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elrhiarhodanTitle: Red Velvet - Part Two of Nine
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
“Desserts After Dark, how can we sweeten up your life today?” Neal was answering the office phones this afternoon since El was home, in bed, curled up with tea and last week’s invoices. She thought she might have picked up Mozzie’s cold, which didn’t surprise Neal, since the two of them had spent the weekend as closely packed as canned herring.
“Um, hi… Can I speak with Elizabeth Mitchell, please?”
Neal smiled. Whoever was on the other end of the phone sounded like he wasn’t really sure why he was calling.
“Ms. Mitchell isn’t in the office, but maybe I can help you.”
“I, um, was wondering if you did any catering or corporate events.”
“Sure – of course we do. What are you looking for?” Neal reached for a pencil and a pad, and had a hard time keeping up with the man as he described a corporate sugar rush.
“So – what I’m looking for is a selection of unique and traditional desserts for about a hundred-fifty, two hundred people. You don’t just do cupcakes, right?”
“You sound like a man after my own heart – I’m the baker for Desserts After Dark and always appreciate the chance to provide a full palette.”
“Hmm – would it be possible to provide a tasting for five? Maybe the full range of what you would offer?”
“A sort of mini-Viennese table?”
“That would be perfect. Do you do coffee, too?”
“Espresso, cappuccino, fine brew.”
“Yeah – and wine?”
“That we can’t supply directly, but we have connections to licensed vendors.”
“Thanks – this all sounds terrific. Hmm, when can you come and do your thing – the tasting?”
Neal looked around for El’s calendar, and not finding one, entered her computer’s password. “It looks like the soonest we’re available for is Friday afternoon, around three. Will that work?”
It sounded like the guy was flipping pages back and forth – probably a desk calendar. “Yeah, Friday at three will be perfect.”
“Um, what’s your name? I’ll need all of the particulars – and Ms. Mitchell will probably call you back before Friday to confirm.”
Neal took down the information, filling out one of the Mitchell Premier Events’ detailed order forms. It seemed that Mr. Clinton Jones was organizing his company’s annual bash and wanted to do something different. “A few more questions – do you know if anyone who will be at the tasting has any nut allergies?”
“I can check and get back to you.”
“Great.” Neal went through the rest of the checklist. “Just one last question – how did you hear about Desserts After Dark? Have you ever tried our pastries?”
“No – actually one of the senior partners here recommended you. He says that he gets some stuff delivered every Friday – cupcakes, I think. He was the one who told me to ask for Elizabeth Mitchell. Said she was an old acquaintance.”
Neal wondered if this was Mozzie’s Mr. Tall and Nice Smile. He rarely took care of the order fulfillment end of the business. He baked, that’s it. Someone else – usually Elizabeth or her assistant, Yvonne – packed up the stuff for delivery. El had once told him that they had a very steady customer for his cupcakes. But it probably wasn’t this guy – El never mentioned anything about knowing him.
He hung up and started planning the menu for the tasting, thinking about which pastries would best show off his talent while remaining accessible to the widest range of guests. He’d open with some traditional light custard based tortes – miniature ones. Then a selection of petit fours, but nothing too sweet. There should also be a selection of dessert cheeses and fresh fruit. El had a contact that did exquisite fruit carvings and maybe she’d do a small melon for the tasting. They could also bring some good dessert wines and talk about quality and range of what they wanted. Then he’d do some traditional cakes and a big finish with handmade chocolates and champagne.
Neal got so lost in the planning that he didn’t hear Moz come in. It wasn’t until the sound of slightly wheezy breathing interrupted his concentration that Neal looked up.
“Hey – how are you?”
Moz gave him a little shrug. “Alive, despite the best efforts of the pharmaceutical industry. Do you know what’s in that stuff you fed me?”
Yes, Moz was definitely feeling better.
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Honestly, Peter was a little embarrassed at how much he was looking forward to the tasting and presentation by Desserts After Dark. It was actually the third such event that Clinton Jones had organized this week. The other two were, well, okay. Both companies had established reputations as dessert caterers and their presentations were highly polished and extremely professional. If the sweets lacked soul, they were at least consistent and designed to please a broad and shallow spectrum of tastes.
Jones, so patently ambitious, had done a good job with both preliminary selections and the old man was impressed enough that even if the presentation by Desserts After Dark fell flat, he’d give Clinton the go-ahead for this style event.
But Peter was hoping for something more – something with a bit less polish and a lot more pizazz. Which probably wasn’t too smart. This was for the clients – and while the firm’s customers were amongst the high and mighty of New York’s bohemian art world – they expected a certain staidness from their accountants.
He met up with Reese and they made their way to the conference room.
“That Jones may have a good head on his shoulders or he may be on the unemployment line if this goes wrong.” Hughes was sounding particularly bad tempered this morning.
“I don’t think he’ll end up on the unemployment line, Reese. Even if the summit’s not the shining event you dream about. He’s already brought in three new clients and I’m going to recommend him for a partnership in the fall.” Peter replied. He liked the younger man and he was going to bring him onto his team, regardless.
“Hmmm, we’ll see.”
Peter sighed. Sometimes Reese seemed to forget that they were equal partners in this venture. “Yes, we will.” That came out sharper than intended and the old man gave him a look.
But that look turned to something else when they got to the conference room, where Elizabeth Mitchell was setting up. She smiled as she walked towards him.
“Thank you for the recommendation, Peter.”
“Well, I do know the quality of your baked goods, but whether you can provide the type of event we want is yet to be seen.” He didn’t want to make it seem like she was a shoe-in, or their prior acquaintance would weigh heavily in her favor. After all, he only knew her as a very junior staff member at an art gallery he was investigating for tax fraud, not as a business owner.
“I’m sure you’ll find that my company will be able to meet your needs.”
“I’m sure it will.” Unbelievably, Reese cut between them and held out his hand, introducing himself as “the Hughes in Hughes, Burke.”
Elizabeth Mitchell gave him a dazzling smile and Peter was astonished to see his often cold-hearted, bottom-line focused, penne a la vodka-hating partner give the woman his own version of a besotted smile.
The conference room door opened. It was Clinton, who was followed by a small cart covered in a series of silver domes and trays, pushed by a young, dark-haired man. When he looked up, Peter felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
He’d been working in Manhattan for the entirety of his adult life. He routinely met with the famous and the beautiful and knew too much about the dark side of human nature to be star-struck. But he’d never had such a visceral reaction to another human being. It wasn’t just that this man was his type – and yes, he knew that it was ridiculous to prefer blue-eyed brunets – but that …
He couldn’t even find the words to describe his feelings, other than the obvious, and he was very grateful for the long cut of his jacket and the loose fit to his pants, because saying hello with both a handshake and an erection was something less that professional.
Elizabeth broke away from charming Reese to introduce him to this god on earth. “Peter – this is Neal Caffrey, the man who bakes your cupcakes.”
He most certainly does. Peter stifled that double entendre before it escaped his mouth. “And they are delicious.”
“El’s told me that you are our number one customer.” Neal held out a hand and Peter took it, it was warm and dry, the skin smooth but very much the hand of a man who worked.
Peter hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I don’t know if I’m your best customer, but I do enjoy your cupcakes.”
Neal’s eyes were sparkling, and his lips curved with laughter. “Well, I hope you like my other offerings just as much.”
Peter felt thick and foolish, he hadn’t been this this tongue-tied since the first time he went into a gay bar. At nearly fifty, he was being ridiculous, lusting after some delicious piece of undoubtedly heterosexual man-candy.
Neal pulled free – Peter hadn’t realized that he was still holding his hand. The fingers that slid slowing across his palm sent tendrils of fire through him. As if he needed anything else to arouse him. And then he realized something – this guy was flirting with him. As impossible as it seemed, he was giving him signals. He was interested in him.
Damn.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal listened as Elizabeth went through her presentation. It was polished, yet personal, tailored to meet the expectations of this particular prospective client. Of course, she was wowing them. It was clear that the old man, Hughes, was smitten, so much so that it was likely that even if they didn’t win the business, El just might find herself with a new admirer.
The surprise in the room, however, was Peter Burke.
Of course he remembered Mozzie’s fevered raptures about the man, but Moz had a way of seeing things that weren’t quite there. So Neal had been expecting some middle-aged guy with a middle-aged spread, nice eyes and receding hairline. Sort of a taller version of Moz, himself.
What he found was the equivalent of a Ken Shun knife in a drawer full of Ginsus. A bar of Valhrona tucked into a box of fundraiser candy. A perfectly made genoise in a package of Twinkies.
Peter Burke was everything he ever dreamed of, when he dreamed of men (which he had to admit, was far more often these days than not). It wasn’t his height or the breadth of muscles hidden under that horrible suit, or the perfectly shaped lips, which were a special attraction that could send him deep into the Catholic schoolboy’s version of Hell. No, Neal found himself reacting to the spark of intelligence in his eyes, the self-deprecating smile, the hand that lingered in his.
This was a man he wanted to get to know better, a lot better. Neal just hoped that Moz wasn’t wrong, because lusting after a straight man was something he never wanted to go through again.
El’s presentation was coming to a close. “I can give you facts and figures, we can talk budgets and menus, but to be honest, I know that right now, you’re really only interested in the cake.
That was Neal’s cue. He began removing the covers from the platters on the cart as Elizabeth turned the lights up. There were five people from Hughes, Burke in the conference room. In addition to the two senior partners and Clinton Jones, who had organized the tasting, there were two women. One was a tall redhead who looked like she could have modeled for the Pre-Raphaelites and the other, a middle-aged blonde with a no-nonsense haircut and the hardest eyes Neal had ever seen. Peter brought them over to Neal and introduced them.
“These are the people you’ll really need to impress – Kathleen Rice and Helen Anderson.” Peter said nothing more as he retreated to the other side of the room.
“What can I sweeten your day with, ladies?”
The redhead – Kathleen Rice – gave him a bit of a twisted smile. “I have a peanut allergy.”
“And I’m diabetic.” Helen stated.
Ah, a test. But he was prepared and looked at the redhead. “The baking facilities at Desserts After Dark are peanut-free and we procure all of our supplies from certified vendors, but we do utilize tree nuts in many of the recipes. You aren’t allergic to almonds, hazelnuts and walnuts, are you?”
Rice shook her head. “No – I’m fine with those.”
“Then you are fine with anything on the table.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “My hips won’t be, but that chocolate cake looks too good to pass up.”
“It’s a flourless torte, with raspberry and bittersweet chocolate ganache filling.” As Neal plated the small cake, he continued to describe the items on the table.
“Stop, please – you’re killing me.” Kathleen laughed and took the plate. “I’m sure I’ll be back for seconds.”
As she wandered off, Neal turned to the older woman, Helen. “I’ll bet you’re sick and tired of being offered a fruit and cheese plate.”
