Chapter 14
Oliver
The kitchen smelled like the aftermath of a bake sale explosion. Sweet, buttery notes, with vanilla, cocoa, and faint traces of burnt sugar from the one pan I left in a few minutes too long. Cooling racks covered every inch of counter space.
Rows of golden peanut butter cookies sat beside snickerdoodles, classic chocolate chip, and double chocolate and caramel with sea salt cookies. I’d also made a couple of batches of brownies.
Luke wandered in as I slid the final tray out of the oven. “Well, damn,” he said, surveying the sweet surplus. “Are we feeding a small army, or bribing our way into their affection?”
I glanced around at the sugary confections, and yeah, okay, maybe I’d gone a little overboard.
From what began as nervous energy baking, emerged the fact that I wanted Luke’s friends to like me.
Not out of politeness or obligation, but really like me.
I wanted them to see me as someone worth having in Luke’s life, not as the damaged stray he’d taken in.
With Vincent, I’d always been endured by association, present only because he hauled me with him to social events like luggage with a pulse.
His friends appraised me like one might a squashed bug on glass—an unsightly smear that distorted the reflection they preferred.
It taught me early that likeability functioned as currency, one I could only afford if I made myself small.
I didn’t want to be tolerated as someone’s accessory, and I didn’t trust my voice to carry me across the gap into belonging.
So I’d baked, telling myself it was hospitality.
But now, framed by Luke’s teasing statement, the treats did kind of seem like bribery.
It occurred to me that I was still trying to barter for acceptance. Different method, same old habit.
“I wanted to make a good impression,” I mumbled, embarrassment curdling my stomach. “I wanted to contribute something. They’re inviting us over and providing a meal, so it seemed polite not to show up empty-handed. I guess I got a little carried away.”
“Hey,” he said his tone shifting from teasing to sincere, as if he’d read my internal emotions. “You didn’t get carried away. I acted like a jackass with a mouth that runs faster than my brain.”
I shook my head. “You weren’t—”
“I was,” he said, not unkindly but firm enough to cut off my reflexive dismissal.
“You were being thoughtful while doing something that soothes you, and I poked fun at it like an insensitive idiot. It was careless and I’m sorry.
Besides, only a fool would complain over an abundance of sweetness.
You can never have too much of a good thing, right? ”
I stood rooted in shock. The apology had come without defensiveness and deflection. I’d learned to expect something so different from Luke’s response it almost didn’t register as real.
Vincent would’ve rolled his eyes, voice dripping with condescension, and asked why I had to be so sensitive all the time.
He’d have said I should be grateful he even joked with me, that it signaled inclusion in his inner circle.
He’d have turned it into a lecture about how fragile and difficult I was, and I would’ve folded under it because I always did.
I would’ve smiled, told him it was fine, and been the one to apologize to make it stop.
Reaching past me, Luke plucked a peanut butter cookie from the nearest tray, taking a bite. “Holy, Batman. These are unreal. If Ezra and Micah don’t immediately declare undying loyalty after one bite, I’ll be forced to reevaluate their humanity.”
Taking another bite, he hummed low in appreciation, eyes fluttering shut.
My pulse stuttered, heat flooding my face for reasons that had nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.
I forced my attention to the nearest cooling rack, analyzing the cookie spacing, distribution, surface cracks, anything that might save me from the inappropriate and confusing effect Luke had on me.
That did little to distract me. These breath-catching, stomach-tightening reactions to Luke were becoming harder to dismiss.
After his next bite he traced the outline of his lips, licking them clean.
Shit, did I just moan? I did. That was one hundred percent a pleased sound.
Albeit small, but . . . Oh, sweet Jesus, he licked his fingers now!
? I emitted another sound of interest. No!
Distress. Obviously, distress. Because if he didn’t stop, a certain body part supposed to be traumatically dormant would take avid interest in the scene playing out before me.
Christ. I did not need to be composing hymns to Luke’s mouth while my body and mind still sang the pains of my last relationship.
Needing to move away from the highly inappropriate thoughts flooding my brain, I pivoted. “Do you think I should ditch half of this and only bring one batch, or maybe a sample of each so it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard?”
“Ollie, don’t let my dumbass comment get in your head. Bring all of it. You made this with your whole heart. That’s not something you ration. Your heart isn’t something you ration, period. It’s the best part of you. Don’t shrink that down.”
