68. Max

It turns out Dex is fucking useless in the kitchen.

‘I finished uni and moved to Manhattan, where no one cooks at home,' he protests after I pry a massacred potato from his hand. ‘I don't know what you expect. We can't all be Gordon Ramsey.'

I mock-glare at him. ‘If you weren't so pretty, I'd toss you out onto the street.'

‘I was doing fine. I'm peeling it, aren't I?'

‘It's the way you're peeling it. It's offensive. I thought this peeler was fucking foolproof—until you proved me wrong.'

‘You need to chill.' He wrangles the potato out of my grip. ‘It's just a potato. Fuck's sake. No one's saving lives here.'

Despite the fact that it's the beginning of August and very warm, I've insisted on a full Sunday lunch. Dex mentioned yesterday that Sunday roasts were one of the things he missed most about living in the UK, and now that I understand how totally incompetent he is in the kitchen, I can see why. Clearly, the only roasts he has are the ones his doting mother cooks for him.

So no, I'm not chilling, because I want this lovely piece of sirloin with all the trimmings to be the best fucking Sunday roast he's ever put in that lovely mouth of his. And I know for sure the company will be far better than if he had to suffer through lunch with that bigoted bloody father of his.

‘You turned down lunch with your family today,' is all I say. ‘I want to make it worth your while.'

He puts the potato on the chopping board and sets down the peeler like he's laying down his weapons. His arms go around my neck, his head goes to my shoulder, and I enfold him in a hug.

‘You could serve me up Pot Noodle,' he says against my neck, ‘and it would still be worth my while.'

He is the sweetest, loveliest thing.

I hug him more tightly.

‘Wow,' Darcy says from where she's doing a thoroughly decent job of julienning carrots in a palest pink terry-towelling romper so skimpy it should be illegal, ‘that's really sweet. Never try to feed me Pot Noodle.'

I smile fondly at her over Dex's shoulder. ‘I know your preferred currencies, sweetheart. Food and sex. Luckily for all of us, I'm highly skilled at both.'

‘That you are,' she says, saluting me with a carrot stick. ‘Dex, you need to know that cooking is Max's love language. That and shagging us senseless, obviously. So be a babe and just let him peel the fucking potatoes the way he likes them. He's making this entire meal because of you.'

I swear he stiffens a little in my arms at her casual use of the L-word before he kisses my cheek and releases me.

‘I know. You're spoiling me. Just take the potatoes and give me something unskilled to do.'

‘Peeling potatoes is literally as unskilled as labour gets,' I grumble, but I can't hide my smile, because standing in this vast kitchen with the two of them, assembling lunch, is pretty special.

I'm not sure how I've gone in the space of a few weeks from intentionally unfettered—proudly unfettered even—to playing house with not one but two lovers-slash-potential-partners.

Aside from our scorching hot night at Alchemy together, I haven't frequented the club since that first night I lured Darcy over here to dance for me, and my absence is less to do with my work commitments than my lack of desire to fuck anyone who isn't Darcy or Dex right now. I couldn't exactly tell you why, except that they… interest me, I suppose.

They're both hard to pin down in their own ways: she because she's a free spirit who, as far as I can tell, only does anything if it suits her, and he because he's at the very start of his journey to enlightenment, and it makes him quick to panic.

So yeah. I suppose you could say having them both here, where I can keep an eye on them, and feed them, and touch them whenever I want to is convenient. Or reassuring. Whatever you want to call it.

Let's just say it suits me. And let's also say I have my hands full with these two, so it's not like I feel the need to go sniffing around Alchemy in search of more mischief.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

It's exceedingly pleasant,sitting on the terrace together and tucking into a full English roast along with some austere but excellent German pinot that's light enough for this weather. I haven't let the two of them out of my sight all weekend. Dex and I accompanied Darcy back to her sister's flat to grab her some clean clothes, and Dex is wearing my stuff. No reason for him to have traipsed across town when we take a similar size.