She nodded. “Do you have any idea how much I despise Granny Smith apples and fat-free cheese?”
“Since I think fat-free cheese is an abomination, yes, I do.”
Helen didn’t precisely thaw, but she seemed a touch less hostile. “I can’t eat anything you’ve baked.”
Neal was conscious that everyone was watching them. “That’s not quite true.”
“Oh?” That single syllable conveyed a wealth of skepticism.
He lifted a silver dome from the last covered tray. “Almond flour chocolate cake sweetened with brown rice syrup. Thirty carbs per serving. I also have a fruit tart with an almond and hazelnut flour crust and lemon bars as well.”
Helen actually licked her lips. “I’d like to have one of each …”
That surprised Neal, but he started to plate as she requested.
“Which would be foolish. Please, just the chocolate cake.”
He handed her the plate with a bow and a flourish. “Enjoy.”
Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as she took the offering with a nod and a tight smile. “I’ll let you know.” She left the conference room, as full of dignity as the Queen Mary under sail.
Hughes and Clinton Jones were first in line, and the young man had the sense to step aside for his firm’s senior partner. Although there were only four people to feed, Neal had to struggle a bit to keep up with their demands. Elizabeth was acting as the barista, working the small machine like a professional.
Finally, everyone settled down to eat and Neal looked over to his boss. She discreetly wiped the perspiration off her face. “Seems like they’re enjoying themselves. Give them a few minutes and then we’ll bring out the grand finale.”
El was right, and it warmed Neal’s heart to see his creations consumed with such delight. Clinton was scraping the edge of his fork along the plate to gather up the stray frosting, and Kathleen was gazing fondly at the tray of petit fours. Neal saw no reason to deprive her. He put two on a plate with a strawberry garnish and delivered it to her.
“You are an enabler.” She complained, but there was no sting in her words.
“I am a pastry chef. I think that’s a higher calling.”
Peter Burke had remained silent through most of the tasting, but Neal felt his eyes on him. The man’s focus was electric and Neal had the strongest desire to serve him on bended knee.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“That went well, I think,” Elizabeth said as she handed the last box of dishware to Neal, who stowed it in the back of the van. She stepped back on the curb as Neal jumped out and closed the doors.
“I think it went splendidly. One of your best presentations, ever.” His grin was a touch weary. As hard as she had worked preparing for this, Neal worked just twice as hard. When the order came in, they both had the sense of something momentous – that this was an opportunity that could change the rest of their lives. Which was silly, since Hughes, Burke was a boutique accounting firm, not a major player in the field. But she wasn’t one to ignore gut feelings.
“Let me drive.” Neal knew her too well – she hated driving in the city, especially in lower Manhattan. She handed him the keys and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Shouldn’t take too long, a quick trip across the bridge and we’ll be home.”
“Don’t know why I’m so wiped out. It’s not like I haven’t done presentations like this before.”
“I know, but we pulled out all of the stops for Hughes, Burkes. Which is ridiculous – they’re just accountants.”
“But accountants who have clients that are boldface names, clients who get featured in the Sunday Times Style section and New York Magazine. Clients who have influence.”
“Clients who could be future clients of Mitchell Premier Events, right?”
“Got it in one, ace.” She turned her head and watched Neal as he concentrated on driving through the late afternoon traffic. His profile was just as pure, just as perfect as it was when she first met him, nine years ago. Of course, there was also the rich ping of sexual attraction – he could push her buttons so easily. But then, so did Mozzie, and so did – of all people – Reese Hughes.
No, she shouldn’t put it like that. Not of all people. Reese Hughes was a man, and she liked men – all kinds. Some judgmental people might even call her a slut, but she liked to think of herself as a woman who understood her appetites. It wasn’t as if she screwed random strangers in anonymous hotel rooms – she liked sex and she liked variety and she made sure her partners understood that. Yet, she had a feeling that Reese was going to upend her comfortable, carefree life.
Neal took note of her abstraction. “What’s with the sigh?”
“Just thinking.”
“We’ve got this one in the bag. The old man …”
“He’s not that old. Sixty-two, tops.”
“Huh?”
“Reese – you called him an old man, like he’s decrepit or something.”
“El?”
“Well, he’s not. And he’s nice.”
Neal grinned and looked at her while they were stopped at a light. “I do have to say that Reese seemed quite smitten, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Am I getting the feeling that it’s mutual? There were times it seemed like you were talking to him like he was the only other person in the room.”
She deflected, without success. “He’s a prospective client.”
“It’s not like that’s stopped you before.”
“You shouldn’t cast stones, Neal George Caffrey. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of Peter Burke. Who, is, by the way, most definitely gay, if you were wondering.”
“I was, and thank you for that, but stop trying to change the conversation. I’m not judging you, El. Far from it. Reese Hughes is just a bit different from your usual type.”
“Because he’s older?”
“Yeah. And because he’s a little grim and conservative”
Neal was right. “Who’s to say anything will happen. And I’d rather win this opportunity.”
“So – keep my mitts off Peter Burke until we hear from them?”
“That would probably be a good idea.”
“Probably? That’s a huge loophole, El. You know how much I love to exploit loopholes.”
“You’re an adult, Neal. I’m not your mother or your priest.”
“No, thank goodness, because that would be kinky, even for you.”
El laughed and slapped at Neal’s arm. The traffic was typical for a Friday evening, and it took the better part of forty minutes before they pulled into the parking lot for building that housed the bakery. This part of East Williamsburg was still industrial and the real estate was affordable, relatively speaking. She figured that in another eight years, the land prices would catch up with the rest of the borough and she’d either have to close shop or relocate. She wouldn’t worry about that now – no point in borrowing trouble?
The automatic gate closed behind the van, and Neal got out and started unloading. Moz, who had recovered from his cold, had a full schedule for delivery tonight.
“Are you going to help, or just sit there like the Queen of Sheba?” Neal called out to her.
El retorted, “Nice way to talk to the woman who signs your paycheck.”
“Fine, be like that, Lazybones.”
Neal’s goading had nothing to do with her getting out of the van. She ignored his smirk and took the box of dirty dishes from him. Not that she was planning on washing them, or anything like that.
Moz was waiting at the door and she unceremoniously handed the carton to him. He grumbled, “I’m a driver, not your slave.”
A double entendre was on her lips, but the memory of Reese Hughes, tall and proud, trying to look stern but failing as he smiled at her, stilled the words. Damn – this was going to be a problem.
Moz looked surprised at her lack of a witty comeback, and he disappeared into the building.
El went back to the van to finish helping Neal unload. They had just gotten the last box of equipment out when her phone started to ring. She looked at the screen, recognizing the number and smiled. This just had to be good news.
“Hello, Clinton.”
“Ms. Mitchell, I want to thank you for the excellent presentation you gave.”
Her heart sank a little. Clinton Jones had struck her as a bit old-fashioned, and this was probably a simple follow up call. “It was our pleasure. I hope your bosses enjoyed everything.”
“Oh, they more than enjoyed everything. They can’t stop talking about you, about the food, about Neal.”
“I hope they were saying only good things.”
“Let’s just say, they couldn’t stop raving. Helen also – and if you had any idea how hard it is to win her over…”
Helen Anderson had returned to the conference room just as Neal had finished serving the chocolate and sparkling wine pairings. She didn’t knock, marching right up to him with a small black device in her hand. El couldn’t see what it said, but she figured it was her blood sugar monitor. She watched as Helen showed it to Neal and kissed him on the cheek.
“Anyway – I’m just calling to let you know that we’ve picked Desserts After Dark for the event. Reese and Peter have signed the contracts and they should already be in your email.”
El’s head was buzzing. “Clinton – thank you.”
“No, thank you. You made me look good today.”
“And we’ll make your firm look even better come October.” They talked for a few more minutes, setting up a tentative schedule. She thanked him again and disconnected.
“El?” Neal had followed her into the building and into her office. “Good news?”
She wrapped her arms around him, grinning like a fool. “We got it, babe. We got it!”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter was glad it was Friday, for so many reasons. Normally, he’d be playing poker tonight, but the game was cancelled – two of the guys were on vacation, a third had dental problems and two-handed poker wasn’t much fun when you were playing for just a few bucks.
Truthfully, he was happy to be home and by himself. He wanted to think about today. No – he wanted to think about Neal. Neal Caffrey. He rolled the name around in his head, liking the rhythm of it. It was as attractive as its owner.
Bakers shouldn’t be so beautiful – they should be a little roly-poly from sampling their own wares. Neal looked like he never ate anything except tofu and wheat grass smoothies. Peter knew the type, men who lived for the gym, who spent every free moment working to perfect perfection. But Neal was the antithesis of that. He had embraced a career that tempted the senses, that would destroy such physical perfection.
Peter knew he was being shallow and probably just a little ridiculous. A man like Caffrey – a young man like Caffrey probably wouldn’t look twice at him. Yeah, he knew he had a decent physique, he kept himself in shape, but he was on the downward slide to fifty and feeling distinctly past his prime of late. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out on a date and as for sex…well his right hand was a steady partner and he never had to worry about it cheating on him.
That didn’t stop him from fantasizing, though. He’d gotten definite vibes that Neal was gay, and that there was some interest there, but then he could be completely mistaken. He was there to sell himself and his company, after all.
But his gut told him that wasn’t the case; he gut said that this guy was attracted to him. Peter had learned a long time ago that he should listen to his gut, because when he ignored it, things tended to turn to shit damn quickly. Wasn’t that what happened with Dan? He’d ignored all the warning signs and got his heart broken and his health compromised. No, better not think about that – it was a long time ago and you know better now.
But this time, his gut was telling him that Neal Caffrey was someone he should have in his life. He’d listen to his gut and call the bakery on Monday; maybe see if Neal would like to go to lunch one day.
Still, it was a Friday night, there was a guy out there who looked like a god and seemed to be attracted to him and he was alone. Something was wrong with this picture.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. At least the Yankees were playing.
Which turned out to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions. They were playing the Red Sox at home and getting clobbered. It was 11 to 1 and the Yankees were down to their final out. He turned off the game in disgust.
Times like this, he wished he had a dog. They could go for a walk. Not that he needed a dog to do that, but he wasn’t the type to walk around aimlessly at night, even in the relatively crime-free precincts of Cobble Hill.
It was too early to go to bed, too late to do anything and the thought of doing work had no appeal at all. Worst of it was, he didn’t even have a cupcake order to look forward to. After all the sweets this afternoon, the last thing he needed to eat was a red velvet cupcake. But he liked the delivery guy, Moz, who was always up for conversation. He had some weird ideas and believed in a few pretty out-there conspiracies, but he was smart and funny and Peter enjoyed spending a few minutes with the guy.
