Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Loose Id Titles by Astrid Amara
Astrid Amara

SWEET AND SOUR

Astrid Amara

www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my amazing and inspiring readers. Thanks so much for

continuing to read, provide feedback, and stop by when I’m at events. I wish you the best
holiday season ever, and hope this ridiculous holiday fluff makes your own holidays just a
little brighter.

Chapter One

Warmly Spiced Cranberry Chutney

“It’s a disgrace, what you’ve done to this pickle!”

Mr. Frank Elder, a loyal customer of Piekus Pickles for over fifteen years, brandished a

sad pickle aloft, as if its very appearance were something so appalling everyone in the
establishment would gasp in horror.

As it was, Miles Piekus, owner of Piekus Pickles and the one being verbally accosted,

wiped the spatters of pickling liquid from his face and affixed an apologetic smile upon his
face.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Elder. Can I get you another one?”
“You try it!” Mr. Elder cried, shoving the offensive vegetable in Miles’s face.

Miles took the small green pickle and bit off the end. It tasted crunchy, garlicky, and tart,

just like a pickle should taste.

“It’s very sour!” Mr. Elder complained, and Miles understood the problem.
“This is a full-sour pickle. You usually buy half-sours.” Half-sours were brined in salt

and spices only. This pickle had been brined in vinegar and for a longer time. Miles
wondered if the old guy had finally lost his sense of smell. “See how dark it is? Half-sours
are a lighter green.”

Mr. Elder scratched his temple. “But I thought I got my usual…”
“Did you select pickles from that first barrel by the window?” Miles pointed to one of six

large wood barrels lining the wall of the deli. “Because I moved the barrels around when I
renovated, and I bet you selected full-sours instead of your regular.”

“Even if that was the case, your mother would have caught the mistake before ringing

me up.”

That was likely true and not the first time Miles had heard the complaint. He’d inherited

his family’s store when his parents retired and moved to Arizona three months ago, and the
transition embittered many of the older, traditional client base that found Miles’s youth and
enthusiasm off-putting.

“I’m sorry,” Miles repeated, his smile firmly attached. “Let’s get you half a dozen half-

sours on the house.”

“You don’t have to go that far—”
“I insist. You’re right. I should have caught the mistake, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t

happen again.” Miles gathered a jar and used the tongs in the half-sour barrel to fish out
half a dozen small cukes from the brine. He sealed the lid and moved quickly to the cash
register to ring up the sale. As he did so, the bells over the front door jingled and two
couples hurried in from the rain, talking loudly. Miles smiled at them, then stole a glance
back to the closed door behind him. The door opened to a narrow flight of stairs that
connected to the second floor of the building, where Miles’s boyfriend currently sat,
ostensibly not helping with the business.

Miles sighed.

He handed the jar to Mr. Elder and made a note for his Regular Clients board hidden

behind the counter about the man’s tastes.

“Thank you, Miles,” Mr. Elder said in a complaining voice. “I’ll give you one more

chance.”

“I’m so relieved.” Miles waved him good-bye, annoyed but also grateful that when he

called his mother that night to give her the daily update, he didn’t have to admit losing an
old customer.

He’d already lost others. When he took over the store, he’d gotten a loan and renovated

what had been a simple kosher pickle storefront into a full-scale deli offering freshly made,
exotic, ethnic pickles from all over the world as well as a selection of soups and sandwiches.

The traditionalists disliked seeing kimchi and tamarind chutney lining the counters alongside

their kosher dills, despite Miles’s staunch adherence to the rules of kashrut.

So some previously loyal customers had not returned. But of course there were new

clients, and the store’s location in the center of Northwest Market Street, the heart of the

Ballard neighborhood in Seattle, made it a quick and popular lunch venue for the businesses

in the area. His sales grew weekly as word spread. He’d done little advertising, yet every
lunch crowd surpassed the last. And he’d had a rush that morning on his warmly spiced
cranberry chutney that he’d advertised in the window for Thanksgiving.

The store had one staff member, a sweet woman named Chloe who cleaned, ran the

register, and made coffees while he cooked and made the sandwiches.

But she went on maternity leave shortly after Miles took over. He assured her she could

keep her position and that he’d rely on Itai for the extra help. After all, that had been the
plan. Itai was supposed to be working with him.

It was a flawed plan, he now realized, as he tried to do the job of three employees all by

himself.

Miles sold the last of his chutney to one of the couples that came in, and had to quickly

make four sandwiches to go before helping another older customer with her order. When
they all left, he was alone in the deli for the first time since opening at eight that morning,
and he realized he really should start prepping another batch of the chutney before the
lunch rush. But he’d been on his feet all morning, and the temptation of his stool called to
him. After years of office work it was a difficult transition to standing twelve hours every
day.

Miles’s boyfriend, Itai, had purchased him fatigue mats for behind the counter and in the

kitchen, but they only provided so much relief.

Thinking of Itai, Miles glanced behind him again to the door that led to the staircase

connecting the ground-floor store to the upstairs living area.

His parents had purchased the old two-story brick building in 1980 from a bankrupt

manufacturing company. The storefront offered an airy space with wide windows
overlooking busy Market Street, a deep walk-in refrigerator, and a large commercial
kitchen. Upstairs, they’d converted the open space into a quaint three-bedroom apartment
where Miles and his brother, Dan, grew up, steeping in the smells of vinegar and pickling
spices.

Now that Miles had inherited the apartment above, he’d spent his meager savings from

years in accounts payable. He’d renovated his living space and taken out a line of credit to
complete the remodels in the store.

Itai had thought it stupid. Ballard was a Scandinavian neighborhood, not known for any

impressive percentage of Seattle’s Jewish population, and a poor choice for a kosher deli.

But opening in a new spot would have cost a great deal more. Besides, the old brick two-

story was the only home Miles remembered.

“Itai?” Miles called loudly. He wasn’t surprised to get no answer. It was Tuesday, and

Itai had online conference calls every Tuesday with the venture capitalists that had funded

his startup. He rarely left the home office, let alone visited the store itself.

As Miles cleaned the counter, he allowed himself a few moments of self-pity. The plan

had been that Itai would sell his share of Fantastic App Engine, the startup he’d founded
with an ex-boyfriend, and join Miles full-time in the deli. Miles would teach him the family
recipes, as well as the basics of ringing in customers, making the sandwiches, and doing the
books at the end of the day.

But as the sale of Fantastic loomed, Itai seemed to further remove himself from their

original plans. It was harder to find time to get Itai into the store at all, let alone hold him
there long enough for training.

The lunch rush started early that Tuesday, and by ten thirty a line stretched from the

counter to the door. The five tables were full. The phone kept ringing. Last-minute advance
orders for cranberry chutney stacked up, and he made a mental note to quadruple the usual
batch for tomorrow. But would he even be able to find enough fresh cranberries the day
before Thanksgiving? He made another mental note to call the produce guy right after
lunch.

By one o’clock he’d run out of the daily soup and switched it out for the kosher

cauliflower tahini bisque he’d planned on serving the following day. Most customers took
their lunches to go, but a few stayed behind and waited impatiently for a free table. He
wondered absentmindedly, as he wrote down yet another complex sandwich order, if he
removed the pickle barrels from the front entirely, whether a bar along the window could be
installed to allow people to sit and look out onto the street as they ate their lunch. It was
worth measuring to see how many folks could sit down—although the thought of removing
all the barrels made him cringe. The remaining old-school customers would have a hissy fit
if they couldn’t pick out their pickles themselves.

He’d already moved some of the lesser-selling pickle barrels behind the counter, so

when the next customer ordered a sweet-and-spicy to accompany her sandwich, he had to
pull on a glove and reach into the oak barrel to grab one. He shook off the excess liquid and
turned to the counter.

“That’s a big pickle you got there,” said the burly-looking man next in line.

Miles realized he was holding the cucumber at crotch level, pointed toward the customer

like a ludicrous green erection. He quickly dropped it onto the waiting plate, feeling his face
turn red. “Can I help you?”

The man’s dark hair was a lot like Itai’s: thick, black, and cut short to keep it under

control. But unlike Itai, who tended to his hair with an army of products to keep it slicked

and styled, this man clearly didn’t care about his. It was tousled and wild, and Miles realized
he liked the look better. He wondered if he could get Itai to forgo the gel.

“Am I speaking to the owner?” the man asked. He studied the deli wares in the cold case

of the counter, his dark, arching eyebrows coming together with an expression like he was
examining a virus in a microscope.

Miles generally tried to avoid people who asked for the owner, since they typically

wanted to either complain or to sell him something.

“Yes,” Miles said.

The customer made eye contact briefly before glancing down to take in Miles’s body. At

once Miles’s insides heated. It was pitiful how a simple look was such a trigger for him.

God help the innocent man who just admired Miles’s belt buckle. He reminded himself that

not every glance at his body was laden with innuendo.

Whatever the guy was selling, Miles knew he must earn a great commission.
“I came here a few years ago,” the man stated, “and it was just a pickle place. So now

you offer a full menu?”

“Mostly sandwiches and soups, but yes, I’ve expanded my parents’ business into a deli

and catering service. Would you like to sample something? All ingredients are organic, and I
make an effort to seek out sustainable local businesses for my cheeses and breads.”

“No meat?” The man frowned at the deli case.
“No, we’re strictly kosher, so this is a dairy-only facility. But I do have fish and can

recommend some great relishes, cheeses, and sauces to go with any meat dishes you might
prepare at home.”

The man flashed him a quick, crooked smile, then glanced back down at the deli

counter. He scanned the rest of the wares quickly before moving to the barrels. He looked
everywhere: the back of the counter, down the corridor that led to the walk-in and kitchen
and bathroom, the small seating area to the right of the entrance.

If he didn’t keep glancing back at Miles and offering a devilish smile, Miles would have

suspected that he was casing the joint. As it was, he finished his inspection of the food
offerings and the walls, floors, and equipment it was all housed in, and returned to the
counter.

Really, Miles thought, what is this guy selling? Fire suppression systems? Advertising?
“I’ll take two pickled eggs, two fire-and-ice pickles, and a cup of hot lime relish.”

Miles packed up the man’s order. As he did so, the customer continued to examine the

deli, and Miles wondered if the man had anything to do with the call he’d gotten last month
from a realtor looking to buy out the old building to knock it down and put a larger office
complex in its place. Real estate in Ballard had burgeoned in the last decade, and offers
came in regularly for the brick two-story.

But the man didn’t mention his inspection as he collected his paper bag of goods. “May I

also get a half-sour?” he asked.

“Sure. Help yourself from the marked barrel along the wall. Do you want a bag for it?”
“Nah, I’ll eat it now.”
“That’s $13 total.”

The man handed Miles fifteen dollars. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” Miles put the change into his tip jar. He always felt a little guilty having a tip

jar with Chloe on maternity leave, since he owned the store and it seemed ridiculous to tip
himself. On the other hand, a lot of customers had asked for it when he installed the
espresso machine, since they were used to tipping baristas. Now it became a convenient
place to throw the change customers didn’t claim.

“I like the changes you’ve made,” the man told him.
“Thanks.” Miles smiled. “It’s been a lot of work, but I’m happy with it.”
“My parents owned a deli when I was a kid, and this reminds me a lot of their place.”
“Oh?” Miles cursed silently as another four customers came in, all wearing suits. More

from the brokerage next door. “It was in Seattle?”

“No, in Portland.” The man seemed to notice the customers behind him and smiled.

“Well, thanks. Good luck with the business.”

“Come back soon,” Miles said. What demanding parting words. He shook his head to

clear his embarrassment and took the orders of the four men.

As he prepared their sandwiches, he noticed the handsome customer hadn’t left. At first

Miles assumed he was waiting for a table, but when one cleared, he didn’t claim it. He was

examining the pickling barrels closely. At last he selected his half-sour. Miles watched as the
man licked the sides of the pickle with excessive enjoyment before sticking the thing in his
mouth and biting it in half.

He chewed and then stuck the rest fully into his mouth, his lips stretching around the

wide, thick shape. Its pornographic connotations undoubtedly brought an embarrassing
flush to Miles’s face, judging by the way his skin heated.

How much could that man fit in his mouth?
“What are you thinking about?”

Miles spun around at Itai’s voice. “What? Nothing. What are you doing here?” he asked,

flustered. He’d been so focused on the customer he hadn’t even heard the upstairs door
open.

Itai smirked knowingly. He knew Miles too well—knew that flush on his neck only came

when he was thinking something perverted.

“I thought you wanted me to train today.” Itai moved toward the espresso machine and

started up a drink for himself. He looked tired but still was attractive enough to take Miles’s
breath away. He was more than just ruggedly handsome; he was gorgeous. Miles had
always considered someone that good-looking out of his league, but here he was, living with
him, planning a future with him.

Itai was tall for an Israeli, a little over six feet. His dark black hair was brushed away

from his face to highlight his warm brown eyes and broad lips. He had high cheekbones and
a perpetual five o’clock shadow that lent him an air of dangerousness.

And despite the fact that he worked at home and didn’t need to dress for the office, he

always appeared stylish, even when he was sporting sweatpants. The designer brand
complemented his long, muscular legs and perfectly contrasted with the charcoal-colored T-
shirt he wore over his gym-toned frame.

“It’s kind of late now,” Miles whined.
“Hey, I have a job, you know,” Itai countered.
“I know.”
“I had my conference calls, and then Travis couldn’t figure out why the code was acting

wonky on Mozilla browsers, so I had to help him sort it out.”

Miles had learned over a year ago not to flinch or frown whenever Itai’s business partner

and ex-boyfriend was mentioned, but it still inevitably caused a stab of jealousy when he
heard Travis’s name.

“He always needs help,” Miles complained. “He must be a sucky programmer.”
“No he’s not,” Itai countered, right on cue. If there was anything guaranteed with Itai, it

was his defensiveness about Travis. “He’s awesome, but he’s exhausted with the launch so
he doesn’t have time to problem solve.”

“And you have time?” Miles asked. “You’re as busy as he is.”
Itai blinked at him.
“What?” Miles hated that chastising stare Itai gave him.
“Honey, don’t be petty. It isn’t attractive to me,” Itai said. The words stung, but Itai

lessened it with a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m going upstairs again.”

“Wait, I thought you wanted to train!”
“You said it was too late.”
“Yeah.” Miles wiped a mess off the counter. “But I could use some help cleaning up.”
“Sorry. If you don’t absolutely need me, then I better get back to my wireframe.”
Miles scowled and scrubbed at the counter, listening for the door to shut behind him.
Shit.

Handled inelegantly, like all their interactions these days. It seemed everything Itai did

pissed Miles off. And everything Miles asked for was terribly inconvenient to Itai. Maybe it
was just that stage in their relationship.

They’d dated for a year, broke up, and were now on month eleven of their second

attempt at domesticity. This time round Miles had set several rules, including the one about
moving in together. At the time, Itai had agreed to them all. He loved Miles, he’d said, and
would do anything to have him back.

But now Miles wondered if they weren’t both stagnating in the forced twenty-four-hour

companionship, in a way that made him yearn for more and cause Itai to pull away. He
couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had gone out on a date night. Or seen a
movie at the theater, or gone to a restaurant instead of simply eating leftovers.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he felt like the only times they didn’t argue were

when they discussed completely neutral, pedestrian topics like the laundry or the Seattle
Sounders.

At some point in the last year they’d moved from dating to being married, he realized,

and without any of the fun stuff that came before it.

The lunch crowd trickled out of the deli, and the line shrank, and no customers came in

for the last fifteen minutes before three, so he was able to get most of his cleaning tasks
done before turning the sign off, locking the front door, and pulling down the blinds.

Miles made himself a sandwich and did the books and his change order before

inventory. He then wrote out his shopping list for the following day.

He spent an hour and a half shopping and making his deposit. When he returned, he

headed straight to the kitchen. Of course, the cranberry chutney was first on his list. He’d
marketed it for Thanksgiving, but this was an interesting year since Thanksgiving and
Hanukkah coincided, and he’d sold a lot for those holiday dinners as well.

He also daily restocked his bread-and-butter pickles. He set about scrubbing cucumbers

clean, slicing them, and laying them in large platters with layers of salt between them to sit
overnight.

He took out those he’d salted the day before and moved them into the kitchen to start

the pickling process. For him, it was repetitive but had a meditative quality he appreciated.

He’d been making pickles with his mother since he was eight years old, and he knew the

recipes and techniques by heart.

