but he was pretty certain that Miles hadn’t even looked over at him the whole time he’d been watching the video, and he certainly hadn’t admitted anything out loud.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Evan lied.
“You’re totally silent over there. Which means you’re usually plotting some sort of world takeover bid. Or how to tell me that all my other episodes were a fluke.”
Evan had been definitely worried about the screen test before, because he and Miles saw eye to eye on so little, but when they’d come back to Miles’ place, he’d suddenly become an acquiescent stranger.
Evan had begun to think that maybe they could pull this off after all, mostly resting on Miles’ natural charisma in front of the camera.
And now even that had deserted them.
“They weren’t flukes,” Evan said, but he wasn’t even convincing himself.
The tense line of Miles’ back as he scrubbed cookie sheets was proof enough that Evan definitely wasn’t convincing him.
“It’s been a long week,” Evan said. “You’re tired. I’m tired. This is a lot of stress. A few more practice run-throughs and the kinks will work themselves out.”
Later that night, Evan lay awake in bed, promising to himself that he’d told Miles the truth.
He’d been so vigilant when he’d picked the talent he wanted to produce for the first time.
He’d followed what felt like hundreds of food bloggers.
He’d done research for months. He’d narrowed and winnowed and made at least a dozen pro-and-con lists.
He’d kept coming back to Pastry by Miles for a reason, and that reason had to be more than how cute Miles was when he smiled, eyes crinkling and so damn bright.
It had to be more than when Evan had seen him for the very first time, he’d felt it deep down, right in the gut.
More than just that he’d sworn to himself that one day he’d find a way to meet Miles Costa.
It had to be more because Evan had staked everything on his career, and he’d staked his career on Miles. But lying awake, sleepless as the hours ticked by, Evan couldn’t help but wonder if he had been wrong this whole time.
The next day, Evan worked both of them like the devil, like a man terrified he was going to waste a single moment of time.
Thirteen times, Miles thought sluggishly as he leaned against the counter, not even caring if it was his good side or he was laid out seductively. He didn’t think he could bring himself to stand up.
Despite what Evan had promised to him the day before, and that Miles had sworn to himself that he’d deliver if it killed him, the kinks had not worked themselves out.
Miles got more comfortable, and he’d developed a decent patter as he prepared the cookies, but there was no spontaneity, no life.
No zing. He knew he felt annoyed and stifled at the man who stared coldly and calculatingly at the camera as he performed.
Even when he worked his ass off to forget Evan’s existence, Miles couldn’t find the spark that had come as natural to him as breathing from the first Pastry by Miles video he’d recorded.
Even the stupid Ding Dong video he’d filmed to get back at Evan on their second day was better than the thirteenth run-through of the chocolate peanut butter cookies.
“Maybe we should use the Ding Dong video,” Miles said. “I bet you some people would even find it funny.”
Evan’s expression said it all. He didn’t find it funny and couldn’t comprehend of anyone who would. And that, Miles thought, was the root of the problem. Evan couldn’t unclench for five seconds and fucking relax, and his goddamn tenseness had caused Miles to lose his center.
He couldn’t get it back, couldn’t seem to re-discover it, and even though there was a smooth delivery to the performance (probably because he’d run through it thirteen times), even Miles wasn’t delusional enough to believe a rehearsed demeanor would be enough to win Reed over.
“This,” Evan said coldly, refusing to rise to Miles’ bait, “is the video we’re doing.”
For better or worse, Evan was determined to stick to his plan, even as he saw it all going down the crapper. Miles didn’t know whether to be angry at Evan for his ridiculous stubborn streak or to feel guilty for letting him down.
Maybe he felt both at the same damn time.
“Just so you know, if you tell me to do it again,” Miles said, and he knew he sounded as tired as he felt, “I’m going to tell you to fuck off.”
Evan looked up. He might be overly stubborn and too determined to stick to the path that wasn’t working, but Miles could tell from the hint of despair in his dark eyes that he knew the score.
“No point,” he said shortly.
Miles raised an eyebrow.
“Reed just texted me,” Evan said by way of explanation, “we’ll film the test tomorrow during one of the Dream Team filming breaks. Ten a.m.”
It was so tempting to lean over, reach into the freezer and grab the bottle of Belvedere that Miles had found the other day. At the time he’d been impressed with the taste of whoever stocked the apartment, but then he’d remembered it was Evan.
It was always fucking Evan.
But they were screwed enough, he was probably going to move his ass back to Napa and beg for his job back. This was no time to be indulging in bad habits and screwing himself over worse. Besides, he’d learned the hard way that sometimes getting drunk only made everything worse.
