6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Taylor wasn’t going to make the mistake again.

The next morning, he sent Rocco a text. Some of us single folks are getting together for Thanksgiving at Rudolph’s. Potluck dinner. They’re providing the turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy. If you’re at a loose end, you’re free to come with me. Like a date. Or not, if you don’t want to call it that.

Rocco had texted back almost immediately.

That would be great. I was not looking forward to crashing Rebecca’s mom’s dinner.

If you have plans already . . . Taylor hoped that he’d say that no , he really hadn’t wanted to go to Rebecca’s mom’s dinner.

No. Please. You’re saving me. Really. Her mom doesn’t get that I’m really not interested in her younger sister.

Ouch. Taylor chuckled out loud, in spite of himself, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the part of his brain that kept screaming that this was exactly why he’d not texted Rocco after their date.

Because he’d enjoyed him way too much, and he couldn’t goat cheese out of this now.

But that didn’t change that it had been a little shitty to not call or text. He should’ve, just to make sure they were still on, and to confirm when their next date was.

LOL. Well, maybe she’ll believe you now. I’ll swing by Jolly Java and pick you up around 1ish. Taylor didn’t say it wasn’t a date, or that it was. Frankly at this point, they could get there together and leave together, and the whole town would naturally assume this was just another date.

Sounds good. It’s a potluck?

Yep. Any side dish.

What are you bringing? Rocco wanted to know.

That’s a really good question. Not sure yet. Maybe a salad. I can do a salad. Taylor was never going to be a great cook. Or even a passable one. But at least he could buy lettuce at the store and chop vegetables.

Hey, if we’re coming together, we could always bring just one dish—I’m going to make a big lasagna, and that should be good enough. Or you could always throw some bagged salad in a bowl?

How about both? And how about I help you?

Taylor didn’t know why he’d suggested it—okay, lie , he knew exactly why he’d suggested it. Because when Rocco had walked in last night, he’d realized just how miserable he’d been making himself by not talking to him.

Rocco could be a friend. He could keep him in the friend zone . . . right?

And friends could make lasagna together.

You’d want to do that?

Of course. You’re not a burden to hang out with. The opposite, actually .

Maybe that was being a little too truthful, but after how upset Rocco had looked the other day, he wasn’t going to hide the way he felt.

Okay, he mostly wasn’t going to hide how he felt.

And if he could fit those feelings into a friendly, platonic-shaped box, that would be even better.

Ditto. Come over about eleven, then.

See you then.

Taylor tossed his phone onto his desk as the mayor walked in.

“Hey,” Mona said. “You’re smiling pretty big these days.”

He had not told her the truth about his burgeoning relationship with Rocco—though he’d assumed she’d guessed it wasn’t one hundred percent legit—but then if she did believe that, why would she be looking so thrilled now?

It’s because you’re being way too fucking convincing.

“Yeah,” Taylor said.

She shot him a conspiratorial look. “When I was throwing you at Heath Kelly, you could have just said you had your eye on Rocco Moretti.”

“At that point, I didn’t know if he’d want me to have an eye on him,” Taylor said.

“Oh come on, you’re a catch. You might pretend you’re not, but you are. It’s good to see some of your reserve melting. You’ve been locked up tight since you came to town.”

Had he? Taylor supposed that was true. Right before he’d taken the job in Christmas Falls—a job he’d wanted, desperately, but almost hadn’t gotten after all—he’d broken up with Michael.

Or rather Michael had broken up with him.

Between his mom and Michael, maybe he had been a little self-contained. But that was four years ago, now. A guy could change, right?

Surely, he had changed.

Mona smiled at him. “Also,” she added, “I can’t stay, but I want to say, Roger Knight stopped by yesterday, and said he appreciated how much of an effort you’re making to be part of this year’s festival. I reminded him that you’re always part of it, but usually more behind the scenes, shying away from public recognition and he sounded surprised.”

“You know I’m not always comfortable trumpeting my projects to the skies,” Taylor said.

