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elrhiarhodanTitle: Red Velvet - Part One of Nine
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Art:kanarek13 Art Post:
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Mitchell, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, Mozzie, June Ellington, OFC, OMC, Peter/Neal, Neal/Elizabeth, past Neal/Sara, past Neal/Keller, past Neal/Kate, past Neal/Gordon, Mozzie/Elizabeth, Reese/Elizabeth, Mozzie/Gina (off camera), Mozzie/Sallie (off camera), implied Mozzie/Gina/Sallie (off camera)
Rating: R
Word Count: ~70,000 (Complete)
Spoilers: None
Beta Credit:miri_thompson
Warnings: Situational depression, grief, mention of HIV/AIDS, other STDs
Summary: Elizabeth Mitchell’s company, "Desserts After Dark," delivers fine cupcakes and pastries to the eclectic elite of Kings County (Brooklyn). Peter Burke, former FBI agent and one of the senior partners in the accounting firm of Hughes, Burke, is the bakery’s most loyal customer. But it’s not all fluff and cream cheese icing when he falls for Neal Caffrey, the Chief Baking Officer of Desserts After Dark. Peter has some serious issues from his past to deal with, and their road to happiness isn’t guaranteed.
Author's Note: My deepest thanks toangelita26, who made an innocuous comment in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wcwu chat one evening about the custom painted dessert delivery van she had just seen in her neighborhood. One thing lead to another and the next thing I knew, I had the start of my White Collar Big Bang story.
theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson also deserve extra-special recognition. Not only were they heroic alpha and beta readers, they gave me flawless story advice, held my hand, wipe my brow and listened to me whine about this for half the summer. I can’t thank them enough.
A special shout out torabidchild for her help with cake.
Many more thanks to all of the ladies of the nightly chats who’ve cheered me on and helped me over the bumps. You’re the best!
And very special thanks to my wonderful artist,kanarek13 for the cover and all of the incredible banners and icons. Her creative talent is without peer. Please remember to go here and tell her how awesome she is.
Of course, I don’t own White Collar or the characters portrayed therein. White Collar is the property of Fox Television Studios and USA Networks
_______________________
He shouldn’t do it. He knew that. It was becoming a habit. An addiction. And while he could reason with himself that there were worse things to be addicted to than red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, there were better things, too. Like carrot sticks and celery and cucumber, or maybe fresh kale.
But (and this was the devil sitting on his shoulder), it was just once a week. Friday night. And he always spent a few hours on Saturday at the gym. The calories weren’t converting into a spare tire or man-boobs or anything quite so repulsive.
And he could give them up any time. It wasn’t as if he had to have one every Friday night. After all, he did just fine on the third Friday of the month, at his poker game. And on the all too frequent Friday nights when he needed to schmooze with clients or go out of town for business. Or on the rare Friday night when he had a date.
Tonight, though, wasn’t one of those times. He was alone by choice and he would have a reasonably healthy dinner. So why the hell shouldn’t he get a couple of cupcakes delivered?
Peter refreshed the order page for Desserts After Dark. It seemed that they were all out of red velvet cupcakes. That was okay, really. Their double-devil’s food with cayenne vanilla buttercream was a good alternative. He clicked on the order, only to find that they were out of that one, too.
And out of every other cupcake.
Peter sighed and back-buttoned to the list of desserts available for delivery. He liked cupcakes, they were perfectly portioned, and since he had to order two, he’d have one tonight, the other on Sunday. But he was flexible. He could get a brownie or a blondie or even a few cookies. Just something sweet and fresh and tasty.
But the list of available offerings was unusually short – mostly just fancy cakes and tarts – which troubled Peter. Was Desserts After Dark having bakery problems? Moz, the delivery driver – a strange individual if he ever met one – had once hinted that the baker was a temperamental sort. Almost ready to give up on his Friday night indulgence, Peter scrolled to the bottom of the page. There was a new banner, “All cakes available for delivery by the slice.”
And wouldn’t you know, there was a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. The slice was the same price as a cupcake. Which meant that he either had to eat half of the ten dollar minimum delivery charge or order a second slice. Honestly, getting a second slice wasn’t a hardship, especially since there was double devil’s food available.
Peter placed the order, filled out the particulars, specifying delivery sometime between 9 and 10:30 tonight and actually felt his mouth water as his payment was processed. He was pathetic, getting this excited about a couple of slices of cake.
“Boss?”
Peter looked up, Diana was at his door. “What have you got?”
She handed him a file. “The subpoenas for the Pedersons’ audit have been quashed.”
“At least for this week.”
Diana grinned. “Yeah, but it gets me off the hook for document production this weekend. To celebrate, Christie and I are going out tonight. Want to join us?”
“Since your usual haunt is Henrietta Hudson, I think I’ll pass.”
“I’m sure they’ll be a few boys there, too. There always are. Besides, it’s got to be better than hanging out at home alone, with your cupcakes and an early season Yankees game.”
Peter gave her a mock glare. “Don’t you be dissing my team, Ms. Berrigan.”
“Or your cupcakes?”
“No cupcakes tonight.”
“Going cold turkey?”
“Nah – the bakery’s out of them. I’m getting a couple of slices of cake delivered instead.” Diana, once she found out about his Friday night pastry habit, hadn’t stopped teasing him. And was remarkably indiscrete about it.
“You’d really rather hang out alone?”
“I think the question is, would I’d rather spend my Friday night by myself with good baseball and delicious cake than spend the evening watching you and Christie get all lovey-dovey? Would I rather do that than be mocked by every high-earning lesbian in Manhattan and get the stink eye from twenty-something twinks wearing jeans so tight I can tell their religion? The answer is yes. Most definitely yes.”
Diana held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, then. But if you change your mind…”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“But if you do, just text me.”
“Okay, now get out. I still want your report on the Henderson account before the end of the day.”
“Slave driver.”
“Slacker.”
“You wish.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
“What are you, thirteen?” Peter retorted.
Diana laughed as she went back down to her office. Peter smiled and shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d do without her. She had been fresh out of B-school, so bright and shiny and new it almost hurt to look at her. He really didn’t need to supervise yet another junior associate, but he knew her father and he owed the man a favor.
Within a week she proved her worth – and in a field where it was kill or be killed, at least until you made partner, Diana Berrigan already had her fair share of scalps on her belt. She’d been bringing business for a few years, managing her own client list, but she still watched his back and called him boss.
He turned his attention back to the audit letters he was reviewing, wishing that all his staff was half as bright as Diana. They might all be Ivy League grads and pretty damn smart, but some of them didn’t have a lick of common sense.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Neal, where are the cupcakes?”
Her baker held up a hand with a cell phone and made a shushing gesture. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, foot tapping in annoyance. She had no issue with Neal talking on the phone; she did have an issue with him refusing to bake the company’s signature desserts.
“Sara, please – I promise not to bring you anymore devil’s food cake.”
El’s annoyance faded. Neal was talking with Sara and he sounded heartbroken. It was all she could do not to grab the phone out of his hand and give that girl a piece of her mind.
“Please, come home …” Neal was begging now, and Neal never begged. “Sara – “
She must have hung up because Neal just stood there; his shoulders slumped, staring at the now-dark screen on his phone. He finally looked up. “She’s not coming back to New York, El.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She hugged him, not caring that her clothes would be covered in flour and confectioner’s sugar. “She’s not the one for you.”
Neal sniffed. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, just pointing out that you’re a good man who deserves to be loved for who you are.”
“Sara …”
“Doesn’t love you.”
Neal bristled at her.
“She doesn’t – she’s beautiful and smart and talented and from the moment the two of you got together, she tried to change you. And you tried to change her.”
Neal got that sulky little boy look that never failed to affect her. It also made Elizabeth want to slap him upside the head. “We could have been good together.”
“Yes, maybe. But you’re a world-class pastry chef and Sara Ellis is a supermodel. Those are two incompatible professions. She knows that she needs to wear a size zero if she’s going to stay on top of her career, while you have a near-pathological need to fatten her up.”
“She’s too thin.” Neal muttered.
“You might think that, I might think that, but the editors at Vogue and Elle and a dozen other magazines think she’s perfect. And since they pay her bills, they’re the voices that count.”
“Heidi Klum doesn’t wear a size zero.”
She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “Heidi Klum doesn’t need to. Sara’s still got a ways to go before getting to that point.” El sighed. “Now – enough with your love life. Where are my cupcakes?”
If anything, Neal got even sulkier. “I hate cupcakes.”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Neal. Cupcakes sell.”
“Cupcakes are for cretins.”
“No, they aren’t. Your cupcakes pay my bills. And your salary.”
“Cupcakes are pedestrian. There’s no artistry in cupcakes.”
She disagreed, particularly when it came to Neal’s cupcakes. But El took a different tack with him. “There’s no crying in baseball, either. But it’s irrelevant. Cupcakes make people happy. Happy people are repeat customers. Repeat customers are happy customers that tell their friends about the amazing cupcakes at Desserts After Dark.”
“They should be talking about my amazing pastries, instead, the linzer tortes and sacher tortes and opera cakes and financiers and genoises. My tiramisu should be the talk of Brooklyn, not some ridiculous red velvet cupcake with a pouf of frosting on it.”
“Your red velvet cupcake is the best in the entire city. If not the whole country. And what’s wrong with giving people what they like?” She knew that nothing was going to break through to Neal while he was in this mood. The man was talented and rarely this temperamental, but Sara’s relocation two months ago had shaken his confidence. She only wished that his bad mood didn’t have such an effect on her bottom line.
“It’s not like we don’t have red velvet cake on hand.”
“And I’ve already put up the banner on the website letting customers know that we’ll deliver individual slices.”
“Which you know I hate. Cutting into a cake is an …”
“Experience like sex. Getting a pre-cut slice of cake is like watching pornography. You’ll get off, but it’s not as good as the first-hand experience.”
Neal rolled his eyes at her. This time she did slap him, lightly – on his right temple. “Okay, okay – I’ll make your damn cupcakes.”
“And they’ll be the best damn cupcakes in Brooklyn, right?”
“In the whole damn city.”
El kissed his cheek, or that was where she was aiming. Except that Neal turned his head at the right moment and their lips met. He tasted of vanilla and chocolate and lemon. The kiss deepened and she grew a little dizzy, like a sugar rush. “Mmmm.”
They broke apart and she licked her lips. “I thought you were pining for Sara.”
“She’s not coming back.” Now there was a twinkle in Neal’s eye.
“You’re such a Casanova, Neal Caffrey.”
“And you’re a beautiful woman, Elizabeth Mitchell. And my friend.”
She gave him a push. “Go bake me some cupcakes.”
Neal actually leered at her. She should have known better than to fall for his hangdog, heart-on-his-sleeve demeanor. One moment, he was honestly convinced that Sara was his one and only, the next, he was at her door with a bottle of Bordeaux and a bouquet of roses. Which was fine – he had felt the same way about Kate, about Matthew, about Gordon. And each time Neal and his happily-ever-after broke up; he’d end up in her bed.
