Page 9 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

NINE

Afternoon Tease

“I s charcoal wool too utilitarian?” said Tris, thumbing an elegant trench coat dress.

“That’s a sentence no one’s said before,” muttered Benedict, tucking his arms tight to his body. He might wear expensive suits, but he’d always hated stores like this, with so many things that could get knocked over by stray elbows.

As big as he was now, it had been even worse as a high school junior, when he’d towered over the rest of the class. He could still hear his parents hissing at him to keep his hands in his pockets whenever they walked into a Nordstrom. They’d probably have a heart attack seeing him in Prada.

“Philistine,” Tris said with an exaggerated huff.

“Better a philistine than blindly buying whatever’s in season. Seriously, do you even like this shit?”

“God, no! But you remember what Mom said at her last winter gala? After I dared to wear that black-and-gold Christian Siriano number from 2008?”

Benedict did his best impression of their mother, a mid-Atlantic twang that her Oakland upbringing had no hand in creating. “Darling, just because the gala is for charity doesn’t mean the dress needs to be.”

Tris scowled. “Damn right. I don’t care how much it costs, or how much tailoring it needs, I’ll be wearing something new this time!”

“You worry too much about her opinions.”

“Easy for you to say, Prince Charming. If I wear earrings that aren’t perfectly en vogue , she’ll talk about it for months. Meanwhile, she didn’t say one word when you drilled holes into yours.”

“I thought you liked my earrings! You said they made me looked devilishly handsome.”

“Yes, Bro Bot, they do. But I still wish she’d get a little outraged at your proclivities.”

“I mean... I could tell her about my other piercings?”

“ La la la! Please no! Hearing that story once was bad enough. Besides, if I wanted the gory details of your junk, I could ask your new client.”

Benedict froze. “Wait... What?... We didn’t... We haven’t...”

“Oh, please. Do you have any idea how loud a pair of bears snoring is? I could have heard you two down the block. If you didn’t want to get caught, you should have gone to his place for your little sleepover.”

Benedict grumbled. “Okay, fine. We hooked up. And we didn’t go to his place because he was feeling really vulnerable, and he’d just called in sick to his nightly meeting—which he never does—and his housemate might have been home, and...” Benedict stopped at Tris’s beaming expression, realizing the level of detail in his story showed it hadn’t been some impulsive one-night stand. “Oh, shut up. We only did it once.”

“Really? Once? ”

“Yes!” said Benedict, tactfully ignoring the 2 a.m. jerk off they’d also shared, when they’d both woken up hard and already kissing. Locky had been so fucking ferocious that time, emboldened by the cover of sheets and the breaking of his drought. He’d groaned like a wounded animal when Benedict had jerked them both off with a single hand, their shafts sliding together, ensuring they felt the exact same sensation with each stroke.

Benedict also didn’t mention the shower they’d taken shortly after, and how soaping each other off had led to slippery hands and swirling tongues, with Benedict jerking another few loads from the shaking, pent-up bear.

It had all been a bad combination. Or maybe a really excellent one. Because each time Benedict had made him cum, the guilt washed over Locky. Which only made Benedict want to hold him close and stroke his hair and tell him that everything would be okay. Which, eventually , led to Locky’s body firming up once more, ready for another round of temptation.

No wonder Locky was a walking boner machine. Benedict had never met someone so damn horny. He couldn’t imagine how Locky had survived all these years without tending to those needs.

“Are you seeing him again today?” said Tris, making goo-goo eyes.

“No, he’s doing job stuff with his old work friends. But we’re doing a taste-testing afternoon tea later in the week to settle his final menu, if you wanted to hang?”

“ Afternoon tea? Really? Shall we stroll through London and pick posies with the governor?”

“Be nice, it was his idea. He thought afternoon tea sounded better than let’s make three people gorge themselves on pie until they pass out . Are you in? He asked for you specifically—wanted to thank you for swinging that free day at the pizza shop.”

“Pie, praise, and a pretentious setting? How could I say no?” she said, inspecting a slightly more flattering dress in a tan plaid. “Speaking of, is he ever going to rent that place? The owners have been up my ass about it.”