“I know, but you’ve got to tell people or else they don’t know what you’ve been doing. And it’s a lot of good stuff, Taylor. Better than anything Steve Mills has been up to.”

“He’s done jack shit except gladhand and run his candidacy like a freaking election,” Taylor muttered.

“Exactly,” Mona said, with an approving nod. “He’ll expose himself.”

“Hopefully not literally,” Taylor said, deadpan.

Mona cackled. “God, I really, really hope not. That’s a mess we don’t need. We’ve already got this Secret Santa. I can’t walk down the street or stop by the grocery or the hardware store without getting a ton of questions about it. You get anywhere on revealing the person behind this?”

“No, and I don’t think we should dig into it anymore,” Taylor said. “It’s great stuff, for the people of this town and for this town. Let it lie.”

“Alright.” Mona sighed. “I trust your take on this. You’re good at this.”

“So are you, Madam Mayor,” Taylor said with a grin.

“If you’re free for Thanksgiving, you know you’re always welcome at my house,” Mona said .

Taylor knew if he even remotely revealed he’d have been alone, he’d have a half dozen invitations to dinner. But he’d been instrumental in putting together this Thanksgiving event for singles two years ago, and he wasn’t about to miss it, even for Mona’s famous stuffing.

“You know I always go to Mik’s single mingle Thanksgiving,” Taylor said.

“You mean your single mingle Thanksgiving,” Mona reminded him gently. “Mik might host it, but it was your idea, and it’s your execution. You bringing Rocco?”

“Yeah,” Taylor said. Suddenly awkward at the idea of talking about him with his boss. Not because he was ashamed of the guy, but because he was ashamed of what it really was.

“Good.” Mona stood. “I’m going to go with your gut on this Secret Santa thing. Not that we couldn’t have dug into it more, but that we’re going to choose not to.”

Taylor nodded. “Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“You too, Taylor.” Her wink right before she ducked out of his office told him everything he needed to know about what her assumptions were.

The same as the rest of the town’s.

There was snow on the ground—the first significant snowfall of the year—when Taylor knocked on the Jolly Java door. Worried that maybe Rocco wouldn’t hear him, in the back kitchen, he pulled out his phone and sent a text, too.

But before it even sent, Rocco was there, opening the door, shivering, even though he wore a beautiful burnt amber sweater and jeans, looking totally cozy and also like he’d just stepped off a runway in Paris.

“Hey,” Rocco said, “just on time.”

“That’s me. Prompt.” God, I am so bad at this still.

But Rocco laughed, like he was actually charming. “Come on, let’s go to the back. I’d ask if you want a coffee, but you’re a heathen who doesn’t drink it.”

“Someday maybe you’ll have to attempt a conversion,” Taylor suggested, even though he couldn’t imagine changing his mind. But his suggestion made Rocco smile brighter, and that was all he cared about.

Rocco pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and Taylor followed behind him. He stopped, taking in the rigidly organized system Rocco had spread across the long stainless steel counter.

“Lasagna isn’t just a dish, it’s a way of life,” Rocco teased, gesturing towards the different stations. “You can make it without a plan, but then it’s just chaos.”

“What can I do to help?” He set down his bag of lettuce and already-chopped veggies onto the smaller counter next to the bank of very professional ovens he was fairly sure hadn’t been here before Rocco had purchased Jolly Java .

“I’m just doing assembly, then we bake it,” Rocco said. “You can keep me company.”

“I meant to help ,” Taylor said, feeling bad that Rocco had made all these different parts. And there were a lot of parts. There was a white sauce, speckled with something green and herbaceous; mountains of shredded cheese, not from a bag; and three sheet pans full of what looked like roasted vegetables. Right next to where Rocco situated himself was a stack of pasta sheets, not the box kind that Taylor would normally assume anyone would use, and an enormous tinfoil pan.

“You’re definitely gonna help,” Rocco promised.

He watched as Rocco pulled on a pair of gloves and picked up the pasta sheets, carefully layering them into the pan.