It didn’t escape him that he could also milk Moz for information about Neal, what he liked to do when he wasn’t baking, and more importantly, whether he was seeing anyone. Peter briefly entertained the thought of using his old law enforcement contacts to have a background check run on him, but that seemed a little sleazy.
Peter pulled out the latest edition of Granta from the pile of magazines next to the couch and was about to start reading a piece of new Caribbean fiction when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was a few minutes after ten, right about the time that his cupcakes would be delivered, if he had actually ordered them.
Maybe he did and just forgot.
He opened the curtains and looked down onto the street. Nope, the distinctive Desserts After Dark van wasn’t double parked in front of the house. Just a few pedestrians going by. The doorbell rang again and Peter went to answer it.
And got the shock of his life. It was Neal Caffrey, and he was holding one of his company’s pastry boxes. Even through the old glass on the front door, he could see the man’s uncertain smile.
Peter was completely at a loss for words as he opened the door.
“I figured I’d make your delivery tonight.” Neal held out the box.
“I didn’t order anything.” Peter replied, and immediately felt like an idiot. Neal Caffrey was here.
The smile wavered and then disappeared altogether. “Ah, sorry. I thought…” His voice trailed off and Peter could read his embarrassment. Neal turned to leave.
“No, don’t – don’t go.” He grabbed Neal’s arm, tugging him back. “I didn’t mean to be so rude.” Peter smiled, hoping that he didn’t look like some sick freak.
Apparently not, because Neal smiled back. “So, you don’t want this?”
“You brought me cupcakes?” Peter couldn’t help himself and reached for the box.
“Actually, no.”
“No?” Peter was disappointed
“Something a whole lot better than cupcakes.”
“Not possible.” Peter ushered Neal into the living room. “I do have to tell you that it’s going to take a lot to top your cupcakes.”
“Really? After what I served you this afternoon, you can say that?”
“Everything was delicious – perfect – but your cupcakes…” Peter thought he saw Neal wince. “What’s the matter?”
“No, nothing.”
It felt like he had pressed at a sore spot. “I’m a man of simple tastes, sorry to say.”
“It’s not you – I just have a thing about cupcakes.” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and looked like he was about to run.
“A baker who hates his own creations? Will you tell me why?” He went over to his wine rack – he did have a few good bottles. “This sound like a tale worthy of an ‘82 Bordeaux.”
Neal looked impressed. “It’s not that interesting a story – certainly not worthy of such a storied vintage.”
“I have a feeling it is.” He opened the wine and brought the bottle and two glasses over. “Should let it breathe for a few minutes.”
“How did you get your hands on a bottle of ‘82 Bordeaux?”
“I have good friends who know what I like.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a few of those friends.” Neal leaned back, but was clearly taking in the room.
Peter wondered what it said about him. Probably nothing particularly complimentary.
“Have you lived here long?”
“About a decade. I bought the place just before the market took off. Could sell it and retire on the proceeds. Buy a boat and sail around the world, probably.”
They chatted about the ludicrous nature of the Brooklyn real estate market. “El’s biggest fear is that our landlord’s going to jack up the rent. She’d like to buy the building, but that takes capital she doesn’t have.”
“El?” Peter couldn’t help but wonder at Neal’s obviously affectionate tone.
“Elizabeth – she’s not a Beth or an Ellie, you know.”
Peter wasn’t sure he could, but that didn’t really matter. “How did you come to work for her?”
“We found each other at a wedding expo out on Long Island. Must be at least eight years now. Once upon a time, I had a bakery …” Neal drifted off, his tone wistful.
“You have your own shop, too?”
“Not anymore.” Neal had a sad, faraway look in his eyes. “I had a small legacy from my dad. It paid for my education and I took what was left and opened a shop in lower Manhattan.”
Peter poured them each a glass of wine, and handed one to Neal. He watched as Neal took a sip, eyes closed in rapture. Peter waited patiently for him to go on, intrigued by the contradiction of this man. “What happened?”
“Life. Idiots. Insurance companies. Morons. Attorneys.”
“That’s quite a litany of bad guys. And I’d say you’re a little bitter.”
Neal let out a snort of laughter. “As aspirin.”
“Tell me what happened,” Peter encouraged.
“The shop was near the corner of Duane and Reade Streets.”
“I know the area – right by the Federal courthouse.”
“Yeah. And did you know that some of the judges have chambers in the office buildings nearby?”
Peter shrugged. “Yeah, I think I did.” He wondered what that possibly could have to do with a bakery?
“My bakery, The Greatest Cake…”
“You named your bakery after a Steve McQueen movie?”
“Huh?”
“You said it was called ‘The Great Escape’.”
“No – ‘The Greatest Cake’.” Neal let out a little chuckle, finally catching on to the inadvertent play on words. “How fucking appropriate…”
Peter didn’t get it, but he’d wait for Neal to make the connection.
“The bakery was open for about two years and was solid. We’d gotten some great reviews and a write up in New York Magazine as one of the top indulgences in the City. And then some yahoo decided to escape from a judge’s chamber, using the awning over my bakery as a landing pad.”
“What!”
“Yeah – seems that this guy had arranged to make a closed door confession. Said he had all sorts of information about the Barelli crime family, said he would only talk to the judge and a court reporter, no witnesses, not even his own attorney. It was all a scam. He’d planned an escape, and climbed out of the judge’s fourth floor window, scooted across the ledge and jumped onto the awning over The Greatest Cake’s doorway.”
“And he missed?” Peter was fascinated and appalled.
“No, I wish he did. He landed, but the awning frame gave way. It pulled loose from the brickwork and the whole thing collapsed. There were people under the awing.” Neal buried his face in his hands, devastated by the memory of this tragedy.
“Was anyone killed?”
“No, thank goodness.” He thought for a moment. “Or maybe not. They lived and sued.”
“You? Why did they sue you?”
“Because it was my awning, my bakery. Even the guy who jumped sued me for failing to maintain the building properly. I was served before I finished getting the mess on the sidewalk cleaned up.”
Peter wasn’t a lawyer, but he thought he knew enough about the law to wonder how Neal could possibly be liable. “Well, if you didn’t own the building – the landlord should have been responsible.”
“Except that my lease made me responsible for any fixtures and appurtenances.” Neal spat out the last word as if it was a curse.
Peter was afraid he knew where the story was going.
“They sued and sued and sued some more. Even people who were inside the store sued me. There were people who weren’t even there who tried to get in on the action.”
“And you didn’t have insurance?”
“I had some – not enough, though. And the lawyers wanted to be paid. I sold the bakery, filed for bankruptcy, gave the land sharks I hired to defend me my last dime. I lost everything.”
Peter wanted to give Neal a hug. Instead, he refilled his wineglass, and waited patiently for him to continue.
“Matthew kicked me out, too. I was a loser and he didn’t want to be associated with such a failure.”
“Matthew?”
“My boyfriend at the time. You might have heard of him, Matthew Keller, bad boy fashion designer, the prince of the runway? Designer to the rich and young and wicked?”
Peter shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, never heard of him.”
“No? Matthew would be disappointed – he so wants to be both ubiquitous and exclusive.”
“He sounds like an asshole.”
Neal chuckled, and it wasn’t a happy sound. “Yeah – he is. And a very talented one.”
The moment stretched thin, becoming uncomfortable. “You still haven’t told me why you hate cupcakes. Did someone open a cupcake shop where your bakery was?”
“Oh, that has nothing to do with the bakery. I have always despised cupcakes. There’s no artistry there – anyone can bake cupcakes. You might as well use a box mix.”
Peter disagreed, particularly when it came to Neal’s cupcakes. But there was such a wealth of contempt there that he didn’t want to argue. “But you don’t despise the people who like cupcakes?”
His question startled Neal, who all but shook himself. “No, no – you’re entitled to like what you want to like. I don’t judge anyone’s tastes. God knows, I have a few of my own I should be embarrassed about.”
That intrigued Peter to no end. He wanted to ask Neal if he was involved with anyone, but that seemed way too personal. “You like working for Elizabeth Mitchell?”
“Yeah – she’s a terrific woman.”
Peter got the oddest feeling that Neal’s admiration was more than professional, but he just told him that he had been living with another guy.
“What about Moz, the guy who does the deliveries. You know him?”
“Of course, I was the one who got him the job. I’d have to say that Moz is probably my best friend. And because I can say that, I can also say that he’s, well, unique.”
“I got a sense of that.” Peter had to smile at the moment of perfect understanding between them.
“I bet you don’t know that Moz has a PhD in astrophysics from Cornell and once had a reputation that rivaled Carl Sagan’s.”
“Really?” Peter couldn’t imagine the little guy spending his nights peering into a telescope. Or maybe he could.
“Yeah. He was at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in the mid-Eighties. Apparently, there was a huge scandal – rival models or something about planetary orbits, the Kuiper belt and the classification of Pluto. Moz’s theories were discredited and he had to leave California for good. Apparently, he can never go back.”
“Huh? That sounds bizarre, even for Moz.”
Neal shrugged. “He washed his hands of the whole field, came back to New York, and made a fortune in storage lockers. Now he keeps himself busy as the delivery driver for Desserts After Dark.”
“Storage lockers – like those reality shows? He buys old storage lockers?”
“No – he invested in a whole chain of storage locker facilities. Became a real estate mogul of sorts. He calls them cemeteries for the culture of acquisition.”
“Now, that does sound like Moz. How did you meet him?”
“I had just moved to New York, was starting culinary school, and was so naive that you could see ‘sucker’ tattooed on my forehead. I nearly lost a year’s tuition money in a three-card Monte game before Moz rescued me.”
“That also sounds like something Moz would do.”
“We’ve been friends ever since. Sometimes he pretends to be lactose intolerant and gluten intolerant – just to challenge my skills. I’ll humor him and make a pretty damn fine vegan shortbread.”
The thought of that boggled Peter’s mind. “So, what did you bring me?”
Neal gave him a mischievous smile. “I thought you didn’t want anything. Didn’t you say that you were too satiated from the tasting this afternoon?”
He did, but the thought of Neal bringing him his very own pastry was too good to turn up. “It’s been a few hours, so I’m good.”
“I still don’t know…”
“Neal – stop being such a tease.”
The look the other man gave him was scorching and Peter felt his cheeks get hot. He really hadn’t intended to comment to be so overtly sexual. Neal retrieved the box and handed it to him. Peter opened it.
At first, he thought Neal had been putting one over on him. It looked like a red velvet cupcake, but at second glance, Peter realized it wasn’t. The shape wasn’t quite right. It was a little taller, a little wider and it didn’t have the distinctive pleated paper cup, but was instead wrapped in what appeared to be a lace ribbon. He carefully removed it from the box – the ribbon wasn’t lace, but chocolate and it wasn’t a cupcake but a miniature layer cake.