“Sorry, but your ass ain’t getting no relief. He’s applied for a bunch of accounting jobs. No chance he’s following through on the store—we’re just killing time until the offers come.”

Tris placed a mocking boop on Benedict’s nose. “I think you’ve forgotten how good you are at your job, Bro Bot. He says that now, but you might end up convincing him. Even if you don’t mean to.”

She said it lightly, as if it was some silly sibling joke. But there was nothing funny about her words.

Because Benedict had assumed they really were just killing time. That the business plan was something Locky would slip into a drawer and pull out on rainy nights. After all, Locky had been adamant about that—that he had no interest in making this idea a reality.

But... was that still true?

Locky was already getting daydreams about the store, wasn’t he? Benedict had seen that across his face. Heard it in the little details Locky would mention out of nowhere. How everything was getting a little more vivid .

So maybe all these experiments and tests could lead Locky to change his mind? To actually open his store?

And what would happen then?

Would Benedict really abandon him? Just like all the other clients?

His gut told him no, of course not. That he’d taken a different step with Locky. That they’d shared something deeper and more special than any of his past clients.

But that was easy to say now, when his hands were still and his heartbeat calm. But it would be different if Locky followed through. As the bills came in. As the decisions became real. As they got closer to opening day and those terrible instincts took over.

The fears would be mounting then, just like they always did—insidious and devoid of logic. All the ways that Benedict must have fucked up. All the mistakes he’d made. How it was just a matter of time until his reckless incompetence ruined another life. And how he had to get away—had to run, run, run —before he could see it.

It might be cute kisses and silly jokes now, but it could all go so wrong, so fast.

He knew that.

He’d experienced it more than enough times.

A strange sensation tugged at Benedict. Because half of him was suddenly terrified at the thought of Locky changing his mind. Of what that might mean between them.

But the other half of Benedict swelled with pride—that Locky might be brave enough, might have grown enough, to actually live his dream.

And right now, Benedict didn’t know which of those two feelings were real. Or which might win out. All he knew was that last night had been fucking incredible. That Locky was fucking incredible, and sweet and vulnerable and caring and awkward and amazing.

And Benedict didn’t want last night to be a one-time thing.

“Bro Bot?” said Tris, holding up two pairs of earrings.

Benedict blinked himself back into the store. “Oh, the pearls, I guess.”

* * *

Locky had never felt quite like this before. It was a strange mix of every extreme emotion, scared and overjoyed and guilty and proud.

Because, on the one hand, he’d done it—he’d finally had sex. Something that had scared him and embarrassed him and caused God knew how many awkward situations for ten long years. And even more importantly, nothing bad had happened afterward. He hadn’t crawled out of bed in the middle of the night and gone to the club, picking up exactly where he’d left off. There’d been no desire to do any that—much preferring to stay gripped in Benedict’s arms. And in his slippery fingers.

Which, on the other hand, was exactly the problem. Because they hadn’t just had sex once, but four times. Maybe five, depending on how you counted it—going all night and into the morning. And Locky had been unhinged in those moments, giving himself away to that carnal urge.

Yes, they’d only kissed and jerked each other off, but they’d still done it like animals, barely able to keep their hands off each other.

And even if Locky hadn’t gone to a nightclub, there was still something in that frenzy that worried him. In the uncontrolled pleasure seeking of it. Because Locky had been to that kind of place before—gluttonous and uncontrolled.

And he knew where it could lead.

Worst of all, Locky had been so overwhelmed by that first time with Benedict that he’d asked Evelyn to lead the meeting for the night. And that had never happened. Sure, there were times he’d had the flu, or had to fly back to Seattle to attend some wedding, but he’d never once been here, in town, available, and still canceled.

And that... that was confronting. Because what did that make him? Someone who’d just abandon people when they needed him? Someone who’d discard his responsibilities to indulge in his own pleasures?

Someone who was just like her ?

“Hello, Boss Man?”

The voice cut through his haze, and Locky stared into a dozen upraised glasses of Coke, joined by the wafting gloriousness of freshly cooked pizza—bubbling cheese alongside his own creation of prosciutto and pear and bittersweet chocolate.