“What kind of lasagna is this? It’s not the normal kind, that’s for sure,” Taylor said.

Rocco shot him a teasing look full of heat. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to terrify anyone with goat cheese again. It’s just a roasted vegetable lasagna, and for those who missed their pumpkin spice, I threw some butternut squash in.”

“Ah, well, it looks and smells amazing,” Taylor said.

Rocco shrugged. “You haven’t even started smelling it yet.”

He moved onto the big batch of white sauce, ladling it onto the pasta sheets with an expert motion, like he’d done this hundreds of times before.

“You said your parents own a restaurant? ”

“Yeah,” Rocco said. “It’s a great place, tucked away down a side street in San Francisco. I miss it, sometimes—we were always open for Thanksgiving, and we’d serve a version of this—but I’m glad I went out on my own. I didn’t want to only work on the line for the next twenty years. That’s not my idea of fun.”

“So you’ve done this before.”

Rocco laughed. “Hundreds of times. You’re not a good Italian boy if you can’t make a killer lasagna.”

“Well, I can’t wait to taste it. I definitely don’t make a killer lasagna, but I can eat one.”

“No?”

Taylor winced. “Uh, I buy the frozen ones, at the store?”

Rocco laughed. “No coffee and Stouffer’s lasagna. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

He’d sprinkled the first layer of vegetables and cheese and was now repeating the motion with the pasta sheets.

Maybe, Taylor reasoned, it was better for him not to help, not when Rocco was so completely capable.

“Really, I’m not,” Taylor said, chuckling. “But anytime you want to come over and bake me a lasagna, a real lasagna, I’m not gonna complain. I’ll even pay you in wine.” He didn’t know good wine himself, but he remembered, because he couldn’t forget, what Rocco had liked during the wine tasting.

“Sounds like a good deal to me. Good food. Good wine. Good company. ”

“You’re sure I can’t help?”

“I’ve got this. You’re doing the important part, anyway.”

“I am?” Taylor couldn’t believe it.

“Keeping me focused, but not too focused.”

Taylor opened his mouth to say it was just a lasagna, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what it was to Rocco.

“This matters to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

Rocco glanced over at him, his hands still moving with those expert, quick movements. “Yes,” he said. “I think of the couples who’ve celebrated twenty anniversaries at my parents’ restaurant. Who, every single year, eat the same mushroom ravioli and it brings them back to the night they fell in love. The grandfathers who bring their families in, passing their love of food to future generations. How my cousin Luca and his husband Oliver put food on the menu of their restaurant that reminds them of all their best times. Food is a love language, you know?”

And the town had rejected Rocco’s attempts to show them that.

“That’s beautiful,” Taylor said, because it was. More than ever, he wanted to make this right, not just for him, because it would be a terrible thing to destroy the hope in Rocco’s eyes, the dream he held of continuing his family’s tradition.

Rocco shrugged, but he could tell how much the rejection had hurt him.

“And,” Taylor added, because he’d never known when to quit, “this town is perfect for that. I know they haven’t all put their best feet forward, but they will, and you’ll see. There’s nothing more important to this town than tradition and nostalgia.”

“That’s why I bought this place,” Rocco said. “And I hope you’re right.”

He sprinkled on the last layer of cheese.

“I am,” Taylor insisted. He didn’t know when Rocco’s fight had become his, too, but it had.

“Now to get this in the oven,” Rocco said.

Rocco was not particularly big or bulky with muscle, so Taylor watched with more than a little surprise as he hefted the huge, heavy pan effortlessly and slid it into the oven.

And he couldn’t deny that Rocco’s hidden strength, both inner and outer, was more of a turn-on than he’d anticipated.

Rocco closed the oven door with a firm thump and turned to Taylor. “Now I know you don’t drink coffee, but I could use a latte. You can’t approach a holiday without plenty of caffeine in your system.”

Taylor’s brain must still be short-circuiting over how much he wanted to feel those unexpected muscles Rocco was hiding under his sweater, because he said, “Why don’t you make something I’d like.”

