Page 11 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

ELEVEN

Swinging Balls

W hile stuck in the bank line, Locky reflected on the weirdness of the human brain.

Because, on the one hand, everything in his life was perfect. He was about to pursue his dream, creating a magical, unique experience in a low-risk way. He was lining up to withdraw his own money—money he could spare, rather than taking on debt or trading equity. And yesterday, he’d had the soul sucked out of him by his boyfriend , a man so handsome and so supportive and so adorable and just— gah, everything!

It was more than Locky could have hoped for. More than he deserved. And it should have left him skipping through the streets.

Instead, he found himself with a lead weight in his stomach, and a nagging sense that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

Not about Benedict— God no! —that part was still gooey warmth and goofy smiles whenever he thought back to what they’d done. To what they now were.

Boyfriends.

Boyfriends .

Locky knew it was stupid to feel this way, like some middle-school kid scoring their first kiss. But he couldn’t deny that he felt alive and giddy and happy . Knowing that he had a man who cared about him and found him sexy and supported his ambitions and was kind and patient and affectionate and all the other Benedict-scented words that Locky could have guzzled right now.

But the money situation? That was another matter. Deep down, he knew he was making the right call. And that he’d regret it every day if he didn’t. But that didn’t make this moment any less terrifying. Because he was about to withdraw an insane check. One with five figures on it. Seven if you counted the decimals.

And that would be the biggest payment Locky had made in his entire life. After all, Kai had never demanded an upfront payment when he’d first moved in. And he didn’t own a car, so he’d never dealt with one of those scary loans.

This, right now, was the big test.

Then, Pizza My Mind would vanish for the winter.

And Pie Me to the Moon would be born.

But that would just be the start of the spending. Yes, Benedict had been amazing to keep the costs down, but soon there’d be food suppliers and utilities and a million things that would cost money, money, more money .

The heavy feeling wasn’t helped by the setting. The Bay Bank was strangely eerie in a way that Locky had never noticed before—a long line of people in almost funeral silence.

Evelyn squeezed his hand, bringing Locky back from a blank stare at the well-dressed teller, helping a customer three ahead of him. “You’re making the right call, Picciriddu . You know that, yes?”

He looked at her for a moment before returning the squeeze. “I know,” he said, not very convincingly.

“You’ll see, I promise everything will work out. Although, I do wonder why your man isn’t here to support you?”

The truth was that Benedict had offered to come—leapt at the chance—but Locky had turned him down. “He’s got his own stuff. He... doesn’t like seeing his clients struggle. He’s really supportive, I swear! And he’s going to work through that stuff over the next few months. But... I didn’t want to scare him off by seeing me like this . Not yet, anyway.”

Locky reflected on that—about how freaking out in front of Benedict would be the worst thing he could do right now. Yes, Benedict had seen him at all kinds of lows. But that had been when he was just exploring his options for the store. When things had been easy and low risk.

Not when he’d decided to actually open it.

Now Benedict would look at him differently, even if he didn’t want to. Because every freakout by Locky would light the spark of panic in Benedict too. Wondering if he’d made a mistake. Wondering if there was something he’d missed. Wondering if he was forcing Locky into taking risks he couldn’t afford and making choices he didn’t want. Which would, in turn, only freak Locky out more, like they were trapped in some endless echo.

Evelyn chuckled. “I still can’t believe my little Picciriddu has a boyfriend .”

Locky’s spirits lifted at that. Sure, he’d been the one to tell her about Benedict. But hearing her say it out loud still made those giddy feelings kick back into high gear. “He’s pretty great,” said Locky. “There’s no way I’d be doing this without him.”

“Speaking of, how can I help with the big opening? No, don’t fuss. Let me gather support across the meeting network. They’ll be so excited! And I’m sure many people from SunSpark would love to help with?—”

“No!” said Locky, much sharper than he’d intended, causing several people to turn. “Sorry! I just mean... I haven’t told anyone else from the meeting yet. Or anyone from work.”

“ Picciriddu... ”

“I know! It’s stupid. And there’ll be lots of media going around before the party. So if they hear about it naturally, that’s fine. But I just... I don’t want anyone to feel obligated to help. Everyone has their own issues at the moment—they don’t need to waste their time on me.”

What Locky left out was how much needless pressure it would add if all his close connections started focusing on a launch party that might flop.

Eventually, Locky shuffled to the head of the line. For all his mixed feelings, the issuing of the check was clinical. Not that he should have been surprised. It wasn’t like Hello, my name is Jasmine was going to ask follow-up questions like Are you sure this is a wise investment? or Is accounting really that bad a job?

