Page 7 of First Dates and Birthday Cakes: MM Romantic Comedy

Three years later…

“I don’t know,” I said to Ravi. “I’m not really a fan of surprise parties.”

We were sitting in a pub in Oxford, not far from the hospital where Ravi worked. It was the sort of place that tourists enjoyed for its black-beamed ceilings, its quirky little rooms and eight-hundred-year history, and locals enjoyed for its quiet, back-lane location and decent prices.

Close to ten p.m. on a Thursday night, the pub was hot, loud, and packed.

We’d managed to snag the last two available barstools, and if the guy shoved up behind me pressed any closer, he’d scoot me clean off my stool and onto Ravi’s lap.

I shot him a stern glare over my shoulder. He eased back with an unconcerned shrug.

Earlier that morning, Ravi had left me an unsettling voicemail, instructing me to meet him there after work because he had a fantastic idea that I was going to love.

Needless to say, I’d been worrying about his fantastic idea all day. And I was right to do so.

I’d heard it.

I didn’t love it.

Ravi set his pint of Guinness on the polished wood of the bar between us. “What do you mean, you’re not a fan?” he demanded. “You loved your surprise fortieth, Ben. It was the best day of your life.”

“It was a good day,” I said. “In the end. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was the best, though.”

“Name one day that was better. One. I’ll wait.”

I just looked at him.

“Ugh.” Ravi pulled a face. “You’re going to say the day Jake moved in and you degenerates had a sex marathon and shagged in every room, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Hell, yes.

It was the athletic achievement of my life.

I’d never orgasmed that many times in a single weekend. I hadn’t known I could.

We were both so wrung out afterwards that all we did for the next two weeks was cuddle.

“All right, fine,” Ravi said. “Hard to top that. It wasn’t the best day of your life. It was your best party ever.”

Especially once Jake had shown up on my doorstep.

“All joking aside, Ben, your boy toy is turning forty. It’s a big deal! Am I right?” He aimed this over my shoulder at the guy who was back on his unsubtle mission of trying to steal the stool out from under me.

“Huh?” The guy yelled, taking the opportunity to brace an arm beside my face and nudge me an inch closer to the edge of the seat.

I growled and hooked my ankles around the legs of the stool.

“Forty!” Ravi bellowed back. “Turning forty! It’s a big deal!”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

“You leave him out of it,” I said to Ravi, and sent the guy another glare.

He grinned at me.

“You’re not having my stool,” I said.

He shrugged again, and turned back to his friend.

“Maybe Jake doesn’t want it to be a big deal. I didn’t. Also, stop calling him my boy toy. He’s three years younger than me. We’re practically the same age.”

“Ben. Come on.”

“We are!”

“I mean, come on about the party.”

“I don’t know,” I hedged.

“I know. Yes. Say yes. Trust me, you want to say yes.” His eyes glittered. “It’s a fantastic idea. Yes.”

“Of course you’d say that. Any excuse for a party.”

“A fair point,” Ravi said, and broke off for a quick swig of his Guinness. He reached out easily and caught my shoulder when the person behind knocked me forwards.

“Do you mind?” I snarled. It was a different guy this time, but he was as unconcerned about personal space as the previous one.

I opened my eyes wide at Ravi, who just shook his head at me like I was the one with the attitude problem.

“It’s a fantastic idea, and the only reason you don’t want to agree is because you’re a party pooper,” he said.

“Guilty as charged.”

Ravi twisted his pint glass idly on the beermat. Another load of people had spilled into the cramped pub, and he had to raise his voice over a bright burst of laughter from a group of shirts-and-ties behind us to be heard. Someone had rage-quit, apparently, and his friends were all toasting his freedom. “Are you really so selfish that you’re going to deny your man his special day?”

“I’m not denying him?—”

“Are you soooo selfish that you’re going to put your party preferences above Jake’s, and let this momentous occasion pass on by, unmarked?”

“I haven’t put my preferences above his, I’m still thinking about your stupid idea. And I am not selfish,” I added indignantly. “I empty the dishwasher every single time, Ravi. Every. Single. Time. Without complaining.” To Jake, anyway. I might have mentioned it to my mother once or twice on our weekly chats. “Do you know what he does if the dishwasher is clean and full, and he has dirty dishes? He puts it all in the sink. Doesn’t empty the dishwasher and put them in there. He leaves it. If I didn’t empty the thing, it would be an expensive crockery cabinet with a plug, and the sink would be unusable.”

“You’re a hero.” Ravi stared at me over the rim of his pint glass. “Or something.”