A wide smile broke over Rocco’s face, filled with so much delight, Taylor would agree to try coffee a dozen or so times, just to witness that look on his face again .

“You mean it?”

A better man probably would have goat-cheesed out of this, once he saw what it meant to Rocco, but Taylor nodded.

“I got you,” Rocco said, rubbing his hands in excitement. Taylor followed him out of the back kitchen and behind the counter, watching as Rocco flipped switches and turned the enormous espresso machine on.

“You like sweet,” Rocco stated, rather than asked.

“Yeah,” Taylor said, blushing a little. Maybe he should’ve grown out of his sweet tooth, but he never had.

“Oh, I’ve got sweet for you, baby,” Rocco said, shooting him a teasing look. He worked the machine like he’d done it a thousand times before, pulling levers and grabbing chilled ingredients from the fridge under the counter by feel alone.

Finally, he set a tall glass in front of Taylor, the top covered in a towering mountain of whipped cream, dusted with tiny flecks of spice.

Taylor picked it up, sniffing at it as Rocco made himself a coffee next. “It smells good,” he said.

Carefully, he sipped, whipped cream smearing across his upper lip. To his surprise, the harsh acidity of the coffee he’d tried before didn’t hit him this time. This was full and rich and mellow, somehow all at the same time. And sweet too, but with a bit of almond cookie taste, the cookies his mom had always baked for Christmas.

The ones he’d missed, like a gnawing toothache .

Rocco was watching him carefully, while trying to pretend he wasn’t, as he worked the machine for his own coffee.

“So?” he asked. “Is it terrible? You can spit, you know. You don’t have to swallow if you hate it.”

“Maybe I should,” Taylor joked. “God, it’s absolutely fucking terrible, Rocco.”

Disappointment flashed across Rocco’s face. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “And I’m sorry, I was so sure . . .”

“I’m kidding . It’s really, really good.” Taylor immediately regretted the joke. He hadn’t anticipated how much Rocco would want him to like it, or how much he’d detest that look in his eyes.

“Really?”

It was banished in seconds, replaced by joy.

“It’s different, somehow. Sweeter, yeah, but not fake sweetness, like . . .I don’t know, a cookie my mom used to make. Her famous almond cookies. And it’s not bitter or acidic. Just rich and full and yet super mellow.”

“Well, yeah, I spring for the good beans,” Rocco said. Then elbowed him suddenly in the ribs, laughing, and then Taylor was laughing too, because you couldn’t hear Rocco make that sound of pure delight and not be seduced into joining in. “God, you’re the worst . You had me going there.”

“Yeah, I sure did.”

Rocco smacked him again but this time his hand didn’t move but lingered. Warm and firm against Taylor’s chest. He swayed closer and God, Taylor would barely have to move to kiss him. He’d just need to tip his head down and get lost in the magical pull of those passionate, dark eyes . . .

He jerked back. Holding the coffee between them like a personal shield.

It would be so easy to let himself have this. Rocco was a thousand times more attractive, inside and out, than Michael, and look how easily Taylor had let Michael lead him.

He couldn’t let that happen again.

Especially not now, when what he’d worked so hard for was finally about to unfold—but only if he played his cards right.

“Uh, sorry,” Rocco said. He gestured towards the kitchen. “You want a bowl to throw your bagged lettuce into?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” Taylor took another drink of the coffee. It was so good, but really, he wasn’t sure if it was the man or the actual beverage anymore.

Maybe Rocco could have poured him that wretched instant coffee crap and he’d have liked that too.

“That’s the latte nobody wanted,” Rocco said casually as he pulled a big metal bowl off one of the shelves stacked with gleaming equipment.

“What? Really?”

“Yep. I kept it on the menu, but God forbid, it’s not pumpkin spice.”

“I’ve never had pumpkin spice, but I can’t imagine it being better than this. Anyone who doesn’t want this is crazy. ”

Rocco shot him another one of those brilliant smiles. “Thank you for saying that.”

