Groomzilla (6 page)

Ander fussed with his collar. “Yes, Daniel, you’re my booty call.” He regarded Daniel with a fond smile. “My emotional booty call.”

Daniel couldn’t help but laugh at that. The wind crawled into the openings of his coat and made him shiver; not even the beer could keep him warm. But Ander shining down at him always helped. “That’s the most accurate description of our friendship I’ve ever heard.”

DANIEL DOZED
in the cab, alert enough to see he was being driven in the correct direction and not, say, to an abandoned dock somewhere in Bayonne. He had a weird half dream of Owen Grainger being his roommate at Washington Academy, wearing a silver-and-gray tie and bending Daniel over the end of his uncomfortable twin bed….

“Here you go,” the driver said, waking Daniel from his lovely dream. He handed over three of Ander’s twenties, collected his receipt, and stumbled out of the cab.

In the dark, with the wind whipping up from the water, Daniel shook his head, trying to find enough sobriety before he attempted those three flights of stairs, particularly with his pants being so tight after that lovely little dream.

The next few months were going to be a freaking adventure.

“YOU DO
realize,” Lucy, the unhappy cake consultant, said, “that this sort of last-minute request will cost twice the normal amount.”

Seated in the posh downtown offices of Sweet Dreams, a high-end cake design company Ander insisted on, Daniel faced the first hurdle. The appointment cost them a grand and a full day of Daniel’s time as he convinced the owner—whose nephew had gone to Harvard—that it would be amazing publicity for their brand.

Ander—dressed in a dove gray cashmere sweater, white jeans, and Doc Martens—didn’t even blink as he whipped out the corporate card they were using for wedding expenses. “Lindy….”

“Lucy,” Daniel muttered, folding his hands in his lap. He sincerely regretted wearing his favorite out-of-style navy suit, because he felt like a scullery maid in the French-drawing-room-motifed office of Sweet Dreams.

Lucy’s sour expression grew more annoyed.
How
, Daniel thought,
could anyone be this unhappy being around cake?

“Lucy, my love. I understand we’re putting your skills to the test. I am here because you are the best and that is what my wedding deserves,” Ander said briskly, tapping the card on her delicate white desk. “I am willing to pay you whatever number you throw out, and in return, I would like a cake that makes people sick with envy that they weren’t granted the opportunity to taste it.”

He gestured toward Daniel, who quickly dug in his leather portfolio for the photos and sketches that represented Ander’s desired wedding cake. Daniel handed them over to Lucy, who took them like she was accepting a dead turtle on her birthday.

“Six layers, white pearl fondant with gold band, enough for three hundred people,” Ander said as Lucy flipped through each page, flinching with each word. “English garden flowers decorating the entire cake—real flowers unless you want to dazzle me with your fondant craftsmanship. I don’t care about the inside, but I assume it will be delicious for people who eat sugar.

“Now for the groom’s cake….”

Daniel almost enjoyed this part of it. If he didn’t think he’d murder Ander in his sleep, they’d make a good pair doing business together. Daniel set up the parameters that Ander could roam in, and then Ander took over. Like a fabulous gay rodeo or something, with Ander roping people into what needed to get done and tying them up in a bow before they knew what hit them. Daniel knew what Ander wanted, he knew Lucy could do it, and he knew at the end of the meeting she’d be drooling over the credit card and praising his brilliant vision.

For now, he sat quietly and smiled.

The groom’s cake was to be chocolate and shaped like a turntable, with the record being “Blackbird” by the Beatles, which was Rafe’s favorite song. Daniel handed over the pictures as Lucy’s eyes widened.

“And finally—because I have complete faith in you—I’ll let you decide the presentation of the dessert for the rehearsal dinner, but one word for you: cheesecake.” With a bright smile, Ander sat back in his chair.

Lucy’s eyelashes fluttered. “This is… quite an undertaking,” she said, eyes still on the pictures and sketches spread across her desk.

“Nothing you can’t handle.” Ander picked a bit of lint off his sleeve. “The only thing left is deciding when we can film this meeting for the show.”

That got her full attention. “We’ll be doing this again?”

“No, a better version of it. Hopefully you won’t look so surprised and annoyed and I will be wearing better pants. Daniel?”