Which was just fine with her. They were good friends, and Elizabeth certainly enjoyed the benefits that their friendship brought.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Moz couldn’t help but wonder why he took this gig. He’d been wondering about that almost every night for the last three years.
But there were worse things than driving around New York’s hippest borough in a white Ford Explorer made up to look like a red velvet cupcake on one side and a slice of carrot cake on the other. Arguing with pompous jackasses about planetary orbits was one thing that came to mind. The hours weren’t bad – six PM to midnight, six nights a week. The tips were good, too – not that he needed them. The hip Brooklynites needing their pastry fixes were an unusually generous bunch, although Moz occasionally thought that if he had to see one more tattooed, neck-bearded twenty-something wearing his grandpa’s ratty cardigan and skinny jeans, he’d turn to a life of crime or maybe even defy the BHA’s edict and go back to California.
Thankfully, the most regular customer and his favorite customer, on the delivery route wasn’t a hipster. He was the opposite of hipster. Mr. Peter Burke was late-forty-something guy who lived alone in a well-restored Cobble Hill townhouse. He was a CPA and he loved the Yankees. Moz forgave him for that because he also loved red velvet cupcakes. And even though he was always casually dressed when he answered the door, Moz thought of him as the Suit. The appellation was originally born out of his own innate contempt for anyone who let themselves be captured by the system, but over the past few years, he had developed a measure of affection for him.
Peter Burke seemed like a man who should have had a dog and a wife (or a husband, if his own personal gaydar was properly functioning) and a few rug rats, but he didn’t. He lived by himself in a pricey piece of real estate, stylishly decorated in early Ikea and some amazing pieces of modern art that made his fingers itch.
It didn’t take much to figure the Suit out. The pile of mail on the entryway table gave most everything away. He was a Harvard B-school grad and fairly active in the alumni association, a senior partner in a boutique accounting firm, and a frequent (first class) traveler who preferred mid-grade beer and trendy baked goods.
Peter Burke was also a lonely man. Moz was accustomed to delivering and leaving, preferably with a hefty tip. But the Suit always wanted to engage him in conversation. He was like some overly friendly Labrador retriever, which Moz found oddly endearing.
The seventh time he dropped off the man’s order, it was pouring out, and he’d gotten soaked on the trip from the van to the front door. And found himself invited in, given a towel and cup of hot tea (though he’d been offered coffee first). When he mentioned that his vehicle was double parked, the Suit smiled and said not to worry about it.
“You would abuse your influence?” He pretended to be appalled.
“Hmmm, don’t really consider it abuse.”
“People have gone to prison for fixing parking tickets.”
“Who said anything about fixing a ticket? I just said, don’t worry about it.”
Moz glared at the man. “Don’t tell me you’d pay the ticket?”
“Okay, I won’t tell you that.” He took the pastry box out of the bag, opened it and sniffed appreciatively. “Been dreaming about these beauties all day.”
“You know, that’s pretty pathetic. A grown man mooning over cupcakes.”
Burke just smiled at him. “What’s the big deal? I like ‘em – the best red velvet in New York.”
“And you’ve determined this through the scientific method?” Moz didn’t know why he felt the need to challenge the Suit’s every word.
“Hmmm, I don’t think taste can be calculated that way, but I’ve had my fair share of red velvet, and this one is the best. Perfectly moist, just the right amount of crumb, a depth to the sweetness. And the frosting…” The way he was looking at the cupcake, Moz was almost embarrassed.
“Grown men shouldn’t have such affection for baked goods.”
“If they didn’t, you’d go out of business.”
“You may be right.” Moz swallowed the last of the tea. “And sadly, I still have six more deliveries to make.” He almost didn’t expect to get a tip, between his attitude and well, the tea and towel. But the Suit surprised him. There was the usual tenner and as Moz was walking out the door, Burke handed him a large black umbrella.
Moz was tempted to refuse it, such a thing was an old symbol of the oppression of the masses by the bourgeoisie, but the rain was coming down in buckets.
“Bring it back next Friday, okay?”
He did and it was the start of a strange sort of friendship. He tried to make it a point to deliver the Suit’s cupcakes at the tail end of his delivery run, just so he could spend a few minutes chatting – actually arguing – with the man.
Except that tonight he wasn’t making any deliveries.
“Moz, you’re not going anywhere.” Neal had him cornered in El’s office. “You’re pale and sweating and your hands are shaking.”
“I am not contagious!”
“No, but you’re sick and you shouldn’t be on the road. If you crack up the van, El’s going to be very upset. And you don’t want Elizabeth upset, do you?”
Moz thought hard about that one. No, no, he definitely didn’t want to upset the lovely and ferocious Elizabeth Mitchell. “But who’ll make the deliveries?” He looked up at Neal, bleary-eyed. “Who’ll deliver the cupcakes to all those hipsters? And spend a few minutes chatting with the Suit? He needs his red velvet and conversation.” Moz knew he was getting a little delirious, but the words wouldn’t stop. “The man loves your red velvet, Neal. I think he’d make love to it if he could.”
“That’s … disturbing.”
“No – it’s really kind of cute. He’s this big-time accountant, but he’s funny and nice and …” Moz leaned in, he desperately needed to confide in someone. “I think he likes me.”
Neal, who wasn’t germophobic like him, didn’t pull back. But he did burst his fever-induced bubble. “Moz, this isn’t high school. And you’re not gay.”
“But I could be? Couldn’t I? He’s so tall. And he has a nice smile.” Moz leaned back in El’s chair, the leather felt cool against his overheated scalp. “Did I ever tell you that he lent me an umbrella?”
He closed his eyes, indulging in a fever dream of him and the Suit, walking through the streets of Brooklyn with matching black umbrellas. He vaguely heard El come in.
“How is he?”
“Not great. He’s fantasizing about a customer.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Dunno – calls him ‘The Suit’. Says he’s tall and has good hair and loves my red velvet cupcakes, apparently.”
“Yeah – that’s one of the regulars. Peter Burke, in Cobble Hill. Been ordering cupcakes almost every Friday since we started the delivery service. Except that tonight, he’s getting cake because some baker decided that cupcakes were beneath him.”
Moz sort of listened to his friends squabble; the words washed over him, meaningless.
“I can make the deliveries, El.”
“No – you have cupcakes to bake.”
“You hate driving at night.”
El did, which was one of the reasons why she hired him. But Moz was thinking that he just might sack out here for the rest of the year.
“Take Moz back to my place, get some medicine in him – and I don’t mean the type that comes in wine bottle. When he’s settled, you’ll come back here and bake cupcakes. I’ll make the deliveries.”
Oh, goodie. Back to El’s place. It had one big bed. He might not score with Mr. Tall, Dark and Full Head of Hair, but El… She was even better than the Suit.
She had breasts.
It took a tremendous effort, but Moz opened his eyes. “You know, guys…”
Neal and El stared at him, both so sweet and concerned. El even ran a cool hand over his forehead (which sadly extended to the nape of his neck). “What, Mozzie?”
“It’s time to make the donuts.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was close to eleven and Peter was getting antsy. He wasn’t jonesing for his dessert, not precisely. But he was a man who appreciated order and regularity and over the last few years had become accustomed to the little guy ringing his doorbell at a quarter past ten every Friday night. He was never this late, and Peter was a little worried – mostly about the guy, but about his pastry, too.
He had just pulled up the Desserts After Dark website when the doorbell rang. It was a touch embarrassing, but his mouth watered at the thought of the treat waiting for him. Okay, he definitely was addicted.
Without even checking, he pulled the door open. Instead of the little guy, there was a lovely woman waiting there. She was smiling and holding the distinctive red and gold bag from Desserts After Dark.
Thank goodness.
“Hi.”
“Um, hi.” Peter definitely wasn’t the type to get tongue-tied around beautiful women, but he’d been expecting Mozzie and the blue-eyed brunette was about as far from the quirky dessert delivery man as one could get.
“You must be Peter Burke, our best customer.” She held out her hand, the one without the bag.
“Um, I guess?”
“That you’re Peter Burke?” Now she was laughing at him.
“No, that I’m your best customer.”
“Well, if not our best, than our most regular and one of our most long-standing. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
They stood there, on either side of the threshold, until Peter remembered his manners. “Come in.”
The woman gave him a look and Peter felt like an idiot. She wasn’t going to enter a strange man’s house, not at this hour. “Okay – just hold on. He fished out his wallet and pulled out the customary ten dollar tip. “Here – ” He offered her the money, but she didn’t take it. The expression on her face was a little quizzical.
“I know you, I think.”
Peter shrugged. “I have that kind of face.”
“No, you don’t. I definitely know you.”
Peter really just wanted his cake but she wasn’t handing him the bag and he didn’t think it was good manners to grab it from her and slam the door shut in her face. But he took a good look again. Maybe she was right? Maybe they did know each other?
“Peter Burke, Peter Burke…” She repeated his name like a mantra. “You’re an FBI agent, right?”
“I was, but how did you know that?” He could actually see the metaphorical light bulb go on over her head, but he still didn’t recognize her.
“You once investigated the Diarmitt Gallery – about fifteen years ago, right?”
“Yes – the Diarmitt. Now I remember.” He frowned and squinted, and yes, yes, he did recognize her. “You were the assistant gallery manager.” Peter snapped his fingers, trying to remember her name. “Elizabeth – Elizabeth Michaels, right?”
She smiled, “Close – Elizabeth Mitchell.”
This time, when he asked her to come in, she crossed the threshold. “Oh, here – these are yours.”
He put the bag on the hall table, suddenly less interested in the baked goods. “How did you go from working in a posh Manhattan art gallery to delivering baked goods?”
She chuckled and there was just a touch of bitterness there. “You came, you investigated, you reported and a dozen people were fired. Some even went to jail.”
Peter remembered that case. Not only had he uncovered a massive sales tax fraud, it turned out that the gallery’s acquisitions manager was helping the mob to launder dirty money. He now recalled that the assistant manager – this woman – had been very helpful to him when she didn’t have to be. “You didn’t have any legal problems …”
“No, but I bet you don’t remember your last words to me.”
Peter shook his head. It was a long time ago. It came at a time when his life was falling apart. It might have salvaged his career and established his reputation in the art world, but it also marked the beginning of the end the life he’d always dreamed of.
“You suggested I get a good lawyer – because shit was going to fly and everyone would end up stinking.”
“Ah, yeah.” Now he remembered. “But everything worked out okay for you?”
She shrugged. “I lost my job when the gallery was sold. The new owners didn’t want anyone associated with the old order.”
“So you became a delivery woman?” Peter felt a little sad at that thought. He had been doing his job, and he knew that there would be fallout, but it seemed so unfair that an innocent would be caught out in the cold for more than a dozen years.
“Oh, no!” There was real humor in her laughter this time. “I own Desserts After Dark. Moz – our regular driver – is out sick and I’m just filling in for him tonight.”
“That’s quite a leap, though. Art gallery manager to purveyor of gourmet baked goods.” He was impressed.