The only challenges came from the newer, expanded selection, but he cherished those

culinary ventures. His last batch of pickled grapes with cinnamon and pepper had been left
in the white-wine vinegar for too long, so he’d ditched them and started over again.

He then chopped soup fixings. He stirred sauces. He added ingredients to his weekly

delivery list. By the time he was done in the kitchen, it was nearly seven o’clock. His feet
ached, and he wanted nothing more than a shower, a beer, and a night sprawled on the
couch in front of the television.

The moment he finally made his way upstairs and opened the second-floor door, Itai

called out, “What are we doing for dinner? Are you cooking?”

Miles suppressed his annoyance. It was only a question. “I’m beat. Let’s order in.”
“Okay. Thai food?”
“Sure.” Miles kicked off his shoes and made his way across the weathered gray carpet to

the bathroom. He’d wanted to replace the old flooring but it had been too expensive, so he
was stuck with it until he started making real revenue from the store.

The bathroom was old as well and had blue linoleum tiles on the counter and cheap

plywood doors on the cupboards. But the shower was hot, the water pressure was good,
and that was all that mattered at the end of the day. He could enter their home in
Architectural Digest someday in the future.

He stepped out of the shower and shaved at the counter naked. There’d been plenty of

times in the past that Itai had come in during Miles’s shaving routine and things had gotten
quickly amorous. But that hadn’t happened in months now. Miles was stuck with only his
reflection for companionship. He’d lost weight in the months since opening the deli,
undoubtedly an effect of stress. His brown hair was growing shaggy around his ears and
was in desperate need of a cut, but that would have to wait a few weeks, at least until after

Hanukkah. To his horror, he discovered the gray patch that had formed at his temples was

increasing, not magically converting back to brown. And his hazel eyes were beginning to
make him look older, with dark shadows under them from all the late nights working in the
kitchen.

It turned out opening one’s own business did not improve one’s physique.

He threw on a pair of sweats and an old shirt, poured himself a beer, and cranked on the

television. A few minutes later there was a knock downstairs, and Itai made his way down
the back entrance to meet the delivery driver in the alley. He returned with a plastic bag full
of noodles and soup. He and Itai sat next to each other on the couch and ate in front of the
sports channel, saying nothing.

“I can change it if you want,” Miles offered, knowing the only thing Itai hated more than

American football was watching the endless pregame and postgame analysis of football, but

Itai shook his head.

“I’m not paying attention anyway. I have to get back to the computer.”
“Did you meet with that marketing team for your launch?” Miles asked. He didn’t

particularly care, but he thought it was polite to at least feign interest.

Itai shrugged. “Travis did, and I’m going to go over the strategic plan tomorrow with

him. The Saturday night venue is all set, and the media packets are done. I think there will
be a good turnout.” Itai shuffled his fork through his noodles, not looking at him. “I’m sorry
we didn’t hire you for the catering.”

“That’s fine. I don’t want to do an event that large right now anyway. I’ve got enough to

worry about this Friday with thirty guests.”

“Travis didn’t want any ethnic food and got a great discount from La Brie’s.”
“That’s fine,” Miles repeated. He hadn’t been upset, but for some reason now he was.

“You know I don’t do only ethnic food.”

Itai looked at him apologetically. “I know.”
“I can cook all sorts of things.” Miles realized he was sulking again and looked away.

“But it’s fine.”

“I figured you would be exhausted from the Friday night Hanukkah dinner.”
“I likely will be. Maybe I can do your next launch party.”

Itai laughed at that. “God, I hope there is never another launch party. The whole idea is

to get this product sold off and never work on it again.” Itai surprised Miles by putting his
food down on the coffee table and scooting closer. He put his arm around Miles. Miles
stretched closer, enjoying the brief and unexpected moment of companionship. He leaned
his head against Itai’s shoulder, breathing in his cologne. Itai always smelled like products,
but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; he found the scent of Itai’s shaving cream alluring.

But as he settled into the companionable comfort, Itai shifted away. He gave Miles a

brief kiss on the forehead and stood. “I have to get back to work.”

Miles offered up his empty container of soup. Itai took this into the kitchen, leaving

Miles to slouch on the sofa, staring like a listless zombie at the men predicting the

Thanksgiving Day football game.

At nine o’clock Miles’s mother called, right on time. Since moving to the desert, his

mother called every week without fail, at the same time.

“Hi, honey,” she said, sounding thrilled. He wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing:

the way his mother still spoke to him with the same level of enthusiasm she had when he
was a child, or the fact that after all these years it still filled him with joy.

“Hi, Mom.”
“How’s everything going?”

“It was a good week last week. We beat our sales record again.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you! How’s Mr. Nedlich?”
“He still hasn’t been in.”

His mother clicked her tongue. “I’m worried about him. Maybe you should call his

house and see if he is still alive.”

“Mom, I’m not going to call clients to see if they died because they haven’t bought

pickles in three weeks.”

“But it’s highly irregular,” she countered. “Mr. Nedlich would come in every Tuesday

morning, at eight o’clock, as—”

“I know. I know. You’ve told me a thousand times. He’d come in right after dropping

his grandson off at school. But he hasn’t come by. Maybe he’s fine and doesn’t like the
way I make pickles.”

That was the wrong thing to say. There was a long pause. “You changed the recipes?”
Miles rolled his eyes. “No, Mom.”
“Because I made those recipes perfect over thirty years and—”
“I’m kidding, Mom. The pickles are fine. Maybe he doesn’t like me.”
“Well why wouldn’t he like you?” she asked, genuinely baffled in the way only one’s

mother could be.

“I’m not you,” Miles reminded her. “I’m young. I’m gay. I’ve changed things. I don’t

know. There are a dozen reasons to dislike me.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s probably dead, that’s all.”

Miles grinned at that. Only his mother would find it more likely that a customer would

die than dislike her beloved older son.

“Have you seen Goldie and Len?” his mother asked.
“Yes. They came in on Friday. And Frank Elder showed up today, distraught because

he’d picked up full-sours.”

“He only orders half-sours.”
“I know that now. I gave him half a dozen on the house, so hopefully he won’t hunt you

down to call and complain.”

His mother laughed. “Let’s hope only old Ira is that crazy. How’s Itai?”
“Busy. The launch is this Saturday.”
“Has he learned how to use the register yet? Make sure to tell him about the broken tax

key, because—”

“He hasn’t worked the register yet,” Miles said, hoping she wouldn’t pry too much.
“Oh. I thought he was going to—”
“I’ve got him helping with other things right now.” He didn’t want to have a long

discussion about this, because he didn’t want her to be right. She’d expressed concern when
they’d gotten back together, so he now worked to paint Itai in only the most favorable light.

“As long as he’s pulling his weight, honey,” she said.
“He is; don’t worry.”
“It’s just that I remember how much he hurt you before, and I don’t want to ever see

you like that again.”

Miles expelled a deep sigh. The last thing he needed right now was his mother reminding

him of the time Itai had cheated on him, leading to their breakup. Things were better now,
but it was still a sore subject.

“Mom, drop it.”
She seemed to sense the tension and gave in. “I’m sorry. You know I worry, that’s all.”
“Itai and I are doing fine,” Miles lied. “And if Fantastic App Engine sells, he’ll make a

ton of money.”

“As long as he’s being helpful to you,” she said again.
“Yeah, yeah. Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the pool, of course.”
“At nine at night?”
“It’s the only time its bearable going outside,” his mother said. “The rest of the day it’s

too hot to do anything but lay indoors next to the air conditioner.”

“I thought you moved for the heat,” Miles said.
“We did. We love it.”
“But you sit in air-conditioning all day. Isn’t that like living in Seattle?”
His mother laughed like that was crazy talk.

Miles asked after his younger brother, and they chatted briefly about his struggles in grad

school back east before she ended the call.

“All right, honey. Call me if you need anything.” She said this every time she called, as if

he’d forget.

“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.” She blew kisses into the phone, and he hung up, feeling his

typical mixture of embarrassment and affection for her.

He turned his attentions to the basketball game on television but nodded off several times

before finally rousing himself to officially go to bed. The bedroom was his parents’, and it
was a bit strange to now sleep in the only room that had been off-limits to him as a child.

To purge heinous thoughts of having sex in the room where his parents had once—maybe

even twice—copulated, he’d sold all the bedroom furniture his parents hadn’t taken with
them and redecorated the entire room, peeling off the muted floral wallpaper and painting
the walls a dark gray, and buying a king-size bed set that made the place look and feel more
masculine.

When they’d first moved in together, Miles made it a point to go to bed at the same time

as Itai. It was an opportunity to curl up together and screw or talk about their day or simply
complement each other. But in the months that followed their schedules parted ways, Itai
staying up late to program and Miles getting up early to prep food.

Thinking of all the little ways they’d grown apart depressed Miles, so instead of going to

sleep, he turned on the light and decided to read until Itai joined him. He nearly finished the
biography he was working on before he heard the sound of Itai’s laptop shutting and the
shuffle of his feet to the bathroom. Moments later Itai’s long, slender silhouette appeared in
the doorway.

He stripped carefully as he made his way to bed. Itai was a stickler about folding his

clothing, even used underpants, which baffled Miles to no end. He watched the shadowy
form of Itai’s cock as it jiggled with each step.

Itai pulled back the covers. “You still awake?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Miles reached for him.

Itai kissed him softly. He was a gentle kisser, tentative and slow, and he liked to suck on

Miles’s lips. Itai pushed him down beneath him on the bed and kissed him slowly, pulsing

his groin against Miles’s in a lazy, dreamy pace that drove Miles to desperation.

At first Miles assumed he was simply taking his time. When they’d first gotten back

together, they had marathon fucking sessions that would last hours.

But as Itai slowed his pace to a lazy pump of his groin, Miles realized they were both too

tired to fuck with any enthusiasm. Miles clambered out of his clothing and turned around,
pulling Itai’s warm, semierect cock into his mouth. It quickly hardened with Miles’s
ministrations, but he was frustrated that the action was not being reciprocated. He glanced
down to see Itai had his eyes closed, fondling Miles’ scrotum with drowsy movements.

Even oral sex took longer these days, and by the time Itai was ready to come, Miles was

past the point of arousal and nearly angry with the need for his own release. He sped his
actions, but Itai slowed him down with his hands on Miles’s head. Pulling his hair gently to
set a rhythm, Itai slowed Miles, sped him up, then dropped the speed again to make it last as
long as possible before his breath caught and his release flooded over Miles’s tongue.

For all the time he took receiving his blowjob, however, Itai made perfunctory work

giving Miles a handjob. Not that Miles minded. He was so ready to come it only took a few
strong, knowing strokes before he came in Itai’s fist, his seed spilling over Itai’s fingers as
he gasped in relief.

Itai leaned over the bed to fetch the clean towel he kept for such purposes and wiped off

his hands. They kissed a quick good night, and Itai turned over onto his side.

Miles turned off the light and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

Sex with someone after years got stale, he reminded himself. It was inevitable in any

relationship. It wasn’t one person’s fault or the other. Still, he lay there feeling unsatisfied
and then mad at himself for feeling unsatisfied. What more did he want, anyway? Was it
that they no longer got sweaty when they fucked? That there was no spontaneity to their
lovemaking, that it was as rote as the brushing of their teeth, something the clocks could be
set to? Was it that the days of sneaky fucks in public bathrooms were long gone, and now it
was only here, in bed, at the end of the day, that they brought each other to completion? Or
was it the way that it all ended, a pat on the shoulder, a quick kiss thank you, and the
turning of one’s back?

But Miles didn’t know how to fix something that wasn’t broken, only old. And this

wasn’t the time to be fixing anything anyway. On Saturday Itai’s product would launch,
they’d hopefully snare a buyer, and be rich by next week. And Miles would have his first
real catering gig, survive the holidays, and hopefully settle into a more stable business
pattern.

They were going through a rough patch was all. The very things that had brought them

together in the first place—independent drives to run their own businesses, to be the

masters of their own fates—were now coming to fruition, and in the process they had
drifted apart. But the relationship was still there. He still loved Itai, he reminded himself.
And he didn’t doubt that Itai loved him.

They would fix their communication, their sex life, their time together. As soon as

Fantastic sold and the holidays were over. It was Miles’s promise to himself.

Chapter Two

Bread-and-Butter Pickles

It was almost easy to forget the following day was the first day of Hanukkah.

After all, it was November, an unusual month for the holiday. And without his mother’s

decorations, extravagant menorah on the dining room table, and festive blue-and-white Star
of David streamers in the deli downstairs, it felt like any other Wednesday.

But it wasn’t just any Wednesday, Miles reminded himself as he carefully crawled out of

bed, letting Itai snore into his pillow. It was the last day open before two holidays, and only
two days before the Festival of Lights dinner.

This event would be Miles’s inaugural catering experience, and he was terrified about it.

He’d done small catering jobs for a restaurant in Amherst, Massachusetts, where he’d gone

to college, so he knew the basics.

But this was the first time he was catering his own gig, preparing a four-course Sabbath

dinner for fifteen reform rabbis and their spouses at the Jewish Community Center on

Mercer Island. The proceeds of the event were going to charity, and the price each rabbi

paid for his seat at the table was hefty, so Miles felt especially obliged to deliver something
special.

There’d been plenty of negotiations beforehand with Rabbi Kevin Fine, the organizer of

the event. He even created a sample menu for the rabbi to use in convincing another of his
fellow rabbis to hire Miles.

Now that he had impressed both rabbis with his menu, he had to recreate those dishes

on a large scale, all while still running the deli. He gave a silent curse to Chloe’s untimely
fertility and got to work on the pumpkin soup for Friday.

Right before the store opened at eight o’clock, Miles rushed upstairs and changed out of

his sweatpants, put on a clean T-shirt, and combed his hair. He hunted through the shaving
creams, colognes, aftershaves, hair gels, and various other grooming products on the
bathroom counter to find the sole item that belonged to him: a stick of deodorant. He
applied more than necessary, as if that would make up for his deficiency in personal care.

Two people waited outside the deli when he unlocked the door, both from the brokerage

next door, looking for their morning coffees.

The morning routine occupied Miles’s mind and saved him from rehashing last night’s

thoughts regarding Itai. But they all rushed back when the man himself opened the door
behind the counter and entered the store.

It was only nine, early for Itai, but he was dressed in khakis and a clean button-down,

he’d shaved, and his hair was impeccably slicked back. He kissed Miles on the cheek.

“Itai Zahari, reporting for duty.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Itai nodded. “I’m meeting Travis later to talk over Saturday’s agenda, but until then I’m

all yours.”

Miles felt love and gratitude flush through every part of him, yesterday’s concerns

washing away. “Thank you! With Chloe on leave, it’s almost impossible to do it all myself.”

“What do you want me to do?”
“If you could run the coffees and ring folks up while I finish prep for lunch, that would

be amazing.”

“Sure.” Itai moved to the old register. He frowned. “You know, we could use my iPad.

It would be a lot easier than this dinosaur.”

“Good idea. Let’s do that later though. For now all you need to know are these keys.”

Miles gave him a quick rundown of the register and its quirks. Itai was clever when it came

to machines, and by the time the next customer came in, he’d figured it out as he went
along.

The rest of the morning Miles felt like whistling as he wheeled the pickle barrels from

the walk-in fridge out into the store and heated his soup. Itai wasn’t the best help yet—he
required direction—but it made such a difference having a second set of hands that Miles
realized he’d been killing himself doing the job single-handedly.

The morning rush died off around ten, and Miles took advantage of Itai in the front by

going into the kitchen to label the chutney he’d made last night, setting aside a dozen for the
customers who’d requested it the day before. After a few minutes, Itai leaned against the
door frame, looking bored.

“You want me to do something out here? No one’s around.”
“Could you wipe the tables down?”
“I did that.” Itai moved closer and rubbed Miles’s back. “You know, when Fantastic is

bought, we could hire all the staff you want down here. You wouldn’t even have to work.”

Miles frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“So you don’t have to clean tables and serve customers?”
“But that’s sort of the point. I like doing those things.” Miles realized Itai probably

didn’t. He rubbed Itai’s back in reciprocation. “It’s nice having your help. It makes a big
difference.”

Itai shrugged. “I want to help while I can. But I’m also going to be out with Travis all

day, so I don’t want you to feel left out.”

“I assume it’s for work, right?” Miles joked. When Itai didn’t respond, he felt that

familiar kick of jealousy. “Tell me it’s for work.”

Itai snorted. “Don’t be so paranoid. Of course it’s for work.”
“Of course?” Miles said. “It’s not like I made up the fact that you guys dated for two

years, you know.” As soon as he said it, Miles regretted it.