“I am a hero! I am. You know why? Because I’d happily do that for the next sixty years, because it’s Jake.”

“Aw. Now that is true love. Also, pretty ambitious of you. You’re shooting for a hundred and three?”

“I’m not saying I’m perfect. I’d probably bang a few plates around to make my point that it would be nice if he’d do it every once in a while. I might slam a drawer or too. But I’m not selfish.”

“You’re saying yes to the party, then.”

“I’m not saying yes.”

“But you’re going to. Because you’re not selfish and you think it’s an amazing idea.”

“Honestly, no. I don’t think it’s an amazing idea. Personally, I loathe and despise surprise parties?—”

Ravi smiled fondly at me. “No, you don’t. Drama queen.”

“Loathe and despise them, and?—”

He snapped up a hand. “Stop. Admit it to me right here and now, Benjamin Porter. We need to get this straightened out once and for all, before we take another step. You loved your party. You love parties in general. The only thing you don’t like about parties is organising them yourself, because you always convince yourself no one’s going to come even when they’ve all RSVP’d yes. In fact, next time you have anything big to celebrate and I throw you a surprise party, you’ll be thrilled. You’ll be all, Thank you, Ravi, you are the most amazing friend in the whole wide world. You’re a party wizard, and you make my life better just by existing. Kiss me.”

“Fine. You’re right. Apart from the kiss me bit.” We’d tried that when we were thirteen. Once was enough. “The party was great, and if I’d known it was coming, I’d have spent a month obsessing about it. Next milestone, go nuts. Surprise me. You have full permission.”

My next milestone was seven years down the road, and I hoped—I prayed—that by the time we hit fifty, Ravi would have calmed down a bit.

“Carte blanche?” Ravi said. “I like it.” He sat back and rubbed his hands together. “That’s you sorted. Now, let’s bring it back to Jake’s big day. I have some planning to do.”

“Don’t go overboard,” I warned him.

“Overboard? Me? I am the soul of taste and discretion.”

“Right. Yes. Taste and discretion.”

“I am the discreetest man you ever met.”

Ravi was six foot one. He favoured tight neon t-shirts that showed off his broad chest and shoulders, had a laugh like a foghorn, an insatiable appetite for shenanigans, and was known as the worst gossip in the entire hospital.

“So discreet,” I said.

He waved at the bartender and ordered another round. “Now. The first question is, how big am I going to go with this?”

“Not too big,” I said, visions of drone light shows, nineties cover act concerts and glitter cannons making my blood run cold.

“Back off, party pooper. This is Jake’s big day. I want to make it memorable for him.”

“He’s pretty easygoing. I’m sure he’d be happy with some cake and bubbly, like I was.”

“Cake and bubbly? Bitch, please. That is entry-level shit. That shit is for amateurs.” He gestured at me. “My boy Jake is way more sophisticated in the partying department than you.”

He really was. Jake was almost as obnoxiously social as Ravi, which was one of the reasons they fell in disgusting platonic love with each other about two weeks into our relationship.

For a moment there, I thought they were going to run away and get platonically married, and I’d find myself in a throuple.

“Can you at least keep it reasonably simple?” I said. “Don’t do anything crap like rent out the ice rink.”

Ravi’s eyes lit up. “The ice rink,” he breathed. “I bet I can get a discount because he works there. Ooh. They already have a killer sound system. It’s already set up for parties anyway?—”

“Yes, and unless you want it to be an alcohol-free surprise party, forget about it,” I said. “They’re not going to let a bunch of randos on the ice with blades to go along with their impaired motor control and cognitive function.”

Ravi slumped.

“How about we just hire The Lion in town?”

His expression told me what he thought of that.

“The Star?” I tried.

“No pubs. Leave it with me. I’ll come up with something that my special boy will never see coming.”

I eyed him warily. “Nothing too over the top, though, Ravi. Right?”

“Nothing too over the top. I promise. It will be both tasteful and dignified. An intimate little get-together to mark this momentous, once-in-a-lifetime occasion in a dear friend’s life. And If I can mess with said dear friend at the same time, and spring it upon him when he is completely unsuspecting? That’s just the inch-thick buttercream icing on the great big pink three-tier cake.”

“He gets three tiers? I only had one.”

Ravi smiled. “Ben, for your next surprise cake, I’ll make it four.”

“Thank you.”

In retrospect, the warning signs were all right there. I had no excuse. I knew this man and his diabolical mind, and I should, at the very least, have been suspicious.

I wasn’t.

More fool me.