“It’s been a journey. And I do have to go. I’ve got a few more deliveries to make.”
“Oh, of course.” There was something that told Peter there was a lot more to this story. He opened the door for her. “You’re the owner – do I still tip you?” He pulled out the ten dollar bill again.
“You know what? I’ll take it and give it to Moz.”
Peter didn’t doubt that she would. “Tell him I hope he feels better.”
“I will – and he’ll be back next week.”
Peter watched as Elizabeth Mitchell skipped down the stairs, got into her truck and drove off. She was pert and pretty, probably quite delightful company and a blue-eyed brunette – which, if he had ever been attracted to women, could push his buttons.
He picked up the bag from Desserts After Dark and decided that a slice of red velvet cake was really all he needed. At nearly fifty, dating seemed like more of an exercise in futility than fun, and hooking up with random strangers had never been his thing. Once upon a time, he thought he’d found Mr. Right and it turned out that Mr. Right was Mr. Wrong in so many ways. Peter didn’t exclude the possibility that there was someone else out there for him, but he wasn’t going to waste a lot of time looking.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal pulled the last batch of cupcakes out of the oven and set them on the rack to cool.
He hated cupcakes. He hated them more than he hated aspartame and skim milk and margarine. But it didn’t matter, because Elizabeth was right. His cupcakes sold, his cupcakes made more money for Desserts After Dark than all the other offerings, combined. They paid the bills, and then some.
And if it wasn’t for his cupcakes, he’d probably be working as a line baker in some vast hotel kitchen, with no room for any creativity.
Once upon a time, in another long-ago life, Neal owned a bakery. It was a beautiful place, with a bright orange awning, big windows and gleaming cases filled with the best baked goods in Manhattan. It truly deserved the name, The Greatest Cake. But it didn’t last. Good things never did, it seemed. On a bright November day, under a clear blue sky, Neal lost everything.
He wondered if he’d ever get over it.
Moz, best friend, confidant, occasional Fagin to his Oliver Twist, said the solution was easy. Just open up another shop. There was nothing to stop him. It wasn’t like his reputation as a baker had been called into question, and even the Post, which breathlessly reported on the story every day for a week, kept saying that his cake was truly the best in New York. Financing wasn’t impossible, if you knew the right people.
But he’d lost his heart when he lost the bakery. It was easier working for someone else, someone else to set the menu, someone else to handle the books and the bills and the problems, than to start over.
And if he hated making cupcakes, then having to make them after all, maybe that was the price to be paid for a lack of ambition.
Neal shook his head at that last thought. No, he didn’t lack ambition – being the best at his craft was still his dream. What he lacked was money and time, and for the moment, the heart to start over. He’d have his own place again. Someday.
It was close to three AM, and he was bleary-eyed. It had been a long while since he had to pull an all-nighter like this. Back in the day, he’d be working in the bakery by this time, because everything he served was baked fresh every morning before the doors opened. Desserts After Dark was just the opposite…everything was still fresh, but since nothing was sold until the evening, he was able to bake during banker’s hours.
There were a dozen of trays of cupcakes in the cooling racks, waiting for frosting. Neal had no intention of starting that process now. He wiped down the counter, made sure that everything was put away and ready for tomorrow, shut off the lights and locked the door behind him.
The walk to the subway wasn’t far, and he was home within an hour. His apartment, the fourth floor in a spacious private home on Riverside, was a refuge from the world, with its tiny efficiency kitchen, a closet the size of many downtown apartments, and a terrace with a near-impossible view of Manhattan.
Finding it had been a stroke of luck. Six years ago, when he lost everything, Matthew had kicked him out of their apartment in the West Village. He said he didn’t like being associated with a loser. Down to his last fifty bucks, Neal had been squatting in one of Mozzie’s storage units. It was clean, but not warm and there were a few things missing – like running water, a toilet and a kitchen. Desperate to raise some cash, he was waiting for a local thrift shop to pay him for the set of hand-forged chef’s knives his mother had given him as a graduation present from culinary school (she never understood that he really didn’t need knives like these), when a fabulous older woman walked in, followed by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform.
The chauffeur laid a garment bag across the counter, and the woman told the bored clerk that she wanted to sell the suits. The girl, who probably thought “haute couture”, had something to do with a paranormal reality show, sniffed as she flipped through the clothes. “I can give you twenty bucks for the lot.”
Which was as ridiculous an offer as Neal had ever heard. But the woman seemed to be debating with herself about accepting it.
The suits themselves hadn’t actually caught Neal’s eye – it was the scent that came off the wool. It was just a hint of something that stirred his memories. He saw his father, tall and smiling as he came home from a day on the job. He remembered the feel of his arms as his father picked him up and swung him around. He remembered the scent of perspiration and the fading notes of aftershave.
Drawn by the familiar aroma, he couldn’t help but take a closer look at the clothing laid out across the counter. The suits were much finer than anything he’d ever seen in the store.
Neal asked the woman who was selling the suits, “May I?”
She nodded and he took a jacket off a hanger – it was one of the finest he’d ever seen. Even though the cut was clearly vintage – from the late 1950s, the condition of the material was immaculate. He took off the peacoat he was wearing and slipped on the jacket. Once upon a time, he had had clothes like these – exquisitely tailored, unique. But they were long gone, along with gold cufflinks and watch and everything else of value he had once owned.
Neal had checked the label, shocked by what he saw. “This is a Devore …”
“That one was my husband’s favorite. He won it off Sy himself in a poker game.”
Neal wasn’t sure who was conning who, but the woman – June – was a force to be reckoned with. She had his whole sad story out of him in ten minutes, and in exchange, Neal found himself with a dead man’s wardrobe, an apartment on the Upper West Side for a rent well below the market, and a job as a private chef.
“I’m not a charity case, you know.” His pride insisted that he put up something of a protest.
“And I’m not some batty old woman who invites strangers into her home. I’ll have a background check run on you, and you’ll give me a few references. But I like you. I like a man who’s known adversity and hasn’t let it beat him down.”
Meeting June was the start of a new phase of his life. Cooking for her was almost too easy, considering how little time June spent in her own home. And about a year after he moved in, Elizabeth swept back into his life.
“I need a baker.”
“I’m not just a baker, I’m a pastry chef.”
“Don’t split hairs, Neal. You need a full time job. Cooking for your landlady isn’t going to keep your skills fresh or put you back into those designer suits you love.”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“Now, maybe. You were a few days from having to peddle your ass to keep a roof over your head. And what happens when Mrs. Ellington decides she no longer wants or needs a private chef? Or she sells this place?” Elizabeth was slowly jacking his dick and he really couldn’t think coherently when she was doing that to him.
“El…” Neal had whined, his hips rising to meet her hand. She was so good.
“Come on, Neal. Come work for me.” Her hand stroked him faster and faster. “Come on…”
He did, and somewhere along the line he ended up agreeing to work for Elizabeth, too. Truth be told, he didn’t regret it. He might have considered cupcakes beneath him, but his cupcakes were the best in Manhattan. And that was really saying something these days.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was close to two AM by time she finished and Elizabeth decided she never wanted to do the delivery run again.
Ever.
It wasn’t that there were problems at any of the stops. The days when making late night food deliveries in Brooklyn were for adrenaline junkies and daredevils and those who were suicidal were long over. Delivering cake and cookies and other assorted goodies to hipsters needing a late night fat and sugar fix was about as dangerous as sunbathing on the Coney Island boardwalk. It was just that she was exhausted – half the customers wanted her to stay and chat, they were worried about Mozzie, and the other half all but grabbed their deliveries out of her hands, throwing tip money at her. You’d think that she was delivering heroin the way some people reacted.
And she had to admit that meeting Peter Burke again was interesting. He had intrigued her when they first met, fifteen years ago, when she had been a newly minted New Yorker, thrilled to be working at a top flight art gallery in the greatest city in the world. One of her colleagues, seeing her interest, had been quick to enlighten her – he was gay.
El had felt a little sorry for Peter, it was bad enough that his boyfriend was cheating on him but it was worse that everyone seemed to know about it. But three weeks later when everything in her life came crashing down and whenever she thought about Peter Burke, it wasn’t with pity.
Leaving New York was never an option for Elizabeth Mitchell. She was young and bright and resourceful. She tried, but couldn’t get a job in another art gallery. Not only were they rare as hen’s teeth, her association with the taint from the Diarmitt made her a less than desirable candidate. That wasn’t going to stop her; she had a brain and hands and a willingness to work hard. Spending even a month unemployed drove her nuts and she figured that she needed to change direction. El got a job as a model at trade shows and learned that she had a natural talent for putting the right product into the hands of the right people, which lead to a job offer as a representative for a fancy food purveyor. A few years later, she decided to go out on her own, offering her services as an event planner.
Mitchell Premier Events wasn’t an immediate success, but she was in the black by the end of the first year and doing well enough that she could move out of her three-girl share in Hell’s Kitchen and into a decent-sized duplex apartment in the up-and-coming Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was also how she met Neal, about seven years after she started her business.
“Do you use butter or oil in your frosting?” She had been eyeing the young man’s beautiful display of miniature cakes. It didn’t hurt that the bakery representative was just as exquisite as the pastries on the table.
“Oil? You insult me.” He smiled and offered her a small slice of what looked like devil’s food cake.
She took a bite and realized that she was in the presence of true genius. She asked, “How do you feel about wedding cakes?”
“Well, I am at the biggest wedding expo on Long Island. If I didn’t like baking wedding cakes, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Hmmm, good answer. But that’s not really what I’m asking. Do you believe that it’s more important that a wedding cake look like an untouchable work of art or that it’s delicious?”
The man actually smirked at her. “You’ve just tasted my cake – what do you think?”
She took another mouthful, just because. “I think we can do business.” El put down the plate and took one of his business cards. “Neal Caffrey, huh? I think I’d like to introduce you to a few of my clients. Do you have a portfolio?”
“Why don’t you bring them to the bakery, and let me put on a tasting event for them.”
“Hmmm, tell you what. Why don’t I come down first and let me see how you get on. I should really try your full range of offerings.”
The smirk became something else and El had felt the magic spark. She had gotten the feeling that Neal Caffrey had a range of talents, and not all of them involved whisks and beaters.
Elizabeth made herself a cup of tea and flopped onto her couch. She probably should get into bed. While tomorrow was Saturday – no, it already was Saturday – she still had to be up early and organize the next week’s catering orders. Mitchell Premier Events was still a big part of her business, even though the bakery was catching up. She had a steady corporate cliental, which gave her the latitude and cash flow to turn away any potential bridezillas. She just didn’t have the patience for spoiled brats and their histrionic mothers anymore.
She finished her tea and got up, then remembering that her bedroom was already occupied. Neal had texted her that Moz had finally agreed to take something for his cold and had fallen into a deep sleep. He had even sent her a photo of him, tucked into her bed, snuggling with a pillow, an angelic smile on his face.