Itai gave him that blank look. “I don’t want to hash over this again. You agreed to let it

go.” Itai turned and went back into the deli.

Miles chopped cucumbers angrily. Itai was right, unfortunately. After Itai admitted to

having sex with other men, including Travis, he’d requested an open relationship and Miles
had refused and broken up with him. Six months later, when Miles finally gave in to Itai’s
begging and took him back, they promised to only look forward. Itai would change his
philandering ways, and Miles would forgive and forget his past transgressions.

Besides, reminding him of their past wasn’t going to improve anything. But it bothered

him that Itai considered his jealousy of the countless hours he spent with his ex as
something unreasonable. Any person, regardless of whether they had been betrayed in the
past by a lover, would find the situation awkward at the very least.

“Sandwich order coming in,” Itai called out.
“I’ll be right out.” Miles washed his hands and joined Itai behind the counter.

Itai remained at the register during the lunch rush, while Miles ran about collecting pickle

orders, slapping together sandwiches, and serving out soup. Halfway through the rush the
bell rang and a man entered the deli but didn’t get in line.

Miles glanced up from his sandwich station briefly and did a double take. He knew that

curly brown hair and wide, angular smile anywhere. His haughty expression as he took in
the deli removed some of his physical charm, but there was no doubt why Itai had originally
found Travis Spector attractive.

He was a sexy combination of masculinity and twink, a slim, straight body with dark hair

on his arms and his chest, protruding slightly from under his T-shirt on display. He kept his
beard trimmed and tidy, and both ears were pierced with elegant gold rings.

“Travis is here,” Miles mumbled.
Itai immediately glanced up and grinned. “Travis! You want an Americano?”
Travis sauntered over. He narrowed his eyes at Miles, nodding. “Miles.”
“Hi.” Miles kept his eyes focused on the veggie Reuben in his hands so he didn’t have to

look at Travis’s smug face.

“I thought you were going to remodel the place when you took over,” Travis

commented.

“I did.”
“Oh!” Travis chuckled. “I couldn’t tell.”

Miles glared over at Itai, who tactfully ignored them both, focusing instead on the

espresso machine. Miles realized he was forcefully squeezing the sandwich and leaving
marks in the sourdough. He released the innocent entrée but found particular pleasure in
slicing the sandwich aggressively in half and skewering the halves with sharp toothpicks.

“We’re meeting Andrea for lunch,” Travis announced over the counter.

Itai poured hot water into a cup to mix with the espresso shot. “Why? I thought we were

set.”

“She wants to go over some last details of the PR campaign.”
“All right.” Itai threw in a dash of cream and two spoons of sugar before handing the to-

go cup over to Travis. The fact that he knew the intimacies of Travis’s coffee made Miles
inordinately jealous, especially since the other day Miles asked Itai to make him a coffee and
he didn’t know how Miles took it.

But there were customers at the counter, so he tuned out Itai and Travis’s conversation

to take the order and the money of the two women waiting, trying very hard to maintain an
engaged, chipper expression and purge resentment from his face.

“May I try one of your bread-and-butter pickles?” Travis asked Miles. “Itai goes on and

on about them.”

“Does he?” Miles smiled at that. “Well, yeah. He likes them, but he’s into all my

pickles.”

Travis blinked. Itai scowled, but Miles ignored this, whistling to himself as he fetched

bread-and-butter slices from the fridge. He considered being petty and handing Travis a
single slice, but the proud cook in him couldn’t help it; he cut a thick slice of fresh white
bread, slathered some butter on it, and covered it in the pickles, the way they were meant to
be eaten.

Travis took the plate without even thanking him.
Dickwad.
“I’m going to run upstairs and quickly change.” Itai kissed Miles briefly before fleeing

for a change of attire. Travis stood at the counter and ate while Miles cut bread for the soup
orders. He felt like he should engage Travis in conversation. But it was hard to make small
talk with someone he profoundly disliked.

Travis clearly felt the same way. He studied the glass counter display case without

making eye contact. When Itai returned a few minutes later, Travis looked relieved. He
polished off the last of his bread and crumpled the paper plate Miles had provided, tossing it
across the deli toward the compost bin.

It went in, a clean shot. Damn it!
“I’ll see you later.” Itai enthusiastically followed Travis out the front door, close behind

him. A momentary image of the two of them fucking filled Miles’s head, but he shook it.
He was turning into a jealous bitch.

He immediately missed Itai’s help, but at least he’d gotten caught up enough to fulfill all

the chutney orders, start the soup base for Friday, and prep three more batches of pickles.

Miles felt completely wrung out by the time the lunch rush tapered into a small crowd of

folks enjoying their meals at the tables. He wiped surfaces down and did dishes, taking
advantage of the quiet. When he heard the bell over the door ring again, he silently cursed
and turned.

And gaped in surprise.

The customer from the day before, the one who could stuff an entire pickle in his

mouth, was back. Only this time he looked different.

For one thing, he was wearing a suit. He’d clearly attempted to make something of the

mess of his hair, but the effort was largely ineffective, with strands breaking free of any
control and spilling over his eyes.

He marched without hesitation to the counter and flashed his wallet, which Miles

thought an odd thing to do.

Then he looked at the wallet and realized it was actually a badge.
Fuck.
“Hi, Miles. I’m Detective Dominic Delbene with the Seattle Police, narcotics division.

You got a second?”

Miles’s mind raced. What drugs did I do? He was panicked. Then he remembered. Oh

yeah, I don’t do drugs.

“Sure.” Miles wiped his hands and motioned for the detective to follow him around the

corner into the hallway that led to the kitchen. Miles stood facing the deli in case another
customer appeared. “What’s this about?”

Detective Delbene quirked an eyebrow. He was quite good-looking in a rough, unkempt

way, Miles decided. “I can’t go into a lot of details, but I’m going to need to stake out your
deli for the next two weeks.”

“What? Why?”
“I need to do surveillance, nothing violent. But I’m investigating criminal activity.”
Miles frowned. “Drugs?”
The detective shrugged.
“So it’s drugs,” Miles said.
“Let’s just say it isn’t food poisoning.” He smirked.
“I feel like I need to know more information,” Miles insisted.
“If, hypothetically, you were to agree to having a police officer undercover in order to

identify a supplier of narcotics, you would be getting a real bastard off the streets and
making my life a hell of a lot easier in terms of how long this investigation is going to take.”

“I can’t believe there’s going to be a drug deal in my deli.” Miles mind raced through a

catalog of regular customers. “Who?”

The detective shrugged. “I don’t know who. That’s the reason I’d like to stake it out.”
“So there’s a kingpin drug dealer who’s a regular customer?” Miles said loudly.
The detective winced and glanced back into the deli. “Let’s keep it down a bit, all right?”
“Right. Sorry. It’s just hard to believe. Most of my clients are on drugs, but the anti-

inflammatory kind. I mean, the roughest of the folks who regularly shop here is a tattoo
artist by the name of Cringe, but I happen to know he works for homeless cat rescue, and
—”

“It could be anyone. Don’t feel badly about not being able to pick him out. That’s why

small neighborhood locations like this are great venues for illegal activity.”

Miles remembered a strange woman, Lois something, who started coming in about a

month ago. “Are you sure it’s a male? Because there’s this insane lady who keeps telling me
that drinking pickling liquid staves off menopause.”

Detective Delbene barked out a surprising, exuberant laugh, totally unbefitting an officer

of the law with biceps the size of Miles’s face. “I’m pretty sure our suspect is male.”

Miles frowned. “You sure there isn’t going to be any danger?”

Delbene shook his head. “I can’t guarantee anything, and I’d have to be prepared. That

said, it’s unlikely. And I’ll be here, undercover, and usually will be accompanied by one or
two plainclothes officers, so when the deal goes down, we’ll be able to get you and your
customers out of the way before any trouble.”

Miles felt his palms go sweaty at the mere whisper of the word trouble. Trouble was

something he avoided, like high-fructose corn syrup and stinging nettles—always around
but unquestionably unhealthy.

His nervousness must have shown, because the detective tapped his shoulder in a

fraternal pat. “Hey, listen. You don’t have to agree. It’s up to you. But it would make a big
difference.”

Miles swallowed his apprehension. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. So you’ll be hiding in the wall or

something?” Now he understood why the man was so keen on examining his store the other
day.

“It would be easier if I could be in front. I could temporarily work for you. It would

allow me to keep an eye out for suspicious activity.” He grinned. “And hey, maybe learn a
thing or two about pickling! Those eggs were incredible, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Miles felt himself flush with the honest enthusiasm of the detective. “The only

hesitation I have is that I’m really slammed right now. My regular employee is on maternity
leave, so I don’t have time to pretend—”

“Oh, no pretending. I’d be happy to do actual work for you. As long as I can stay out

front and keep watch.”

Miles studied his expression. The detective seemed enthusiastic, and Miles couldn’t

determine if it was the prospect of catching his suspect or working in the deli that excited
him more. It seemed honestly like he wanted to make pickles. Which, for a policeman,
was…unexpected.

Now that Miles considered it, the idea of having an extra pair of hands around during

the holiday week sounded like a blessing in disguise. “That would be great actually.”

Delbene smiled widely. “Think of it as payment for your assistance in letting us use your

shop for undercover work.”

“What about the other officers?”
“They’ll be posing as customers. You don’t have to worry about who they are. I’ll keep

tabs on them.”

“When can you start?” Miles realized he sounded a trifle too ebullient and rephrased his

question. “I mean, when do you need to start?”

The detective checked a calendar on his phone. “The drop is supposed to occur

sometime between next Monday and the following week. Tomorrow’s a holiday, so why
don’t we start Friday?”

“All right.”
“Thanks, Miles.” Delbene offered a large, toothy grin and shook Miles’s hand.
“How’d you find out my name?” Miles asked. “Yesterday you didn’t know I was the

owner.”

“I looked you up when I got to the precinct.” Delbene winked. He turned back toward

the deli.

Miles followed, feeling a little bewildered by both this development and Delbene

himself. It was as though he was flirting, but maybe it was his way of getting those he
needed something from to comply.

“Can I order a sandwich before I head back to the station?” the detective asked.
“Sure thing, Detective,” Miles said. He moved behind the counter and washed his hands.
“You can call me by my first name, Dominic. Or Nic is what my friends call me. And

since you’re supposed to be my employer, it’s apt.”

“Okay, Nic. What do you want?”
Nic studied the menu board. “I’ll try that veggie Reuben of yours.”

“It’s good. Trust me.” Miles sliced the bread. Chloe had once complained building

sandwiches was boring, and occasionally that was true. But Miles sometimes found great
enjoyment in it, layering the right proportion of ingredients, creating a complex melody of
flavors that could be enjoyed with each bite. As Miles built the sandwich, Nic watched
intently.

“It comes with a side pickle,” Miles said. “What would you like?”
“Another half-sour. That was amazing.”

Miles smiled at the compliment and fished out a pickle to put on the plate. He handed

the plate across the counter to the detective.

Nic looked eager to eat it, which made Miles excited to serve it. That was the fun part

about food, in his opinion. Nothing beat cooking for someone who truly appreciated one’s
work.

“How much do I owe you?” Nic asked.
“As an employee, lunch is free,” Miles told him.

Nic laughed at that. “Wow, company perks on the first day.” He took a large bite of the

sandwich, devouring half of it in one chew. Again Miles marveled at the man’s jaw
stretching.

“Absolutely fucking amazing,” Nic said with his mouth full. He closed his eyes. “Damn.

I can’t believe there’s no meat in this!”

“All done with cheese, sauerkraut, Russian dressing, and some really amazing smoked

and spiced tempeh that I prepare here.”

“You are a master chef, amigo.”

Miles cleaned off his cutting board, looking down to hide his warming blush. It had been

a long time since he’d been complimented so much. He was more used to the grumblings of
his older clients, who seemed incapable of experiencing satisfaction.

He had a brief rush in the store before closing as faithful clients stocked up on last-

minute purchases of pickles and relishes for Thanksgiving. Despite the fact that Miles was
occupied with clients, the detective didn’t leave. He pulled up a chair at an unoccupied table
and finished his sandwich.

When he brought back his plate, he said, “I can wash this for you.”

Miles shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m inundated with dirty dishes after today’s rush.

You can toss it in the bin there with the rest, and I’ll get to it when I can.” As Nic stepped

behind the counter to return the plate, Miles had an idea. “Though if you have a few more
minutes, I can show you around while we’re closed.”

“That would be great.”
Miles introduced each barrel of pickle before wheeling them back into the walk-in fridge.

He then pointed out the espresso machine, cheese slicer, hot and cold stations, and the

display case behind the counter where he kept the pickles sold in bulk.

He gave Nic a complete tour of the small area behind the counter, then led him down

the hall, showing him the bathroom, the storage room, the walk-in, and the back kitchen.
Nic seemed especially excited by the kitchen.

“This is huge!” he said, nodding in appreciation. “My parents would have killed for a

kitchen this size in their place.”

“Yeah, it was the determining factor for my parents in buying this building. My mother

hates cooking in cramped spaces, so she designed this.” He waved his hand over the full
commercial kitchen with pride. “I grew up in here. I probably spent more time in this
kitchen than in my own bedroom.”

Nic quirked an eyebrow. “You grew up in the store?”
“Yeah. Well, here and in the upstairs apartment. That’s where I live now as well.”
“Oh? Can I take a look?”

Miles tried to hide his surprise at the invasion of privacy, but it must have been

noticeable.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Nic explained. “It’s just that if there’s an opportunity for us to

stage an officer up there who has a line of sight to the front of the deli, it could be useful in
our planning.”

“I guess.” Miles shrugged away the sense of trespassing and led Nic upstairs.

At least Miles and Itai kept a clean house, he thought, opening the door to the main

living area. The place looked like it had barely been lived in for months, which was pretty
accurate actually. Other than the bedroom, the couch in front of the television, and Itai’s
office in Miles’s brother’s old bedroom, they’d both been too busy to occupy the rest of the
space.

Nic did a quick, thorough scan of the periphery, focusing on the front room where the

couch and television took up part of the room and a dining table took up the rest of the
space. On the wall between the two windows overlooking Market Street, there was a large
black-and-white framed photograph of Miles and Itai, taken earlier in the year by a mutual
friend as a birthday gift for Itai. The two leaned their heads close together, Itai’s arm around
Miles’s shoulder, pulling him close.

Nic narrowed his eyes at the portrait. “Who’s that?” he asked bluntly.
“Uh, that’s Itai. My boyfriend.” Miles watched Nic—he never knew how people were

going to react when he first informed them he was gay.

The news didn’t seem to take Nic by surprise. He turned and stared inscrutably at Miles,

even cocking his head a bit, as if trying to identify some sort of skin rash on his face.

“Does he live here?” Nic asked.
Miles nodded. “He’s not home right now, but yeah. We live together.”

Nic sighed. “Well, the view from the windows is limited by your awning, so I don’t think

it’s worth the invasion of your privacy to station an officer up here.”

“Sorry,” Miles said inexplicably.
“Thanks for letting me look,” Nic said. He started back downstairs, and Miles followed.
“Does Itai work in the store?” Nic asked. He started rolling up his sleeves.
“Yes. Well, no…” Miles scratched his head and winced. “It’s kind of a long story. To

keep it short, he helps when he can.”

“Is he going to do those dishes?”

Miles laughed at that. “God, no. But we do have a dishwasher in the kitchen. It simply

needs to be loaded.”

“I’ll do it. You probably have to do inventory.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I don’t want to go back to the precinct.” Nic laughed, looking a little embarrassed

himself. “There’s a retirement party for a sergeant in narcotics that I fucking despise, and if

I can have a legitimate excuse to not have to put on a smiling face and stand around eating

cake with the bastard, all the better.”

Miles laughed. “Wow. A detective who wants to do my dishes. Will you marry me?”

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Flirtatious comedy with straight men you just met

doesn’t work well.

But Nic posed dramatically, clasping his hands over his heart. “For that pickled egg

recipe, I’ll be yours forever.”

“Don’t sell yourself cheap. I can write that one down,” Miles told him, smirking. He

showed Nic where the dishwasher tray was and started showing him how to load it, but Nic
stopped him.

“I told you, my parents owned an Italian deli in Portland for years. I know how to work

a commercial dishwasher, unless this one is finicky.”

“Nope. Knock yourself out.” Miles turned but hesitated at the door. It felt odd leaving a

stranger in his mother’s kitchen, but the guy had irrefutable ID.