“Sorry!” he said, charging his glass with the others—Adriana and Jared and most of their old team, enjoying the meal he’d promised them before their world had flipped around. “I’d like to extend my heartfelt congratulations to Jared Miller for his new role with Dellacor Industrial. And a very special congratulations to Adriana Rivera, for her promotion to team leader with White Stone Investments!”

“And,” said Adriana, among the whoops and applause, “to our noble leader, who’ll no doubt have his own job to celebrate in just a few weeks!”

Locky had to regather himself at that. Because he hadn’t expected the attention to turn back to him. Or his own job hunt. Such as it was.

Before anyone noticed his hesitation, Locky’s phone buzzed, giving him a distraction.

Not that the message helped.

It was from his bank.

His stock option had just been paid out.

* * *

“Don’t judge me, I swear it’s not that many pie dishes!” said Locky, faintly embarrassed.

All yesterday he’d thought about this moment, when Benedict would help him bake options for the final menu. And all day, Locky had run circles in his head wondering how it might go down—given this was their first meeting since they’d gotten physical.

Would it be warm, with Benedict greeting him like a lover? Telling Locky how much he appreciated their night together?

Or would Benedict be aloof, showing that he could separate professional and personal and not get too clingy?

In the end, Benedict struck the balance with infuriating mastery, greeting Locky with a hug that was neither too familiar nor too distant. In fact, the only thing Benedict seemed bothered by was the teetering pile of pie dishes on the counter, all fifteen in different colors and materials. Some were black Teflon with crimped edges. Others were avocado-colored ceramic with fluted peaks. Others were made of clear Pyrex or dark cast iron.

“That’s... quite a setup?” said Benedict, with a tone that Locky found strangely hesitant. Strangely unlike the Benedict he’d come to know.

“They weren’t expensive or anything. I thrifted most of them. Easier to bake everything at once rather than doing a million batches.”

“That’s fine,” said Benedict, flatly, pouring himself a cup of coffee without making eye contact. “I didn’t say anything bad about it.”

“No, but... I thought you might worry that buying these dishes meant I wanted to follow through with opening the store.”

And I know that would make things weird, he silently added.

The words hung in the air between them, as Benedict paused for a terribly long time. Locky could see from the way his back rose and fell that he was struggling to control his breathing.

And an awful spike of fear ran through Locky. That maybe Benedict regretted their night together. That maybe Locky had been just as bad as he’d feared. That maybe Benedict was worried he’d have to do it again out of obligation!

Locky thumbed the edges of his apron. “Are... are you okay?”

As quickly as it had come, the tension left Benedict.

In one sharp movement, the bigger man came to Locky, rushed to him, and kissed him deeply, running his free hand up Locky’s back and into his hair. He held Locky like he was making an apology with his lips alone. Like he’d thought a thousand thoughts and this was the only way to communicate his answer—to a question Locky didn’t know and didn’t understand. There was passion there. A passion so deep that Locky wasn’t sure he deserved it. But there was pain too—in the way Benedict gripped Locky like he thought he’d lost him. In the tears wet down Benedict’s cheeks.

Locky didn’t know what was happening, and he didn’t care. Because Benedict was here. And that was all that mattered.

When Benedict finally pulled back, he rubbed his nose against Locky’s, like he couldn’t bear the thought of their skin parting. “Why would it be a bad thing if you opened your store, Mr. Sorenson?” he said, his voice mournful with a pain that seemed so very far beyond this moment. “I wanted to help you dream about your bakery. And I’d never want to crush your dreams.”

* * *

Benedict had gathered himself by the time they were buttering the pie dishes—all fifteen of them. That newfound collection might have been exactly what Locky said it was, an innocent way of saving time with their big bake today. Or it might be something bigger—a sign that Locky was already investing money in his future bakery.

Benedict didn’t know which it was. And maybe Locky didn’t either. Not yet.

But it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Because Benedict wasn’t going anywhere.

He hadn’t been certain when he’d come here—he’d spent too long these last few days pondering those same questions he’d had with Tris at the boutique. What he’d do if Locky showed signs of reconsidering. What he’d do if Locky decided to open his bakery. Knowing what Benedict knew of himself. Knowing how his body might react when that moment came.