His mouth watered.
“Go on, eat it.”
Peter licked his lips. “This is gorgeous, Neal. I can’t just bite into it.”
“It’s just a cake.”
“It’s a work of art, meant to be savored.” Maybe the wine had gone to his head. “Let me get a plate and a fork, at least.”
“It’s just a petit gâteau, not a work of art,” Neal corrected him, but Peter thought he could hear the pleasure Neal took from his appreciation.
He put the cake back and went into the kitchen to get a plate and a pair of forks. He came back to find Neal sprawled against the back of the couch, wine glass in hand, eyes closed. He looked like he belonged nowhere else.
Neal opened his eyes and smiled. Once again, Peter was struck through the heart. Was this going to be a disaster or the best thing that had ever happened to him?
“Tell me about Peter Burke, CPA to the New York art world.”
“That isn’t a particularly interesting story.” He retrieved the cake, set it on the plate with care and handed a fork to Neal. “You’ll have some, too?” For some reason, Peter really wanted to see him eat.
Neal took the fork, and there was glint of laughter in his eyes. “Tell me about yourself. Why an accountant? You seem a lot more dynamic than your profession would suggest.”
Peter’s hand was poised above the confection. “I like math.” There was so much that Peter didn’t want to tell Neal. Not now, not ever.
“But accounting isn’t really math.”
His fork sank through the layers of cake and frosting and the sensation was actually erotic. He focused, instead, on Neal’s question. “There is math – but it’s more than just the numbers. I could have pursued an academic career, worked on a Millennium problem for the rest of my life, but I wanted to do something more than sit in the ivory tower.”
“Didn’t the guy who solved Fermat’s Last Theorem get named to People Magazine’s Sexiest?”
“Yeah – Andrew Wilkes, and his original proof was faulty. It took him another seven years to fix it. How do you know about that? You don’t strike me as the People Magazine type reader.”
“There was a thing on it on PBS a few years back. I found it interesting. And I do remember that he had to go back and redo his work.”
“Academic mathematics is unbelievably cutthroat.”
“But you could make a sexiest people list, easily.”
“I would rather not.” Peter finally took a bite of the cake. It should have been impossible, but it was better than Neal’s cupcakes. The sweetness was perfectly balanced, the cake a touch denser, richer than the cupcake or even the sliced cake he had gotten last week. He complimented Neal, who waved it off.
“So why accounting – you really like doing other people’s taxes?”
“It's more than taxes, but I didn’t start out that way. The FBI recruited me just after I finished business school. Spent a decade in the White Collar division before I resigned.”
“You quit the FBI?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t a good fit.” Peter found that even after so long, the thought of his lost career still had the power to hurt him.
“Because you’re gay?”
Peter didn’t answer, taking a bit of the cake instead. The sweetness didn’t mix too well with the sour taste of his memories.
Neal didn’t let the matter go. “I thought it was just the military that had a policy.”
He swallowed. “There was no anti-discrimination law for Federal employees. I was lucky for the first few years – had a good boss who didn’t care. But a new broom came in and decided to make my life a living hell. I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Reese Hughes – he was your boss, right?”
“Yeah – they forced him into retirement. He wasn’t ready to spend the rest of his life on a golf course and decided to open up his own firm, asked me to join him and well … you know how that worked out.”
“I’d say, pretty good. But sometimes you just can’t stop thinking about what you lost.” From what he’d just told him, Neal knew all too well what that was like.
“Yeah.” Peter looked down at the plate – there was one forkful left. “I think I have to agree, your talents are wasted on cupcakes.”
Neal smiled and it was as if the whole room lit up. “That is a compliment I can appreciate.” He pushed the plate towards Peter, urging him to finish.
“You don’t eat your own creations?”
“I taste them all day long – I have to.”
“And spend your nights at the gym?”
“Sort of. I prefer to run and swim. I like to let the repetitive motions clear my head. Can’t quite get that with the machines.”
Peter knew the feeling, and tomorrow was definitely going to be a day spent working off the calories. “I don’t want to let it go to waste, it’s so damn good.”
“Tell you what…” Neal split the piece and took half, leaving the rest for him.
That last mouthful was as perfect as the first, and he swallowed it with relish. Neal had eaten his, and there were a few crumbs at the corner of his mouth.
Peter reached out to brush them away just as Neal tried to lick at them. If the cake had been an irresistible temptation, this was an enticement beyond measure. Neal’s tongue swept against Peter’s fingers, once as an accident. And then again, deliberately.
He didn’t want to jump Neal – he was a grown man with a level of self-control, but Neal was making that so damn hard. And then he laughed at that thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“Me – you. What you’re doing to me.”
Neal looked confused, then a little hurt. “I’m sorry.”
“No – don’t be. I like it. I like it a lot.” Peter brushed his thumb against Neal’s cheek, enjoying the texture of his stubble, the contrast between that and his smooth skin. “You’re making me a little crazy, you know that.”
Neal’s pupils dilated, the blue of his eyes almost disappearing. “Good, because you’re doing the same to me.”
Peter didn’t know if he leaned in, or Neal did. All he knew was that his arms were filled with the warm, hard body of a man he wanted, his mouth was devouring, or being devoured, Neal’s hands were cupped against the base of his skull and his soul was on fire.
The plate and forks went clattering to the floor as he surged over Neal, pressing him down onto the couch. Neal’s hands left his head to pull at his tee shirt. They were like brands against his skin, burning against his flesh, but there was only pleasure from that touch.
“Mmmm, you taste too good.”
Neal’s words were another goad and Peter bit and licked and nipped at his lips before breaking away. “And you taste like heaven.”
Neal pulled him close and Peter settled himself against the cradle of Neal’s hips, their erections rubbing against each other, the pressure of zippers and well-worn denim only added to the pleasure. Peter’s hips rocked against Neal’s as his hands found their way under his shirt. Peter managed to get it off without ripping it, but his own shirt didn’t survive Neal’s desperate pulling. It ripped and both men laughed. Peter shrugged out of it, tossing it on the floor before returning to the feast that was Neal Caffrey.
His lips discovered that Neal was exquisitely sensitive were his earlobe met his neck. Neal shivered as Peter licked and kissed it. His hips bucked up, slamming their erections together when Peter carefully bit it.
“What else do you like?”
“Everything. I like everything,” was Neal’s panting reply.
“Oh, that’s a terrible, dangerous thing to admit to me.” Peter pushed himself up and looked at Neal, so open and vulnerable and wanting. With a single curl plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen, his tongue just peeking out, he looked like an angel fallen and debauched.
But Neal was no angel as his hand moved back to Peter’s neck and pulled him down for another kiss.
Peter could have spent the rest of eternity kissing him, but he wanted to explore, too. His lips drifted down to the base of Neal’s throat, a perfect cup of muscle. He had the craziest thought, of pouring champagne into that space and sipping it. Maybe the next time…
His lips lingered there before drifting south, finding the perfection of smooth skin and hard muscles, and diamond-hard nipples just waiting for his teeth. He toyed with them, and it was a feast for all his senses as Neal’s whimpers drove him to untold heights of desire.
Neal’s hips kept grinding into him and Peter didn’t know how much long he could last. How much long both of them could last because he felt like all his skin was two sizes too tight. Neal’s hands were clawing at his back, fingers reaching into the waistband of his jeans, underneath his briefs, into the cleft of his ass.
He worked his way back up to Neal’s lips – almost afraid to go too far, to unwrap all the mysteries that lay before him. He kissed Neal again, putting all the desire, all the need into it and was rewarded. Neal was far from passive, his tongue hot and wet and demanding, his own teeth biting as they fought for dominance.
Neal tried to roll him over, but Peter captured his thigh and pulled him closer, their cocks separated only by a few millimeters of fabric and zippers and when Neal bucked hard against him, frotting desperately, he came in a blinding rush. Neal made a sound – between a groan and a scream, and came too.
Peter caught his breath and eased himself into a sitting position. This couch was definitely not made for fucking. He glanced over at Neal, who was still panting. The man looked more like a debauched angel than ever, hair mussed, lips bruised from Peter’s kisses, shirtless, his nipples still peaked and swollen, and of course, his jeans, come-stained from knee to waistband.
Neal opened his eyes, but he still seemed dazed. His hand drifted across his crotch, testing the moisture. In a gesture that made Peter’s cock twitch back to life, Neal lifted his damp fingertip to his mouth and licked them.
He finally spoke. “I really didn’t expect this. This wasn’t what I came here for.” He looked at Peter, his expression grave.
“You didn’t want this?” Peter’s heart froze – had he completely misread the entire situation and gone too far?
“No – wait – yes. Yes, oh, hell – yes I did. I do.” Neal sat up, too. “I just didn’t come over expecting to get so spectacularly fucked.”
“Spectacularly?” Peter never really thought his ego needed a boost.
“Yeah. And then some.” Neal looked down, then back at him, through those ridiculously long eyelashes.
Peter felt like he was back in high school, except in high school he never did anything like this with anyone like Neal Caffrey. “Um, just so you know. I’m usually not the kind of guy who moves so fast.” He didn’t do random hookups and he hadn’t dated in a few years, so maybe that explained his actions. “Are you okay?”
“What a question to ask a man you’ve so spectacularly debauched.”
This time, Peter felt his entire face burn, even the tips of his ears. “You need a thesaurus.”
“Amongst other things. Right now, though, finding a dry pair of pants is a higher priority than improvements to my vocabulary.”
Peter wondered when his living room became the equivalent of Alice’s rabbit hole. “Umm –” He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous despite everything that just happened. “Would you like – ah – to spend the night? With me?”
Neal didn’t take even a few seconds to think about it. “I would love to, Peter.”
He swallowed, feeling like a teenager who just asked his crush to the prom. “I have a guest room – just, you know, if you wanted.” God, he must sound like such an idiot.
Neal just leaned over. Their eyes met and Peter was swallowed by an ocean of pale blue when Neal kissed him, the barest brushing of lips. “Unless you sleep in a hammock, I would prefer to share your bed.”
Go to Part Three - On LJ | On DW
Notes: See Master Post - On LJ | On DW
“Desserts After Dark, how can we sweeten up your life today?” Neal was answering the office phones this afternoon since El was home, in bed, curled up with tea and last week’s invoices. She thought she might have picked up Mozzie’s cold, which didn’t surprise Neal, since the two of them had spent the weekend as closely packed as canned herring.
“Um, hi… Can I speak with Elizabeth Mitchell, please?”
Neal smiled. Whoever was on the other end of the phone sounded like he wasn’t really sure why he was calling.
“Ms. Mitchell isn’t in the office, but maybe I can help you.”
“I, um, was wondering if you did any catering or corporate events.”