The familiar sound of the dishwasher churning through its first cycle filled the building

as Miles crouched and counted items in the front display case. He swiveled and came face-
to-face with Nic’s crotch.

Nic stepped back, and Miles shot to his feet. “Hey.”
“The dishes have been solved,” Nic said. Miles thought he observed a bit of color on the

detective’s face, but it was hard to tell under that rough stubble.

They stared at each other for a moment.
“Thank you so much,” Miles said at last, clearing his throat. “So I’ll see you on Friday?”
“Yeah. What time do you open?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“You want me to come in an hour early to help with prep? I’m no pickle master, but I

could certainly cut a few onions and save you the tears.”

“Sure. That would be great. How about seven?”
Nic nodded. He gave Miles a crooked smile. “Thanks again for helping us out.”
“Just don’t let me get shot. My mother will kill me,” Miles informed him.
Nic didn’t take it as a joke. He frowned. “I’m not going to let anything affect you.”
For some reason, Miles didn’t believe him.

Having spent so much time showing Nic around, Miles was now behind schedule. He

rushed to finish the books in time for his deposit and complete his shopping.

The grocery store was packed with shoppers preparing for Thanksgiving feasts. It was

going to be odd, he realized, having Thanksgiving at home without his parents around. It
was even more peculiar to have Hanukkah with only Itai to keep him company.

But when Miles finally retired upstairs for the night, it was past eight, and Itai still hadn’t

returned home. Miles originally planned to whip up latkes to celebrate the first night of

Hanukkah. But since Itai wasn’t there to enjoy them, he defaulted to reheating the remnants

of the soup of the day. He searched through his drawers and found the small silver menorah
his parents had given him when he went away to college.

He texted Itai a few times to find out when he was coming back, but didn’t get a

response. This wasn’t unusual. Itai often forgot to check his phone for messages. Tonight,
though, it was particularly annoying.

Miles never had a Hanukkah alone, in all the thirty-four years of his existence, and there

was something inordinately sad about lighting that first candle and saying the prayers by
himself. He’d never placed the true value of the holiday on family and friends until then.

But without them, it was nothing more than lighting a mere candle and having some

leftovers.

His loneliness was made more acute by the realization that Itai was not only not with

him, but was with Travis instead. What kind of planning required meeting until past eight
o’clock at night?

His stomach clenched, the thought too close to the ones he’d had the first time they

dated. Back then, he began to suspect Itai was sleeping around but only halfheartedly
believed it until the evidence became too overpowering to ignore.

But this was work, Itai had said. And he’d promised never to cheat again. Miles had told

him a breakup was better than infidelity, and Itai had claimed to understand this. So the
chances of this being anything other than a work meeting were slim.

Still…

The small, inch-long candle in the menorah sputtered as it guttered out. Miles stared at

the smoking remains of the candlelight, trying to convince his aching, tired body to go to
bed, but still somehow unwilling to end the day like this.

He did dishes, worked out, took a shower, and found the first of the small gifts he’d

purchased for Itai months ago when he’d had the time. It was a nice pair of wool socks.

Socks weren’t fancy, but Itai was so picky with brand names they ended up costing more

than Miles’s budgeted amount for the gift.

He hadn’t planned on wrapping it for Itai, but now he did, and the gesture seemed to

give him perverse grief. He checked his phone for messages, but Itai hadn’t called. He
passive-aggressively left the present by the back door so Itai would see it and hopefully feel
racked with guilt.

Miles went to bed.

Then he got up twenty minutes later and returned the gift to his hiding spot because

petty guilt mongering was a low blow.

As he drifted off to sleep, he realized the high road was good for the soul but

unsatisfying for the heart.

Chapter Three

Fire-and-Ice Pickles

Miles woke at five thirty in the morning, like he always did. He sat up, rubbing his eyes,

and then blissfully realized it was Thanksgiving and the store was closed.

He threw his head back against the pillow with relish. He stretched his legs and rubbed

against a naked Itai, who must have come in sometime last night when he was sleeping.

Miles reached over and curled around Itai’s back. His skin was warm and smelled of

yesterday’s cologne and pine soap. He rubbed his hand over the rough stubble of Itai’s
beard. His Mediterranean levels of hair growth always astonished Miles.

Itai grumbled in his sleep and buried his head deeper into his pillow. “Mmm…sleeping.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Miles said, voice cracked with sleep.
“Mmm.”
“And Happy Hanukkah,” he added.
“…ackshav ten lo l’lechet lishon…” Itai mumbled Hebrew Miles didn’t understand. Itai

only reverted to Hebrew when truly exhausted, so Miles spared him further torment and
turned over, going back to sleep himself.

He woke up again two hours later, his body unused to such luxurious slumber. Warm

light filtered through the dark curtains. It was a rare to have a sunny Thanksgiving.

He was sporting a hard morning boner and really wanted a fuck. He slid up against Itai

again, rubbing alongside his back, more determined that he had been hours before.

Itai mumbled again, but this time he rolled over, curling his arms around Miles to pull

him close. Miles rubbed his erection against Itai’s naked crotch, and soon there was
movement, Itai’s slumbering cock coming to life.

Itai rubbed his eyes.
“Morning,” Miles whispered. He kissed Itai. Itai’s mouth tasted stale with sleep but was

hot and wet.

“Hello,” Itai whispered back. He kissed more enthusiastically.
“Late night?” Miles asked, kissing around Itai’s mouth as he lowered his hands to

stroked Itai’s thickly haired chest.

“Mm. Had some problems with the RPC services, had to redo part of the module for it.”

Itai kept his eyes closed as if still attempting to sleep, but his hands began to wander,

rubbing along Miles, reaching lower until they found Miles’s cock. He began to slowly
pump Miles in his hand, a lazy rhythm that filled Miles with hunger for more.

Miles kissed his way down Itai’s chest. Itai’s erection glistened with precum, standing

aloft despite the sluggish pace of the rest of his body.

Miles leaned down to take Itai’s cock in his mouth when he hesitated. Itai’s crotch

smelled strong, like semen and sweat and…

Someone else?
Miles jerked his head back, feeling as though ice water rushed through his veins.

Itai cracked open his eyes. “What?” he asked sleepily.
“You’ve fucked someone,” Miles said.
“What?” Itai scowled. He sat up. “You’re talking crazy.”
“Itai—”
“Is this about Travis again?” Itai snapped, coming to full alertness. He rubbed his hand

over his stubble. “You can’t let it go, can you?”

Miles sat back on his haunches, his cock wilting. “Did you have sex with him?”
“Miles—”
“No, just answer me honestly. Did you?”

Itai rolled his eyes. “I told you. We were programming last night. But maybe I should

sleep around, if this is going to happen every time we have sex!”

The words cut Miles to the core. “This doesn’t happen every time we have sex!” he

shouted. “But I know what you smell like and what I smell like, and your dick smells like
it’s been in some other asshole!”

“Are you a bloodhound?” Itai sneered. He rolled away from Miles. “This is bullshit. I’m

getting up.”

Miles leaned against the headboard, feeling pissed off and hurt and disappointed all at

once. Itai shuffled out of bed and immediately dressed. He slammed the bedroom door on
his way out.

Miles stared at the bedsheet. What if he was wrong? God, what if he was losing his mind

over jealousy? He had to trust Itai. If they didn’t have trust, what was left?

He wished he could languish the rest of the morning in bed, feeling sorry for himself.

But he wasn’t that kind of person. Focusing on other projects took his mind off heartache;

besides, he had a ton of prep to do for tomorrow’s dinner.

So he dressed in jeans and the old T-shirt he liked to cook in and headed toward the

kitchen to grab some breakfast. On his way he looked out the back window and saw Itai’s
Acura was still parked outside. He hadn’t run off, at least.

He then heard the familiar clack of Itai’s keyboard emanating from their office. So he

was working. Either that or avoiding Miles. Miles wanted to go in and apologize so they
could enjoy the holiday. But he also didn’t want to apologize after being stood up for the
first night of Hanukkah. So he went straight downstairs.

Two hours into prep, anger had faded and worry had taken its place. At this rate he’d be

spending Thanksgiving alone.

And for what? Maybe Itai hadn’t cheated. It was a reaction based on a hunch. There

was no evidence.

Miles finished grating the last of the potatoes and returned upstairs, hesitating at the

doorway to Itai’s office.

Miles had spent much of his youth lingering in that doorway, yelling at his brother. He

hoped this interaction went more smoothly than the ones with Dan that usually ended with
him grounded.

“Knock knock.”

Itai’s computer screen was an indecipherable assortment of code. He looked over his

shoulder. “Hi.” He turned back to his program.

Miles entered quietly, stomach in knots. He observed Itai’s jaw clenching and

unclenching in unspoken anxiety. He looked tired. Miles placed the small gift beside Itai’s
laptop. “Happy Hanukkah. Sorry about this morning.”

Itai stopped typing. He turned back and studied Miles with an uncertain expression.

“Baby.” He reached up and cupped Miles’s neck, pulling him down gently for a quick kiss.

When they broke for air, Itai sighed. “I am also sorry. I feel bad about not being here more

so I get snappy.”

Miles smiled. “Snippy.”

Itai smiled back. “Right. Snippy. Snappy is happy, yes?” He shook his head. “You didn’t

have to get me anything.”

“I know, but it’s tradition. It’s weird spending Hanukkah without my parents, so I

needed to buy someone gifts.” He blew it off as if he hadn’t thought hard about each gift
he’d gotten his lover.

Itai’s expression softened. “And I wasn’t here last night. I didn’t realize it was

important.”

Miles shrugged, not wanting to admit how much it had hurt. “I know. You had work.”

Itai shook his head. “I will always have work, though.” He carefully unwrapped the gift,

preserving the gold paper and folding it as if he would cherish it forever.

He opened the box and pulled out the socks. “Oh, lovely! Paul Smith. Thank you,

darling.” He stood and embraced Miles. They kissed again, and quickly the kiss grew
heated. “Where were we this morning?” he whispered in Miles’s ear.

Miles laughed against Itai’s lips. “If I recall, I think I was getting ready to stick my ass in

the air and have you fuck me.”

Itai’s eyebrow lifted. “Here I am, exhausted from programming, and you want me to do

all the work?”

“Yes.”

Itai laughed at that. “Fine, fine. Be that demanding.” Itai removed his clothes carefully,

folding each item and placing them in a neat pile on his computer chair.

For his part, Miles simply undressed and left everything sprawled on the floor. He lay on

the carpet waiting while Itai went to the bedroom. He returned with their lube and a
condom. He wasn’t hard, so he squeezed lube onto his palm, rubbed his hands together,
and starting fingering Miles’s ass as he stroked himself.

Itai loved ass play and could stretch and finger Miles’s opening forever. He loved

pressing lubricant deep inside of Miles, smoothing it over the puckered flesh, scissoring his
fingers and breathing heavily behind Miles, his other fingers stroking the back side of
Miles’s scrotum.

It was torture. Pleasant torture, but excruciating nevertheless. He was a cruel, selfish

lover, Miles realized, taking endless pleasure in drawing Miles out to beyond comfort, when
all Miles ever wanted was someone to fuck him hard.

But there was always this, until even thrusting down on Itai’s thick fingers didn’t speed

up the process, even begging, even groping between his legs to stroke Itai’s own hard
member.

“I’m getting there,” Itai said huskily.
“God…” Miles grabbed his own cock and started stroking it, unable to stop himself. But

Itai put his hand over Miles’s and gently pulled it away.

“Don’t. You’ll come too fast.”
“Itai! For God’s sake. Fuck me now!”

With a sigh of contentment—or maybe frustration, Miles didn’t know—Itai finally

pulled his fingers from inside of Miles’s body. Miles watched over his shoulder as Itai rolled
a condom on his cock, his fingers shiny and oily with lube.

He spread Miles’s cheeks wide, lined up his cock, and slowly entered Miles’s body.

After all that preparation, his entrance was smooth and open, and Miles didn’t get that flush

of pleasure until Itai was all the way in, the tip of his cock brushing against Miles’s prostate.

Yes, finally.

Miles thrust back hard, and Itai groaned. He started a slow, steady rhythm, but Miles

wanted it faster, wanted it deeper. He rammed his ass against Itai, trying to fill himself with
that cock until he exploded. He was almost ashamed by the way he needed it, the wanton
desire to spread himself apart and be taken.

Itai sped his movements. Miles couldn’t help it; he grabbed his dick again, but this time

Itai was too focused on fucking him to stop Miles from pleasuring himself. Within a few

quick strokes Miles came into his own hand, clenching his teeth down on his groan.

Itai pounded away longer. At first it was nothing, and then it became a bit painful,

Miles’s sensitive flesh well past the point of sensory overload. By the time Itai came,
Miles’s ass felt raw and gaping, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Itai could stick his hand in

there.

Afterward, they lay on the floor, catching their breath. Miles noticed for the first time

that a large crack split the plaster of his brother’s old room. It was yet another repair needed
for the aged building that he would not be able to afford.

“What do you want for Thanksgiving dinner this year?” Miles asked. They’d done the

traditional turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and pumpkin pie the first time they’d
dated. Itai had been polite but clearly unimpressed. Maybe it was solely an American
pleasure.

“It’s Hanukkah too,” Itai mumbled, sounding once again on the verge of sleep. “How

about latkes?”

Miles shrugged. “Why not. I’m already grating enough potatoes to feed an army. Or in

this case, half a platoon of rabbis who will no doubt feel jilted of their traditional brisket.”

Itai slowly re-dressed. “Surely they know it’s going to be halavi, yes?”

Miles shrugged. “It was Rabbi Kevin’s idea to hire me. I’ll let him handle the PR

fallout.”

In actuality, Miles had had a long, hard discussion with Rabbi Kevin about tomorrow’s

Festival of Lights.

Rabbi Kevin Fine was one of Miles’s more quirky regular customers. He was the head

of a reform synagogue outside of Seattle and a man whose ecstasy at discovering a Jewish
kosher vegetarian deli in his neighborhood was barely controlled.

Rabbi Kevin was a vegetarian, not for kosher reasons but because of his belief in animal

rights. And so when he was put in charge of organizing the fundraising dinner, he
immediately turned to Miles.

“But you’re serving fish at least, right?” Itai asked.
“Yeah, against Rabbi Kevin’s desires. He wanted me to work some sort of tempeh

miracle. But I’ve placed an order for a lovely copper river salmon.”

Itai finished dressing and frowned down at Miles. “You going to lie like that all day?”
“Maybe.” Miles stretched and yawned, enjoying the simple act of being naked on the

carpet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Damn, he was getting old fast.

Itai nudged Miles’s hip with his toe. “Get up. I have to work on this object model.”
“I can model my object.” Miles wiggled his hips for emphasis.
“Very funny.” Itai nudged Miles harder. “Go away.”

Miles sat up and scowled. “There was once a time when you liked having me lie around

all naked.”

“It’s not sanitary having your cum-filled ass leaking onto the carpet. I’m going to have to

clean it now.”

“It’s your cum,” Miles sulked.
Itai sat down and started typing.

Miles admitted to himself he was procrastinating. He lurched back to his feet and started

toward the bathroom.

“Pick up your clothes!” Itai yelled.

Miles rolled his eyes and scooped up his discarded clothing. Really, what was the harm

in leaving a pair of pants on the floor for a mere ten minutes? It wasn’t as though he was
going out. He was only heading downstairs into the kitchen again.

He took a quick shower, dressed, and resumed his prep work downstairs. He also called

the three temps he’d hired to help with the event and arranged where to meet Friday. Two
of them seemed annoyed to be bothered on a holiday. But it wasn’t his fault that the Jewish
calendar was inconvenient this year.

As Miles worked, he began a list of items he’d forgotten to pick up earlier and would

now need to purchase Friday. Just thinking about how crazy the following day would be
made his stomach churn, so he distracted himself by switching gears and mixing up a sour-
cream dipping sauce for his latkes and making a quick salad for dinner.

“Baby.”
Miles started, nearly dropping his knife on his toe. “Don’t startle me like that!”
“Sorry.” Itai looked sheepish, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got some bad news. Travis

called. The article on Fantastic has an earlier deadline than we thought, so they want to do
the interview tomorrow morning.”

Miles shook his head. “Of course they do.” He went back to chopping tomatoes.
“I can’t change it.”