It was too awful a conundrum.

Too terrible a possibility.

And he hadn’t been able to make a choice.

And then, Benedict had heard Locky’s voice. That tiny, scared little voice, asking Benedict if he was okay.

And something inside Benedict broke—shame and horror that he’d even considered the alternative. That he’d even entertained it. Because Locky was too amazing and too special. What Locky had shared with Benedict—what they’d shared with each other—was too big and too vulnerable. And whatever was coming, whichever way it went, Benedict wasn’t going anywhere.

He’d told Locky it was time for someone to take care of him for a change. Benedict had meant it then. And he meant it now.

It wouldn’t be easy. If that moment came, every part of his body would tell Benedict to run, to flee, to make it all just go away . But he wouldn’t give into it. Not this time. He would fight it. They would fight it.

Because Benedict wouldn’t abandon Locky.

Not now.

Not ever .

Benedict placed a gentle kiss on Locky’s cheek as he reached for another stick of butter.

“What was that for?” Locky asked.

“For being so adorable,” he said, low and growly, like he wanted to drag Locky to his bedroom right here and now. “And tell me, Mr. Sorenson, what’s on your shortlist?”

Locky reached for a spiral-bound notepad, which had two dozen pies scribbled out in a messy script. “It’s all traditional dishes. The ones people would expect. I figure that’s the best bet financially?”

Benedict read over Locky’s shoulder. “Apple, peach, key lime, blueberry. Sounds like the making of a great menu. Although... what do we have here?”

Locky tried to pull the notepad away as Benedict reached for the next page. “Oh, those are nothing. I just thought... it doesn’t matter.”

Benedict placed a firm finger against the edge of the pad, his wingspan too wide for Locky to keep it away. As Benedict flicked the page over, he wrapped his other arm around Locky’s midsection, fingertips brushing underneath Locky’s shirt and over his furry belly. “Yes, I can see how unimportant they are by just how aggressively you’ve crossed them out. Possum Pie? Shoofly Pie? Flutternutter Pie? And on the third page we have... Gooseberry and banana custard? Pear, rhubarb and Earl Grey tea?”

Locky made a little grunt. “The second page are some old recipes that used to be popular. I thought they might fit the gangster-era vibe.”

“And the third?” Benedict asked, kissing Locky’s neck and making him shiver all over.

“Just... some dumb recipes I came up with myself.”

Benedict tutted. The sound was more playful than disappointed. It was a sound that carried all the meaning it needed to—knowing that Locky had crossed them out because they were risky. Because they weren’t proven. Because they might not sell, and people might hate them and hate him, and the store might fail and every other concern that had probably gone through Locky’s head when he was making the list.

“Tell you what,” said Benedict, running his hands down Locky’s belly. “If you agree to make a mix of all three pages, I’ll let you take me on a tour of your bedroom before we start baking?”

Locky’s cock pulsed as his neck radiated warmth. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Owens.”

“Not yet I haven’t,” Benedict growled, pushing his own bulge against Locky’s ass.

* * *

Benedict stared at the tally in front of him. “How can we have a seven-way tie?”

“ Piccirudu ,” said Evelyn, slouching over the breakfast bar, “they were all so delicious, I had to give them all full marks! It’s like asking me to choose my favorite child.”

“You don’t have any children, you ancient hag,” muttered Kai, unbuttoning his designer jeans. His belly audible plopped against the counter. “And don’t blame me, I went for all the punchy ones. I’m a simple man?—”

“ Very simple,” mumbled Evelyn.

“But if you’re going for pies, you want them familiar and stodgy. Give me sugar and cream and flour and a massive serving spoon. Lemon meringue and sweet potato and cherry all the way. None of this experimental shit—no offense.”

“Well...” crooned Tris, dabbing at the corner of her immaculate mauve lips, which had somehow survived the feeding frenzy. “I know I’m the new one here. But if you’re going for a more memorable experience, you want differentiation. Lighter dishes. New and exciting flavors. I think pies like the strawberry and mint crème are much more likely to generate buzz.”

Benedict slumped, exhausted from the hours of baking. “Well, this was pointless.”