The details and signatures came and went until the paper slid across the stainless-steel dip.

Locky picked it up gingerly, looking down at the figure—an amount he wouldn’t have considered a few months ago.

And rather than sobbing, his chest swelled as he thought of the man who’d made all of this possible. Who’d given him the courage to choose the scary path.

Who’d made him the luckiest man on the planet.

His distraction was broken when Evelyn didn’t step away with him, instead being served at the window herself.

When she returned, she had her own check in hand, tucked quickly into an unknown crevice around her bra. “What? You aren’t the only one who had their stock bought out.”

* * *

“Your tithe, madam,” said Benedict, sliding Locky’s check across the polished walnut.

Tris glanced over her Yves Saint Laurent tortoiseshell glasses—absent of lenses and unapologetically there just for the fashion statement. She was sitting in a high-backed leather chair at an intimidating desk, too large even for her oversized office. Chatter and ringing phones filtered in from the work floor. Tris’s eyebrows shot up whenever there was a dip in activity from her fifteen staff. “What the hell is a tithe?”

“I don’t know. I saw it on some Tumblr meme.”

“You and I occupy very different parts of the internet,” she said, spearing the corner of the paper with a sharp nail and dragging it toward herself. “And about time you got him over the line. How will you handle the opening? Christmas Eve?”

“New Year’s. More likely to get novelty headlines and the uniqueness buzz. A New Year’s Eve party without booze? The press will eat it up.”

“Clever,” she said, before returning to her keyboard with a clickity-clack .

Benedict laughed under his breath. It always amazed him how different Tris was in the office. The second she put on the power suit and the stilettos, all her sass and playfulness was replaced with a sharp-edge that screamed, don’t fuck with me, fellas!

Not that Benedict could judge her for that. Not when she’d taken her business from a ramshackle operation run out of their parents’ basement to one of the biggest estate agents in the city, specializing in innovative leasing arrangements for those overlooked by traditional providers.

“See you at home, Ms. Executive Realness,” he said, making to leave.

“Benedict,” she said, when he reached the door. “You did good with this one. You know that, right?”

Benedict’s cheeks warmed as he looked away, uncharacteristically shy. “Yeah, I really did.”

“Okay, what’s with that smile?”

“Locky and I... well, we’re kinda boyfriends now.”

Tris’s mouth dropped open for a long moment before she shot up, grabbing Benedict by the arm and dragging him through the office.

“Gah! Where are you taking me,” he said as the startled faces rushed past, clearly not used to seeing their boss skip between desks.

“Shopping,” she said. “The shoes are on me!”

* * *

It was a week later when Benedict found himself following Locky through an overstuffed dollar store, fighting through the cascading racks of streamers and foam signs and tacky decorative stars, the glitter so cheap that it smeared across Benedict’s vintage sheepskin jacket at the lightest touch.

The party planning was going... well, it was certainly going .

In so many ways, Benedict was incredibly proud of how grounded Locky had been in his first few days of having his own store. With barely an eye twitch, Locky had accepted Benedict’s advice to get some expensive-but-excellent electricians in to check the heating system and ovens and coffee machine, leaving time for spare parts to be ordered if needed. Locky had let his social media accounts go live with only minimal griping. And he’d even agreed, after the smallest amount of bargaining, to order a few thousand napkins with the store’s logo printed on them—an easy way to get branding onto every plate, without the cost of monogramming the crockery.

But for whatever reason, the decorations for the big party were a sticking point. Because Locky seemed convinced that it should be done as cheaply as possible.

“Ohhh,” said Locky, as he snatched a bag of balloons in lifeless gold. “Fifty for five dollars! What a bargain!”

Benedict opened his mouth to protest but shut it again quickly. It was something he’d found himself doing a lot these last few days. Just like he’d done when Locky turned down the idea of hiring a swing band for the big night, opting to play records through the speakers instead. Just like Locky had turned down the suggestion of hiring additional waitstaff to deal with the bigger crowds.

Benedict felt stuck between two worlds—the business adviser who knew that a dozen really good balloons would look better than fifty crap ones, even if they were twice as much for half as many, and the boyfriend who understood Locky’s issues with money and didn’t want him to spend more that he felt comfortable with.

It was just like he’d noticed Locky being more controlled with his own nervous energy, letting it escape briefly before appearing to trap it away again. Nodding a little too enthusiastically and constantly saying that he was fine in a voice from a hostage tape.