Sighing, she went into her bedroom. It looked like Moz hadn’t moved in hours. She stripped and got under the covers. Gently pulling the pillow out from Mozzie’s arms, she managed to shift him so that he was resting against her torso. His beard was a little scratchy against the tender skin, but she didn’t mind. He was her wooly bear and she wouldn’t have him any other way.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Moz woke, and if he didn’t feel like a new man, he certainly felt a hell of a lot better. Of course, resting one’s face between Elizabeth’s magnificent breasts could make a dead man feel better. He had spent most of the weekend curled up next to Elizabeth in something of a daze, listening to her talk with customers and suppliers and making arrangements for the coming week’s events. It was a nice backdrop to his physical malaise.
He thought he remembered Neal coming over on Saturday evening with dinner – homemade chicken soup and biscuits with spicy honey butter. He may have spent the latter part of the evening passed out in a fever dream, or he actually could have been in the bed watching Elizabeth and Neal making out. He wasn’t sure.
Moz contemplated getting up, but he didn’t want to disturb El. She had her arms wrapped around him, her lips just above his head and he could feel her warm breath against his bald head.
He didn’t love Elizabeth, but he liked her a lot more than most people he had encountered in his life. She didn’t judge him, she didn’t condemn him for his quirks and his foibles and his strange behaviors. She was also stupendous in bed, a perfect partner in kink when he needed it, and as vanilla as a container of Breyer’s when his mood required.
“Mmmmm.” She extricated her arms and rolled over, spooning her bottom against his belly and points south.
Moz smiled – he clearly wasn’t as sick as he had been.
“Let me sleep, ‘kay?” She complained a little.
“Okay.” Moz pressed a kiss against the small butterfly tattoo on her shoulder and climbed out of bed. He found his clothes – they’d been neatly folded and left them on the chair. He also had a drawer in the wardrobe, with extra underwear and socks. By the time he finished his shower, he was exhausted, but refreshed, too. El had fallen into a deep sleep. He left her snoring gently and went into the kitchen for breakfast.
He found his phone, keys and wallet there. Checking for messages, there were two from Neal, but neither required a response. Moz made himself a cup of tea and thought about eggs and toast, deciding that he wasn’t really up to anything quite so nutritious. He pulled out the box of Sugar-O’s that El kept hidden in the back of the cupboard, took a container of Almond Dream from the fridge, and helped himself.
Moz had vague memories of sort of collapsing in Elizabeth’s office and being more than a little distressed about missing the Friday night delivery schedule. About not being able to deliver Peter Burke’s order.
Did he really tell El and Neal that he thought the man liked him? Yeah – probably. Moz knew that under the influence of germs and Robitussin-D, he had no discretion. So what if he had a boy-crush on one of the company’s best clients? It wasn’t as if he’d ever do anything improper, or anything to jeopardize the business. It was just that Peter Burke was so nice and funny and smart, and even if he liked the Yankees and the Giants and the Knicks and preferred the Journal of Accounting Professionals (which Moz privately referred to as Suit Quarterly) to the Paris Review and The American Scholar, that didn’t take anything away from the attractiveness of the man.
Moz slurped the overly sweet milk from the bottom on the bowl and figured that he probably needed to stop fixating on random people. It wasn’t like he had any problems with the ladies, as demonstrated by the sight of a sleepy Elizabeth walking into the kitchen, wearing a shortie robe and nothing else.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Clinton, where do we stand with the client summit in October?” Reese Hughes, the senior partner, gave him a deadeye stare.
“The location is locked down. Since everyone was pleased with how The Hudson handled the event last year, I’ve contracted with them again. They’ve given us a much better rate.”
“Good work. Contracts?”
“They’re on your desk, sir.” Clinton was carefully deferential to the old man.
“What about the food? Are we going with the hotel’s menu or are we bringing in a caterer again?”
“One of the reasons why the rate was so good was because the hotel’s catering facilities will be under renovation, so I’m in the process of selecting a caterer.”
“What about the one we use for the holiday party?”
Clinton tried not to grimace at the old man’s micromanagement. “They were my first thought, but I just found out that they were closed by the Board of Health two days ago. Something about rats in the food supply. They got a C rating.”
Hughes made a face. “Lovely. I know it’s still five months away, but I had hoped we could get this put away for a while. Don’t you have a fallback caterer?”
Clinton grimaced. He knew he’d be on the hot seat for this – but he was trying to work his way into the upper management hierarchy and managing the annual client summit was a sure way to get positive attention and a fast-track to a partnership share. Provided the event went off without a hitch. “I have a few names to follow up with, and will have a final candidate by the end of the week.”
“Just make sure that whoever you select doesn’t serve penne a la vodka. I hate pink sauces,” Hughes grumbled.
Clinton knew that. It had been in the notes – in big letters, highlighted in bright neon pink – from the associate who organized last year’s event. No penne a la vodka, unless you want to get demoted. Or fired. Ridiculous, but that was one of the joys of working for a boutique accounting firm in Manhattan.
Clinton had wanted to do something different this year. Instead of having a traditional sit down dinner, or even a buffet, he thought that making it a dessert event would be a novel approach. But every associate he spoke to said that was too big of a risk. The event was supposed to promote the values of the firm – stability and honesty and integrity – and doing something different could send the wrong message.
But Clinton wasn’t sure he believed them. Hughes, Burke and Company wasn’t some ancient white shoe firm with a hundred year-old reputation to uphold. Reese Hughes had done his twenty-five at the FBI’s Financial Crimes division, and had mentored Peter Burke when he’d been with the Bureau, but eventually made a name for himself as the auditor to the art world. The firm was about twelve years old, a quiet force amongst the wealthy elite in New York.
“Does anyone have anything else to add?” Hughes’ question broke into Clinton’s reverie. There were no takers, and the morning meeting came to an end.
Diana Berrigan was, as usual, joined at Peter Burke’s hip, intently discussing some recent IRS circular. Clinton figured that she read the regs the way most people read the funny pages. Once again, it looked to be impossible to get even a minute of Peter’s time. But maybe the gods were smiling on him. One of the other partners, Garrett Fowler, called Diana over to him and he found himself waiting at the elevator with Peter.
Clinton took a deep breath. He’d never really talked with the firm’s other senior partner in the six months he’d been at H-B. But he really wanted to get his opinion – and maybe get into his good graces.
“Mr. Burke – “
“Peter, please. No need to be so formal.”
Clinton nodded and then plunged in. “Can I ask you a question? About the client summit?”
Peter shrugged. “Reese is serious about the penne a la vodka. He really hates pink sauces.”
“Okay – but that really wasn’t my question.”
Peter chuckled. “Ah. Sorry.”
The elevator arrived, and Clinton knew he had a very limited window of opportunity here. The trip up to the 21st floor didn’t last long.. “About the client summit – how bad would it be to do something a little different?”
Peter, at least, seemed intrigued. “Different, how?”
“Instead of doing a full dinner – how about making it a dessert event? There would be all sorts of desserts and sweets and fruit – for the diet conscious. We’d also offer a selection of dessert wines and champagnes, maybe an espresso bar.” Clinton was breathless when he finished.
The door opened onto the 21st floor and Peter gave him an odd look. “Are you serious or is did someone put you up to this?”
“Huh? Sorry?”
Burke stopped, and Clinton all but walked into him. “No one’s told you about my Friday night habit?”
Clinton’s back went stiff. He had no idea what Peter was talking about. “Your Friday night habit?”
“Yeah – no one’s spilled about my cupcake obsession?”
Clinton shook his head and tried to hide a smile. “I know nothing about that, Peter.”
“Huh. I thought it was common knowledge that I have two cupcakes delivered to my home every Friday night.”
“No, no. Honestly, no one’s shared that with me.” Clinton knew three things about the man – he was a force to be reckoned with in the art accounting world, he was something of a genius, and he was gay. The last bit of information came to him by way of every associate on the 23rd floor. He personally didn’t think he had any reason to know about the man’s sexual preferences, but others seemed to.
Knowing his preference for pastries would have been far more useful.
“Hmmm. Okay. Anyway – you want to do a dessert buffet instead of the traditional dinner thing?”
“Yeah – I mean, it would be something for people to talk about. Besides, dessert makes people happy. And happy clients are always good for business, right?”
“You bet your ass they are. Go for it, and I’ll back you with Reese if he gives you any flack.” Peter clapped him on the arm, before heading towards his office.
He had one more question. “Um, Peter – “
“Yeah?”
“The bakery that delivers your cupcakes – do you recommend them?”
“They make the best damn cake and cupcakes I’ve ever had. But I don’t know if they do corporate events. It’s worth giving them a call, though.”
Clinton followed Peter into his office. He scribbled a URL on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Here – and ask for the owner, Elizabeth Mitchell. Tell her that Peter Burke recommended Desserts After Dark to you.”
“Elizabeth Mitchell, is she a friend?” Clinton hoped he wasn’t sounding inappropriate.
Burke just smiled. “No – not really a friend. More of an old acquaintance.”
“Okay – I won’t be shy about using your name.” He gave Peter a sort of salute – it was a habit he probably would never be able to break.
Peter recognized the gesture for what it was and tipped two fingers against his own forehead. “Dismissed.”
Go to Part Two - On LJ | On DW
Author:
elrhiarhodan Art:
kanarek13 Art Post: Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Mitchell, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, Mozzie, June Ellington, OFC, OMC, Peter/Neal, Neal/Elizabeth, past Neal/Sara, past Neal/Keller, past Neal/Kate, past Neal/Gordon, Mozzie/Elizabeth, Reese/Elizabeth, Mozzie/Gina (off camera), Mozzie/Sallie (off camera), implied Mozzie/Gina/Sallie (off camera)
Rating: R
Word Count: ~70,000 (Complete)
Spoilers: None
Beta Credit:
miri_thompsonWarnings: Situational depression, grief, mention of HIV/AIDS, other STDs
Summary: Elizabeth Mitchell’s company, "Desserts After Dark," delivers fine cupcakes and pastries to the eclectic elite of Kings County (Brooklyn). Peter Burke, former FBI agent and one of the senior partners in the accounting firm of Hughes, Burke, is the bakery’s most loyal customer. But it’s not all fluff and cream cheese icing when he falls for Neal Caffrey, the Chief Baking Officer of Desserts After Dark. Peter has some serious issues from his past to deal with, and their road to happiness isn’t guaranteed.
Author's Note: My deepest thanks to
angelita26, who made an innocuous comment in the wcwu chat one evening about the custom painted dessert delivery van she had just seen in her neighborhood. One thing lead to another and the next thing I knew, I had the start of my White Collar Big Bang story. theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson also deserve extra-special recognition. Not only were they heroic alpha and beta readers, they gave me flawless story advice, held my hand, wipe my brow and listened to me whine about this for half the summer. I can’t thank them enough.A special shout out to
rabidchild for her help with cake. Many more thanks to all of the ladies of the nightly chats who’ve cheered me on and helped me over the bumps. You’re the best!