“I know. It’s fine.”
Itai’s eyebrows came together. “It is?”
“Yeah. It’s disappointing but not surprising.”
“I thought you were freaking out about it being slammed in the store tomorrow.”
“I am, but I’m training a new employee tomorrow, so it should be fine.” Miles tossed the

sliced tomatoes into a bowl. “I’ll have to—”

“New employee?” Itai interrupted. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday,” Miles said. He considered telling Itai the whole story about Detective

Delbene’s undercover work but decided against it. It wasn’t that he was intentionally

keeping secrets, but…

Okay, he was, he admitted to himself. But it was for a reason. Itai had suffered some

pretty intensive post-traumatic stress after his stint in the Israeli army, and an unfortunate
incident that occurred outside the base where he was stationed had left him particularly
sensitive about any issue involving guns. It didn’t seem like the best idea to mention there
would be an armed officer in the shop for the next two weeks. Or the possibility that, as
remote as Nic suggested it would be, there could be violence in the deli. The idea made

Miles sweaty with anxiety, and he didn’t have PTSD or any personal negative experiences

with weapons. So he kept his response short.

“A guy came in the store wanting to know more about pickling. He asked if he could

work with me for a few weeks and learn how to pickle.”

Itai scowled. “Why, so he can turn around and open a competing business somewhere?

That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Miles.”

“No, it isn’t.” Miles’s hackles rose. “He’s not an entrepreneur. He just likes my food.”
“How do you know anything about this guy? He might rip off the till; he might steal

your mother’s recipes and sell them. Who knows?” Itai angrily slammed the dishwasher.
“And I thought you were going to consult with me on the business decisions! How come I
wasn’t part of the hiring process?”

Miles narrowed his eyes. “You serious? You’ve spent—what?—three hours working in

the deli so far?”

“I’m planning on spending more time there! I—”
“You’re busy. I get it. You’re always busy, Itai. It’s not going to change.”
“The sale is this weekend, for God’s sake! Afterward—”
“Afterward, what? You’ll be sitting on a stool, wondering what on earth you will do with

all your free time?” Miles snapped. When Itai didn’t reply, Miles answered for him. “Of
course you won’t. You’ll immediately begin a new project. You and I both know that. And
if you’ve shown no interest or inclination in learning to cook before now, why would you
decide to take it up?”

Itai looked furious. “I thought you wanted me to be your partner in the deli!”
“I do!” Miles cried back. “But only if you want to as well. It shouldn’t be something you

dread doing!”

“Well, I dread doing it now!” Itai stormed out of the deli.

Miles grabbed the bowl of sliced tomatoes and threw it against the wall. It was aluminum

so the bowl survived, but the tomatoes did not. They splattered against the kitchen wall in a
dramatic display of mess.

Miles kicked the counter.
He breathed heavily.
He counted to sixty.

And then he bent over, picked up the bowl, and cleaned up the ruined tomatoes. His

hands were shaking with adrenaline.

Two large fights in one day was a new record for the two of them. Well, unless he

considered the epic twenty-four-hour ordeal of their breakup that included Itai sobbing and
Miles vomiting on the sidewalk.

Oh, fond memories.

He wiped up his mess and went back to prepare their Thanksgiving dinner salad as if

nothing had happened. He wasn’t apologizing first this time. It was Itai’s turn. He had been
the irrational one.

He carried his cold plate of latkes, sauce, and a tomatoless salad upstairs.

Itai was still in the office, likely instant messaging someone from the rhythm of his

typing: a burst of activity, then a minute of silence before resuming his typing.

Miles put the food in their fridge, took a shower, and sat himself in front of the

television to watch the second half of the Raiders and Cowboys football game. He had a
second gift for Itai in his wardrobe, but he was very purposefully avoiding wrapping it.

Presents weren’t for assholes.

He realized he hadn’t heard typing for a while and turned. Itai stood behind the couch,

jacket on, looking upset.

“I’m going to the store. You want anything?” Itai asked.
“Store’s closed,” Miles told him. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“The gas station will be open. I just want beer.”
“Knock yourself out.” Miles turned back to the coverage of the game, anger making him

incapable of looking Itai in the face.

Itai left. Miles felt like his heart was bruised.
What had happened to them?

How could they have been so madly in love only a year before that the idea of spending

even hours apart terrified them both?

He tried to enjoy the football game, but the thing about fighting with someone he loved

was that he couldn’t let it go.

And he did love Itai, he reminded himself. But maybe not as much as he used to.

Just as he was successfully distracted by the football game, Itai returned. His cheeks

were flush from the cold air, and he looked happier than when he’d left.

He marched up to the sofa and dropped a large bottle of champagne on the coffee table.

“Sorry.”

Miles glanced up. Itai sat beside him. They both stared at the game for a minute.
“I’m sorry,” Itai said again, gripping his knees. His hands were white with cold. “I was

mad you left me out of the decision-making process. But I know I haven’t been around.”

Miles opened his mouth to add the part about Itai not wanting to be around, but Itai

interrupted him.

“Yes, I haven’t been involved. I didn’t expect to be as engrossed in Fantastic until the

end like this.” Itai looked at his hands. “And you’re right. I’m not sure I want to spend all
my time working in the deli.”

There. It was out. Miles breathed out slowly, worried something would hurt. It did, but

only in a dull, achy way. He’d expected this.

“All right,” he said quietly.
“It doesn’t mean anything more than that,” Itai clarified. “I don’t see myself working in

the deli, is all.” He swallowed. “And therefore of course you have the right to hire
whomever you want, whenever you want.” Itai looked at Miles expectantly.

His anger had been so sharp he still felt cuts on the inside of him from holding it in. Still,

he tried to let it go, accepting Itai’s olive branch for what it was. He motioned to the bottle
on the table. “Gas station champagne?”

Itai smiled, looking relieved. “Best I could do, I’m afraid. Oh!” Itai searched in his jacket

pocket and pulled a small paper bag out. “And this is for you. Hag sameach, shirinli.”

Miles smiled and took the proffered gift. First he pulled a car air freshener from the bag.
“Oh, wow. For my very own?” Miles laughed and sniffed it. “Ooh, even evergreen

scent.”

Itai laughed. He shrugged out of his coat. “Since you don’t have a car, you can put it in

mine,” he offered.

“No, I’ll treasure it forever.” Miles smiled as he placed the tree-shaped freshener on the

table.

“But wait, there’s more!” Itai motioned back to the bag.
Miles dug deeper and pulled out a deck of cards, followed by a moon pie.
“I love moon pies,” Miles admitted. He ripped it open without hesitation.
“I know you do. I wanted to also get you a candy ring, but they were out. And the only

flowers they had were the kind of folded roses made out of women’s underwear, so I
passed on those.”

“I appreciate that.” Miles bit into the moon pie, then offered it to Itai.
He waved it off. “It’s your Hanukkah present, baby.”
“I have another one for you,” Miles admitted. “But I didn’t wrap it out of spite.”
“Where is it?” Itai asked, looking excited.

Miles nodded toward the bedroom. “It’s in my wardrobe. I bet you can guess what

object in there is for you.” He leaned back against the sofa and smiled as he heard Itai rustle
through the contents of his wardrobe.

A few minutes later Itai came bursting out, exceedingly excited, clutching the small box

in his hands. “Buckyballs?” he cried, “You found buckyballs!”

Miles nodded. “They’re still for sale online, you know, even if they’ve been banned for

killing stupid children.”

“Oh my God!” Itai cried, his enthusiasm surprising Miles. He knew Itai had wanted the

nerdy toy for ages and bemoaned their sales restriction with great ado, but he hadn’t

expected quite such an explosive reaction. It made him both pleased with his choice and
also a little sad.

It was easy to pay attention to the little things someone said, make note, and plan to buy

them in the future. How come Itai never noticed all the little things Miles had said over the
last few months? The melted spatula, the broken alarm clock, little things.

Miles shook his head. He was being petty and materialistic. It really was the thought that

counted. That’s what he told himself as he crumpled the moon pie wrapper in his hands.

“Thank you so much,” Itai said. He kissed Miles.
“You want dinner?” Miles offered. “It only needs reheating.”
“I’ll do it. You can watch the rest of the game.” Itai didn’t let go of his toy, carrying it

with him to the office.

“It’s a deal.” Miles kicked up his feet, watched the game, and held the deck of cards in

his hands, not because he wanted to play but because, cheap as they were, they were one
solid thing left between them to hold on to.

Chapter Four

Kosher Dill Half-Sours

“What’s your Black Friday sale?”
It was the fifth time that morning customers had asked Miles for discounted items.

He didn’t explain the intricacies of being a small-business owner who made practically

everything for sale from scratch. Nor did he tell him to fuck off for being a cheap bastard.

Those were things he wanted to do. But they were bad for business.
“No Black Friday sale, but for Hanukkah I’m offering an additional pickle to go with

every sandwich order!” Miles said with forced enthusiasm. He plastered his grin on and
continued to smile even when the guy shook his head and left the store.

Maybe it was the grin, now that Miles considered it. He had a tendency to look maniacal

when he forced a smile for too long. He swung by the reflective surface of the fridge in the
kitchen. Yep. He looked wild-eyed and smiley in the style of a serial killer or someone
suffering terrible muscle spasms.

“Hello? Anyone here?” someone called from the front.

He tried to neutralize the shady-looking grin, but at this point it was frozen on his face,

like his mother had always predicted would happen.

You make that face long enough, one day it’ll stick.
He rushed from the kitchen, carrying the bowl in which he was beating eggs.
“Hi,” he said, stirring frantically, lips trembling from the stress of smiling so broadly.
“Can I get a double short Americano with a splash of cream and a tall vanilla soy latte

with hazelnut and caramel?”

“Anything to eat?” Miles asked, ringing up the order with one hand.
“Uh…got anything on sale?” Something about his smile made the woman flinch. “Never

mind. I’m not hungry.” She gave her friend a glance that seemed to say psy-cho!

Miles put his eggs down, pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, and took her money. For the

hundredth time, he cursed Chloe’s unborn child, the journalist that had taken Itai away first
thing, and Detective Dominic Delbene for leading Miles on and making him believe he’d be
there to help Friday morning when he was, in fact, not.

It wasn’t like Nic was an actual employee, which made it difficult to fire him his first

day. But oh Miles wanted to. Every time he had to switch between handling cash and
cooking, he dreamed of firing Nic’s nice-looking ass.

In some twist of petty, cruel fate, the deli was slammed that morning. He would have

been underwater on a normal Friday, but the fact that he was also trying to prep for a large
dinner at the same time was impossible.

A little after ten o’clock, two hours after opening, who should saunter in but the cursed,

prefired employee himself. Nic was dressed in a nice pair of black denim trousers and a
white button-down shirt that Miles was glad would get filthy by the end of the first day.

Nic looked frazzled as he peeled off his blazer. “So fucking sorry about being late.” He

shook his head. “We’ve got problems on another case. I had to be at the crime scene and
couldn’t break free until now.”

Miles’s anger vanished in the realization that not only was Nic not his employee, he was

a police detective, one who had a job far more important than pouring shots of espresso.

“Don’t worry about it,” Miles said. “Grab an apron from the kitchen, and I’ll show you

the ropes of the till and the espresso machine.”

Nic rushed off while Miles finished another drink order. When Nic returned, he was

looping the tie of the blue apron. Miles couldn’t help but notice the bulge under his button-
down where Nic’s gun holster lay close to his chest. It was a sobering reminder of the actual
reason he was there.

Luckily Miles’s parents had bought a nearly fully automated espresso machine that

required minimal babysitting. Miles gave Nic a quick demonstration of how to properly
tamp the beans and load the machine, and what the buttons meant.

“Now I’ll show you how to froth milk,” Miles said, but Nic shook his head.
“I know how. I made espresso in my parents’ deli.”

Miles lingered over Nic’s shoulder for the next two orders, but it was obvious Nic was a

trained barista who knew what he was doing. Next he walked him through the nightmarish
old till.

“So what you’re saying is that fifty percent of these buttons either don’t work or will

calculate the wrong totals,” Nic summarized.

Miles had to laugh at that. “Uh, yeah. Just stick to the ones that have caved in from

years of prodding.”

“Got it.”
“While no one’s waiting, I’m going to run in the back and prep for my dinner tonight.”
Nic frowned. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” Miles wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m branching

into catering, and tonight’s my first official job. I’ve been hired to cater a thirty-person
Hanukkah dinner at the Jewish Community Center tonight starting at seven thirty.”

Nic whistled. “That’s a lot on your plate. You go back and do what you need to do.”

For the first time that morning, Miles felt like his mouth obeyed him and created a

semblance of a normal, actual human smile. “Thanks.” He started back toward the kitchen,
but Nic reached out and grabbed his bicep.

“Wait. One quick thing.” Nic glanced at the three occupied tables beside the window. He

stepped close enough to Miles that he could tilt his head down and whisper in Miles’s ear.

Only then did Miles realize how much taller Nic was, and his proximity sent an unwanted

flutter of desire through Miles.

“If I shout to clear out, don’t come back into the deli, all right?” Nic said quietly. He

looked over the customers again with concern. “I’ll take responsibility for getting bystanders
out of the way. But you need to be prepared for me to give you a signal to stay clear of the
storefront, and I mean it.”

Alarm rang through Miles. “I thought you said there was no danger.”
“I said it was unlikely,” Nic reminded him. “But we have to be prepared for any

scenario, and I’ve seen simple jobs go badly as often as I’ve seen complex operations sail
smoothly.”

Miles nodded stiffly. “If you say clear out, I’ll hunker in the kitchen.”
“And call your boyfriend upstairs and warn him not to come down.”
“That’s unlikely in any case,” Miles said with unexpected bitterness.

Nic clearly caught it. “Oh. You want me to accidentally shoot him for you?” He smirked

as Miles shook his head.

“No!”
Nic laughed. “Of course not. Just stay clear, all right?”

Miles nodded, feeling a little annoyed to be instructed to stay out of his own store. “I’m

going to work on my kohlrabi.”

“I’ll holler if I need help.” Nic turned happily back to the register, pointing at the keys

and talking under his breath as he memorized each one’s purpose.

Miles stayed in the kitchen until the front door chimed. He put down his knife and

started back out, but stopped when he saw Nic cheerily greet the two guys from the
brokerage next door and take their bagel and coffee orders. He rang them up without fail
and whistled as he made their drinks.

“Miles. Bagels toasted?” Nic yelled around the corner.
“Yeah. Spreads are marked in the fridge. There’s lox there too, and I always serve the

lox with capers.”

“Got it.” Without missing a beat, Nic rinsed his hands and reached for a sesame and a

pumpernickel bagel. He grabbed the sharp bread knife and held it up over his other hand.

Miles nearly called out a warning about how easy it was to slice a finger when cutting

bagels, but Nic clearly had done this before. He held the bread flat and sliced horizontally
through it, keeping extraneous appendages clear of the serrated edge.

Maybe this would all be okay?

Miles stood in the doorway and watched for the next two customers, but then he started

in on his appetizers and couldn’t break free. From the sounds emanating from the front of
the store, it seemed everything was fine. He heard Nic happily joke with the next customer
who wanted a Black Friday sale, and unlike Miles, he didn’t need to apply a freakish mask
of pseudojoy to hide his bitterness.

And there were no gunshots. So far so good.
Around eleven there was a lull, and Nic came back into the kitchen for more orders.
“I usually wipe the tables down and the counter, and unload the dishes during lags,”

Miles explained. “Then I prep for the lunch rush by preslicing bread and setting up my

station.”

“What’s today’s soup?” Nic asked. Without asking he lifted the lid off the large soup pot

on the stove and sniffed.

“I’m making a pumpkin soup for tonight, so I figured I’d double the batch and serve it

for today’s lunch.”

“It smells amazing,” Nic said.

Miles fished out a spoon from the drawer. “Here, try it. Tell me what you think. Is it

salty enough?”

Nic reached into the large pot and got himself a sample. At once, an image of Itai doing

the same thing sprang to Miles’s memory. Itai had nearly burned himself leaning over such
a large, extremely hot metal pot. Nic, however, maneuvered around the stove like someone
who spent a lot of time in kitchens.

“Fuck. It’s the best soup I’ve ever had, Miles,” Nic declared. He dropped the spoon and

without hesitating reached for another and took another bite. “Damn! I have to get this
recipe.”

“You cook at home?” Miles asked, amused and flattered as a third spoon was removed

and used for tasting. He handed Nic a small bowl and ladled out a portion.

“I cook every night,” Nic said. “I’m going through a noodle kick at the moment, but I’d

love to tackle a soup like this.” He greedily spooned from the bowl Miles had provided.