I turned back to the cookie sheet, trying to shield against the flush that refused to dissipate.
“You really think it’s not too much?” I asked, needing to hear it again.
“Not even close. If there’s too much of you, I sure haven’t seen it yet.”
“Probably because you’re sample size consists of a few weeks. Give it time, I’m sure it’ll happen.”
“Not possible. You can’t have too much of a good thing, remember.”
I hated how obvious I was. I loved how he praised me. “Okay. All of it, then.”
“Great! So what’s the cookie transport plan? Platters? Individually wrapped in aluminum foil or cling wrap? Tupperware? Fancy basket?” Luke asked.
“I figured something simple. Foil over the brownie pans, and Ziploc bags for the cookies.”
“Done. I’ll handle the cookies, you foil the brownies.”
We worked in tandem, with a strange sort of easy domesticity that I knew I shouldn’t allow myself to get used to but couldn’t help but cherish.
“Alright, that’s everything,” Luke said, once we had everything packed and sealed and put into a canvas bag. “You ready to hit the road, partner?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“That’s the spirit. You’re going to be amazing. And hey,” he added, lowering his voice as he stepped a little closer. “If at any point it gets overwhelming, squeeze my hand three times and I’ll come up with a brilliant excuse for us to vamoose. Like a sudden case of the vapors.”
“The vapors?” I repeated, arching a brow at him. “What are you, a character out of a Jane Austen novel?”
He shrugged. “Hey, those books proved it’s a highly effective escape strategy. I’ll do a dramatic faint, preferably onto someone’s lap to cushion the fall. It’ll be the highlight of the night.”
“You could faint in my lap,” I said, my mouth reacting before my brain could catch up.
What the fuck? I chided. Faint in my lap.
Who says that? Who! Congratulations, you’re now a malfunctioning flirt-bot, corrupted by secondhand rom-coms and bad Tumblr dialogue, who decided to deploy them all in real time, without supervision.
Daring a glance upward, I found Luke’s mouth curved into that frustratingly appealing, dimpled smirk.
“You’re prepared to offer up your lap like some chaise longue for my hulking self?”
“On second thought, I don’t think my outfit could survive the strain. Find someone else to collapse onto, preferably someone sturdier.”
“Don’t worry, I promise to swoon politely. A single gloved hand to my brow, a sigh of great poetic suffering, and not a single wrinkle in your couture top.”
He reached out and let his fingers skim across the glossy satin.
The top had a high neckline forming a modern cravat, and from the right shoulder, an asymmetrical pleat spilled down my torso.
Neither wholly masculine nor feminine, but elegantly androgynous.
A reclamation of my identity, a choice I once would have been punished for.
I wore it now in a sort of unapologetic rebellion against the rigid expectations that had shaped my attire, and my sense of self.
Vincent had always shunned my affinity for fluid fashion, branding my preferences as indulgent and sissy.
When Luke had taken me shopping to rebuild my wardrobe, I’d hesitated at a rack that held garments of a more fluid style.
Bold, beautiful, and me. I’d told myself it’d be safer not to reach, better to pretend those weren’t the type of clothes I wanted.
But Luke had caught my lingering, longing glance and the way my fingers had reached out, and without hesitation, he had plucked one of the tops free and held it up to me.
“You’ll look amazing in this,” he’d enthused.
“We should add it to the pile, and anything else you want. What’s your size?
” With his easy acceptance, lack of judgement, and encouragement, he had given me one more antidote to Vincent’s poison.
“This is one of my favorites of the clothes we bought,” Luke said, bringing me back from the memory. “You look like you.”
“I look like me?”
“Yeah, y’know, like some clothes cover a person, but this honors who you are. It isn’t just ‘oh, cool, it fits.’ It’s ‘yeah, that’s him.’ It’s you as you should be seen. The version that isn’t tucked away or watered down.”
Luke was determined to break my capacity for speech. It happened daily, sometimes more than once, where he said something so genuine and earnest it rendered me speechless.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said after a moment. “Three squeezes, remember? That’s all it takes and I’ll spin a plausible story about alien abduction and we’ll be out the door in less than sixty seconds.”
“If you want it to be believable, you might want to stick to something a little more subtle.”