For the third time, he dipped into his leather satchel. “These are the contracts and disclaimers—all the legal stuff. Just have your lawyer look them over,” he said politely as Ander answered his buzzing phone.

“Owen? Yes, yes. Oh of course, come right in.” Ander moved the phone away from his ear and addressed Lucy. “Can you have someone direct our producer back here?”

“I’ll get him myself,” Lucy said as she got up quickly, and then she hurried out of the room.

“She’s on her way out. Be charming, she hates me.” Ander hung up and Daniel ducked his head so Ander wouldn’t see the smile that had appeared.

“Oh heavens, Mr. Grainger in all his biteable hotness is coming. And you wearing that sad suit.”

“Shut up.” Daniel checked his reflection in the window, smoothing his hair as Ander cackled.

“May I suggest putting the satchel in your lap? So when you pop a log he won’t lose an eye.”

“I hate you,” Daniel muttered, trying to keep his palms from slicking up.

They heard voices near the door, and as the knob rattled, Ander leaned over and whispered, “When we were at dinner, he asked about you.”

Then he sat up as the door opened and Owen walked in.

It seemed Lucy felt the same way Daniel did when Owen Grainger entered a room. Gone was the stone-faced irritation and eye-rolly attitude. She pulled up a delicate side chair for Owen, who perched with a grin between Ander and Daniel. “Gentlemen,” he said, sparing them each a look.

“Owen, you have perfect timing. Lucy was going to let us know when we could come back and film the scene about the cakes!” Ander made excited jazz hands. “And you’ll be supervising that, yes?”

“Oh yes, my crew and I will be here to film, and Lucy, if I may, it’s a small group and we won’t take up much of your time.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You take all the time you need.”

The meeting ended about thirty minutes later. Lucy agreed to pretty much everything, charged the credit card for the down payment, and complimented Ander’s taste in front of Owen. Daniel, ever the silent palace guard, gathered the receipts and Lucy’s card, which he tucked into the gold folder in his satchel marked CAKE with his label maker.

So far, so good.

After extricating Owen from Lucy’s clutches, they stood on the sidewalk, waiting for her to stop peeking through the window.

“Just to make things go smoothly, I feel like you should come to every meeting, Owen,” Ander deadpanned. “Daniel? What do you think?”

Daniel regarded Owen—today wearing a lightweight gray houndstooth suit and burgundy button-down—who stared back, mirroring Daniel’s smirk.

“I wouldn’t mind Mr. Grainger’s help in smoothing out the wrinkles of persnickety salespeople,” Daniel said, enjoying the charming tilt of Owen’s head as he laughed.

“A little charm goes a long way, I guess,” Owen murmured, and Daniel’s urge to bite him came back with a vengeance.

“A little? That woman’s panties evaporated five seconds after you showed up. I am impressed.” Ander gave him a slow clap. “So the florist tomorrow at….”

“Ten thirty,” Daniel provided.

“Ten thirty. Bellis Chandler Designs on East Twelfth,” Owen finished, tapping his pocket. “On my schedule.”

“He’s as on top of things as you are,” Ander said, managing to make it sound dirty at a pro skill level. “Or the bottom—I honestly pass no judgments.”

Owen’s keen ice-gray gaze hit Daniel like a lightning strike, and he shifted the satchel over his groin. “And on that note, I have calls to make regarding linen samples.” Daniel gave them a little bow. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.” Owen smiled another blinding smile while Ander chortled.

When Ander kissed him on the cheek, he whispered, “He wanted to know if you were single.” Ander leaned back before Daniel could say anything.

“Oh, I sent you another toy for your collection,” Ander announced loudly, stepping back from Daniel’s embrace. “Let me know how you like it.”

“Collection?” Owen asked as Daniel turned on his heel.

“Trains. Toy trains,” Daniel rushed out. “And thanks.”

“It’s a deluxe model,” Ander continued. “Ride the throttle hard—it’s got some kick to it.”

Daniel couldn’t even look Owen in the eye as he darted to the corner to get a cab.

A FEW
hours later, he sent a text message to Ander.

My ass thanks you.

THE FLORIST
appointment led to another night of drinking with Ander; mostly Daniel drank and Ander launched into tirades against Sven and whatever deal had pulled Rafe out of the country again. It wasn’t as fun as the last time because Ander didn’t care about getting Daniel laid—he was just sad.