Benedict couldn’t even get mad about that—because it made perfect sense. If Locky started freaking out too much, then he’d start freaking out as well, which would only freak Locky out more, which would freak him out more, and then they’d both end up as great big panic puddles on the ground.

Benedict sighed internally. They should have had the conversation earlier about how to not spiral off each other, particularly as the costs mounted and the opening day drew closer. Unfortunately, they’d both defaulted to the more familiar and more comfortable groove of not talking about it .

That was, until Benedict finally snapped.

“What do you think?” said Locky, holding up the cheapest New Year’s banner Benedict had ever seen, eight feet of generic party colors against a nasty silver material that was even thinner than the bag it came in.

“Oh God, burn it!” said Benedict, flinging it back onto the messy shelf. The two of them stared wide-eyed at each other for a second, before Benedict relented. “Sorry! Really sorry. But... can we just sit and talk about this for a second?”

“Or, counteroffer, we could just keep pretending everything’s fine?”

Benedict nodded. “Yup, I hear what you’re saying. Great offer. Excellent instincts. And if we were just doing the whole client-adviser thing, I’d totally buy it. But as your boyfriend ... we should probably figure out a way to talk about our mutual fears without melting down.”

“You had to play the boyfriend card, huh?”

Benedict ran fingers through Locky’s hair, delighting as the man’s eyes softened and he leaned into the touch. “What can I say?” said Benedict, more gently. “It’s a really nice card to have.”

Locky sighed through the beginnings of his familiar blush, his voice more warm than worried. “Yeah. It is.”

They found a couple of camping chairs at the back of the store, the cheap metal groaning under their weight. And it groaned even more as Benedict, still sitting, shunted his chair beside Locky’s in distressingly loud thumps against the old carpet. He stopped when they were close enough to hold hands across the armrests, like they were at the movies watching a mushy rom-com.

Benedict ran his thumb across Locky’s palm. “Now, call me crazy?—”

“Pretty sure we both are. Sorry. You may continue, Mr. Owens.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sorenson. It seems... Look, it seems like the party is giving you even more nerves than usual? I’m not trying to make you feel pressured, but I’d usually recommend making big a splash for your launch. Spend a bit extra to get the attention and the buzz and leave a powerful first impression. But I feel like that idea isn’t connecting for you?”

Locky tapped his foot against the floor. “It’s just... I can understand the electricians and the napkins and all that stuff. They’ll pay for themselves over the full three months. But spending thousands of dollars on one night? One party? A band and expensive decorations and extra staff? It’s just...”

Benedict ran his fingernails up Locky’s forearms. “It would all be wasted money if no one came?”

Locky half-exhaled, half-laughed. “I know it’s stupid. I know we’ve got novelty on our side. A sober New Year’s party? I can see people talking about that. But that whole spend money to make money thing is really scary for me. Because what if it doesn’t work?”

Benedict nodded. He’d found himself in this position so many times before. When no amount of logic could shift the nervous instincts. When no amount of talking could calm the crazy.

Benedict looked around the store, not sure what he could say in this moment to make it better. His gaze fell on rack of costume jewelry, including a pair of pearl earrings. They were far cheaper than the real thing, of course, but their shape was very similar to the pair Tris had picked out in Prada—the ones she’d be wearing to their parent’s winter gala in under a week.

And Benedict had an idea.

Because maybe Locky didn’t need to hear about a successful event.

Maybe he needed to see it.

“Would it help,” said Benedict with a playful shove against Locky’s shoulder, “to see the principle in practice?”

* * *

“I can’t believe it!” said Kai as he worked the unknotted bow tie around Locky’s collar. “My baby boy’s going to his first gala!”

“I will stab you so fucking hard,” muttered Locky.

“Ohhh, stabbing ? So now you’ve broken the curse, I can finally get a taste of that big swinging D?”

“Eww! Gross! No!”

Kai twisted the black silk in precise motions, a finesse that stood in contrast to his own outfit of hoody and gray sweats. “Wow, so unappreciative. And after I made you who you are today.”

“How did you make me , exactly?”

“Face it—you wouldn’t be starting the bakery if I didn’t push you into it. And you wouldn’t have met your little smoochy snuggle bunny without me introducing you. I’m basically your fairy God-Daddy at this point.”

Locky rolled his eyes affectionately. It all seemed a lifetime ago. Before he’d met Benedict. Before he’d even allowed himself to start thinking about the store. But Kai was right. If not for him, this whole journey would never have started. “Thank you, Kai. Genuinely.”