“Sure – of course we do. What are you looking for?” Neal reached for a pencil and a pad, and had a hard time keeping up with the man as he described a corporate sugar rush.
“So – what I’m looking for is a selection of unique and traditional desserts for about a hundred-fifty, two hundred people. You don’t just do cupcakes, right?”
“You sound like a man after my own heart – I’m the baker for Desserts After Dark and always appreciate the chance to provide a full palette.”
“Hmm – would it be possible to provide a tasting for five? Maybe the full range of what you would offer?”
“A sort of mini-Viennese table?”
“That would be perfect. Do you do coffee, too?”
“Espresso, cappuccino, fine brew.”
“Yeah – and wine?”
“That we can’t supply directly, but we have connections to licensed vendors.”
“Thanks – this all sounds terrific. Hmm, when can you come and do your thing – the tasting?”
Neal looked around for El’s calendar, and not finding one, entered her computer’s password. “It looks like the soonest we’re available for is Friday afternoon, around three. Will that work?”
It sounded like the guy was flipping pages back and forth – probably a desk calendar. “Yeah, Friday at three will be perfect.”
“Um, what’s your name? I’ll need all of the particulars – and Ms. Mitchell will probably call you back before Friday to confirm.”
Neal took down the information, filling out one of the Mitchell Premier Events’ detailed order forms. It seemed that Mr. Clinton Jones was organizing his company’s annual bash and wanted to do something different. “A few more questions – do you know if anyone who will be at the tasting has any nut allergies?”
“I can check and get back to you.”
“Great.” Neal went through the rest of the checklist. “Just one last question – how did you hear about Desserts After Dark? Have you ever tried our pastries?”
“No – actually one of the senior partners here recommended you. He says that he gets some stuff delivered every Friday – cupcakes, I think. He was the one who told me to ask for Elizabeth Mitchell. Said she was an old acquaintance.”
Neal wondered if this was Mozzie’s Mr. Tall and Nice Smile. He rarely took care of the order fulfillment end of the business. He baked, that’s it. Someone else – usually Elizabeth or her assistant, Yvonne – packed up the stuff for delivery. El had once told him that they had a very steady customer for his cupcakes. But it probably wasn’t this guy – El never mentioned anything about knowing him.
He hung up and started planning the menu for the tasting, thinking about which pastries would best show off his talent while remaining accessible to the widest range of guests. He’d open with some traditional light custard based tortes – miniature ones. Then a selection of petit fours, but nothing too sweet. There should also be a selection of dessert cheeses and fresh fruit. El had a contact that did exquisite fruit carvings and maybe she’d do a small melon for the tasting. They could also bring some good dessert wines and talk about quality and range of what they wanted. Then he’d do some traditional cakes and a big finish with handmade chocolates and champagne.
Neal got so lost in the planning that he didn’t hear Moz come in. It wasn’t until the sound of slightly wheezy breathing interrupted his concentration that Neal looked up.
“Hey – how are you?”
Moz gave him a little shrug. “Alive, despite the best efforts of the pharmaceutical industry. Do you know what’s in that stuff you fed me?”
Yes, Moz was definitely feeling better.
Honestly, Peter was a little embarrassed at how much he was looking forward to the tasting and presentation by Desserts After Dark. It was actually the third such event that Clinton Jones had organized this week. The other two were, well, okay. Both companies had established reputations as dessert caterers and their presentations were highly polished and extremely professional. If the sweets lacked soul, they were at least consistent and designed to please a broad and shallow spectrum of tastes.
Jones, so patently ambitious, had done a good job with both preliminary selections and the old man was impressed enough that even if the presentation by Desserts After Dark fell flat, he’d give Clinton the go-ahead for this style event.
But Peter was hoping for something more – something with a bit less polish and a lot more pizazz. Which probably wasn’t too smart. This was for the clients – and while the firm’s customers were amongst the high and mighty of New York’s bohemian art world – they expected a certain staidness from their accountants.
He met up with Reese and they made their way to the conference room.
“That Jones may have a good head on his shoulders or he may be on the unemployment line if this goes wrong.” Hughes was sounding particularly bad tempered this morning.
“I don’t think he’ll end up on the unemployment line, Reese. Even if the summit’s not the shining event you dream about. He’s already brought in three new clients and I’m going to recommend him for a partnership in the fall.” Peter replied. He liked the younger man and he was going to bring him onto his team, regardless.
“Hmmm, we’ll see.”
Peter sighed. Sometimes Reese seemed to forget that they were equal partners in this venture. “Yes, we will.” That came out sharper than intended and the old man gave him a look.
But that look turned to something else when they got to the conference room, where Elizabeth Mitchell was setting up. She smiled as she walked towards him.
“Thank you for the recommendation, Peter.”
“Well, I do know the quality of your baked goods, but whether you can provide the type of event we want is yet to be seen.” He didn’t want to make it seem like she was a shoe-in, or their prior acquaintance would weigh heavily in her favor. After all, he only knew her as a very junior staff member at an art gallery he was investigating for tax fraud, not as a business owner.
“I’m sure you’ll find that my company will be able to meet your needs.”
“I’m sure it will.” Unbelievably, Reese cut between them and held out his hand, introducing himself as “the Hughes in Hughes, Burke.”
Elizabeth Mitchell gave him a dazzling smile and Peter was astonished to see his often cold-hearted, bottom-line focused, penne a la vodka-hating partner give the woman his own version of a besotted smile.
The conference room door opened. It was Clinton, who was followed by a small cart covered in a series of silver domes and trays, pushed by a young, dark-haired man. When he looked up, Peter felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
He’d been working in Manhattan for the entirety of his adult life. He routinely met with the famous and the beautiful and knew too much about the dark side of human nature to be star-struck. But he’d never had such a visceral reaction to another human being. It wasn’t just that this man was his type – and yes, he knew that it was ridiculous to prefer blue-eyed brunets – but that …
He couldn’t even find the words to describe his feelings, other than the obvious, and he was very grateful for the long cut of his jacket and the loose fit to his pants, because saying hello with both a handshake and an erection was something less that professional.
Elizabeth broke away from charming Reese to introduce him to this god on earth. “Peter – this is Neal Caffrey, the man who bakes your cupcakes.”
He most certainly does. Peter stifled that double entendre before it escaped his mouth. “And they are delicious.”
“El’s told me that you are our number one customer.” Neal held out a hand and Peter took it, it was warm and dry, the skin smooth but very much the hand of a man who worked.
Peter hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I don’t know if I’m your best customer, but I do enjoy your cupcakes.”
Neal’s eyes were sparkling, and his lips curved with laughter. “Well, I hope you like my other offerings just as much.”
Peter felt thick and foolish, he hadn’t been this this tongue-tied since the first time he went into a gay bar. At nearly fifty, he was being ridiculous, lusting after some delicious piece of undoubtedly heterosexual man-candy.
Neal pulled free – Peter hadn’t realized that he was still holding his hand. The fingers that slid slowing across his palm sent tendrils of fire through him. As if he needed anything else to arouse him. And then he realized something – this guy was flirting with him. As impossible as it seemed, he was giving him signals. He was interested in him.
Damn.
Neal listened as Elizabeth went through her presentation. It was polished, yet personal, tailored to meet the expectations of this particular prospective client. Of course, she was wowing them. It was clear that the old man, Hughes, was smitten, so much so that it was likely that even if they didn’t win the business, El just might find herself with a new admirer.
The surprise in the room, however, was Peter Burke.
Of course he remembered Mozzie’s fevered raptures about the man, but Moz had a way of seeing things that weren’t quite there. So Neal had been expecting some middle-aged guy with a middle-aged spread, nice eyes and receding hairline. Sort of a taller version of Moz, himself.
What he found was the equivalent of a Ken Shun knife in a drawer full of Ginsus. A bar of Valhrona tucked into a box of fundraiser candy. A perfectly made genoise in a package of Twinkies.
Peter Burke was everything he ever dreamed of, when he dreamed of men (which he had to admit, was far more often these days than not). It wasn’t his height or the breadth of muscles hidden under that horrible suit, or the perfectly shaped lips, which were a special attraction that could send him deep into the Catholic schoolboy’s version of Hell. No, Neal found himself reacting to the spark of intelligence in his eyes, the self-deprecating smile, the hand that lingered in his.
This was a man he wanted to get to know better, a lot better. Neal just hoped that Moz wasn’t wrong, because lusting after a straight man was something he never wanted to go through again.
El’s presentation was coming to a close. “I can give you facts and figures, we can talk budgets and menus, but to be honest, I know that right now, you’re really only interested in the cake.
That was Neal’s cue. He began removing the covers from the platters on the cart as Elizabeth turned the lights up. There were five people from Hughes, Burke in the conference room. In addition to the two senior partners and Clinton Jones, who had organized the tasting, there were two women. One was a tall redhead who looked like she could have modeled for the Pre-Raphaelites and the other, a middle-aged blonde with a no-nonsense haircut and the hardest eyes Neal had ever seen. Peter brought them over to Neal and introduced them.
“These are the people you’ll really need to impress – Kathleen Rice and Helen Anderson.” Peter said nothing more as he retreated to the other side of the room.
“What can I sweeten your day with, ladies?”
The redhead – Kathleen Rice – gave him a bit of a twisted smile. “I have a peanut allergy.”
“And I’m diabetic.” Helen stated.
Ah, a test. But he was prepared and looked at the redhead. “The baking facilities at Desserts After Dark are peanut-free and we procure all of our supplies from certified vendors, but we do utilize tree nuts in many of the recipes. You aren’t allergic to almonds, hazelnuts and walnuts, are you?”
Rice shook her head. “No – I’m fine with those.”
“Then you are fine with anything on the table.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “My hips won’t be, but that chocolate cake looks too good to pass up.”
“It’s a flourless torte, with raspberry and bittersweet chocolate ganache filling.” As Neal plated the small cake, he continued to describe the items on the table.
“Stop, please – you’re killing me.” Kathleen laughed and took the plate. “I’m sure I’ll be back for seconds.”
As she wandered off, Neal turned to the older woman, Helen. “I’ll bet you’re sick and tired of being offered a fruit and cheese plate.”
She nodded. “Do you have any idea how much I despise Granny Smith apples and fat-free cheese?”
“Since I think fat-free cheese is an abomination, yes, I do.”
Helen didn’t precisely thaw, but she seemed a touch less hostile. “I can’t eat anything you’ve baked.”
Neal was conscious that everyone was watching them. “That’s not quite true.”
“Oh?” That single syllable conveyed a wealth of skepticism.
He lifted a silver dome from the last covered tray. “Almond flour chocolate cake sweetened with brown rice syrup. Thirty carbs per serving. I also have a fruit tart with an almond and hazelnut flour crust and lemon bars as well.”