“It’s just the truth.”

“Let’s make your salad,” Rocco said and Taylor knew he was changing the subject. Wondered if it was his version of goat cheese .

If it was, he was going to respect it. “Sure,” he said, grabbing salad ingredients, pulling various things out of the bag.

“Oh, look at you with a fall culinary theme,” Rocco teased.

“This is stuff the lady at the store said would be good,” Taylor said, dumping it all into the bowl. Lettuce. Cucumber chunks. Pumpkin seeds. Dried cranberries. She’d also suggested adding goat cheese crumbles, and Taylor had barely managed to keep a straight face as he’d told her he’d better leave those out.

“It looks great,” Rocco said.

“Yeah, it does,” Taylor said, pleased with himself as he tossed it with the dressing. He hadn’t wanted to slack, even if this was technically just a salad from a bag, not when Rocco was making something delicious from scratch.

“So, tell me who’s coming to this thing,” Rocco said, leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee.

“You know Mik, right?” Rocco nodded. “He hosts. And there’s a few other singles who like to stop by. Griff used to, but now that he has Logan, he might not. I invited Mason, from the foundation, ’cause I know he’s on his own. And Scott, who sells the baby blankets at the arts and crafts fair. Hank, I think his name is, told me he might stop by too.”

“Oh, cool. Sounds like it’s a good event.”

“I’ve been happy I started it a few years ago.”

“Wait, you did?” Rocco looked surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?” An alarm went off and he added, “I gotta check the lasagna, but seriously, you didn’t mention you started it.”

“I . . .” Taylor smiled. “I don’t know why I didn’t. Guess I’m used to being behind the scenes. It’s what I’m good at.”

“Trust me, you’re good at lots of things,” Rocco said.

“Now this is so much better than Rebecca’s mom’s dinner,” Rocco said, as he perched on one of the tall stools in Rudolph’s, a plate of turkey and stuffing and about a hundred amazing looking sides on the table in front of him.

“Yeah?” Taylor looked happy, too. He’d greeted half a dozen people, including Scott, who made the baby blankets he was selling at the arts and crafts fair, Mik, and now Mason, and so many of them had said, offhandedly or pointedly, how great this get-together was for them.

“Yeah. These people would be alone or shoved unceremoniously onto an invite list, if they weren’t here. That’s special, Taylor. ”

Taylor was special, himself, and Rocco was just beginning to understand how much.

“Thanks,” Taylor said, ducking his head, in between bites of turkey and mashed potatoes. “Your lasagna is amazing, and it’s a big hit.”

The foil dish he’d made was already half gone.

He’d been worried because it wasn’t traditional, but more than one person had come up to him and mentioned how much they’d enjoyed it. Maybe the town wasn’t willing to eat a turmeric and goat cheese scone, but if he wrapped up his different flavors in a more traditional wrapping . . .well, they might be willing to give it a chance.

Mason, who Taylor had said was new in town, too, and ran the Holiday Hope Foundation, stuck a fork into his mashed potatoes. “I’m so glad I came. Thanks again for inviting me. I felt . . .well, it’s weird to spend the holiday away from my family, it turns out. Even when they make me a little crazy.”

Rocco nodded. “Trust me, I know all about that. Mine is nuts, the quintessential Italian family that’s too big, too nosy, too involved, but when they’re not around . . .sometimes it’s too quiet.”

“Yep. Mine’s not big, but it’s still been weird to be away from them,” Mason said. He turned to Taylor. “What about you? What brings you to the single mingle?”

“Uh . . .well . . .my dad’s in Chicago. Doesn’t get out here much. So it just made sense,” Taylor said.

Mason nodded and they all fell to eating in earnest.

Rocco had noticed that twice now when family had come up, Taylor had been vague and/or changed the subject. There was a story there, and even if Taylor wasn’t required to tell him, he still wanted to hear it.

