Chapter 1 Marcus

"You want me to what?" Marcus's boyfriend, one hand clutching a skillet, stared at him. Nate's expression suggested that Marcus had asked him for something unspeakable, rather than the perfectly reasonable request that he serve as a judge on a festive holiday cooking show; Marcus considered this reaction.

He'd probably missed something. Not being the best at emotion.

"Me," Nate said. "I mean, me. Not you. Me." His eyes were very wide and very green, his freckles were bright as cinnamon sugar, and he clung to the skillet as if in self-defense.

The morning, calm as the week before fireworks, opened up in blue and gold and gauzy summer clouds. Their house was quiet, and tidy because Marcus liked tidy, and domestic. Eggs, in theory going into the skillet, gazed up from the countertop.

They had a week off, more or less; they'd been enjoying it, and each other. Marcus did not in general take vacations, but Nate had made an argument on behalf of them actually spending some time together while not worrying about either the production of fan-favorite televised cooking shows or running an award-winning bakery, and Marcus had given in because he couldn't not, faced with that sunny, stubborn, beloved expression.

Nate had closed Nate's Bakes for a week and had given his assistants vacation time too. Marcus, surreptitiously, had answered a few emails while Nate had been sleeping or reading or testing recipes. He couldn't help it. Felt like an itch under his skin. Decisions being made without him. Plans being…planned, while he kissed Nate and explored local farmers' markets with Nate and went to the beach with Nate, who liked reading in sunshine and sand.

One of those emails had been about Nate. The question, as it were, in question.

"Not me," he agreed now. "You."

"You're Marcus LeGrand," Nate said, finally setting the poor beleaguered skillet down. He didn't look that direction as he did, and consequently nearly squashed the eggs. "Kitchen superstar. GourmetTV celebrity chef legend. Restaurants and awards and your own show and producing more shows. Tall, dark, handsome, and scarily organized. Actual Renowned Sugar Master or whatever that title is. I didn't even win the holiday competition I was on."

"No. You didn't." Marcus reached over, took Nate's closest hand. Gestures were easier. They always had been. But he was trying, he would try, for the man he loved. "But you were the favorite, among the viewers. Nate Miller, in the holiday sweaters. So enthusiastic, so ready to help other contestants. And you left with an offer for your own show, and…well…at least one of your judges' hearts. This one."

Nate's smile surfaced, wobbly. "Best prize. No argument."

"Thank you?"

"But, seriously…wouldn't that be a reason not to ask me to do this? If I sort of caused a…not exactly a scandal, but kind of…sleeping with a judge during the competition…"

"I hope you're not planning to do it again."

Nate's answer was wordless, heartfelt, and ended with Marcus leaning back against the countertop, having been thoroughly kissed, his boyfriend solidly in his arms. "You're the only terrifying baking legend I want, thanks. But, again, speaking of, why me and not you?"

"Well. That's in part why. We managed it well enough at the time, but…the general production sense is that I'm more to blame than you. I was the official network employee and competition judge, while you were a contestant…I'm older than you, and—"

"Oh, come on—"

"I am. And I was more at fault for compromising the integrity of the competition, and I was the one who stepped down from judging the final round, if you recall. More publicly taking the consequences."

"You're not in trouble, are you?"

"Not any more than I was then. I'll executive produce and stay behind the scenes; I'm not being fired from GourmetTV or anything of the sort. But the feeling—and I agree, so don't argue—is that I shouldn't be visible at the judges' table for a while."

"But it's okay if I am?"

"It's tradition to keep winners and runners-up around as judges or guest judges, at least, for future competition shows. Evan Goldman can't do it—he and his husband are expecting their first child, don't ask me for details, I have none—"

"That's awesome, we should send them a baby gift!"

"Ah. Yes. If you think that would be appropriate." Nate had a far better sense of normal human interactions and emotions; Marcus trusted that in place of his own, since he'd worn the chilly haughty critical persona for so long. Evan had been the Gingerbread Extravaganza winner, to Nate's second place; Marcus himself would've been angry, or sulked, or found a way to convince himself that the loss hadn't been his own fault, merely poor judging.

Nate wanted to send Evan a baby gift. Of course he did.

"And, to answer your question…yes, you're a desirable television personality. You're likeable, engaging, young, memorable, and knowledgeable about baking. You have on-camera experience and competition experience. You'll do well."