So Daniel drank enough for both of them.

In the morning Daniel regretted the white walls/white furniture scheme of his apartment, not to mention the long, narrow windows in his bedroom. The sun fried the edges of his vision, creeping under his comforter to poke him awake. It even made a sound….

No, wait, that was his phone.

Daniel reached out and grabbed the offending noisemaker and pulled it to his ear.

Nothing. No, wait, they were texts.

True to Ander’s word from earlier in the week, there were eleven dick pics, all progressively more frighteningly huge and aggressive. Daniel tried not to look or enjoy them too much because… well. Ander knew his damn type.

Text twelve was an unknown number and an inquiry. Was he free for lunch?

With a tremble only vaguely related to his hangover, Daniel clicked on the entry.

Owen Grainger was asking him to lunch, today. Twelve thirty at Butter Midtown? Was he available?

“Timing, universe. Your timing is shit,” Daniel muttered, even as he typed an answer back.

Yes, that would be fine.
He didn’t even check his schedule first. Just… yes.

He hoped those five words didn’t sound as breathlessly delighted and confused as he was.

DANIEL’S CALENDAR
was clear—blessedly—and after two excessively long showers sandwiching a good ten-minute teeth brushing, he crawled to his closet to find something suitable to wear to lunch with a hot guy he wanted to bang and impress at the same time.

Suit? Something more casual? How did gay wedding planners dress? Was there a terrible joke in there somewhere?

The reality of not having gotten to the dry cleaner’s this week brought the problem home and gave it only one solution. Navy slacks, white button-down, and a gray pullover. When he added the striped tie, he had a flashback to his boarding school days and then a further flashback to being bent over any available piece of furniture by Owen.

Oh. God.

He made it to Butter Midtown through the grace of an on-time PATH train and a cab he might have snatched from a guy screaming into his phone about a delayed shipment.

You snooze, you lose, buddy
.

Daniel checked his reflection in a nearby window: the camel coat made him look pulled together, the refuse-to-stay-side-parted hair said
I’ve come to tutor your son in economics
.

Maybe Owen Grainger had slept wrong and wouldn’t show up looking like a Greek god.

Or maybe he would be walking down the street in cream cords, a fisherman’s sweater, and a camel coat that made Daniel’s look like an actual camel.

Daniel’s mouth went dry.

“Hey, right on time,” Owen called, pulling off his sunglasses with a casual move. His smile could cure cancer. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

Manners and speech kicked back in after a second’s lag; Daniel smiled brightly as he extended his hand. “My pleasure.”

Owen held the door open for him, the hand at the small of his back swooningly welcome. Daniel kept his grin in place as the maître d’ took Owen’s name and led them through the restaurant. The noise of the weekday lunch crowd rose and fell around them; waiters dodged them with full trays. The soaring ceilings rained light down on top of them as they were guided into a slightly quieter corner, which was a blessing for the creeping hangover still sticking around.

Daniel wanted to kiss the maître d’ on the mouth.

“Allow me,” Daniel said, pulling Owen’s chair out, and man, ballsy move, but so very worth it when it evoked a delighted grin.

“Why, thank you,” Owen murmured, sliding out of his coat and then into the chair.

Daniel walked to the other side of the table, trying not to strut.

They read their menus and made quiet small talk about the traffic and what looked good on the menu. Owen ordered cavatappi pasta and a glass of red wine, which Daniel agreed with, mostly because he wanted the menus to go away so he could look at Owen’s face.

And then they were looking at each other’s faces.

“So,” Owen began, steepling his fingers as a slightly less exuberant smile crossed his face. “Daniel, I want to get some business out of the way so we can enjoy our meal.”

A little warning bell went off in Daniel’s head. “Yes?”

“I—I asked you here for a specific purpose,” Owen said, leaning forward. “After our meeting and during some production discussions, Victor and I talked a bit and felt that you might enjoy the services of one of our stylists.”

All the manners and professionalism in the world couldn’t stop Daniel’s face from falling. He tightened his facial muscles when it felt like his jaw was about to thump against the table, then imagined himself as liquefying into horrified goo and disappearing into the floor.