Helen actually licked her lips. “I’d like to have one of each …”
That surprised Neal, but he started to plate as she requested.
“Which would be foolish. Please, just the chocolate cake.”
He handed her the plate with a bow and a flourish. “Enjoy.”
Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as she took the offering with a nod and a tight smile. “I’ll let you know.” She left the conference room, as full of dignity as the Queen Mary under sail.
Hughes and Clinton Jones were first in line, and the young man had the sense to step aside for his firm’s senior partner. Although there were only four people to feed, Neal had to struggle a bit to keep up with their demands. Elizabeth was acting as the barista, working the small machine like a professional.
Finally, everyone settled down to eat and Neal looked over to his boss. She discreetly wiped the perspiration off her face. “Seems like they’re enjoying themselves. Give them a few minutes and then we’ll bring out the grand finale.”
El was right, and it warmed Neal’s heart to see his creations consumed with such delight. Clinton was scraping the edge of his fork along the plate to gather up the stray frosting, and Kathleen was gazing fondly at the tray of petit fours. Neal saw no reason to deprive her. He put two on a plate with a strawberry garnish and delivered it to her.
“You are an enabler.” She complained, but there was no sting in her words.
“I am a pastry chef. I think that’s a higher calling.”
Peter Burke had remained silent through most of the tasting, but Neal felt his eyes on him. The man’s focus was electric and Neal had the strongest desire to serve him on bended knee.
“That went well, I think,” Elizabeth said as she handed the last box of dishware to Neal, who stowed it in the back of the van. She stepped back on the curb as Neal jumped out and closed the doors.
“I think it went splendidly. One of your best presentations, ever.” His grin was a touch weary. As hard as she had worked preparing for this, Neal worked just twice as hard. When the order came in, they both had the sense of something momentous – that this was an opportunity that could change the rest of their lives. Which was silly, since Hughes, Burke was a boutique accounting firm, not a major player in the field. But she wasn’t one to ignore gut feelings.
“Let me drive.” Neal knew her too well – she hated driving in the city, especially in lower Manhattan. She handed him the keys and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Shouldn’t take too long, a quick trip across the bridge and we’ll be home.”
“Don’t know why I’m so wiped out. It’s not like I haven’t done presentations like this before.”
“I know, but we pulled out all of the stops for Hughes, Burkes. Which is ridiculous – they’re just accountants.”
“But accountants who have clients that are boldface names, clients who get featured in the Sunday Times Style section and New York Magazine. Clients who have influence.”
“Clients who could be future clients of Mitchell Premier Events, right?”
“Got it in one, ace.” She turned her head and watched Neal as he concentrated on driving through the late afternoon traffic. His profile was just as pure, just as perfect as it was when she first met him, nine years ago. Of course, there was also the rich ping of sexual attraction – he could push her buttons so easily. But then, so did Mozzie, and so did – of all people – Reese Hughes.
No, she shouldn’t put it like that. Not of all people. Reese Hughes was a man, and she liked men – all kinds. Some judgmental people might even call her a slut, but she liked to think of herself as a woman who understood her appetites. It wasn’t as if she screwed random strangers in anonymous hotel rooms – she liked sex and she liked variety and she made sure her partners understood that. Yet, she had a feeling that Reese was going to upend her comfortable, carefree life.
Neal took note of her abstraction. “What’s with the sigh?”
“Just thinking.”
“We’ve got this one in the bag. The old man …”
“He’s not that old. Sixty-two, tops.”
“Huh?”
“Reese – you called him an old man, like he’s decrepit or something.”
“El?”
“Well, he’s not. And he’s nice.”
Neal grinned and looked at her while they were stopped at a light. “I do have to say that Reese seemed quite smitten, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Am I getting the feeling that it’s mutual? There were times it seemed like you were talking to him like he was the only other person in the room.”
She deflected, without success. “He’s a prospective client.”
“It’s not like that’s stopped you before.”
“You shouldn’t cast stones, Neal George Caffrey. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of Peter Burke. Who, is, by the way, most definitely gay, if you were wondering.”
“I was, and thank you for that, but stop trying to change the conversation. I’m not judging you, El. Far from it. Reese Hughes is just a bit different from your usual type.”
“Because he’s older?”
“Yeah. And because he’s a little grim and conservative”
Neal was right. “Who’s to say anything will happen. And I’d rather win this opportunity.”
“So – keep my mitts off Peter Burke until we hear from them?”
“That would probably be a good idea.”
“Probably? That’s a huge loophole, El. You know how much I love to exploit loopholes.”
“You’re an adult, Neal. I’m not your mother or your priest.”
“No, thank goodness, because that would be kinky, even for you.”
El laughed and slapped at Neal’s arm. The traffic was typical for a Friday evening, and it took the better part of forty minutes before they pulled into the parking lot for building that housed the bakery. This part of East Williamsburg was still industrial and the real estate was affordable, relatively speaking. She figured that in another eight years, the land prices would catch up with the rest of the borough and she’d either have to close shop or relocate. She wouldn’t worry about that now – no point in borrowing trouble?
The automatic gate closed behind the van, and Neal got out and started unloading. Moz, who had recovered from his cold, had a full schedule for delivery tonight.
“Are you going to help, or just sit there like the Queen of Sheba?” Neal called out to her.
El retorted, “Nice way to talk to the woman who signs your paycheck.”
“Fine, be like that, Lazybones.”
Neal’s goading had nothing to do with her getting out of the van. She ignored his smirk and took the box of dirty dishes from him. Not that she was planning on washing them, or anything like that.
Moz was waiting at the door and she unceremoniously handed the carton to him. He grumbled, “I’m a driver, not your slave.”
A double entendre was on her lips, but the memory of Reese Hughes, tall and proud, trying to look stern but failing as he smiled at her, stilled the words. Damn – this was going to be a problem.
Moz looked surprised at her lack of a witty comeback, and he disappeared into the building.
El went back to the van to finish helping Neal unload. They had just gotten the last box of equipment out when her phone started to ring. She looked at the screen, recognizing the number and smiled. This just had to be good news.
“Hello, Clinton.”
“Ms. Mitchell, I want to thank you for the excellent presentation you gave.”
Her heart sank a little. Clinton Jones had struck her as a bit old-fashioned, and this was probably a simple follow up call. “It was our pleasure. I hope your bosses enjoyed everything.”
“Oh, they more than enjoyed everything. They can’t stop talking about you, about the food, about Neal.”
“I hope they were saying only good things.”
“Let’s just say, they couldn’t stop raving. Helen also – and if you had any idea how hard it is to win her over…”
Helen Anderson had returned to the conference room just as Neal had finished serving the chocolate and sparkling wine pairings. She didn’t knock, marching right up to him with a small black device in her hand. El couldn’t see what it said, but she figured it was her blood sugar monitor. She watched as Helen showed it to Neal and kissed him on the cheek.
“Anyway – I’m just calling to let you know that we’ve picked Desserts After Dark for the event. Reese and Peter have signed the contracts and they should already be in your email.”
El’s head was buzzing. “Clinton – thank you.”
“No, thank you. You made me look good today.”
“And we’ll make your firm look even better come October.” They talked for a few more minutes, setting up a tentative schedule. She thanked him again and disconnected.
“El?” Neal had followed her into the building and into her office. “Good news?”
She wrapped her arms around him, grinning like a fool. “We got it, babe. We got it!”
Peter was glad it was Friday, for so many reasons. Normally, he’d be playing poker tonight, but the game was cancelled – two of the guys were on vacation, a third had dental problems and two-handed poker wasn’t much fun when you were playing for just a few bucks.
Truthfully, he was happy to be home and by himself. He wanted to think about today. No – he wanted to think about Neal. Neal Caffrey. He rolled the name around in his head, liking the rhythm of it. It was as attractive as its owner.
Bakers shouldn’t be so beautiful – they should be a little roly-poly from sampling their own wares. Neal looked like he never ate anything except tofu and wheat grass smoothies. Peter knew the type, men who lived for the gym, who spent every free moment working to perfect perfection. But Neal was the antithesis of that. He had embraced a career that tempted the senses, that would destroy such physical perfection.
Peter knew he was being shallow and probably just a little ridiculous. A man like Caffrey – a young man like Caffrey probably wouldn’t look twice at him. Yeah, he knew he had a decent physique, he kept himself in shape, but he was on the downward slide to fifty and feeling distinctly past his prime of late. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out on a date and as for sex…well his right hand was a steady partner and he never had to worry about it cheating on him.
That didn’t stop him from fantasizing, though. He’d gotten definite vibes that Neal was gay, and that there was some interest there, but then he could be completely mistaken. He was there to sell himself and his company, after all.
But his gut told him that wasn’t the case; he gut said that this guy was attracted to him. Peter had learned a long time ago that he should listen to his gut, because when he ignored it, things tended to turn to shit damn quickly. Wasn’t that what happened with Dan? He’d ignored all the warning signs and got his heart broken and his health compromised. No, better not think about that – it was a long time ago and you know better now.
But this time, his gut was telling him that Neal Caffrey was someone he should have in his life. He’d listen to his gut and call the bakery on Monday; maybe see if Neal would like to go to lunch one day.
Still, it was a Friday night, there was a guy out there who looked like a god and seemed to be attracted to him and he was alone. Something was wrong with this picture.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. At least the Yankees were playing.
Which turned out to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions. They were playing the Red Sox at home and getting clobbered. It was 11 to 1 and the Yankees were down to their final out. He turned off the game in disgust.
Times like this, he wished he had a dog. They could go for a walk. Not that he needed a dog to do that, but he wasn’t the type to walk around aimlessly at night, even in the relatively crime-free precincts of Cobble Hill.
It was too early to go to bed, too late to do anything and the thought of doing work had no appeal at all. Worst of it was, he didn’t even have a cupcake order to look forward to. After all the sweets this afternoon, the last thing he needed to eat was a red velvet cupcake. But he liked the delivery guy, Moz, who was always up for conversation. He had some weird ideas and believed in a few pretty out-there conspiracies, but he was smart and funny and Peter enjoyed spending a few minutes with the guy.
It didn’t escape him that he could also milk Moz for information about Neal, what he liked to do when he wasn’t baking, and more importantly, whether he was seeing anyone. Peter briefly entertained the thought of using his old law enforcement contacts to have a background check run on him, but that seemed a little sleazy.
Peter pulled out the latest edition of Granta from the pile of magazines next to the couch and was about to start reading a piece of new Caribbean fiction when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was a few minutes after ten, right about the time that his cupcakes would be delivered, if he had actually ordered them.
Maybe he did and just forgot.
He opened the curtains and looked down onto the street. Nope, the distinctive Desserts After Dark van wasn’t double parked in front of the house. Just a few pedestrians going by. The doorbell rang again and Peter went to answer it.