“What? No. Stop it!” he said, pulling the last of the knot through. “But I do expect to be your best man when the wedding comes around. And I want my pick of the groomsmen.”

Locky almost choked on his tongue. “What! We only started dating a few weeks ago. No one is talking about marriage!”

“Of course. What was I thinking?”

The doorbell rang as Locky was admiring the perfectly symmetrical knot—far better than he could have tied himself.

He was about to rush for the door, but Kai took him unexpectedly by the shoulders, looking him over with a rare, brotherly affection. “Genuinely, Locky, I’m so fucking proud of everything you’ve done these last few months.”

Locky gave him a sincere smile in return. As playfully combative as their relationship was, Locky had always known that Kai cared deeply about him. That he’d look out for him and protect him and push him to succeed as much as he could. But it still made Locky melt at hearing the words out loud.

With anyone else, this might have been a moment for hugs and affirmations and grand reflections on their years of friendship.

But Kai was never going to let that happen.

Instead, he slapped Locky hard on the ass. “Hello! Didn’t you hear the doorbell?”

Locky snorted as he adjusted his lapels, making sure his belt was properly aligned before swinging the door open.

It wasn’t Benedict.

There were two unfamiliar men on the doorstep. One was a mountainous muscle daddy with silver hair poking out of his floral button-up. Beside him was an early twenties otter with tattoos that stretched from his wrists to his neck, fully visible through his pink mesh shirt.

Only when Locky looked past the shorter one did he see Benedict standing awkwardly behind them, dressed immaculately in his own bow tie and suit, giving Locky a cute little wave.

And Locky completely forgot about the two strangers.

Because he’d ever seen anyone look quite so beautiful.

“Oh, those are mine,” said Kai, reaching past Locky and dragging the two men inside. “What? I prefer my balls a little less fancy and a little more furry.”

* * *

Locky spun on the spot, unable to process the scene. Even in his full black tie he felt criminally underdressed, like he needed a top hat and a silver-tipped cane.

The rotunda was three stories of white marble, getting progressively more decorated on each level. It shifted from ornate iron railings to grand Greek columns to an arched, bone-white ceiling carved with dazzling figures that probably belonged in some European palace.

The grand staircase swept down from the first floor, spilling into a circular base for the last third, like the gathering of a bride’s dress. Combined with the dozens of flower-covered tables and ornate, golden-lit lamps, it felt like a duke might wander into view at any moment, sword on his hip and a lovely daughter on his arm.

Locky gave Benedict a disbelieving look. “When you said money wasn’t a problem in your family, I didn’t think you meant this .”

“In our defense, we don’t own City Hall. The mayor just lends it for the night.”

“If you’re on can I borrow your building terms with a mayor, you’ve reached a certain level of wealth.”

“Indeed,” said Benedict, holding out his arm with a glowing smile and a terrible attempt at a British accent. “Then look lively, Mr. Sorenson, for tonight you’ll be dining with royalty .”

Locky played along, taking the arm and allowing Benedict to lead him around the grand space. In one corner, a string quartet bowed classical music, lively and warm. Women in crips jackets weaved effortlessly through the chattering crowds, carrying silver trays with morsels so tiny that Locky thought he might crush them accidentally.

Every now and then Locky had the surreal experience of seeing an in-person face he’d only previously seen through television glass. Famous football players and highly-strung newsreaders and one of the two federal senators for California.

In the distance, standing proud among the most elite of the guests, they spotted a tall black man with silver dusted hair standing alongside a curvy woman with box braids and a bright fuchsia dress. The resemblance was immediate, and aided by the fact that both were currently talking to Tris, who was wearing a blue-and-red-striped pencil dress, worn off the shoulder and etched with black hatching, accessorized by a matte silver belt in the bow of her hourglass figure.

They were Benedict’s parents. They had to be.

Before Locky’s heart could leap into his throat, Benedict stopped them, still about thirty feet away, and gave a low chuckle—a sound which only intensified as his mother eyed Tris’s ensemble. “Look all you want, Judith,” he muttered. “But that dress has only been on the rack for a month. Even you can’t find fault with it.”

After a long inspection, Benedict’s mother give Tris a reluctant smile. Benedict’s chuckle turned wicked as he led Locky in the opposite direction. “We’ll grab them later, when they’ve done the other introductions.”

“You don’t have to introduce me, you know? I mean, I’d like to! But don’t feel obligated. If you don’t want to. If it’s...”