And very special thanks to my wonderful artist,
kanarek13 for the cover and all of the incredible banners and icons. Her creative talent is without peer. Please remember to go here and tell her how awesome she is.Of course, I don’t own White Collar or the characters portrayed therein. White Collar is the property of Fox Television Studios and USA Networks
He shouldn’t do it. He knew that. It was becoming a habit. An addiction. And while he could reason with himself that there were worse things to be addicted to than red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, there were better things, too. Like carrot sticks and celery and cucumber, or maybe fresh kale.
But (and this was the devil sitting on his shoulder), it was just once a week. Friday night. And he always spent a few hours on Saturday at the gym. The calories weren’t converting into a spare tire or man-boobs or anything quite so repulsive.
And he could give them up any time. It wasn’t as if he had to have one every Friday night. After all, he did just fine on the third Friday of the month, at his poker game. And on the all too frequent Friday nights when he needed to schmooze with clients or go out of town for business. Or on the rare Friday night when he had a date.
Tonight, though, wasn’t one of those times. He was alone by choice and he would have a reasonably healthy dinner. So why the hell shouldn’t he get a couple of cupcakes delivered?
Peter refreshed the order page for Desserts After Dark. It seemed that they were all out of red velvet cupcakes. That was okay, really. Their double-devil’s food with cayenne vanilla buttercream was a good alternative. He clicked on the order, only to find that they were out of that one, too.
And out of every other cupcake.
Peter sighed and back-buttoned to the list of desserts available for delivery. He liked cupcakes, they were perfectly portioned, and since he had to order two, he’d have one tonight, the other on Sunday. But he was flexible. He could get a brownie or a blondie or even a few cookies. Just something sweet and fresh and tasty.
But the list of available offerings was unusually short – mostly just fancy cakes and tarts – which troubled Peter. Was Desserts After Dark having bakery problems? Moz, the delivery driver – a strange individual if he ever met one – had once hinted that the baker was a temperamental sort. Almost ready to give up on his Friday night indulgence, Peter scrolled to the bottom of the page. There was a new banner, “All cakes available for delivery by the slice.”
And wouldn’t you know, there was a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. The slice was the same price as a cupcake. Which meant that he either had to eat half of the ten dollar minimum delivery charge or order a second slice. Honestly, getting a second slice wasn’t a hardship, especially since there was double devil’s food available.
Peter placed the order, filled out the particulars, specifying delivery sometime between 9 and 10:30 tonight and actually felt his mouth water as his payment was processed. He was pathetic, getting this excited about a couple of slices of cake.
“Boss?”
Peter looked up, Diana was at his door. “What have you got?”
She handed him a file. “The subpoenas for the Pedersons’ audit have been quashed.”
“At least for this week.”
Diana grinned. “Yeah, but it gets me off the hook for document production this weekend. To celebrate, Christie and I are going out tonight. Want to join us?”
“Since your usual haunt is Henrietta Hudson, I think I’ll pass.”
“I’m sure they’ll be a few boys there, too. There always are. Besides, it’s got to be better than hanging out at home alone, with your cupcakes and an early season Yankees game.”
Peter gave her a mock glare. “Don’t you be dissing my team, Ms. Berrigan.”
“Or your cupcakes?”
“No cupcakes tonight.”
“Going cold turkey?”
“Nah – the bakery’s out of them. I’m getting a couple of slices of cake delivered instead.” Diana, once she found out about his Friday night pastry habit, hadn’t stopped teasing him. And was remarkably indiscrete about it.
“You’d really rather hang out alone?”
“I think the question is, would I’d rather spend my Friday night by myself with good baseball and delicious cake than spend the evening watching you and Christie get all lovey-dovey? Would I rather do that than be mocked by every high-earning lesbian in Manhattan and get the stink eye from twenty-something twinks wearing jeans so tight I can tell their religion? The answer is yes. Most definitely yes.”
Diana held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, then. But if you change your mind…”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“But if you do, just text me.”
“Okay, now get out. I still want your report on the Henderson account before the end of the day.”
“Slave driver.”
“Slacker.”
“You wish.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
“What are you, thirteen?” Peter retorted.
Diana laughed as she went back down to her office. Peter smiled and shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d do without her. She had been fresh out of B-school, so bright and shiny and new it almost hurt to look at her. He really didn’t need to supervise yet another junior associate, but he knew her father and he owed the man a favor.
Within a week she proved her worth – and in a field where it was kill or be killed, at least until you made partner, Diana Berrigan already had her fair share of scalps on her belt. She’d been bringing business for a few years, managing her own client list, but she still watched his back and called him boss.
He turned his attention back to the audit letters he was reviewing, wishing that all his staff was half as bright as Diana. They might all be Ivy League grads and pretty damn smart, but some of them didn’t have a lick of common sense.
“Neal, where are the cupcakes?”
Her baker held up a hand with a cell phone and made a shushing gesture. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, foot tapping in annoyance. She had no issue with Neal talking on the phone; she did have an issue with him refusing to bake the company’s signature desserts.
“Sara, please – I promise not to bring you anymore devil’s food cake.”
El’s annoyance faded. Neal was talking with Sara and he sounded heartbroken. It was all she could do not to grab the phone out of his hand and give that girl a piece of her mind.
“Please, come home …” Neal was begging now, and Neal never begged. “Sara – “
She must have hung up because Neal just stood there; his shoulders slumped, staring at the now-dark screen on his phone. He finally looked up. “She’s not coming back to New York, El.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She hugged him, not caring that her clothes would be covered in flour and confectioner’s sugar. “She’s not the one for you.”
Neal sniffed. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, just pointing out that you’re a good man who deserves to be loved for who you are.”
“Sara …”
“Doesn’t love you.”
Neal bristled at her.
“She doesn’t – she’s beautiful and smart and talented and from the moment the two of you got together, she tried to change you. And you tried to change her.”
Neal got that sulky little boy look that never failed to affect her. It also made Elizabeth want to slap him upside the head. “We could have been good together.”
“Yes, maybe. But you’re a world-class pastry chef and Sara Ellis is a supermodel. Those are two incompatible professions. She knows that she needs to wear a size zero if she’s going to stay on top of her career, while you have a near-pathological need to fatten her up.”
“She’s too thin.” Neal muttered.
“You might think that, I might think that, but the editors at Vogue and Elle and a dozen other magazines think she’s perfect. And since they pay her bills, they’re the voices that count.”
“Heidi Klum doesn’t wear a size zero.”
She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “Heidi Klum doesn’t need to. Sara’s still got a ways to go before getting to that point.” El sighed. “Now – enough with your love life. Where are my cupcakes?”
If anything, Neal got even sulkier. “I hate cupcakes.”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Neal. Cupcakes sell.”
“Cupcakes are for cretins.”
“No, they aren’t. Your cupcakes pay my bills. And your salary.”
“Cupcakes are pedestrian. There’s no artistry in cupcakes.”
She disagreed, particularly when it came to Neal’s cupcakes. But El took a different tack with him. “There’s no crying in baseball, either. But it’s irrelevant. Cupcakes make people happy. Happy people are repeat customers. Repeat customers are happy customers that tell their friends about the amazing cupcakes at Desserts After Dark.”
“They should be talking about my amazing pastries, instead, the linzer tortes and sacher tortes and opera cakes and financiers and genoises. My tiramisu should be the talk of Brooklyn, not some ridiculous red velvet cupcake with a pouf of frosting on it.”
“Your red velvet cupcake is the best in the entire city. If not the whole country. And what’s wrong with giving people what they like?” She knew that nothing was going to break through to Neal while he was in this mood. The man was talented and rarely this temperamental, but Sara’s relocation two months ago had shaken his confidence. She only wished that his bad mood didn’t have such an effect on her bottom line.
“It’s not like we don’t have red velvet cake on hand.”
“And I’ve already put up the banner on the website letting customers know that we’ll deliver individual slices.”
“Which you know I hate. Cutting into a cake is an …”
“Experience like sex. Getting a pre-cut slice of cake is like watching pornography. You’ll get off, but it’s not as good as the first-hand experience.”
Neal rolled his eyes at her. This time she did slap him, lightly – on his right temple. “Okay, okay – I’ll make your damn cupcakes.”
“And they’ll be the best damn cupcakes in Brooklyn, right?”
“In the whole damn city.”
El kissed his cheek, or that was where she was aiming. Except that Neal turned his head at the right moment and their lips met. He tasted of vanilla and chocolate and lemon. The kiss deepened and she grew a little dizzy, like a sugar rush. “Mmmm.”
They broke apart and she licked her lips. “I thought you were pining for Sara.”
“She’s not coming back.” Now there was a twinkle in Neal’s eye.
“You’re such a Casanova, Neal Caffrey.”
“And you’re a beautiful woman, Elizabeth Mitchell. And my friend.”
She gave him a push. “Go bake me some cupcakes.”
Neal actually leered at her. She should have known better than to fall for his hangdog, heart-on-his-sleeve demeanor. One moment, he was honestly convinced that Sara was his one and only, the next, he was at her door with a bottle of Bordeaux and a bouquet of roses. Which was fine – he had felt the same way about Kate, about Matthew, about Gordon. And each time Neal and his happily-ever-after broke up; he’d end up in her bed.
Which was just fine with her. They were good friends, and Elizabeth certainly enjoyed the benefits that their friendship brought.
Moz couldn’t help but wonder why he took this gig. He’d been wondering about that almost every night for the last three years.
But there were worse things than driving around New York’s hippest borough in a white Ford Explorer made up to look like a red velvet cupcake on one side and a slice of carrot cake on the other. Arguing with pompous jackasses about planetary orbits was one thing that came to mind. The hours weren’t bad – six PM to midnight, six nights a week. The tips were good, too – not that he needed them. The hip Brooklynites needing their pastry fixes were an unusually generous bunch, although Moz occasionally thought that if he had to see one more tattooed, neck-bearded twenty-something wearing his grandpa’s ratty cardigan and skinny jeans, he’d turn to a life of crime or maybe even defy the BHA’s edict and go back to California.
Thankfully, the most regular customer and his favorite customer, on the delivery route wasn’t a hipster. He was the opposite of hipster. Mr. Peter Burke was late-forty-something guy who lived alone in a well-restored Cobble Hill townhouse. He was a CPA and he loved the Yankees. Moz forgave him for that because he also loved red velvet cupcakes. And even though he was always casually dressed when he answered the door, Moz thought of him as the Suit. The appellation was originally born out of his own innate contempt for anyone who let themselves be captured by the system, but over the past few years, he had developed a measure of affection for him.
Peter Burke seemed like a man who should have had a dog and a wife (or a husband, if his own personal gaydar was properly functioning) and a few rug rats, but he didn’t. He lived by himself in a pricey piece of real estate, stylishly decorated in early Ikea and some amazing pieces of modern art that made his fingers itch.
It didn’t take much to figure the Suit out. The pile of mail on the entryway table gave most everything away. He was a Harvard B-school grad and fairly active in the alumni association, a senior partner in a boutique accounting firm, and a frequent (first class) traveler who preferred mid-grade beer and trendy baked goods.