And got the shock of his life. It was Neal Caffrey, and he was holding one of his company’s pastry boxes. Even through the old glass on the front door, he could see the man’s uncertain smile.
Peter was completely at a loss for words as he opened the door.
“I figured I’d make your delivery tonight.” Neal held out the box.
“I didn’t order anything.” Peter replied, and immediately felt like an idiot. Neal Caffrey was here.
The smile wavered and then disappeared altogether. “Ah, sorry. I thought…” His voice trailed off and Peter could read his embarrassment. Neal turned to leave.
“No, don’t – don’t go.” He grabbed Neal’s arm, tugging him back. “I didn’t mean to be so rude.” Peter smiled, hoping that he didn’t look like some sick freak.
Apparently not, because Neal smiled back. “So, you don’t want this?”
“You brought me cupcakes?” Peter couldn’t help himself and reached for the box.
“Actually, no.”
“No?” Peter was disappointed
“Something a whole lot better than cupcakes.”
“Not possible.” Peter ushered Neal into the living room. “I do have to tell you that it’s going to take a lot to top your cupcakes.”
“Really? After what I served you this afternoon, you can say that?”
“Everything was delicious – perfect – but your cupcakes…” Peter thought he saw Neal wince. “What’s the matter?”
“No, nothing.”
It felt like he had pressed at a sore spot. “I’m a man of simple tastes, sorry to say.”
“It’s not you – I just have a thing about cupcakes.” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and looked like he was about to run.
“A baker who hates his own creations? Will you tell me why?” He went over to his wine rack – he did have a few good bottles. “This sound like a tale worthy of an ‘82 Bordeaux.”
Neal looked impressed. “It’s not that interesting a story – certainly not worthy of such a storied vintage.”
“I have a feeling it is.” He opened the wine and brought the bottle and two glasses over. “Should let it breathe for a few minutes.”
“How did you get your hands on a bottle of ‘82 Bordeaux?”
“I have good friends who know what I like.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a few of those friends.” Neal leaned back, but was clearly taking in the room.
Peter wondered what it said about him. Probably nothing particularly complimentary.
“Have you lived here long?”
“About a decade. I bought the place just before the market took off. Could sell it and retire on the proceeds. Buy a boat and sail around the world, probably.”
They chatted about the ludicrous nature of the Brooklyn real estate market. “El’s biggest fear is that our landlord’s going to jack up the rent. She’d like to buy the building, but that takes capital she doesn’t have.”
“El?” Peter couldn’t help but wonder at Neal’s obviously affectionate tone.
“Elizabeth – she’s not a Beth or an Ellie, you know.”
Peter wasn’t sure he could, but that didn’t really matter. “How did you come to work for her?”
“We found each other at a wedding expo out on Long Island. Must be at least eight years now. Once upon a time, I had a bakery …” Neal drifted off, his tone wistful.
“You have your own shop, too?”
“Not anymore.” Neal had a sad, faraway look in his eyes. “I had a small legacy from my dad. It paid for my education and I took what was left and opened a shop in lower Manhattan.”
Peter poured them each a glass of wine, and handed one to Neal. He watched as Neal took a sip, eyes closed in rapture. Peter waited patiently for him to go on, intrigued by the contradiction of this man. “What happened?”
“Life. Idiots. Insurance companies. Morons. Attorneys.”
“That’s quite a litany of bad guys. And I’d say you’re a little bitter.”
Neal let out a snort of laughter. “As aspirin.”
“Tell me what happened,” Peter encouraged.
“The shop was near the corner of Duane and Reade Streets.”
“I know the area – right by the Federal courthouse.”
“Yeah. And did you know that some of the judges have chambers in the office buildings nearby?”
Peter shrugged. “Yeah, I think I did.” He wondered what that possibly could have to do with a bakery?
“My bakery, The Greatest Cake…”
“You named your bakery after a Steve McQueen movie?”
“Huh?”
“You said it was called ‘The Great Escape’.”
“No – ‘The Greatest Cake’.” Neal let out a little chuckle, finally catching on to the inadvertent play on words. “How fucking appropriate…”
Peter didn’t get it, but he’d wait for Neal to make the connection.
“The bakery was open for about two years and was solid. We’d gotten some great reviews and a write up in New York Magazine as one of the top indulgences in the City. And then some yahoo decided to escape from a judge’s chamber, using the awning over my bakery as a landing pad.”
“What!”
“Yeah – seems that this guy had arranged to make a closed door confession. Said he had all sorts of information about the Barelli crime family, said he would only talk to the judge and a court reporter, no witnesses, not even his own attorney. It was all a scam. He’d planned an escape, and climbed out of the judge’s fourth floor window, scooted across the ledge and jumped onto the awning over The Greatest Cake’s doorway.”
“And he missed?” Peter was fascinated and appalled.
“No, I wish he did. He landed, but the awning frame gave way. It pulled loose from the brickwork and the whole thing collapsed. There were people under the awing.” Neal buried his face in his hands, devastated by the memory of this tragedy.
“Was anyone killed?”
“No, thank goodness.” He thought for a moment. “Or maybe not. They lived and sued.”
“You? Why did they sue you?”
“Because it was my awning, my bakery. Even the guy who jumped sued me for failing to maintain the building properly. I was served before I finished getting the mess on the sidewalk cleaned up.”
Peter wasn’t a lawyer, but he thought he knew enough about the law to wonder how Neal could possibly be liable. “Well, if you didn’t own the building – the landlord should have been responsible.”
“Except that my lease made me responsible for any fixtures and appurtenances.” Neal spat out the last word as if it was a curse.
Peter was afraid he knew where the story was going.
“They sued and sued and sued some more. Even people who were inside the store sued me. There were people who weren’t even there who tried to get in on the action.”
“And you didn’t have insurance?”
“I had some – not enough, though. And the lawyers wanted to be paid. I sold the bakery, filed for bankruptcy, gave the land sharks I hired to defend me my last dime. I lost everything.”
Peter wanted to give Neal a hug. Instead, he refilled his wineglass, and waited patiently for him to continue.
“Matthew kicked me out, too. I was a loser and he didn’t want to be associated with such a failure.”
“Matthew?”
“My boyfriend at the time. You might have heard of him, Matthew Keller, bad boy fashion designer, the prince of the runway? Designer to the rich and young and wicked?”
Peter shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, never heard of him.”
“No? Matthew would be disappointed – he so wants to be both ubiquitous and exclusive.”
“He sounds like an asshole.”
Neal chuckled, and it wasn’t a happy sound. “Yeah – he is. And a very talented one.”
The moment stretched thin, becoming uncomfortable. “You still haven’t told me why you hate cupcakes. Did someone open a cupcake shop where your bakery was?”
“Oh, that has nothing to do with the bakery. I have always despised cupcakes. There’s no artistry there – anyone can bake cupcakes. You might as well use a box mix.”
Peter disagreed, particularly when it came to Neal’s cupcakes. But there was such a wealth of contempt there that he didn’t want to argue. “But you don’t despise the people who like cupcakes?”
His question startled Neal, who all but shook himself. “No, no – you’re entitled to like what you want to like. I don’t judge anyone’s tastes. God knows, I have a few of my own I should be embarrassed about.”
That intrigued Peter to no end. He wanted to ask Neal if he was involved with anyone, but that seemed way too personal. “You like working for Elizabeth Mitchell?”
“Yeah – she’s a terrific woman.”
Peter got the oddest feeling that Neal’s admiration was more than professional, but he just told him that he had been living with another guy.
“What about Moz, the guy who does the deliveries. You know him?”
“Of course, I was the one who got him the job. I’d have to say that Moz is probably my best friend. And because I can say that, I can also say that he’s, well, unique.”
“I got a sense of that.” Peter had to smile at the moment of perfect understanding between them.
“I bet you don’t know that Moz has a PhD in astrophysics from Cornell and once had a reputation that rivaled Carl Sagan’s.”
“Really?” Peter couldn’t imagine the little guy spending his nights peering into a telescope. Or maybe he could.
“Yeah. He was at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in the mid-Eighties. Apparently, there was a huge scandal – rival models or something about planetary orbits, the Kuiper belt and the classification of Pluto. Moz’s theories were discredited and he had to leave California for good. Apparently, he can never go back.”
“Huh? That sounds bizarre, even for Moz.”
Neal shrugged. “He washed his hands of the whole field, came back to New York, and made a fortune in storage lockers. Now he keeps himself busy as the delivery driver for Desserts After Dark.”
“Storage lockers – like those reality shows? He buys old storage lockers?”
“No – he invested in a whole chain of storage locker facilities. Became a real estate mogul of sorts. He calls them cemeteries for the culture of acquisition.”
“Now, that does sound like Moz. How did you meet him?”
“I had just moved to New York, was starting culinary school, and was so naive that you could see ‘sucker’ tattooed on my forehead. I nearly lost a year’s tuition money in a three-card Monte game before Moz rescued me.”
“That also sounds like something Moz would do.”
“We’ve been friends ever since. Sometimes he pretends to be lactose intolerant and gluten intolerant – just to challenge my skills. I’ll humor him and make a pretty damn fine vegan shortbread.”
The thought of that boggled Peter’s mind. “So, what did you bring me?”
Neal gave him a mischievous smile. “I thought you didn’t want anything. Didn’t you say that you were too satiated from the tasting this afternoon?”
He did, but the thought of Neal bringing him his very own pastry was too good to turn up. “It’s been a few hours, so I’m good.”
“I still don’t know…”
“Neal – stop being such a tease.”
The look the other man gave him was scorching and Peter felt his cheeks get hot. He really hadn’t intended to comment to be so overtly sexual. Neal retrieved the box and handed it to him. Peter opened it.
At first, he thought Neal had been putting one over on him. It looked like a red velvet cupcake, but at second glance, Peter realized it wasn’t. The shape wasn’t quite right. It was a little taller, a little wider and it didn’t have the distinctive pleated paper cup, but was instead wrapped in what appeared to be a lace ribbon. He carefully removed it from the box – the ribbon wasn’t lace, but chocolate and it wasn’t a cupcake but a miniature layer cake.
His mouth watered.
“Go on, eat it.”
Peter licked his lips. “This is gorgeous, Neal. I can’t just bite into it.”
“It’s just a cake.”
“It’s a work of art, meant to be savored.” Maybe the wine had gone to his head. “Let me get a plate and a fork, at least.”
“It’s just a petit gâteau, not a work of art,” Neal corrected him, but Peter thought he could hear the pleasure Neal took from his appreciation.
He put the cake back and went into the kitchen to get a plate and a pair of forks. He came back to find Neal sprawled against the back of the couch, wine glass in hand, eyes closed. He looked like he belonged nowhere else.