What is irksome is that tomorrow this little sex-bubble we're in will have burst, and Dex and I will have our pretty little noses to the grindstone with little hope of overlapping with Darcy, who dances most weeknights at the club.

I should be drinking in every single moment of this idyllic Sunday afternoon, then. But, being me, I'll always kick the tyres when I can. Which is why I bide my time as Dex experiences some minor orgasm over the quality of my roast potatoes. Of course they're excellent. I par-boiled them, roughed them up, rolled them in semolina and roasted them in a vat of goose fat.

‘Big week this week,' I remark, watching him over the rim of my wineglass.

‘Why?' Darcy asks, a forkful of sirloin and my excellent Yorkshire pudding halfway to her mouth.

‘Because we're announcing which banks will run the Wolff IPO,' I explain for her benefit.

Dex glances at me like he's not sure what my point is. Obviously I'd never divulge privileged information outside of the office, but if he thinks he's going to slink out of here at the arse crack of dawn tomorrow without us having had a firm word, he obviously doesn't know me all that well yet.

‘All I'm saying is that if Loeb is on the ticket, I expect you might want to consider having a conversation with your Compliance department and possibly Thum,' I say.

He seems genuinely confused. ‘Meaning?'

Jesus Christ. I set my fork down. ‘Meaning if you're a division head of a bank who's involved with the deal and you're also fucking the CEO of the company you're taking public, I'd say that's a conflict that needs to be disclosed, don't you?'

I swear the guy goes pale.

‘Come on. Surely you've thought about this?'

‘I have,' he admits haltingly. ‘I just—I didn't think it would get that far. With us, I mean.'

Darcy's gaze is darting between us like she's desperately trying to pick up subtext. Not that there's much to pick up. It's pretty straightforward, in my book.

‘Well, it has,' I say shortly. ‘So if you and I want to pursue this relationship and we find ourselves working together, then we need to make sure we follow procedure. I have no intention of letting my personal life jeopardise this deal for the thousands of people who are counting on it. I would absolutely alert Wolff's lawyers too, just so they have it on record.'

I'm coming on a little strong, perhaps, but if I hadn't given Dex the odd forceful nudge whenever he needed it, he'd still be pining for me and wanking off in the shower to memories of sucking my thumb instead of tucking into excellent roast potatoes and nursing his sex-chafed dick.

‘I just—fuck. I thought I'd have more time to get this straight in my head.'

‘I'm genuinely not trying to steamroll you,' I say more gently. ‘This isn't about trying to get you to put labels on yourself or your feelings for me or Darcy before you're ready. But the IPO timetable isn't quite as forgiving.'

‘You're right, obviously,' he says, pushing his plate away and reaching for his wine. ‘I—the idea of sitting people down when I'm so new to the firm and telling them something this personal when it's only been days, really—it's horrifying.' His tone is as pleading as his expression, and a little sympathy finds its place alongside the frustration I'm feeling.

‘Look.' I push my chair out and walk over to him so I can bend and wrap my arms around him. ‘Nobody's asking you to wrap yourself in a rainbow flag and scale Nelson's Column and broadcast to the world that you now eat dick for breakfast, okay? It's one private, professional conversation—two, if you do Thum the courtesy of giving him a heads up, which I think is only fair given you're his newest, shiniest hire.

‘Remember what I told you the night we met? You're a fucking partner there. You call the shots. You're not asking for their permission, or their fucking blessing—you're telling them. There is zero problem with you and I seeing each other. It's just something that needs to be recorded. It's a non-issue, believe me.'

I brush my nose along his cheekbone before bending to nip at his darkly stubbled jaw. ‘Unless you don't want to do this again,' I murmur. ‘In which case it's definitely a non-issue.'

It seems he likes my trump card very much, because he shivers in my arms.

‘I think you know what the answer to that question is,' he mutters.

‘That's my good boy.' I kiss his jaw and release him. ‘Let's see what the deal announcement looks like, shall we?'

‘If we're not on the ticket after all that, I'll be seriously fucked off.'

I laugh a little. ‘Whatever. Now finish your roast, you ungrateful little shit.'