“My dough skills aren’t great,” Miles admitted, “so if you know how to make good

noodles, that would be cool to see what your techniques are.”

Nic’s face brightened in a big, beautiful smile. “Sure! We could whip up a batch in this

kitchen when you have some time.”

“That would be awesome.”
“I’ve wanted to noodle with you ever since I met you.”

Miles choked on his follow-up comment. “Uh…” He couldn’t read the twinkle in the

detective’s eye. “Maybe I could make my grandmother’s kugel recipe.”

“Kugel…that’s a noodle dish?” Nic asked.

Miles nodded. “Jewish noodles, either sweet or savory. I could make the dessert kugel

with cinnamon and cheese, but the savory is traditionally made with schmaltz—rendered
chicken fat—so obviously I’d have to modify to make it pareve.”

“Pareve?”
“It means kosher neutral,” Miles explained. “Anything that isn’t either specifically dairy

or strictly meat gets put in the pareve category.”

“So fish is pareve?”
“For the most part. It depends on the type of fish and how obvious its scales are, since

you can’t have shellfish. Speaking of fish…” Miles remembered it was almost noon and his
fish distributor still hadn’t shown up with the Copper River chinook he’d ordered last week.

He called Vince, his fish purveyor, and left a message asking where he was.

The beginnings of the lunch crowd started to trickle in. Miles showed Nic how he built

sandwiches, and then he returned to the kitchen to work on frying his Israeli doughnuts for
the evening dessert.

His phone rang in the middle of frying. “Hey! Miles, my man!”
“Hi, Vince.” Miles switched the phone to speaker as he handled his frying pan.

“Where’s my fish?”

“Yeah. Problem with your fish.”
Miles froze in place. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m saying that. I’m saying I’m out of Copper River salmon, man. Yesterday was

Thanksgiving and I didn’t get anything in until this morning, and there’s none left.”

Miles clenched his teeth. “What do you have?”
“Just pink. They’re beautiful, but it’s pink salmon. I also got some gorgeous sturgeon if

you prefer. It’s—”

“I can’t do sturgeon. It isn’t kosher. Damn!” Miles pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re screwing me here.”

“Sorry. You want the pink?”
“Yeah, fine. Give me the pink. I’ll need seven.”
“I’ll be right over,” Vince told him.
Miles hung up. “Fuck!” he declared loudly.

Nic stuck his head back into the kitchen immediately. “Everything kosher?” He laughed

at his joke.

“Never heard that one before.” Miles growled.
“What’s wrong?” Nic asked.

Miles shook his head. “Change of plans. I have to come up with something for my main

course, and fast.” His mind whirled. Pink salmon wasn’t good as a fillet, but he could make
cakes out of it if he combined it with bread crumbs and onions…

“Just don’t eat anything else,” Miles warned, already heading to his walk-in. “I’m going

to need you to try a fuckload of salmon cakes, because I haven’t made this before.”

“Awesome!” Nic declared, whistling on his way back to the front of the deli.

The knock at the back door of the kitchen came only a few minutes later, with Vince

sheepishly handing over the fish.

“Sorry again,” Vince said. “It’s the way the holidays fall this year, I guess.”
“Yeah. It’s fucking fantastic.”
“Well, hey, at least Christmas and Hanukkah aren’t on the same date,” Vince reasoned.
“That was last year.” Miles sighed. “Thanks.”

He immediately went to work breaking down the fillets. For the next three hours, he

only had to bail Nic out twice, showing him how something was made or where to find a
particular pickle.

As the lunch rush died out, Miles started plying Nic with his first two batches of salmon

cakes.

“Of these two, which is better?” he demanded.

Nic tried them both. Miles didn’t have much hope that Nic could help; he tried recipes

all the time on Itai, and Itai always shrugged and said he liked them both equally.

But Nic pondered the question as he chewed. “The first one is better. Saltier, better

balanced mustard taste. But they both have too much onion, I think.”

“Thank you, that’s helpful!” Miles rushed back to start a third small batch, and then a

fourth. Each time Nic stuffed the entire cake into his mouth and chewed with deliberate and
obvious enjoyment.

This was a man who loved food, Miles realized. And Miles liked that.
“You nailed it,” Nic said through a mouthful of Miles’s fourth batch. “This is it. Go with

it.”

Miles tried it himself. It was delicious, and now he was excited, because he could serve it

on top of the sauerkraut he’d been fermenting all month.

“Is there more? I need another one.” Nic laughed.

Miles reached out to hand him the rest of the one he’d been eating, but it broke apart in

his hands. “It needs more egg to bind it together.” He stuffed the smaller piece in his mouth
and offered up the rest of the cake to Nic. Miles expected him to grab it. Instead Nic
ducked down low and scooped it into his mouth with his tongue. The erotic gesture
surprised Miles.

“Hello?”

Both Miles and Nic spun around to the entrance of the kitchen. Itai stood there, looking

like a supermodel, dressed as he was for his publicity shoot.

He had his hair carefully slicked back, and he wore a tightly tailored, gray silk suit with a

casual silk shirt left open at the collar, and polished leather boots.

Miles wiped salmon-cake crumbs from his palms. “Hi, Itai. Meet Dominic Delbene.”

With sudden horror, he realized he hadn’t told Nic not to go into detail about his

undercover work. “He’s the guy I said was interested in learning how to pickle so he will be
working here for a few weeks.”

Miles stared pointedly at Nic, hoping he would get the silent message. But silent

communication was really best practiced between longtime friends, not complete strangers.

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Nic stepped forward and offered Itai his hand.
“Itai Zahari,” Itai said. If he found the scene he’d walked in on disturbing, he didn’t

show it. He glanced over at Miles, looking tired. “You need my help, or can I go crash for
an hour or so? I’ve got the meeting with the investors over dinner tonight.”

“Go for it. I’m fine,” Miles said and was happy it was the truth. It amazed him how a

single competent employee made so much difference. “Don’t forget I need your car
tonight.”

“I know. Travis is picking me up later.”
“Investors?” Nic asked Itai, quirking an eyebrow. “What are you working on?”
“I’m a software developer. My company is launching a new app engine.”
“What’s that?” Nic asked. He shrugged. “I’m sort of a Luddite.”
“It’s basically a way for other developers to make applications that can be used online or

on mobile devices. It provides shortcodes and other tools they can apply when developing
their product to save them time and troubleshoot their code.”

Nic glanced over at Miles. “Do you get that?”

Miles shrugged. “Some of it, but only because I’ve heard it for years.” He kissed Itai

briefly and then turned back to his stove. “I’ll see you upstairs before you leave.”

“Nice to meet you,” Itai mumbled at Nic before leaving again.

Miles returned to the counter to reproduce the last cake on a larger scale. Nic was quiet.

After a minute he moseyed over to stand by Miles. He rolled up his sleeves. “Is there a

reason you aren’t telling him who I am?”

Miles was grateful Nic had been observant, although now he felt foolish about the whole

secrecy thing. He shrugged. “Itai has PTSD from his experience in the Israeli army, and has
a bad reaction to guns. I don’t want to freak him out, especially the day before his big

launch. Maybe after the weekend it’ll be safe.”

“Your call.” Nic started cleaning up Miles’s workstation, wiping down his cutting board

and knives. “Was he shot?”

Miles watched the muscles of Nic’s forearms bulge as he washed the knife, fascinated.

He’d never seen a guy with such built forearms.

“Miles, was he shot?” Nic asked again.
“Oh. No,” he clarified. “But he saw a kid get shot or something, and it really affected

him.”

Nic nodded. “I get that.” He rinsed the knife. “My first year of patrol I was the reporting

officer on sight where an eight-year-old boy shot himself in the head with his father’s
Beretta. It’s something I’m never going to get out of my head, I guess you could say.”

“I’m sorry.”

Nic shrugged. “It’s part of police work. My older brothers are both officers. They

warned me, but I hadn’t appreciated what they were talking about until I saw it myself.”

The front bell chimed. Nic replaced Miles’s knife and cutting board, perfectly clean, and

then wiped his hands on his apron. “Break’s over! Time to go to work!” He whistled on his
way out of the kitchen.

Miles stared after him, shaking his head. What the hell was with that guy? He glanced

down at his clean prep area.

I’m going to have to marry him, Miles thought.

The flow of customers slowed the last hour of business. Only twenty minutes before

closing, a woman came in and spent a lot of time taking in the store, examining the barrels,
the cold case, and the menu. Nic offered to take her order, but she hesitated, saying she was
looking around.

Miles immediately became suspicious. He looked at Nic and frowned. Nic’s eyes

widened in understanding. He turned back to carefully track the woman’s movements
around the deli. Without a word, one of the other customers, a fellow sitting by himself at
one of the tables, reading a paper as he enjoyed a bagel, stood and started milling around as
well, his glances flashing back and forth between Nic and the lady.

Shit, Miles thought. He’d been right. The perp was a woman.
“Are you the owner?” she asked him, coming up to the counter. “Miles Piekus?”
Miles glanced at Nic, then back at her. “Yes.”

She smiled crookedly and held out her hand. “I’m Farrah Chapman. I’m a food critic.

I’m syndicated in the Times under a column called Farrah’s Foodie Finds?”

Miles’s mouth went dry. “Hi. Hi! Yes…yes of course, I know your column! I read it

religiously every week online.”

Farrah didn’t seem to find his enthusiasm moving. She looked a little glacial in her

expressions. Was a perfect poker face a critical characteristic for food reviewers?

“I’d like to do a piece on your restaurant. Would Wednesday work? Two o’clock?”
“Uh…sure!” Miles hunted for a pen and scrawled the date and time on his white apron.

“I didn’t know you told restaurateurs you were coming ahead of time.”

“I give advance warning, because I’d like to try a sample of everything on the menu.”

Miles’s eyes widened. “Good to know now.”
“I don’t expect any special treatment. If you could set me up a table and write down the

names of the dishes and place the names with the ones I try, I should be able to be in and
out within an hour.”

“Of course.”
“Thanks.” Farrah shook Miles’s hand again. Now his hand was sweaty. Awesome. Great

impression there. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Sure, thanks.” Miles followed her out to the front door and shut it behind her. He

looked over at Nic, who wore a great big smile.

“Shit! A review in the Times!” He held out his hand, and Miles slapped it. “Way to go,

Miles!”

“This is huge.” Miles was already scheming what to serve. “A friend of mine makes

these artisanal bitters, and after a Farrah’s Foodie Finds article praising her jasmine and
ginger blend, it got picked up by all these restaurants for distribution, and she started getting
national orders.”

“We good?” the customer asked Nic.
Nic nodded. “Yeah, thanks, Rick.”

Miles smiled at the undercover officer. “Now that I know who you are, do you want a

sandwich on the house?”

“Nah, I had a bagel. But a coffee would be good.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Nic offered. “You’ve got to work on your dinner.”
“Thanks,” Miles said, once again heading back to the kitchen. It was hard to focus on

the evening’s meal, however, now that he knew a reviewer was coming a few days later.

By the time Miles closed and locked the front door at three, he was amazed and grateful

to have survived.

“There is no way I could have pulled off today without you,” he told Nic, and he meant

it. “I owe you.”

Nic was already wheeling the pickle barrels back into the walk-in, just as Miles had done

the day they’d first spoken. “Actually, I owe you. For a couple of things. Not only for the
opportunity to observe your customers, but for keeping me busy while I do so. I really enjoy
working in a deli. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until today.”

Nic stayed behind and helped Miles clean up. They chatted about the deli Nic’s parents

had owned, Delbene’s, which had been a small place off the interstate south of Portland
proper that specialized in gourmet sausages and cheeses and his mother’s homemade pasta
and cannoli.

“So why didn’t you take over the business when you were older?” Miles asked. He

pulled out the cash drawer and started counting. Unasked, Nic reached over and took the
credit card receipts.

“I’ll count these up if you have an extra calculator,” he offered.
Miles handed him the calculator. “You can use this. I’ll use my phone.”
They sat on stools at the counter together, counting.
“Well, my parents sold Delbene’s when I was in high school, so I never got a chance to

inherit it.”

“Why’d they sell? It sounds like it was successful,” Miles said.
“To a degree.” Nic shrugged. “It wasn’t the best location, it was a lot of work, and when

my father’s health started failing, it made sense to sell.”

He sounded sad admitting it, so Miles decided to drop the topic.

Besides, it was now three thirty, and he needed to get over to the community center and

set up for dinner. He stood, and Nic followed suit, removing his apron. “I should check on
what’s happening with this morning’s case anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Well, thanks again.” Miles awkwardly held out a hand to shake. Nic shook it

warmly, then pulled Miles into a fraternal hug.

“Thanks for helping me with this.” He frowned at Miles. “You look frazzled. You got

help for this evening?”

“Yeah. I should be fine. I’ve got all the food, my chafing dishes, cutlery, the wines,

serving…” His mind blanked, and he froze.

“Fuck!”
“What?”
“I forgot cream! Cream for the fucking coffee! Oh shit!” He yanked on his hair, pulling

it straight up. “How the hell am I going to get to the store now? I gotta go straight to Mercer
Island!”

Nic squeezed his shoulder. “Deep breath, pal. Is creamer all you need?”
“Yes. Oh shit, and paper towels! They don’t have any at the center, and I meant to…

How could I have forgotten these simple things?”

Nic handed his bunched apron over and grabbed his blazer from the kitchen hook. “I’ll

pick those up while you load your vehicle.”

“I have to leave in ten minutes!”

Nic pulled out his phone. “Where is the event? Jewish Community Center?” He typed

something in. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“It’s not a problem, really.” Nic smiled. “I can swing by my best friend Wyatt’s place on

my way home. He lives in Bellevue. It’ll be a good excuse to get out there.”

Miles wanted to say no. He wasn’t the kind of guy to abuse the kindness of strangers.
That said, he needed all the help he could get, and he’d be a fool to turn Nic down.
“I owe you big-time,” Miles told him. He fished for his wallet and handed a twenty to

Nic. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see you there.” Nic rushed out, and his decisive behavior inspired

Miles to be the same way. He immediately packed the precooked items into boxes, loaded

other boxes with any cooking gear he feared might not be available at the JCC’s kitchen,
and carted the cases of wine to the Acura.

The car looked like it had raided a supermarket by the time he was done, but at least it

all fit.

Miles had hoped to have enough time to shower before the event, but that was not in the

books. So he changed into clean clothes, applied an apologetic amount of deodorant, and

made sure his hair was horizontal and not vertical.

Itai wasn’t around. Miles checked his phone and saw he had a text from him, saying

Travis had picked him up earlier than expected and he was already gone.

So much for parting words of wisdom or a good-luck kiss.

Miles got in the car and made his way along congested city streets until he reached the

interstate. When he hit I-90, the bridge was completely backed up, the afternoon traffic jam
having merged into the morning traffic jam a few years back. It was a beautiful day, Mount

Rainier was visible over Lake Washington, the air crisp and fresh, but Miles didn’t care.
What mattered right now was that he had food warming in the backseat and was stuck on a

floating bridge, still a good three miles from his destination.

Luckily the Jewish Community Center was off the highway, so when he finally made it

across the bridge and onto Mercer Island, he arrived in a few quick turns.

Two of his three hired helpers were already there. Chloe’s sister, April, was helping him

out, as well as Jason, the teenage son of Rabbi Fine, who was looking for his first
opportunity to put something on a résumé.

They’d both dressed all in black, per Miles’s request, although Jason’s black Chuck

Taylors with white trim were sort of killing the whole “professional” appearance.

His third helper arrived. Debra was the only one trained as a caterer, an old coworker

whom he hadn’t seen in years, but was desperate for evening work she could fit in with five
kids. They hugged, and then she took over ordering the others around, setting up the table
and prepping the dining room while Miles focused on the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes behind Miles, Nic showed up brandishing an absurd gallon jug of cream

and three rolls of paper towels.

“One can never have too many paper towels,” Nic declared, handing the plastic bag

over.

“Or cream, apparently.” Miles examined the label on the jug. “I didn’t even know you

could buy cream in bulk.”

“The couple that owns my apartment building is Indian. They know all the great dairy

providers.”

“I’ll cook you something awesome tomorrow to pay you back.”
“Oh, no need. Seeing you should satisfy me enough.” He winked.

Miles’s eyes widened. What the hell did that mean? He was too busy to think about

flirtation though. “I gotta go.”