“You know,” said Evelyn. “If you want a bigger sample size, you could always bring them to New Hope tomorrow night? For their Thanksgiving dinner?”

Kai groaned. “Can we please go ten minutes without hearing about one of your charities?”

“The shelter in the Mission District?” said Benedict, ignoring him.

He’d attended a presentation about New Hope at a charity seminar a few years back, although he’d never seen it up close. Apparently, it was a mini suburb all of its own, combining dozens of little cabins for those with nowhere else to go, alongside communal vegetable gardens and dining halls and a big centre for events. The aim was to be less an emergency bed for one night than a place to start over for a few months.

“ Precisamente! We’re catering for the community. It’s a few days before the real thing, so anyone can participate and build connections. We already have a pile of pumpkin pies donated, but no one will complain about a few extra choices. Particularly when they’re as delicious as this.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Benedict, before Locky could protest. “A bigger sample size would really help.”

Locky shifted nervously. “But isn’t it rude to give someone day-old pie?”

Benedict waggled his finger, remembering their big lists on the apartment wall. “Oh, no you don’t. That was one of the reasons pies won out, remember? Because they can last a few days between bakes. Didn’t you tell me that all the pies you get in restaurants are a few days old?”

Locky’s face brightened before falling suddenly. “It won’t work. If Evie and I are occupied, who will lead the meeting that night?”

Kai’s hand shot up. “What? Don’t look so surprised. It would be rude not to step in.”

Evelyn scoffed. “And the fact it would keep you from volunteering with the needy?”

Kai pinched a glistening cherry from the nearest pie dish. “Consider that an added bonus.”

* * *

Locky gazed around the New Hope dining hall.

It was an hour until dinner started, but a few dozen people had already gathered among the fifty indoors picnic tables, overflowing with festive decorations. Candles flickered on gingham tablecloths, alongside full crockery place settings. Painted wooden pumpkins and plastic cranberry bunches were scattered over freshly collected oak leaves, ranging from green to gold to richest amber.

Behind one long wall—plastered with promotional signs from all the contributing businesses—was a canteen kitchen, wafting out the glorious scents of stuffing and roasted vegetables.

To Locky’s surprise, there were a bunch of waiters in crisp white shirts and black bow ties, probably donated by a catering company. It wasn’t something Locky had expected to see, but he thought back to what Benedict had said about his sister’s business philosophy—giving people diamond service to make them feel special.

And there was no doubt that anyone attending this event would feel special as hell. Welcomed and warm and safe.

On a little stage surrounded by hay bales sat a very attractive bear in a blue flannel shirt and a bushy red beard. He was tuning an acoustic guitar between distractions from one of the waiters, an equally stocky man with honeyed skin and raven black hair. Even from this distance, the smiles they gave each other were so cheek-bitingly wicked that Locky found himself glancing over to Benedict, craving that same attention.

As if knowing the gaze was on him, Benedict looked up from where the pies had been set. Locky’s stomach fluttered at the man’s expression, strong and secure and so fucking happy to see him, even though they’d only been apart for a few minutes.

* * *

The music rode warm over the swell of conversation and the clinking of plates. Locky found himself listening with his eyes closed, letting the comfortable ambience wash over him.

The two of them were waiting at a little table to the side, their serving utensils at the ready. It was now the crossover point in the meal, when the last table had gotten their main course, and the first table was about to come up for dessert.

Some of the waiters were undoing their bow ties and talking with the patrons. The raven-haired bear was sat at one of the tables, surrounded by a growing group of residents as he jotted down some notes.

“What’s going on there?” wondered Locky.

“Probably some interviews? Events like this love getting PR quotes.”

Locky considered that. While it sounded plausible, he wouldn’t have thought PR quotes would cause that many naughty laughs? Or that many blushing cheeks?

And why would a waiter be doing it anyway?

Locky glanced down at the pie dishes, marked with little name tags—Benedict’s idea, to give people the confidence to try new things. “We didn’t need to bring the pies I created. No one’s going to want apple, rosemary and brown sugar crumble .”

Benedict tapped Locky’s arm with his spatula. “You doubt yourself, Mr. Sorenson. But I bet at least one of your creations will get demolished.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s the bet?”