Peter Burke was also a lonely man. Moz was accustomed to delivering and leaving, preferably with a hefty tip. But the Suit always wanted to engage him in conversation. He was like some overly friendly Labrador retriever, which Moz found oddly endearing.
The seventh time he dropped off the man’s order, it was pouring out, and he’d gotten soaked on the trip from the van to the front door. And found himself invited in, given a towel and cup of hot tea (though he’d been offered coffee first). When he mentioned that his vehicle was double parked, the Suit smiled and said not to worry about it.
“You would abuse your influence?” He pretended to be appalled.
“Hmmm, don’t really consider it abuse.”
“People have gone to prison for fixing parking tickets.”
“Who said anything about fixing a ticket? I just said, don’t worry about it.”
Moz glared at the man. “Don’t tell me you’d pay the ticket?”
“Okay, I won’t tell you that.” He took the pastry box out of the bag, opened it and sniffed appreciatively. “Been dreaming about these beauties all day.”
“You know, that’s pretty pathetic. A grown man mooning over cupcakes.”
Burke just smiled at him. “What’s the big deal? I like ‘em – the best red velvet in New York.”
“And you’ve determined this through the scientific method?” Moz didn’t know why he felt the need to challenge the Suit’s every word.
“Hmmm, I don’t think taste can be calculated that way, but I’ve had my fair share of red velvet, and this one is the best. Perfectly moist, just the right amount of crumb, a depth to the sweetness. And the frosting…” The way he was looking at the cupcake, Moz was almost embarrassed.
“Grown men shouldn’t have such affection for baked goods.”
“If they didn’t, you’d go out of business.”
“You may be right.” Moz swallowed the last of the tea. “And sadly, I still have six more deliveries to make.” He almost didn’t expect to get a tip, between his attitude and well, the tea and towel. But the Suit surprised him. There was the usual tenner and as Moz was walking out the door, Burke handed him a large black umbrella.
Moz was tempted to refuse it, such a thing was an old symbol of the oppression of the masses by the bourgeoisie, but the rain was coming down in buckets.
“Bring it back next Friday, okay?”
He did and it was the start of a strange sort of friendship. He tried to make it a point to deliver the Suit’s cupcakes at the tail end of his delivery run, just so he could spend a few minutes chatting – actually arguing – with the man.
Except that tonight he wasn’t making any deliveries.
“Moz, you’re not going anywhere.” Neal had him cornered in El’s office. “You’re pale and sweating and your hands are shaking.”
“I am not contagious!”
“No, but you’re sick and you shouldn’t be on the road. If you crack up the van, El’s going to be very upset. And you don’t want Elizabeth upset, do you?”
Moz thought hard about that one. No, no, he definitely didn’t want to upset the lovely and ferocious Elizabeth Mitchell. “But who’ll make the deliveries?” He looked up at Neal, bleary-eyed. “Who’ll deliver the cupcakes to all those hipsters? And spend a few minutes chatting with the Suit? He needs his red velvet and conversation.” Moz knew he was getting a little delirious, but the words wouldn’t stop. “The man loves your red velvet, Neal. I think he’d make love to it if he could.”
“That’s … disturbing.”
“No – it’s really kind of cute. He’s this big-time accountant, but he’s funny and nice and …” Moz leaned in, he desperately needed to confide in someone. “I think he likes me.”
Neal, who wasn’t germophobic like him, didn’t pull back. But he did burst his fever-induced bubble. “Moz, this isn’t high school. And you’re not gay.”
“But I could be? Couldn’t I? He’s so tall. And he has a nice smile.” Moz leaned back in El’s chair, the leather felt cool against his overheated scalp. “Did I ever tell you that he lent me an umbrella?”
He closed his eyes, indulging in a fever dream of him and the Suit, walking through the streets of Brooklyn with matching black umbrellas. He vaguely heard El come in.
“How is he?”
“Not great. He’s fantasizing about a customer.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Dunno – calls him ‘The Suit’. Says he’s tall and has good hair and loves my red velvet cupcakes, apparently.”
“Yeah – that’s one of the regulars. Peter Burke, in Cobble Hill. Been ordering cupcakes almost every Friday since we started the delivery service. Except that tonight, he’s getting cake because some baker decided that cupcakes were beneath him.”
Moz sort of listened to his friends squabble; the words washed over him, meaningless.
“I can make the deliveries, El.”
“No – you have cupcakes to bake.”
“You hate driving at night.”
El did, which was one of the reasons why she hired him. But Moz was thinking that he just might sack out here for the rest of the year.
“Take Moz back to my place, get some medicine in him – and I don’t mean the type that comes in wine bottle. When he’s settled, you’ll come back here and bake cupcakes. I’ll make the deliveries.”
Oh, goodie. Back to El’s place. It had one big bed. He might not score with Mr. Tall, Dark and Full Head of Hair, but El… She was even better than the Suit.
She had breasts.
It took a tremendous effort, but Moz opened his eyes. “You know, guys…”
Neal and El stared at him, both so sweet and concerned. El even ran a cool hand over his forehead (which sadly extended to the nape of his neck). “What, Mozzie?”
“It’s time to make the donuts.”
It was close to eleven and Peter was getting antsy. He wasn’t jonesing for his dessert, not precisely. But he was a man who appreciated order and regularity and over the last few years had become accustomed to the little guy ringing his doorbell at a quarter past ten every Friday night. He was never this late, and Peter was a little worried – mostly about the guy, but about his pastry, too.
He had just pulled up the Desserts After Dark website when the doorbell rang. It was a touch embarrassing, but his mouth watered at the thought of the treat waiting for him. Okay, he definitely was addicted.
Without even checking, he pulled the door open. Instead of the little guy, there was a lovely woman waiting there. She was smiling and holding the distinctive red and gold bag from Desserts After Dark.
Thank goodness.
“Hi.”
“Um, hi.” Peter definitely wasn’t the type to get tongue-tied around beautiful women, but he’d been expecting Mozzie and the blue-eyed brunette was about as far from the quirky dessert delivery man as one could get.
“You must be Peter Burke, our best customer.” She held out her hand, the one without the bag.
“Um, I guess?”
“That you’re Peter Burke?” Now she was laughing at him.
“No, that I’m your best customer.”
“Well, if not our best, than our most regular and one of our most long-standing. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
They stood there, on either side of the threshold, until Peter remembered his manners. “Come in.”
The woman gave him a look and Peter felt like an idiot. She wasn’t going to enter a strange man’s house, not at this hour. “Okay – just hold on. He fished out his wallet and pulled out the customary ten dollar tip. “Here – ” He offered her the money, but she didn’t take it. The expression on her face was a little quizzical.
“I know you, I think.”
Peter shrugged. “I have that kind of face.”
“No, you don’t. I definitely know you.”
Peter really just wanted his cake but she wasn’t handing him the bag and he didn’t think it was good manners to grab it from her and slam the door shut in her face. But he took a good look again. Maybe she was right? Maybe they did know each other?
“Peter Burke, Peter Burke…” She repeated his name like a mantra. “You’re an FBI agent, right?”
“I was, but how did you know that?” He could actually see the metaphorical light bulb go on over her head, but he still didn’t recognize her.
“You once investigated the Diarmitt Gallery – about fifteen years ago, right?”
“Yes – the Diarmitt. Now I remember.” He frowned and squinted, and yes, yes, he did recognize her. “You were the assistant gallery manager.” Peter snapped his fingers, trying to remember her name. “Elizabeth – Elizabeth Michaels, right?”
She smiled, “Close – Elizabeth Mitchell.”
This time, when he asked her to come in, she crossed the threshold. “Oh, here – these are yours.”
He put the bag on the hall table, suddenly less interested in the baked goods. “How did you go from working in a posh Manhattan art gallery to delivering baked goods?”
She chuckled and there was just a touch of bitterness there. “You came, you investigated, you reported and a dozen people were fired. Some even went to jail.”
Peter remembered that case. Not only had he uncovered a massive sales tax fraud, it turned out that the gallery’s acquisitions manager was helping the mob to launder dirty money. He now recalled that the assistant manager – this woman – had been very helpful to him when she didn’t have to be. “You didn’t have any legal problems …”
“No, but I bet you don’t remember your last words to me.”
Peter shook his head. It was a long time ago. It came at a time when his life was falling apart. It might have salvaged his career and established his reputation in the art world, but it also marked the beginning of the end the life he’d always dreamed of.
“You suggested I get a good lawyer – because shit was going to fly and everyone would end up stinking.”
“Ah, yeah.” Now he remembered. “But everything worked out okay for you?”
She shrugged. “I lost my job when the gallery was sold. The new owners didn’t want anyone associated with the old order.”
“So you became a delivery woman?” Peter felt a little sad at that thought. He had been doing his job, and he knew that there would be fallout, but it seemed so unfair that an innocent would be caught out in the cold for more than a dozen years.
“Oh, no!” There was real humor in her laughter this time. “I own Desserts After Dark. Moz – our regular driver – is out sick and I’m just filling in for him tonight.”
“That’s quite a leap, though. Art gallery manager to purveyor of gourmet baked goods.” He was impressed.
“It’s been a journey. And I do have to go. I’ve got a few more deliveries to make.”
“Oh, of course.” There was something that told Peter there was a lot more to this story. He opened the door for her. “You’re the owner – do I still tip you?” He pulled out the ten dollar bill again.
“You know what? I’ll take it and give it to Moz.”
Peter didn’t doubt that she would. “Tell him I hope he feels better.”
“I will – and he’ll be back next week.”
Peter watched as Elizabeth Mitchell skipped down the stairs, got into her truck and drove off. She was pert and pretty, probably quite delightful company and a blue-eyed brunette – which, if he had ever been attracted to women, could push his buttons.
He picked up the bag from Desserts After Dark and decided that a slice of red velvet cake was really all he needed. At nearly fifty, dating seemed like more of an exercise in futility than fun, and hooking up with random strangers had never been his thing. Once upon a time, he thought he’d found Mr. Right and it turned out that Mr. Right was Mr. Wrong in so many ways. Peter didn’t exclude the possibility that there was someone else out there for him, but he wasn’t going to waste a lot of time looking.
Neal pulled the last batch of cupcakes out of the oven and set them on the rack to cool.
He hated cupcakes. He hated them more than he hated aspartame and skim milk and margarine. But it didn’t matter, because Elizabeth was right. His cupcakes sold, his cupcakes made more money for Desserts After Dark than all the other offerings, combined. They paid the bills, and then some.
And if it wasn’t for his cupcakes, he’d probably be working as a line baker in some vast hotel kitchen, with no room for any creativity.
Once upon a time, in another long-ago life, Neal owned a bakery. It was a beautiful place, with a bright orange awning, big windows and gleaming cases filled with the best baked goods in Manhattan. It truly deserved the name, The Greatest Cake. But it didn’t last. Good things never did, it seemed. On a bright November day, under a clear blue sky, Neal lost everything.