“Good luck!” Nic tapped his arm. “You can do this.”
“You don’t know me,” Miles said.
“I’m excellent at reading people,” Nic said. “I know you.” He stared at Miles, and Miles

felt his whole body quiver with excitement. Whether it was because of the faith someone
had in him, or the fact that someone was actually showing interest in him after what felt like
a year of being ignored by his lover…

He wasn’t sure.
But he liked it.
He straightened his shoulders. “You’re right. I can do this.”

Nic grinned. “See you tomorrow.” He waved as he turned. Miles noticed his car was a

big diesel truck, and wondered how much gas it took to go that far.

“Miles!”

Miles turned and saw Rabbi Fine approach. He was a tall, lanky string bean of a fellow

with light brown hair, a face full of freckles, and pale eyes.

“Hi, Rabbi.” Miles shook the rabbi’s hand. “You’re here early.”
“I had to drop Jason off, so I thought I’d check on the room decor. The center did a nice

job with the Hanukkah party favors!”

“I’m heading off to the kitchen. Any changes from the last time we spoke?”
“Nope. “ Kevin clapped his hands together. “You ready, Miles?”
Miles nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Excellent! Then bring on the nosh.”

As Nic had predicted, everything was fine.

There were some rocky moments, especially at the beginning, when the guests first

arrived and peered upon the printed menu Miles had Debra write out in her nice
handwriting and display in the entrance.

Hors d’oeuvres: Hazelnut tahini crudités, Melon-cheddar skewers, and Romano-

stuffed mushrooms. Paired with a Baron Herzog White Riesling.*

First Course: Warmly spiced pumpkin soup with Gruyère served in seasonal squash.

Paired with Kinneret Chardonnay from Israel’s Ella Valley.*

Second Course: Lemon-spiked salmon cakes on a bed of Alsatian choucroute,

accompanied by potato-and-kohlrabi rösti and an Israeli fresh vegetable salad. Paired
with Hagafen Napa Valley Pinot Noir.*

Dessert Course: Sufganiyot with Mexican chocolate glaze and marshmallow crème or

strawberry-and-rhubarb jam fillings. Served with coffee or tea. Paired with Kedem Port.*

*All wines are meshuval.

It was immediately apparent that no brisket was going to be served, and the complaints

started. Miles cursed Rabbi Kevin for not informing his guests the meal was vegetarian, but
there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

However one brave old lady, the wife of a rabbi so white and withered he looked to be

Moses himself, said, “I think it’s brave to not serve brisket,” and Miles wanted to kiss her.

The appetizers went over well, and Miles made sure to ply all generously with the wine.

It was interesting, hearing the suspicions of a terrible meal spoken right in front of him.
Then he realized that putting on serving attire made him invisible; these people were

insulting the chef to his face and didn’t even know better.

As soon as the candles were lit and the Sabbath prayers uttered, Miles served the

pumpkin soup. The small squash tureens went over well, as did the chardonnay, to which

Miles helped himself. By the main course half the guests were guffawing to each other

loudly and were clearly buzzed enough that he hoped the lack of meat would slip by
unnoticed.

To his utter delight, the salmon cakes were greeted with joy and compliments. Even the

rabbi who had been warming up all night to get a good complaint in changed his tune,
declaring the fish “exactly what I wanted tonight.” Someone said the homemade sauerkraut
reminded them of their bubbie. Another said the sauerkraut smelled like their bubbie.

By the time the course there came to a close there was only one guest still grumbling

about the lack of meat, and his wife promptly shut him up, shouting, “You had a brisket last
night, and you’ll have another one tomorrow, so shut up and eat your fish!”

The dessert course was served next and was highly praised, especially by those who’d

been to Israel. The only thing Miles worried about was whether he’d prepared enough. He
didn’t have the ingredients to prepare more doughnuts on site, so the sixty he’d fried would
have to make do.

When the last of the wine was poured and the guests started to depart, only one

doughnut remained—a perfect triumph, in his mind.

And in Rabbi Kevin’s as well. He came into the kitchen as Miles and his staff cleaned

up, and congratulated Miles with a slightly inebriated half hug.

“Well done, Miles!” he cried. “You showed everyone what kosher vegetarianism can

really offer!”

“Thank you,” Miles said, feeling too tired to be thrilled, although he knew tomorrow

he’d want to celebrate. He frowned as the rabbi tilted over slightly. “You have a ride
home?”

“Jason’s learning how to drive. Jason, you want to drive your old folks home?”
“Aww, in the Volvo? Lame.” He held out his hand, and Rabbi Kevin handed him the

keys.

“Oh, there’s one left.” Rabbi Kevin grabbed a platter from the table and offered the last

doughnut to Miles. “They were delicious.”

The idea of eating one after this day made him sick, but Miles thought Itai might like to

try it.

Or, scratch that. Nic. Nic deserved a doughnut as the minimum for being there to help.

By the time he got everything cleaned and packed up, paid the servers, and drove back

across the bridge and home to Ballard, it was a little after one in the morning. And he had
to open the store at eight.

There were some good lessons in all this, he realized. One, he’d charged enough but

could have used another staff member for prep, so should add that to the cost next time.

Two, he should list all the items he needed to buy, even if they were small items like paper

towels that he thought he’d never forget.

And three, to not do this and run the deli at the same time.

The lights were still on at home. He unloaded Itai’s car and shuffled his way up the

stairs, his entire body aching.

Itai was in his office when Miles entered. “Hello?” he called out.
Itai stopped typing and appeared. “Hey, you’re back late. You okay?”
“Fine. Great, actually.” He fell forward and leaned into Itai. Itai gave him a comforting

hug but then stepped back.

“You smell like fried food and sauerkraut. It’s a bad combo.”
“Yeah. I’m not a fan either.”
“Hold on.” Itai stepped back into his office and returned with a boxed present.

Even though he’d spent the night immersed in a Sabbath and Hanukkah dinner, Miles

had forgotten about the holiday as it related to him.

“Wow. Thanks.”
“Open it,” Itai said.

Miles opened the box. Itai had bought him a beautiful brown cashmere sweater. It was

the kind of gift Itai himself would adore, brand name, no doubt expensive as hell, soft and
finely made. And something Miles would never wear.

“It’s gorgeous,” Miles said. He gave Itai a kiss. “Thank you.”
“I was thinking you could wear it tomorrow, to the launch,” Itai suggested.
Miles frowned. “You don’t like my blue shirt?”
Itai made a face.
“Fine,” Miles gave in. “I’ll wear the sweater. Did you buy me new shoes too, or are my

suede lace-ups acceptable?”

“They’ll go great with the sweater.” Itai squeezed Miles’s shoulder.
“I have something for you too. Hold on.” Miles put his box down and took off his coat.
“The photo session went well today,” Itai started, following behind Miles as he headed to

the bedroom. “You should see the pics Gelia took of us! They look so professional, so
amazing.”

“That’s awesome.” Miles fished around in his jeans drawer until he found the small gift

for Itai. This one had been wrapped by the lady at the store where he’d bought it. He
handed it over with no ceremony. “Here you go. Happy Hanukkah. Sorry I’m not doing the
candles or anything. I’m beat.”

“I’m fine with that.” Itai carefully peeled off the tape and unwrapped the small box. It

was a sushi-shaped USB drive, and he studied it with a puzzled look. “It’s…a USB?”

Miles nodded. “One gig. Since you always lose your small ones, I thought this one was

big enough and bright pink so it would be hard to lose.”

“Uh, thanks.” Itai seemed disappointed. And his disappointment disappointed Miles.

Well, he could get eight straight hits. Just because he bought it at the same site as the

buckyballs apparently wasn’t enough.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said.
“That’s a good idea.” Itai went back to his office, and Miles went to the bathroom.

It was only when he was under the hot water, finally processing what a long, intense day

this had been, that he realized Itai hadn’t even asked how the dinner went.

Chapter Five

Tangy Gherkins

Itai wasn’t in bed when Miles awoke, which was strange. He never woke up before

Miles.

Then again, this was the day he’d been working toward for over a year, so it didn’t

surprise Miles that Itai couldn’t sleep. Miles yawned and made his way to the office, where

Itai looked deeply engrossed in something on his computer screen. Miles leaned against the

door frame, still too sleepy to support himself on his own. He noticed Itai was instant
messaging someone, despite the early hour.

“Who’s awake at six in the morning?” Miles asked, yawning.
Itai flinched and spun. “What are you doing?” he choked.
Miles blinked. “Waking up. Seeing what you’re up to. Why?”

Itai shook his head. “Sorry. Jumpy this morning. I think I got about three hours of sleep

last night.”

“Well that’s understandable, given the day.” Miles shuffled over to Itai and gave him a

kiss on the top of the head. He noticed the screen blinked, with Travis’s name showing up
at the bottom, and a message waiting for Itai:????

Miles said nothing. He backed away, doubt slithering around his gut, which deepened

when Itai closed the laptop, something he never did while working. “I’ll see you downstairs
in a bit. I have to finish a few things.”

“Sure.” Miles smiled and left. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and stared hard at his

reflection. It was the fourth day of Hanukkah already, and it had been a pretty
underwhelming holiday so far. Tonight, instead of celebrating with the love of friends and
around a big meal and exchanging presents and good wishes by candlelight, he would be at
a slick techie corporate shindig with complete strangers, eating appetizers and feeling out of
his depth.

Maybe he’d get vomitus between now and this evening and be too ill to attend?

As he shaved, he evaluated his looks. He was too thin, and his hair was graying, and he

wore shirts without collars. Was that why Itai no longer wanted to be with him alone?

Stop it. He hated the way he immediately started to blame himself whenever things got

rocky. It wasn’t him.

But saying that didn’t take the hurt away.
Miles made himself a coffee when he got downstairs and fried up a few eggs for comfort

food. He barely finished before Nic was at the front door, knocking to be let in early.

He dressed more appropriately today, Miles thought. He was in jeans and a blue, tight-

fitting T-shirt with some bar advertised on the front, and had a backpack slung over his
shoulder. His hair looked damp, as if he’d just showered, and he appeared chipper.

Miles unlocked the door and let him in. “Morning!”
“So?” Nic asked.

Miles frowned. “So…what?”
Nic gestured widely. “The dinner! How’d it go?”
“Oh, that.” Miles grinned. “It was a huge success.”
“ I told you!” Nic laughed. He dropped his bag on the counter and fished around for

something. “That’s great, Miles. The salmon cakes went over well?”

Miles nodded. “Yeah, they were gobbled up, and even the grumpy lady with the

permanent scowl temporarily stopped complaining to run her fork over the surface of the
plate to scoop up every last morsel.”

“I can’t blame her. I’d suck on a stranger’s pickle to get myself another one.”
Miles stared. “Uh…yeah.”

Nic laughed. He withdrew a pistol and shoulder holster. Miles glanced at the door

behind the counter, checking to make sure Itai wasn’t in sight.

Nic holstered his weapon, then pulled on a button-down shirt to cover the gun. Now

Miles understood why Nic looked overdressed in the kitchen. He needed to hide his

weapon.

Nic noticed Miles staring. “Sorry. I was in a hurry to get out of the house this morning

and had to come straight from the gym.”

Miles opened the paper bags of bagel deliveries from the bakery down the street and

started unloading the bagels. “You worked out before coming here? I’m impressed. I barely
managed to brush my teeth.”

“I prefer working out at night, but I stayed out late playing poker at Wyatt’s house and

didn’t get home until one in the morning.”

“Did you win?” Miles asked.

Nic laughed. “Hell, no. I suck at poker. I had to cough up fifty bucks and almost

resorted to stripping to get my cash back.”

Miles smiled at that. He realized how nice it was to converse with someone who could

admit failures of character. Self-effacement wasn’t something he thought he’d need in a
companion—single, STD-free, willing to mock own inabilities—but it was noticeably
missing in Itai.

“What can I do to set up?” Nic asked, clapping his hands together.
“How about making yourself a coffee and eating the sole remnant of last night’s

doughnuts?” Miles found the doughnut he’d saved and offered it to Nic. It was one of the
ones filled with marshmallow crème. “I doubt they’re as good day two as they were fresh,
but you still might—”

Nic stuffed the entire doughnut into his mouth.
“—find it okay?” Miles finished.

Nic chewed dramatically. Then his eyes grew wide. “Fckkk!” he mumbled over his

mouthful. “Lvv it!” He choked.

“Coffee?” Miles raised an eyebrow.
Nic nodded, still trying to chew.

There wasn’t his usual morning crowd on Saturdays, so they got off to a slow start. The

atmosphere changed on weekends, the frantic rush of breakfast and lunch professionals

replaced with the laid-back, curious tourists and Saturday shoppers.

Itai came through the store several times, usually on the phone with one or another of his

investors. He made himself a coffee, then a sandwich at another point before heading
upstairs.

Nic watched Itai’s movements vigilantly. Maybe he thought Itai was the drug dealer?

The idea made Miles laugh. Itai would be so terrified of getting caught he would never

commit any crime.

Then he remembered Itai shutting his laptop, and wondered if Itai was a better liar than

Miles gave him credit for.

Nic asked during a lull how Miles had made the sauerkraut he’d served the night before.

Miles needed to restock the supply he’d raided anyway, so he decided to show Nic. He set

the detective up on the corner of the prep counter to julienne carrots while Miles split his
time between the front of the store and shredding cabbage in the back food processor.

On weekends many of the customers were new faces to Miles, not his regular crowd,

but he tried to spot Nic’s undercover accomplices. There was a tough-looking lady who
came and ate a sandwich by herself, observing the goings-on around her table carefully, and
Miles nearly asked Nic, but then a man joined her with a small child, blowing that theory.

And at lunch a young, strong gentleman glanced around before ordering a pickle.
“What kind would you like?” Miles offered.
“Uh…” The man squinted at the menu board. “Whatever is the cheapest.”

Miles thought he noticed a bulge on the man’s chest. He looked toward Nic to see any

acknowledgment that this guy was one of the undercover agents, but Nic was either
intentionally or unknowingly ignoring him, slicing carrot after carrot with effortless
expertise.

“I’ll give you any pickle, on the house,” Miles offered with a smile.
“Really?” The customer looked surprised. “Well…what’s a gherkin?”
“They’re very small pickles. Some are sweet; some are tangy.”
“Can I have a tangy gherkin?”
“How about I give you a serving of them with some bread, on the house?”
The man looked pleased. “Wow. Thanks.”

He took his plate and sat down. Miles stood next to Nic and whispered, “Is that one of

your guys?”

Nic glanced up, scanned the room, then looked back down again. “Nope.”
“No?” Miles scowled. “Shit, I gave him free pickles!”
Nic smirked. “Doesn’t pay to be nice, Miles.”
“How am I supposed to know who to comp a lunch to if you don’t tell me who is

undercover and who isn’t?”

“They can pay for their sandwiches.” Nic straightened, a glint in his eye. “Though if a

certain fellow comes in, we need to replace whatever he requests with a spicy pickle. He’ll
hate that.” He chuckled to himself as he went back to his carrots.

After the lunch rush died down, Miles tried to coax Nic into the back to show him what

to do next to the sauerkraut, but Nic refused to leave the front of the store for anything

longer than a bathroom break.

“I need to stay up front,” Nic said quietly. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
Miles rolled his eyes. “But just a minute—”
“Is all it takes for a deal to go down.” Nic shook his head. “This guy has been evading us

for months. It’s a fluke that our snitch found out he would be here himself for the next
transfer, and if I mess it up by making kraut in the back, my captain would kill me.”

“It will be too messy to bring the cabbage up here to show you,” Miles told him.
“Can we do it after closing?” Nic flushed. “I mean make the sauerkraut,” he clarified, as

if Miles had misunderstood.

“Sure, if you don’t mind sticking around longer.”
“I don’t have to check in until this evening,” Nic said.

Miles stared, amazed that this new friend was willing to not only spend all day in the deli

helping him, but stay late as well. “In that case, you need to have something hearty to power
you through the rest of the day. What do you want for lunch?”

Nic looked excited. “What choices do I have?”
“Anything you’ve had a craving for?” Miles asked.

Nic tilted his head, thinking. “What’s that traditional potato thing Jews have for

Hanukkah?”

“Latkes,” Miles told him. “Potato pancakes.”
“I’ve never tried those,” Nic said.

Miles rubbed his hands together. “No? Well then prepare yourself, my friend.” He

hummed his way into the kitchen, smiling as he started peeling potatoes. He realized all his
anxiety over the morning was gone. He was so happy doing this, cooking for someone, in
his own kitchen, in his world. Maybe it wasn’t enough for Itai, but it was right for him.

Miles didn’t dare bring the hot, fragrant latkes into the deli where someone might order

them, so he took over Nic’s position at the counter and asked him to eat them in the
kitchen.