Locky let the words fade—born from the fear of knowing his life had become too good, too suddenly.

Because how had he intended to finish that sentence?

If it’s too soon?

If you aren’t sure?

If you don’t want to commit?

But before any of those fears could take proper hold, Benedict banished them with an easy warmth. “Of course I want them to meet you. You’re amazing, Locky.”

And that was that. No more words were said. And it was clear to Benedict that no more were needed.

Because Benedict was certain.

And so, with a flush of red and a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening, Locky let himself to be certain too.

As they moved through the dignified hustle of the gala, they eventually found themselves at a silent auction table covered in clipboards, alongside a handsome young man tending a velvet sack that guests were tossing little envelopes into, no doubt filled with checks for God knew how many thousands of dollars.

And standing here, Locky had to admit that Benedict had been right. There was something about this space, about the ornate expensiveness of it all, that made the charitable aspects feel fitting . Like they belonged. And like it would be the height of rudeness not to contribute a little extra money to a good cause.

“Funny how we accidentally ended up at the open your pockets part of the ball, huh?” said Locky.

Benedict grabbed two glasses of a non-alcoholic punch from a passing waitress. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. But was I right, or was I right?”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Business Adviser,” said Locky, feigning annoyance. “Very clever. Now do your victory lap. Tell me how you’d set up the New Year’s party to capture all of this.”

“God you’re sexy when you pout,” said Benedict, before glancing downward. “Please Mr. Sorenson, not here! An erection? Control yourself!”

Locky’s mortifying boner problem had mostly resolved itself over the last few weeks, now that Benedict was sucking the frustration out of him at every available opportunity. But comments like that could still set Locky on the pathway to public humiliation. And cause the flush of red that Benedict relished.

But rather than panic, Locky waited until Benedict was taking a sip of his drink. “How about I control your throat instead?”

Benedict spluttered. “ Stop it! That’s so naughty!”

“You’re the one who started the battle, Mr. Owens. I just wanted to know about party planning.”

“Fine, truce!” said Benedict, waiting until he could stand normally again. “Well, for starters, I’d ticket the event. Yes, I know, you’re worried that people won’t even come to a free event, so how can you charge for entry? But it creates exclusivity and a sense of time pressure. Plus, charge enough and you can make it ‘all you can eat and drink.’ That way you don’t have to deal with money on the night, freeing up a ton of serving time.”

Locky pondered that suggestion. “Could we give some of the ticket proceeds to charity?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. It actually helps with marketing. And we can do a velvet bag as well, if you like. Grab a few extra contributions.”

“And... the decorations?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I know a guy who can set it all up. Decorations, band, an extra waiter. Do the whole thing as a package. He’ll even provide ropes for the VIP area.”

“We’re going to have VIPs?”

“Of course! There are plenty of celebrities around town who’ve spoken about their sobriety journies. Send out gold ticket invitations to a dozen or so and have a few tables behind ropes. Trust me, if the influencers start talking about their invites, everyone else will too. And speaking of which...”

Locky followed Benedict’s gaze to the unexpected figure of Grace Liu, leading anchor on the Channel 7 news. Usually, she was a sharp-eyed figure of authority, all silver bob and rimless glasses. But in the flesh, she was barely tall enough to reach the clipboard for the silent auction.

To Locky’s horror, Benedict guided them both toward her. “Let’s go say hi.”

“What!?” hissed Locky, trying to press his heels down, but finding no grip against the polished marble. “You can’t be serious!”

“You’ve got journalists from television and radio and newspaper here tonight. I’ve worked with them all—they love a good in lighter news story.”

Locky could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. It had been bad enough knowing that he had social media and a website, without being interviewed on the biggest nightly news broadcast! “But that doesn’t mean we can just go up and talk to them!”

“Why not? Schmoozing is half the point of these events.”

“Yes, but... but...”

“Locky,” said Benedict, gently running his hands up each of Locky’s biceps, just like he had on their first meeting. “You want people to know this event is happening, right?”

Locky relaxed at the steadiness of Benedict’s touch. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, we can either talk to the powerful people who could give us thousands of dollars of free publicity. Or we could wait until tomorrow and call whatever oblivious intern they’ve got working the hotline?”

“Okay, fine ,” he breathed. “But do we have to talk to the most famous journalist in the city first?”

“She’s actually the perfect person to talk to first.”

“Why?”

Benedict leaned in and placed a kiss on Locky’s forehead. “Because the tall blond woman beside Grace is her wife. And I happen to know that she’s been sober for the last thirty years.”