He wondered if he’d ever get over it.
Moz, best friend, confidant, occasional Fagin to his Oliver Twist, said the solution was easy. Just open up another shop. There was nothing to stop him. It wasn’t like his reputation as a baker had been called into question, and even the Post, which breathlessly reported on the story every day for a week, kept saying that his cake was truly the best in New York. Financing wasn’t impossible, if you knew the right people.
But he’d lost his heart when he lost the bakery. It was easier working for someone else, someone else to set the menu, someone else to handle the books and the bills and the problems, than to start over.
And if he hated making cupcakes, then having to make them after all, maybe that was the price to be paid for a lack of ambition.
Neal shook his head at that last thought. No, he didn’t lack ambition – being the best at his craft was still his dream. What he lacked was money and time, and for the moment, the heart to start over. He’d have his own place again. Someday.
It was close to three AM, and he was bleary-eyed. It had been a long while since he had to pull an all-nighter like this. Back in the day, he’d be working in the bakery by this time, because everything he served was baked fresh every morning before the doors opened. Desserts After Dark was just the opposite…everything was still fresh, but since nothing was sold until the evening, he was able to bake during banker’s hours.
There were a dozen of trays of cupcakes in the cooling racks, waiting for frosting. Neal had no intention of starting that process now. He wiped down the counter, made sure that everything was put away and ready for tomorrow, shut off the lights and locked the door behind him.
The walk to the subway wasn’t far, and he was home within an hour. His apartment, the fourth floor in a spacious private home on Riverside, was a refuge from the world, with its tiny efficiency kitchen, a closet the size of many downtown apartments, and a terrace with a near-impossible view of Manhattan.
Finding it had been a stroke of luck. Six years ago, when he lost everything, Matthew had kicked him out of their apartment in the West Village. He said he didn’t like being associated with a loser. Down to his last fifty bucks, Neal had been squatting in one of Mozzie’s storage units. It was clean, but not warm and there were a few things missing – like running water, a toilet and a kitchen. Desperate to raise some cash, he was waiting for a local thrift shop to pay him for the set of hand-forged chef’s knives his mother had given him as a graduation present from culinary school (she never understood that he really didn’t need knives like these), when a fabulous older woman walked in, followed by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform.
The chauffeur laid a garment bag across the counter, and the woman told the bored clerk that she wanted to sell the suits. The girl, who probably thought “haute couture”, had something to do with a paranormal reality show, sniffed as she flipped through the clothes. “I can give you twenty bucks for the lot.”
Which was as ridiculous an offer as Neal had ever heard. But the woman seemed to be debating with herself about accepting it.
The suits themselves hadn’t actually caught Neal’s eye – it was the scent that came off the wool. It was just a hint of something that stirred his memories. He saw his father, tall and smiling as he came home from a day on the job. He remembered the feel of his arms as his father picked him up and swung him around. He remembered the scent of perspiration and the fading notes of aftershave.
Drawn by the familiar aroma, he couldn’t help but take a closer look at the clothing laid out across the counter. The suits were much finer than anything he’d ever seen in the store.
Neal asked the woman who was selling the suits, “May I?”
She nodded and he took a jacket off a hanger – it was one of the finest he’d ever seen. Even though the cut was clearly vintage – from the late 1950s, the condition of the material was immaculate. He took off the peacoat he was wearing and slipped on the jacket. Once upon a time, he had had clothes like these – exquisitely tailored, unique. But they were long gone, along with gold cufflinks and watch and everything else of value he had once owned.
Neal had checked the label, shocked by what he saw. “This is a Devore …”
“That one was my husband’s favorite. He won it off Sy himself in a poker game.”
Neal wasn’t sure who was conning who, but the woman – June – was a force to be reckoned with. She had his whole sad story out of him in ten minutes, and in exchange, Neal found himself with a dead man’s wardrobe, an apartment on the Upper West Side for a rent well below the market, and a job as a private chef.
“I’m not a charity case, you know.” His pride insisted that he put up something of a protest.
“And I’m not some batty old woman who invites strangers into her home. I’ll have a background check run on you, and you’ll give me a few references. But I like you. I like a man who’s known adversity and hasn’t let it beat him down.”
Meeting June was the start of a new phase of his life. Cooking for her was almost too easy, considering how little time June spent in her own home. And about a year after he moved in, Elizabeth swept back into his life.
“I need a baker.”
“I’m not just a baker, I’m a pastry chef.”
“Don’t split hairs, Neal. You need a full time job. Cooking for your landlady isn’t going to keep your skills fresh or put you back into those designer suits you love.”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“Now, maybe. You were a few days from having to peddle your ass to keep a roof over your head. And what happens when Mrs. Ellington decides she no longer wants or needs a private chef? Or she sells this place?” Elizabeth was slowly jacking his dick and he really couldn’t think coherently when she was doing that to him.
“El…” Neal had whined, his hips rising to meet her hand. She was so good.
“Come on, Neal. Come work for me.” Her hand stroked him faster and faster. “Come on…”
He did, and somewhere along the line he ended up agreeing to work for Elizabeth, too. Truth be told, he didn’t regret it. He might have considered cupcakes beneath him, but his cupcakes were the best in Manhattan. And that was really saying something these days.
It was close to two AM by time she finished and Elizabeth decided she never wanted to do the delivery run again.
Ever.
It wasn’t that there were problems at any of the stops. The days when making late night food deliveries in Brooklyn were for adrenaline junkies and daredevils and those who were suicidal were long over. Delivering cake and cookies and other assorted goodies to hipsters needing a late night fat and sugar fix was about as dangerous as sunbathing on the Coney Island boardwalk. It was just that she was exhausted – half the customers wanted her to stay and chat, they were worried about Mozzie, and the other half all but grabbed their deliveries out of her hands, throwing tip money at her. You’d think that she was delivering heroin the way some people reacted.
And she had to admit that meeting Peter Burke again was interesting. He had intrigued her when they first met, fifteen years ago, when she had been a newly minted New Yorker, thrilled to be working at a top flight art gallery in the greatest city in the world. One of her colleagues, seeing her interest, had been quick to enlighten her – he was gay.
“But …” There was a wealth of disappointment in that single word.
“But what, sweetheart?” That was from Sebastian, the gallery’s resident decorator.
“He doesn’t look gay.”
“And how are gay people supposed to look?” Sebastian asked, this time not so gently.
El had bitten her lip, realizing how stupid that statement was. “Just – well, he looks so …” Fuck, she had been about to say normal. “Sly, I’m from small-town Illinois. What the hell do you want from me? Walking home every night is an education in human sexual relations, okay?”
He had taken pity on her. “Yeah, I know what you mean. He looks like everyone’s All-American, as straight as a ruler. But he’s got a boyfriend. We don’t really know each other, but I’ve seen him quite a few times in some of the local nightclubs.”
“Is it serious?” El didn’t know what she asked that. It wasn’t like Peter Burke would be interested in her if he wasn’t seeing someone.
Sylvester had shrugged. “Yeah – they’ve been together for years, but Burke might be in for a nasty surprise. His guy, Daniel, has ‘other’ interests, if you know what I mean.”
She didn’t, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Her ignorance, however, must have shown on her face, because her co-worker explained, “Dan plays like he thinks it’s 1975.” When El shook her head in confusion, Sebastian explained that the man was extremely promiscuous, despite a years-long relationship with an FBI agent. “He likes pussy, too. He gets it whenever and wherever he can. I’m figuring that Burke doesn’t know, because he’s not the type to put up with anyone catting around on him.”
“But what, sweetheart?” That was from Sebastian, the gallery’s resident decorator.
“He doesn’t look gay.”
“And how are gay people supposed to look?” Sebastian asked, this time not so gently.
El had bitten her lip, realizing how stupid that statement was. “Just – well, he looks so …” Fuck, she had been about to say normal. “Sly, I’m from small-town Illinois. What the hell do you want from me? Walking home every night is an education in human sexual relations, okay?”
He had taken pity on her. “Yeah, I know what you mean. He looks like everyone’s All-American, as straight as a ruler. But he’s got a boyfriend. We don’t really know each other, but I’ve seen him quite a few times in some of the local nightclubs.”
“Is it serious?” El didn’t know what she asked that. It wasn’t like Peter Burke would be interested in her if he wasn’t seeing someone.
Sylvester had shrugged. “Yeah – they’ve been together for years, but Burke might be in for a nasty surprise. His guy, Daniel, has ‘other’ interests, if you know what I mean.”
She didn’t, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Her ignorance, however, must have shown on her face, because her co-worker explained, “Dan plays like he thinks it’s 1975.” When El shook her head in confusion, Sebastian explained that the man was extremely promiscuous, despite a years-long relationship with an FBI agent. “He likes pussy, too. He gets it whenever and wherever he can. I’m figuring that Burke doesn’t know, because he’s not the type to put up with anyone catting around on him.”
El had felt a little sorry for Peter, it was bad enough that his boyfriend was cheating on him but it was worse that everyone seemed to know about it. But three weeks later when everything in her life came crashing down and whenever she thought about Peter Burke, it wasn’t with pity.
Leaving New York was never an option for Elizabeth Mitchell. She was young and bright and resourceful. She tried, but couldn’t get a job in another art gallery. Not only were they rare as hen’s teeth, her association with the taint from the Diarmitt made her a less than desirable candidate. That wasn’t going to stop her; she had a brain and hands and a willingness to work hard. Spending even a month unemployed drove her nuts and she figured that she needed to change direction. El got a job as a model at trade shows and learned that she had a natural talent for putting the right product into the hands of the right people, which lead to a job offer as a representative for a fancy food purveyor. A few years later, she decided to go out on her own, offering her services as an event planner.
Mitchell Premier Events wasn’t an immediate success, but she was in the black by the end of the first year and doing well enough that she could move out of her three-girl share in Hell’s Kitchen and into a decent-sized duplex apartment in the up-and-coming Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was also how she met Neal, about seven years after she started her business.
“Do you use butter or oil in your frosting?” She had been eyeing the young man’s beautiful display of miniature cakes. It didn’t hurt that the bakery representative was just as exquisite as the pastries on the table.
“Oil? You insult me.” He smiled and offered her a small slice of what looked like devil’s food cake.
She took a bite and realized that she was in the presence of true genius. She asked, “How do you feel about wedding cakes?”
“Well, I am at the biggest wedding expo on Long Island. If I didn’t like baking wedding cakes, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Hmmm, good answer. But that’s not really what I’m asking. Do you believe that it’s more important that a wedding cake look like an untouchable work of art or that it’s delicious?”
The man actually smirked at her. “You’ve just tasted my cake – what do you think?”
She took another mouthful, just because. “I think we can do business.” El put down the plate and took one of his business cards. “Neal Caffrey, huh? I think I’d like to introduce you to a few of my clients. Do you have a portfolio?”
“Why don’t you bring them to the bakery, and let me put on a tasting event for them.”