Maybe in the next few weeks, he could convince Taylor to share more of his own history. After all, he’d gotten him to drink an entire marzipan latte, and that certainly hadn’t been easy. But he’d been right; it was exactly what Taylor had needed to try coffee and even more, enjoy coffee.

It would be so easy to convince him to enjoy you, that uncooperative voice in the back of his head insisted. You could do it. He’d like it. You’d like it.

But now it wouldn’t be uncomplicated pleasure. It would be more than that. Even when both of them had said they didn’t want to date anyone. Rocco still believed that was true on his end. His plate was full, but would he have shifted some things around to make the time? Time for real dates? Sure, he might’ve, if the guy he’d be dating was Taylor.

But Taylor seemed more sure of not wanting it, even as he seemed undeniably interested. Maybe the reason for that was more of that history he didn’t want to talk about.

“Mona approached me about writing a statement for your job application,” Mason told Taylor when they’d finished cleaning their plates. “When she told me why you’d need it, I said, of course, no question about it.” He paused. “But I did wonder why you didn’t ask me yourself.”

Taylor flushed. Rocco watched as the redness climbed up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Uh . . .’cause I’m really bad at asking for stuff like that?”

He was, Rocco was beginning to see that. Taylor was always working behind the scenes, making everyone’s life in Christmas Falls better, but he never wanted to take public credit for it.

But he should . Everyone should know how hard Taylor worked.

“Well, I’m happy to do it,” Mason said earnestly. “I’m glad she asked me.”

“I didn’t even know she had, but it makes sense,” Taylor admitted.

“She’s really trying to get you this job,” Rocco said.

“Yeah,” Taylor said.

Rocco could see the emotion flash across Taylor’s face, and he glanced away, like he was afraid he’d be overcome by it.

“You’ve worked for her long?”

“Four years,” Taylor said. “One as her assistant, three as deputy mayor. I almost . . .I almost missed out on the opportunity, to begin with, even though I’d really, really, wanted to move here, and work here. But I almost screwed it up, and she still moved heaven and earth to get me here.”

“She’s a good mayor. And you’re a great deputy,” Mason said, sounding like he meant every word. Maybe neither of them had been here long, but Rocco had seen the same thing, the first time he’d come here, to take a look at the coffee shop and sign the papers.

He’d known the moment he’d met Mona Grayson that she was the kind of mayor he wanted in the town where he built his new business.

Of course, then he’d met Taylor, and he’d felt the effects of that meeting long after Taylor had walked back out of his life.

“Thanks,” Taylor said, shooting Rocco a grateful smile.

“Sounds like she’s a great mentor, too,” Mason said.

“The best,” Taylor agreed.

As they finished up, grabbing a few slices of pie to go, Rocco realized that was another mystery to add to the ones he already knew existed in Taylor. What he’d done to potentially fuck up his position here, the first time around.

Rocco wanted to ask, and almost did, as Taylor walked him back to the coffee shop, but it was beautiful in downtown, the last leaves falling, mixing with the snowflakes dancing on the wind, the two of them walking in a silence that he’d never assumed would be so reassuring, but was , so he didn’t.

Of course the moment after Taylor helped him get the food in his fridge and then said goodbye, gaze lingering on Rocco right before he turned to go, Rocco wished he’d done it.

As he walked up to his upstairs apartment, he pulled out his phone .

Thanks again for inviting me, he texted to Taylor. I had such a great time.

You’re welcome. It was the best one yet.

Rocco wondered if it was because he’d been there, with Taylor, but he didn’t ask that because how was Taylor supposed to answer? There was no right answer there.

But he hoped, anyway. Then a second text from Taylor came in. You going to the parade on Friday?

I wasn’t planning on it, Rocco texted back, but I have a feeling I’ll be going now.

I have great seats, and a plus one. Can’t think of anyone else I’d rather invite than my fake boyfriend.

Rocco stared at his phone before tossing it onto his bed.

He wished Taylor hadn’t added that fake to the boyfriend and wished that he hadn’t wished that at all.

Because this was already complicated enough.