Neal opened his eyes and smiled. Once again, Peter was struck through the heart. Was this going to be a disaster or the best thing that had ever happened to him?
“Tell me about Peter Burke, CPA to the New York art world.”
“That isn’t a particularly interesting story.” He retrieved the cake, set it on the plate with care and handed a fork to Neal. “You’ll have some, too?” For some reason, Peter really wanted to see him eat.
Neal took the fork, and there was glint of laughter in his eyes. “Tell me about yourself. Why an accountant? You seem a lot more dynamic than your profession would suggest.”
Peter’s hand was poised above the confection. “I like math.” There was so much that Peter didn’t want to tell Neal. Not now, not ever.
“But accounting isn’t really math.”
His fork sank through the layers of cake and frosting and the sensation was actually erotic. He focused, instead, on Neal’s question. “There is math – but it’s more than just the numbers. I could have pursued an academic career, worked on a Millennium problem for the rest of my life, but I wanted to do something more than sit in the ivory tower.”
“Didn’t the guy who solved Fermat’s Last Theorem get named to People Magazine’s Sexiest?”
“Yeah – Andrew Wilkes, and his original proof was faulty. It took him another seven years to fix it. How do you know about that? You don’t strike me as the People Magazine type reader.”
“There was a thing on it on PBS a few years back. I found it interesting. And I do remember that he had to go back and redo his work.”
“Academic mathematics is unbelievably cutthroat.”
“But you could make a sexiest people list, easily.”
“I would rather not.” Peter finally took a bite of the cake. It should have been impossible, but it was better than Neal’s cupcakes. The sweetness was perfectly balanced, the cake a touch denser, richer than the cupcake or even the sliced cake he had gotten last week. He complimented Neal, who waved it off.
“So why accounting – you really like doing other people’s taxes?”
“It's more than taxes, but I didn’t start out that way. The FBI recruited me just after I finished business school. Spent a decade in the White Collar division before I resigned.”
“You quit the FBI?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t a good fit.” Peter found that even after so long, the thought of his lost career still had the power to hurt him.
“Because you’re gay?”
Peter didn’t answer, taking a bit of the cake instead. The sweetness didn’t mix too well with the sour taste of his memories.
Neal didn’t let the matter go. “I thought it was just the military that had a policy.”
He swallowed. “There was no anti-discrimination law for Federal employees. I was lucky for the first few years – had a good boss who didn’t care. But a new broom came in and decided to make my life a living hell. I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Reese Hughes – he was your boss, right?”
“Yeah – they forced him into retirement. He wasn’t ready to spend the rest of his life on a golf course and decided to open up his own firm, asked me to join him and well … you know how that worked out.”
“I’d say, pretty good. But sometimes you just can’t stop thinking about what you lost.” From what he’d just told him, Neal knew all too well what that was like.
“Yeah.” Peter looked down at the plate – there was one forkful left. “I think I have to agree, your talents are wasted on cupcakes.”
Neal smiled and it was as if the whole room lit up. “That is a compliment I can appreciate.” He pushed the plate towards Peter, urging him to finish.
“You don’t eat your own creations?”
“I taste them all day long – I have to.”
“And spend your nights at the gym?”
“Sort of. I prefer to run and swim. I like to let the repetitive motions clear my head. Can’t quite get that with the machines.”
Peter knew the feeling, and tomorrow was definitely going to be a day spent working off the calories. “I don’t want to let it go to waste, it’s so damn good.”
“Tell you what…” Neal split the piece and took half, leaving the rest for him.
That last mouthful was as perfect as the first, and he swallowed it with relish. Neal had eaten his, and there were a few crumbs at the corner of his mouth.
Peter reached out to brush them away just as Neal tried to lick at them. If the cake had been an irresistible temptation, this was an enticement beyond measure. Neal’s tongue swept against Peter’s fingers, once as an accident. And then again, deliberately.
He didn’t want to jump Neal – he was a grown man with a level of self-control, but Neal was making that so damn hard. And then he laughed at that thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“Me – you. What you’re doing to me.”
Neal looked confused, then a little hurt. “I’m sorry.”
“No – don’t be. I like it. I like it a lot.” Peter brushed his thumb against Neal’s cheek, enjoying the texture of his stubble, the contrast between that and his smooth skin. “You’re making me a little crazy, you know that.”
Neal’s pupils dilated, the blue of his eyes almost disappearing. “Good, because you’re doing the same to me.”
Peter didn’t know if he leaned in, or Neal did. All he knew was that his arms were filled with the warm, hard body of a man he wanted, his mouth was devouring, or being devoured, Neal’s hands were cupped against the base of his skull and his soul was on fire.
The plate and forks went clattering to the floor as he surged over Neal, pressing him down onto the couch. Neal’s hands left his head to pull at his tee shirt. They were like brands against his skin, burning against his flesh, but there was only pleasure from that touch.
“Mmmm, you taste too good.”
Neal’s words were another goad and Peter bit and licked and nipped at his lips before breaking away. “And you taste like heaven.”
Neal pulled him close and Peter settled himself against the cradle of Neal’s hips, their erections rubbing against each other, the pressure of zippers and well-worn denim only added to the pleasure. Peter’s hips rocked against Neal’s as his hands found their way under his shirt. Peter managed to get it off without ripping it, but his own shirt didn’t survive Neal’s desperate pulling. It ripped and both men laughed. Peter shrugged out of it, tossing it on the floor before returning to the feast that was Neal Caffrey.
His lips discovered that Neal was exquisitely sensitive were his earlobe met his neck. Neal shivered as Peter licked and kissed it. His hips bucked up, slamming their erections together when Peter carefully bit it.
“What else do you like?”
“Everything. I like everything,” was Neal’s panting reply.
“Oh, that’s a terrible, dangerous thing to admit to me.” Peter pushed himself up and looked at Neal, so open and vulnerable and wanting. With a single curl plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen, his tongue just peeking out, he looked like an angel fallen and debauched.
But Neal was no angel as his hand moved back to Peter’s neck and pulled him down for another kiss.
Peter could have spent the rest of eternity kissing him, but he wanted to explore, too. His lips drifted down to the base of Neal’s throat, a perfect cup of muscle. He had the craziest thought, of pouring champagne into that space and sipping it. Maybe the next time…
His lips lingered there before drifting south, finding the perfection of smooth skin and hard muscles, and diamond-hard nipples just waiting for his teeth. He toyed with them, and it was a feast for all his senses as Neal’s whimpers drove him to untold heights of desire.
Neal’s hips kept grinding into him and Peter didn’t know how much long he could last. How much long both of them could last because he felt like all his skin was two sizes too tight. Neal’s hands were clawing at his back, fingers reaching into the waistband of his jeans, underneath his briefs, into the cleft of his ass.
He worked his way back up to Neal’s lips – almost afraid to go too far, to unwrap all the mysteries that lay before him. He kissed Neal again, putting all the desire, all the need into it and was rewarded. Neal was far from passive, his tongue hot and wet and demanding, his own teeth biting as they fought for dominance.
Neal tried to roll him over, but Peter captured his thigh and pulled him closer, their cocks separated only by a few millimeters of fabric and zippers and when Neal bucked hard against him, frotting desperately, he came in a blinding rush. Neal made a sound – between a groan and a scream, and came too.
Peter caught his breath and eased himself into a sitting position. This couch was definitely not made for fucking. He glanced over at Neal, who was still panting. The man looked more like a debauched angel than ever, hair mussed, lips bruised from Peter’s kisses, shirtless, his nipples still peaked and swollen, and of course, his jeans, come-stained from knee to waistband.
Neal opened his eyes, but he still seemed dazed. His hand drifted across his crotch, testing the moisture. In a gesture that made Peter’s cock twitch back to life, Neal lifted his damp fingertip to his mouth and licked them.
He finally spoke. “I really didn’t expect this. This wasn’t what I came here for.” He looked at Peter, his expression grave.
“You didn’t want this?” Peter’s heart froze – had he completely misread the entire situation and gone too far?
“No – wait – yes. Yes, oh, hell – yes I did. I do.” Neal sat up, too. “I just didn’t come over expecting to get so spectacularly fucked.”
“Spectacularly?” Peter never really thought his ego needed a boost.
“Yeah. And then some.” Neal looked down, then back at him, through those ridiculously long eyelashes.
Peter felt like he was back in high school, except in high school he never did anything like this with anyone like Neal Caffrey. “Um, just so you know. I’m usually not the kind of guy who moves so fast.” He didn’t do random hookups and he hadn’t dated in a few years, so maybe that explained his actions. “Are you okay?”
“What a question to ask a man you’ve so spectacularly debauched.”
This time, Peter felt his entire face burn, even the tips of his ears. “You need a thesaurus.”
“Amongst other things. Right now, though, finding a dry pair of pants is a higher priority than improvements to my vocabulary.”
Peter wondered when his living room became the equivalent of Alice’s rabbit hole. “Umm –” He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous despite everything that just happened. “Would you like – ah – to spend the night? With me?”
Neal didn’t take even a few seconds to think about it. “I would love to, Peter.”
He swallowed, feeling like a teenager who just asked his crush to the prom. “I have a guest room – just, you know, if you wanted.” God, he must sound like such an idiot.
Neal just leaned over. Their eyes met and Peter was swallowed by an ocean of pale blue when Neal kissed him, the barest brushing of lips. “Unless you sleep in a hammock, I would prefer to share your bed.”
Go to Part Three - 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 03:48 pm (UTC)I don't even remember what else I was going to say. Wow!
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 03:51 pm (UTC)Hopes your brain recovers soon!
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 06:50 pm (UTC)I love Peter's obsession with red velvet cupcakes which has quickly developed into a small obsession about the guy who makes them ♥ There is just something so adorable about first time meetings and, well, first times.
The last scene still makes me go GUH \o/
On to the next part :D
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 02:18 pm (UTC)I know I've said it many times before, but I love writing AUs so much because it's a challenge to keep these characters
no subject
Date: 2013-09-23 04:49 am (UTC)“Peter – this is Neal Caffrey, the man who bakes your cupcakes.”
He most certainly does.
I defy anyone to read that line and not laugh out loud.
I love Reese and El's mutual crush. That's a pairing I don't think I've ever considered, much as I adore Hughes.
I'm also enjoying how you are incorporating so many little touches from the show. Poor Peter still gets a horrible suit! Although the notion of Neal serving him on bended knee makes up for it. And I like the twist in making Peter a wine aficionado.
I see I am going to have to up the pastry budget for this fic. Kneaders is just not going to cut it!
no subject
Date: 2013-09-24 02:29 pm (UTC)I have a fondness for rare pairings and it's always a joy to read feedback letting me know that they work. I have a deep love for Reese Hughes and have a million different stories for him. Giving him a believably love life was pure pleasure.