“The winner gets to do anything they like to the loser?”

Locky’s eyes bulged—among other things. “This table isn’t tall enough for you to talk like that!”

“So that’s a yes?”

Locky pulled his jacket as far down as it would go. “You are so naughty , Mr. Owens.”

Benedict winked as the first diner approached their table. “Only because you’re so fun to be naughty with, Mr. Sorenson.”

* * *

The stars were bright when they finally left, the evening calm broken only by the clanking pie dishes they both carried.

“ Anything I like, ” gloated Benedict, juggling the ceramic into his car boot. “I can’t believe you doubted the appeal of strawberry and mint.”

“I didn’t doubt it! I just thought people would be scared.”

“And the pear and Earl Gray disappeared. I got you twice there, sucker.”

Benedict wrapped his arms around Locky, one hand rubbing a shoulder blade, the other resting on the full and beautiful curve of his ass. Benedict could almost kiss the stardust from the man’s eyelashes, his barely disguised glow at how the evening had gone. The way people had queued for his baking, coming back for seconds and thirds. The praise and the clean plates and the my God, Barbara, you have to try this one -s.

There was something incredible about the atmosphere of the night, warm and lively and brimming with good feeling. Something about contributing to that sense of community and belonging. Something in the music that felt comforting and strangely familiar—like it had always been there.

And if Benedict had felt that way, he could only imagine what Locky must have felt. Because, quite accidentally, Locky had just experienced the exact vibe he’d wanted for his bakery.

Comforting.

Warm.

Familiar.

Benedict’s voice was sweet as honey when he next spoke. “And while y ou might have been the sucker tonight, I think I’ll be the sucker when I cash in my winnings? If that’s all right with you, Mr. Sorenson?”

He felt the welcome throb against his thigh. Confirmation that Locky was very much on board with that plan.

Benedict chuckled at that. Only a few days ago, that same poke of dick against his leg had sent Locky into a panic spiral. But now it only made Locky smile, no doubt thinking about Benedict’s pink tongue gliding up his straining shaft.

“I... think he speaks for both of us,” said Locky, pressing his boner even harder against Benedict. “Oh, and I had a thought.”

“That we should run home immediately?”

Locky contemplated the suggestion. “That wasn’t it. But I really like your thinking.”

Benedict laughed. “What was it then?”

“I was thinking. Could you put it in the business plan that a portion of profits go to charity? And figure out a daily schedule for how I could still lead the nightly meetings and open the store? I feel bad that I’ve canceled on them twice in quick succession.”

A remnant of Benedict’s past indecision knew that he should be worried about Locky talking like that. That coming up with concrete ideas for the store meant the dream was getting even more real in Locky’s mind.

But the rest of Benedict didn’t feel like that anymore. He couldn’t feel like that. Because his chest swelled at Locky’s request—at his impossible generosity.

Because here was this guy, whose biggest fear was financial instability, and he wanted to put aside money for other people? To put aside time for other people? To reduce his own stability for the sake of others?

It was unbelievable.

He was unbelievable.

“You are so fucking cute,” said Benedict, rubbing his nose against Locky’s. “Of course we can do that. Was there anything else you picked up?”

Locky stood on his tiptoes, bringing them close to even height. “Actually, I thought the waiters’ uniforms were kinda fun? Black tie and black apron?”

To Benedict’s surprise, it was his turn to land a heated throb against Locky’s belly.

Locky grinned. “Did you just get hard thinking about me in a waiter’s uniform?”

Benedict nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Very hard. My God, you would look so fucking cute. Is there a costume place open at this time of night?”

Locky laughed, making a big show of reaching for his phone. “I think I have a bow tie at home. But the black apron would be?—”

There was a frozen moment as Locky stared at his phone.

Suddenly, he’d dropped from his tiptoes, leaving an unwelcome distance between the two of them.

“Oh...” he said.

“What?” said Benedict. “Is everything okay?”

Locky looked up with eyes Benedict hadn’t seen in days. Suddenly, Locky seemed so much smaller, like a balloon deflating. “One of the jobs got back to me. They want me to do an interview tomorrow.”