"Will I," Nate muttered. But he hadn't moved out of Marcus' arms, so that was promising. "You'll be there."

"I will. I promise. And your other judge—not counting the weekly guests—will be Miranda Flowers. You know her, and she likes you."

"How long—"

"About three weeks. Six episodes, two to three days per episode, but you'll get a few days off here and there."

"That's different from filming our show."

"It is." The show they'd offered Nate—not a consolation prize as much as an honest recognition that audiences loved him—filmed in more of a documentary style: wandering around Nate's Bakes, capturing the day-to-day artistry and challenges and triumphs of a small but nationally recognized bakery. Nate's assistants were equally cheerful and bouncy and camera-friendly, and the show was doing well in the ratings. "The Showdown films…yes. Differently. A faster pace. More scripted, in a sense. More structure."

"The Holiday Baking Showdown." Nate took that in for a second or two, leaning against him. The counter was pressing hard against Marcus' hip, through his pajama pants; he opted not to say anything.

Nate said, "I mean, it's sort of the seasonal flagship series, isn't it? Are you sure you don't want me to do the Gingerbread Extravaganza? You know, the show I was actually on?"

"No. I mean yes. We're sure. You'd know at least two of the contestants. Which isn't always a problem, but…"

"But we're being careful about me and biased relationships," Nate summarized wryly. "Right. But…three weeks of filming…the bakery…"

"Rosemary can handle it. And you can check in; you'll have breaks, and I'll try to schedule days off so that you can visit. They'll be fine." Nate's second-in-command was calm in the face of buttercream disasters, good at coaxing preferences from dithering clients, and a genuine artist in terms of cake-sculpting, which was not an evaluation Marcus offered lightly.

"Who are you, and what've you done with my boyfriend who hates delegating anything?"

"I don't hate delegating. I like making people jump to my every whim."

"So that you can tell them they've done it wrong?"

"I don't…" He had to look away. Over at the skillet, perched like a silent witness on the counter.

That'd hurt, and he wasn't sure why it had. He liked being himself, he liked being good at what he did, and he did not have much patience for incompetence or time-wasting or foolishness.

That was all true. But…

He thought he'd been trying. Gingerly. Bit by bit. Here in a kitchen they shared, barefoot, dressed in silky blue pajama pants and a shirt from a local craft brewery. Hair morning-messy. Not polished, precise, or pointed. Not with Nate.

He knew Nate had been teasing. Mostly, at least.

He said, "Never mind," because he'd begun a sentence, and he needed to finish it in some fashion.

Nate leaned back to look at him. "Okay, wow, I did not mean to upset you."

"You didn't."

"I did, and I'm sorry." Nate, Marcus had discovered, was the most straightforward person on the planet. If he saw someone in need of help, he'd help; if he was wrong, he'd apologize. No hesitation. Simple as that.

"Marcus." Nate put both arms around his neck. Got closer, nose to nose. "I'm sorry. I know better."

"No…you're right…I'm not good at delegating."

"You like people," Nate said. "You care about things being good because you like people. You want everyone to do their best, to be their best. I know that. It was a joke, but it was a stupid one, I shouldn't've made it, okay? I love you."

"Sometimes I wonder why."

Nate made an exasperated sound. "Because you're a secret optimist about people even when you pretend you're not, and you give everyone career help and jobs and opportunities every chance you get, and you literally made me cry with that caramel-pumpkin pie, that time. And you're gorgeous."

"You like autumn flavors. And you said your mother used to do a caramel swirl in hers."

"And you remembered. And you worked out that recipe, for me." Nate sighed. "Am I going to have to kiss you until you admit that I might actually like you, again?"

"Ah…possibly?"

"Hey, I'm good with that." Nate curled a hand around the back of Marcus's neck, holding on. The hand felt like sunshine, resting there. "And yes."

"Sorry, yes to what?"

"Yes to being your Holiday Baking Showdown judge. I'll do it. If you're there to help me learn how to, y'know, be on that side of the table."

"I think I can do that," Marcus said, and Nate met his eyes, nodded, and kissed him. Firm and sunny and sweet, devoted and thorough; and there was no room left for doubt, only sunshine and new horizons and a lot of yes, murmured aloud.