“Hmmm, tell you what. Why don’t I come down first and let me see how you get on. I should really try your full range of offerings.”
The smirk became something else and El had felt the magic spark. She had gotten the feeling that Neal Caffrey had a range of talents, and not all of them involved whisks and beaters.
Elizabeth made herself a cup of tea and flopped onto her couch. She probably should get into bed. While tomorrow was Saturday – no, it already was Saturday – she still had to be up early and organize the next week’s catering orders. Mitchell Premier Events was still a big part of her business, even though the bakery was catching up. She had a steady corporate cliental, which gave her the latitude and cash flow to turn away any potential bridezillas. She just didn’t have the patience for spoiled brats and their histrionic mothers anymore.
She finished her tea and got up, then remembering that her bedroom was already occupied. Neal had texted her that Moz had finally agreed to take something for his cold and had fallen into a deep sleep. He had even sent her a photo of him, tucked into her bed, snuggling with a pillow, an angelic smile on his face.
Sighing, she went into her bedroom. It looked like Moz hadn’t moved in hours. She stripped and got under the covers. Gently pulling the pillow out from Mozzie’s arms, she managed to shift him so that he was resting against her torso. His beard was a little scratchy against the tender skin, but she didn’t mind. He was her wooly bear and she wouldn’t have him any other way.
Moz woke, and if he didn’t feel like a new man, he certainly felt a hell of a lot better. Of course, resting one’s face between Elizabeth’s magnificent breasts could make a dead man feel better. He had spent most of the weekend curled up next to Elizabeth in something of a daze, listening to her talk with customers and suppliers and making arrangements for the coming week’s events. It was a nice backdrop to his physical malaise.
He thought he remembered Neal coming over on Saturday evening with dinner – homemade chicken soup and biscuits with spicy honey butter. He may have spent the latter part of the evening passed out in a fever dream, or he actually could have been in the bed watching Elizabeth and Neal making out. He wasn’t sure.
Moz contemplated getting up, but he didn’t want to disturb El. She had her arms wrapped around him, her lips just above his head and he could feel her warm breath against his bald head.
He didn’t love Elizabeth, but he liked her a lot more than most people he had encountered in his life. She didn’t judge him, she didn’t condemn him for his quirks and his foibles and his strange behaviors. She was also stupendous in bed, a perfect partner in kink when he needed it, and as vanilla as a container of Breyer’s when his mood required.
“Mmmmm.” She extricated her arms and rolled over, spooning her bottom against his belly and points south.
Moz smiled – he clearly wasn’t as sick as he had been.
“Let me sleep, ‘kay?” She complained a little.
“Okay.” Moz pressed a kiss against the small butterfly tattoo on her shoulder and climbed out of bed. He found his clothes – they’d been neatly folded and left them on the chair. He also had a drawer in the wardrobe, with extra underwear and socks. By the time he finished his shower, he was exhausted, but refreshed, too. El had fallen into a deep sleep. He left her snoring gently and went into the kitchen for breakfast.
He found his phone, keys and wallet there. Checking for messages, there were two from Neal, but neither required a response. Moz made himself a cup of tea and thought about eggs and toast, deciding that he wasn’t really up to anything quite so nutritious. He pulled out the box of Sugar-O’s that El kept hidden in the back of the cupboard, took a container of Almond Dream from the fridge, and helped himself.
Moz had vague memories of sort of collapsing in Elizabeth’s office and being more than a little distressed about missing the Friday night delivery schedule. About not being able to deliver Peter Burke’s order.
Did he really tell El and Neal that he thought the man liked him? Yeah – probably. Moz knew that under the influence of germs and Robitussin-D, he had no discretion. So what if he had a boy-crush on one of the company’s best clients? It wasn’t as if he’d ever do anything improper, or anything to jeopardize the business. It was just that Peter Burke was so nice and funny and smart, and even if he liked the Yankees and the Giants and the Knicks and preferred the Journal of Accounting Professionals (which Moz privately referred to as Suit Quarterly) to the Paris Review and The American Scholar, that didn’t take anything away from the attractiveness of the man.
Moz slurped the overly sweet milk from the bottom on the bowl and figured that he probably needed to stop fixating on random people. It wasn’t like he had any problems with the ladies, as demonstrated by the sight of a sleepy Elizabeth walking into the kitchen, wearing a shortie robe and nothing else.
“Clinton, where do we stand with the client summit in October?” Reese Hughes, the senior partner, gave him a deadeye stare.
“The location is locked down. Since everyone was pleased with how The Hudson handled the event last year, I’ve contracted with them again. They’ve given us a much better rate.”
“Good work. Contracts?”
“They’re on your desk, sir.” Clinton was carefully deferential to the old man.
“What about the food? Are we going with the hotel’s menu or are we bringing in a caterer again?”
“One of the reasons why the rate was so good was because the hotel’s catering facilities will be under renovation, so I’m in the process of selecting a caterer.”
“What about the one we use for the holiday party?”
Clinton tried not to grimace at the old man’s micromanagement. “They were my first thought, but I just found out that they were closed by the Board of Health two days ago. Something about rats in the food supply. They got a C rating.”
Hughes made a face. “Lovely. I know it’s still five months away, but I had hoped we could get this put away for a while. Don’t you have a fallback caterer?”
Clinton grimaced. He knew he’d be on the hot seat for this – but he was trying to work his way into the upper management hierarchy and managing the annual client summit was a sure way to get positive attention and a fast-track to a partnership share. Provided the event went off without a hitch. “I have a few names to follow up with, and will have a final candidate by the end of the week.”
“Just make sure that whoever you select doesn’t serve penne a la vodka. I hate pink sauces,” Hughes grumbled.
Clinton knew that. It had been in the notes – in big letters, highlighted in bright neon pink – from the associate who organized last year’s event. No penne a la vodka, unless you want to get demoted. Or fired. Ridiculous, but that was one of the joys of working for a boutique accounting firm in Manhattan.
Clinton had wanted to do something different this year. Instead of having a traditional sit down dinner, or even a buffet, he thought that making it a dessert event would be a novel approach. But every associate he spoke to said that was too big of a risk. The event was supposed to promote the values of the firm – stability and honesty and integrity – and doing something different could send the wrong message.
But Clinton wasn’t sure he believed them. Hughes, Burke and Company wasn’t some ancient white shoe firm with a hundred year-old reputation to uphold. Reese Hughes had done his twenty-five at the FBI’s Financial Crimes division, and had mentored Peter Burke when he’d been with the Bureau, but eventually made a name for himself as the auditor to the art world. The firm was about twelve years old, a quiet force amongst the wealthy elite in New York.
“Does anyone have anything else to add?” Hughes’ question broke into Clinton’s reverie. There were no takers, and the morning meeting came to an end.
Diana Berrigan was, as usual, joined at Peter Burke’s hip, intently discussing some recent IRS circular. Clinton figured that she read the regs the way most people read the funny pages. Once again, it looked to be impossible to get even a minute of Peter’s time. But maybe the gods were smiling on him. One of the other partners, Garrett Fowler, called Diana over to him and he found himself waiting at the elevator with Peter.
Clinton took a deep breath. He’d never really talked with the firm’s other senior partner in the six months he’d been at H-B. But he really wanted to get his opinion – and maybe get into his good graces.
“Mr. Burke – “
“Peter, please. No need to be so formal.”
Clinton nodded and then plunged in. “Can I ask you a question? About the client summit?”
Peter shrugged. “Reese is serious about the penne a la vodka. He really hates pink sauces.”
“Okay – but that really wasn’t my question.”
Peter chuckled. “Ah. Sorry.”
The elevator arrived, and Clinton knew he had a very limited window of opportunity here. The trip up to the 21st floor didn’t last long.. “About the client summit – how bad would it be to do something a little different?”
Peter, at least, seemed intrigued. “Different, how?”
“Instead of doing a full dinner – how about making it a dessert event? There would be all sorts of desserts and sweets and fruit – for the diet conscious. We’d also offer a selection of dessert wines and champagnes, maybe an espresso bar.” Clinton was breathless when he finished.
The door opened onto the 21st floor and Peter gave him an odd look. “Are you serious or is did someone put you up to this?”
“Huh? Sorry?”
Burke stopped, and Clinton all but walked into him. “No one’s told you about my Friday night habit?”
Clinton’s back went stiff. He had no idea what Peter was talking about. “Your Friday night habit?”
“Yeah – no one’s spilled about my cupcake obsession?”
Clinton shook his head and tried to hide a smile. “I know nothing about that, Peter.”
“Huh. I thought it was common knowledge that I have two cupcakes delivered to my home every Friday night.”
“No, no. Honestly, no one’s shared that with me.” Clinton knew three things about the man – he was a force to be reckoned with in the art accounting world, he was something of a genius, and he was gay. The last bit of information came to him by way of every associate on the 23rd floor. He personally didn’t think he had any reason to know about the man’s sexual preferences, but others seemed to.
Knowing his preference for pastries would have been far more useful.
“Hmmm. Okay. Anyway – you want to do a dessert buffet instead of the traditional dinner thing?”
“Yeah – I mean, it would be something for people to talk about. Besides, dessert makes people happy. And happy clients are always good for business, right?”
“You bet your ass they are. Go for it, and I’ll back you with Reese if he gives you any flack.” Peter clapped him on the arm, before heading towards his office.
He had one more question. “Um, Peter – “
“Yeah?”
“The bakery that delivers your cupcakes – do you recommend them?”
“They make the best damn cake and cupcakes I’ve ever had. But I don’t know if they do corporate events. It’s worth giving them a call, though.”
Clinton followed Peter into his office. He scribbled a URL on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Here – and ask for the owner, Elizabeth Mitchell. Tell her that Peter Burke recommended Desserts After Dark to you.”
“Elizabeth Mitchell, is she a friend?” Clinton hoped he wasn’t sounding inappropriate.
Burke just smiled. “No – not really a friend. More of an old acquaintance.”
“Okay – I won’t be shy about using your name.” He gave Peter a sort of salute – it was a habit he probably would never be able to break.
Peter recognized the gesture for what it was and tipped two fingers against his own forehead. “Dismissed.”
Go to Part Two - On LJ | On DW
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: matthew keller,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: sara ellis,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: fluff,
- genre: food,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: het,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- pairing: elizabeth/mozzie,
- pairing: elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: elizabeth/reese,
- pairing: neal/kate,
- pairing: neal/keller,
- pairing: neal/sara,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2013
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 02:42 pm (UTC)I'm loving how you've woven in all our favorite characters so seamlessly - Moz, Diana, Jones, Hughes. Moz sleeping in Elizabeth's bed was interesting - I wasn't expecting her to sleep in the bed with him, but they were both so at ease with it. And El and Neal kissing - hot!
I'm loving this so so much!
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 03:08 pm (UTC)I hope you enjoy the rest of it.
no subject
Date: 2013-09-23 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 01:56 pm (UTC)I'm not going to tell you want the BHA is - you'll learn about it in later chapters.
no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 02:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 02:02 pm (UTC):D