He didn’t even want to imagine what might have happened if he hadn’t thrown a hissy fit, drank all that faux Kahlua and typed out an email that he’d never even meant to send.
He definitely wouldn’t be standing here, contemplating the end of Pastry by Miles and wondering how much groveling he would have to do to get another job.
“You want a drink?” Evan asked and Miles looked up in surprise, wondering how he’d managed to read his mind yet again.
“No? Why do you ask?”
Evan shrugged. “Alcohol seems to be your crutch when things don’t go your way.”
It wasn’t fair but it was true. That didn’t mean it stung any less. “Things aren’t exactly going your way either.”
“Everything will be fine tomorrow,” Evan said, but Miles didn’t even bother arguing.
They both knew the truth of what would probably happen during the test tomorrow.
Some things were painfully inevitable, and they’d been on this crash course from the very first moment.
“We should both get some rest. We’ll cab over in the morning to the studio. ”
Evan’s casual dismissal of Miles and everything they’d shared definitely stung.
It might be self-preservation for Evan, but Miles didn’t want to live without regrets and he didn’t want to pretend that he was okay with this.
Even with Evan’s cold shoulder of the last two days, he still wanted him.
He still wanted the possibility of hope for the future, even if that was at least a little delusional.
It was that thought that gave him the energy to push himself off the counter. He walked over to where Evan was sitting, head buried in his laptop, fingers typing away like it was some kind of barrier that protected him from anything real.
“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment,” Evan said, not even looking up.
Miles stood there, not exactly patient, but waiting because he was saving his pushiness for something that mattered. “You’re not in my hair. I don’t want you to go.”
Evan still didn’t look up. “You just said you didn’t want to go through it again.”
Miles shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t just reach out and take, mussing up Evan’s perfectly styled hair, his still-crisp shirt collar, the omnipresent bow tie. Today’s was a leafy green.
“I don’t.”
Something in Miles’ voice must have gotten through to Evan, because finally, he glanced up. There was apprehension in his buttery-brown eyes. Something like fear, even if he tried to hide it. Miles still saw it because Miles was looking for it.
“We talked about this.” Evan spit it out, and his eyes flickered for a single brief moment to where the list was still hanging from the fridge.
No kissing.
No sex.
No fighting.
No sarcastic retorts.
Of course Miles had started ignoring number four almost immediately.
It had been a natural reflex to try to get a reaction out of the suddenly icy Evan.
But he hadn’t tried the other three. He’d worked hard to not argue, to not fight back.
It had been even harder to resist pushing Evan on the other rules.
He’d been as good as he could possibly be; he was done with it.
“We did,” Miles admitted.
“Then what do you want?” Evan asked, even more defensively than he’d been the last two miserable days.
When Miles had walked over here, crossing the invisible line between kitchen and camera, between chef and producer, he hadn’t understood that this was a watershed moment. It was crystal clear now.
Some things were so simple they didn’t need explanations.
“You.”
Evan’s jaw dropped. “You really don’t,” he argued. “Not after everything.”
“That’s the thing, I want you more after everything. Even after how shitty all these rehearsals have been. Even if I have to go back to Napa and grovel. None of that feels like it matters now.”
Evan shot to his feet, hands shutting his laptop, reaching for his bag. Not the reaction Miles had been hoping for. Everyone always said that if you laid it all on the line, if you were honest and straightforward about what you wanted, you got it.
Everyone were fucking liars. Miles couldn’t hide his disappointment or the pain he felt as he watched Evan try to escape.
“What if I had never sent you that email?” he demanded.
He was so tempted to just show Evan how much he wanted him, but he knew that wouldn’t work.
Evan had to know he wanted it too, even if they both knew he did.
He had to acknowledge it to himself, and to Miles.
And shoving everything he’d brought into his bag so he could escape was the exact opposite of that.
Evan looked up. Maybe it would’ve helped that Miles saw the same echo of frustration and pain in his eyes, but it didn’t. It made it worse. Like this was their chance, and they were just passing it by.
At least Miles was fucking putting his ass out there. Evan was just running away.
“It doesn’t matter. Because you did. And you can’t change that.” Evan’s voice was hard, so hard it sounded like it might crack at any moment.
“I’m sorry I sent it,” Miles said, and he knew he sounded desperate. He was desperate. “I’ve never been sorrier about anything in my whole life.” He meant it. All of it. And it meant nothing.
“Me too,” Evan said, and then he was walking out of the kitchen and Miles heard the front door shut behind him.
This time it didn’t feel like a bad idea to reach for the bottle of vodka in the freezer and take a gulp, feeling it burn all the way down his throat.