Nic kept his eyes on the deli, however, unwilling to break free from his actual duty of

scanning the customers for criminal activity. Miles took an order and turned around to catch

Nic stuffing an entire sour-cream-smothered latke into his mouth. He let out a low, visceral

moan and closed his eyes as he chewed.

In record time for a lunch break, Nic was back. He stealthily rubbed Miles’s back from

behind. The gesture was unexpected and shot through Miles in a bolt of delicious relief.

Such small things made him feel so good, which was either pitiful or brilliant, depending on

how one chose to look at it.

“I’m converting,” Nic declared. He washed his hands of grease. “That beats a Christmas

ham any day of the week.”

“It’s better with a brisket,” Miles admitted, “but I’ll have to cook that for you upstairs,

out of the kosher kitchen, one of these days.”

“Count me in.” Nic smiled at the next customer and took their order, and Miles slipped

back into his kitchen. From time to time he glanced out to see how Nic fared, but he
needn’t have worried. Nic was clearly a fast learner and seemed to enjoy interacting with

the customers. In fact, he asked them a lot of questions and was almost a little too probing.

It might have been related to his case, but that didn’t matter to Miles, as long as he didn’t

get any complaints.

Which he did, this time in letter format, from one of the more senile older clients that

had been shopping there for years. Mrs. Maguire had purchased a jar of spicy Piekus
sandwich relish every week for the last twelve years. When Miles saw her enter the deli, he
came out front to personally ring her up, but along with her cash, Mrs. Maguire handed him
an envelope, scowled, and walked away.

Nic frowned. “What’s that?”

Miles shrugged. More customers came in, so he left Nic to handle it while he read the

scathing, racist remarks in the letter and the complaints against his cooking.

It was so shocking he called his mother.
“Hey, Mom,” he said.
“Hi, honey! What happened?”
Miles rolled his eyes. “Why does something have to happen for me to call you?”
“It’s what…eleven thirty over there? So you are working, so something must have

happened for you to walk into the kitchen and call.”

Miles glanced around for secret cameras. “How do you know I’m in the kitchen?”

His mother scoffed. “I cooked in there for twenty years, honey. I know the rumble of

that old standing fridge anywhere.”

Miles had grown so accustomed to the sound he didn’t even hear it anymore.
“So?” his mother prompted.

Miles unfolded Mrs. Maguire’s vitriolic verbal lashing and started to read it. Before he’d

gotten three sentences in, his mother stopped him.

“Hold on. Is this from Mrs. Maguire?” she asked.
Miles immediately felt better. “Yes.”
“Don’t worry, honey. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But she says I oversalted—”
“She writes nasty letters about twice a year, whenever her medication stops working.”
Miles stared at the letter. “Oh. Really?”
His mother laughed. “Yes. Did she call you a dirty Jew?”
“No,” Miles sniffed. “But she did call me a Christ killer.”
“Well, that happens, dear.” His mother sounded upbeat. “How’s your holiday going?”

Miles felt an unwanted wave of emotion roll up from the depths of his heart. “All right,”

he said a little shakily.

He could hear his mother’s silent concern over the phone.
Nic appeared. “Hey, I think we’re out of pickled cherries.”
“I gotta go back to work,” Miles told his mom.
“Call me later,” she ordered.
“Thanks, Mom.” Miles hung up and went back to the storage room to see if he had any

jars of cherries left.

The deli was relatively quiet for the rest of the afternoon, and once Miles shut the doors

and tallied the books and inventory, he invited Nic back into the kitchen.

He dumped the shredded cabbage into a bus bin.
“Do you have to go shopping?” Nic asked. He yawned and stretched dramatically.
“I can shop tomorrow,” Miles said. “We’re closed so I have time.” He added Nic’s

carrots, cranberries, and coriander seeds to the cabbage. “So the hardest part to good
sauerkraut is making sure you salt it properly.”

“How do you know how much to put in?” Nic asked.
“You just know.”
“That’s very helpful.”

Miles laughed, sprinkling salt over the mixture. “You probably would get it since you

have a lot of cooking experience in any case.”

Nic sighed. “Yeah, I do love it.”
“So why’d you become a cop?” Miles started massaging the cabbage to mix everything

together.

Nic glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

Miles shrugged. “It’s obvious you love cooking, and you have the industry in your

blood. What made you decide to become a police officer instead?”

Nic stared at the bus bin. “It’s complicated.”
“You thought being a chef was gay?” Miles joked.
Nic smirked at that. “No.”
“You like guns?” Miles prompted.
“I respect guns. That’s different from liking them,” Nic said.
“So what?”

Nic shrugged again. “My two older brothers are officers. So it seemed like the thing to

do.”

Miles tried to imagine his younger brother following in his footsteps, and the idea made

him nauseated, visualizing his brother in a roomful of sharp knives and hot objects.

“It was the path of least resistance, I guess,” Nic continued. He frowned. “I never gave it

much thought at the time. Marco enrolled in the academy, and two years later Anthony, and
then two years later it was my turn. It felt…inevitable.”

He looked a little sad, so Miles stepped back. “Here, you give it a go. The goal is to

thoroughly mix everything together without crushing the cabbage. That’s why I like using
my fingers.”

Nic unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his gun and holster. Standing close, Miles smelled a

faint whiff of pine soap but also Nic’s musky body. It was strange to smell a man not
doused in colognes and hair gels. It surprised him how excited the odor made him.

“Did your parents push you into the police force?” Miles asked as Nic stirred.
“No. They’d have loved it if I’d taken over the deli like you did. But they’d sold it by the

time I left high school. It seemed like the police academy is what everyone expected.”

“Sounds like you miss it though,” Miles prompted.
“Yeah.” Nic sighed. “I didn’t realize how much until this week. I love this. It’s nice being

on the good side of people, helping them, instead of…well. You don’t really get to see the
best of humanity as a police officer.”

“No, I imagine not.” Miles laughed. “Although you also haven’t seen the letter I got this

morning, have you?” Miles fetched the folded letter from Mrs. Maguire. “It’s not all roses
serving people food either.”

He held it out for Nic to read without having to remove his hands from the bin. Nic

started laughing halfway through. “This is fantastic. You should frame it.”

“Ah…no.”
“‘Purveyor of subpar vinegars’ is my favorite part, I think.”
Miles smiled and turned the letter over. “I like the bit about me being a Christ killer.”
Nic shook his head. “Haven’t they invented new derogatory terms by now?”
“Oh sure. The other day I heard someone call Jews ‘Bible shorteners,’ which I thought

was pretty slick.”

Nic laughed. “Yeah, but I still think us Italians have you beat.”
“Probably.”
“Think how rough it is for Italian Jews,” Nic remarked.
“Are there any?" Miles asked.
“I assume so.” Nic frowned. “Although now that you mention it, any Italian-American I

know is Catholic, across the board.” He stopped mixing. “How’s it look?”

“Good. Let’s cover it with cheesecloth and leave it out at room temperature. For the next

few days we’ll need to poke the mixture to let the gases that will build up escape. Then
we’ll stick it in the fridge for a few weeks.”

Nic shook the excess mixture off his hands and walked over to the sink. Miles turned on

the water for him.

“Thanks,” Nic said.
“What about you?” Miles asked. “Were you raised Catholic?”

Nic nodded. “I may be an atheist, but you know what they say. They can take the boy

out of the Catholic Church, but they can never take the Catholic Church out of the boy.”

Miles laughed. “Are your parents religious?”
“My mother is.” Nic soaped up his hands. “My father hates all religion and anything to

do with Catholicism, and yet he still confesses every weekend and carries a rosary, so I
don’t really believe him.”

“As a Jew I hold on to my guilt. No sense giving it away where it can’t be useful.”

Nic turned off the water and shook his hands. “You know what we should work on? An

Italian-Jewish sandwich amalgam!”

“More like a chimera, I think you mean.”
“No, really, it could be good!” Nic said excitedly. He yanked back on his button-down

shirt. “We could make some sort of veggie meatball. Some spicy tomato sauce, add some
kraut to it, some rye… Who knows?”

Miles shrugged, but he was thinking about it already. What aspects of his deli’s flavor

profile—or Israeli food profile, since that was his inspiration—would go well with the rich
and creamy flavors of Italian cuisine?

“Miles!”
Miles heard the upstairs door slam. Itai emerged, dressed to kill and looking pissed.
“When are you coming upstairs to dress? We gotta go in like thirty minutes!”
“Okay, okay.”
“You’re still here?” Itai said, frowning at Nic.

Miles remembered Nic’s gun and spun around, but breathed out in relief when he

realized Nic had already covered it.

“He wanted help,” Nic told Itai. He grabbed his backpack. “I’ll take off though. See you

on Monday?”

“Right.” Miles smiled. “Thanks again for all your help.”
“No problem. For another one of those latkes I’ll do anything you want.”

Miles smiled at the innuendo and glanced over to see if Itai noticed, but Itai had already

returned upstairs. He sighed.

He finished wrapping the cabbage. He had just enough time to take a quick shower,

shave, and get dressed. As he pulled on the expensive new sweater Itai had bought him, he
felt inexplicably nervous. He realized he hadn’t been out in public, at an actual event that
didn’t involve him cooking something, for nearly four months. He didn’t even remember
how to act around people when not feeding them.

“You’re going to leave your hair like that?” Itai scowled. He knotted his tie and slid it

loosely so it hung casually, creating the image of someone both professional and also above
traditional professionalism. So much of Itai was a carefully crafted persona of who he
wanted to project.

“For fuck’s sake. You want to do my hair for me?” Miles complained, pulling on the

roots to make it stick up more.

“No, no, it’s…it’s fine. Leave it. Don’t make it worse.” Itai grabbed his blazer and

phone and turned. “You ready?”

Miles took a big breath. The knot in his stomach didn’t dissipate. “I’m not sure.”
“Don’t be nervous. It will be a chance for you to relax,” Itai said with false enthusiasm.
“Yeah. Nothing like standing in a roomful of people I don’t know to make me relax.”
“You know me and Travis and a few other people from the development meeting.

Suzanne will be there and James. You liked them.”

“I hardly know them.” Still, Miles followed Itai out the door and down the stairs to their

car. During the drive to the venue, both of them were silent.

The launch was at a swanky bar near Seattle Center, in the location’s spacious and

partially finished underground basement. It was a huge expanse of space with cement floors
and brick walls, dimly lit but with mood lighting perfect for raves or other dance events.

Tonight the entrance was decorated with life-size standing banners of Itai and Travis,

smiling and holding a graphic image in their hands of the Fantastic App Engine logo. A
table at the entrance was manned by one of the PR staff, who checked off the list of
attendees and provided name badge lanyards and press kits to those interested. On the
opposite end of the vast space was the podium and a raised stage with an LED projector
streaming screenshots of the product. Against the right brick wall the bar was set up, as well

as a long table Miles assumed was for the buffet. On the left wall, between the bathrooms
and the stairs up to the main entrance of the bar, a DJ spun dance music that blared through
the cavernous space, making Miles feel like he should be holding a glow stick.

The room was a stockyard of elegantly dressed twenty-to fiftysomethings standing

around holding drinks like cutouts of a party. Miles shrank inside his new sweater. He felt
small, and he hated feeling small. He drew closer to Itai.

Itai started his pass through the room with his arm close enough to rub against Miles, but

by the time they hit the bar, Itai had stepped away to greet one of his corporate financers
and Miles was on his own.

He beelined for the food because food was his security blanket. He spoke with the

catering staff a bit, asking the woman offering bacon-wrapped chestnuts how many workers
were on duty, what kind of numbers of individual canapés were made, whether the
chestnuts had been hand roasted. She clearly found his line of questioning probing and
awkward and broke free the moment Miles shut up for a second.

The second waitstaff member he tried to hound for conversation was equally

professional, nodding politely and not outright running away but, like a cornered squirrel,
showing a strong urge to bolt out of sight. Miles eventually took a proffered stuffed fig and
left the beleaguered staff alone. He made his way to the bar to order a sidecar. He finished
it before he left the wall, so he had to order another one just to have something to hold in
his hands.

Everyone talked to everybody like this was natural to them. There were no outsiders, no

random people left to fend for themselves. So what was he supposed to do? Barge in and
become an unwanted threesome in a conversation about social media he knew nothing
about?

Luckily, someone spotted him. “Miles, right?”

It was James someone, a man Miles met during one of the very first meetings Itai had

with a team of venture capitalists over dinner. It had been one of the few times Miles had
tagged along. It was early enough in their second round of dating that he and Itai still spent
every chance they could together. And besides, Miles had always wanted to go to Canlis but
could never afford the tasting menu on his own.

“James!” Miles said, shaking the man’s hand gratefully. James looked like a nice, quiet,

nerdy fellow, the kind of guy who made a lot of money very young like so many software
developers in Seattle in the nineties. “It’s good to see you. How are you?”

“Fine,” James said. “I’m fine. Hey, is Itai here?”
“Yeah, he’s around somewhere. I think he’s over…” Miles surveyed the crowd for Itai’s

tall frame. He spotted him up near the podium, arm intimately wrapped around Travis’s
waist.

Miles stomach clenched into a hard knot, and he felt his face flush in embarrassment.

“…there.” He pointed, swallowing to keep his bile down.

Itai laughed at something Travis said, and the two separated. He looks so happy, Miles

thought, taking in the glow of Itai’s expression, the light that lit his eyes when he stared at
Travis.

They look good together, he thought. He hated himself for thinking that.

“Nice to see you again,” James said, already moving across the room to Itai.

Itai glanced around the room and made eye contact with Miles. He smiled and waved

him over. Relief flooded Miles, and he politely maneuvered his way through the crowd
toward the front.

“Having fun?” Itai asked as he approached. He clinked his drink against Miles’s.
“Yeah, a blast,” Miles said sarcastically.
“Good!” Itai turned away and started speaking to someone else. Miles stood beside him,

wishing he could go home and finish that sauerkraut.

His only relief came when the food appeared. He rushed toward it but was already

behind a dozen starving guests who formed an immediate line for the buffet. At least
standing in line, Miles didn’t look conspicuous not talking to anyone. He heaped his plate
with every dish on offer.

There were only a few picnic tables at the far end of the cavernous space, so Miles

ended up having to stand and eat like a lot of the other guests. The courses were good, a bit
undersalted, and he thought he could have done a better job.

Somewhere in the midst of his second helping Travis approached the podium and turned

on the mic. He too was dressed stylishly, something he and Itai had in common. His curly
hair was perfectly coiffed, and he wore a shiny metallic button-down that Miles thought
made him look sleazy, but then again he might have only thought that because Travis was a
two-timing cocksucker.

“Thank you all so much for coming tonight,” Travis said. He nodded to someone in the

front row. “Itai and I have been programmers for ten years, partners for five years, and

Fantastic app devotees for three years. Fantastic is all about ease of use, ease of interface,

ease of consumer platforms. It’s about developing a tool kit robust enough for tomorrow’s
developers and flexible enough to respond in an agile fashion to the demands of designers
with specific finished products in mind.”

Travis started to click through a presentation, and Miles’s gaze blurred with boredom.

Blah blah something about wireframe interfaces. Something about GUI. Something else

about security protocols. The men and women in the room seemed interested, which was
good for Itai, but Miles, honestly, couldn’t have been more bored if he’d had to sing
lullabies for eight hours straight.

Halfway through the presentation Itai joined Travis onstage, and the two stood shoulder

to shoulder as Itai spoke. They looked at each other often, and there was no doubt in

Miles’s mind: there was chemistry there. And something else. Sexual energy? Maybe it was

a thrilling moment where they realized they were about to make a lot of money, but
something sparked between those two, and he decided he didn’t want to stick around and
watch it unfold before his eyes.

He ordered another drink, left the room, and found a quiet space at a table in the

upstairs venue where he could get drunk and play Jewel Star on his phone. After a while all
the colors and dots merged, but he was surrounded by regular people getting drunk and
laid, and not at an event where he got to see his lover virtually mack on someone else.

Miles finished his drink, and another, before returning downstairs to see if his presence

had been missed. In his fantasy, Itai would be searching high and low for him, looking for

some opportunity to pull Miles into a photo op and declare to everyone that Miles had
supported Itai’s dream for the last year.

Instead, he came downstairs and it was exactly how he left it, only Itai and Travis were

off the stage and back in the crowd, standing so close they were hip to hip. Miles made his
way toward them as they answered questions from a reporter.

“So, Itai, are you an American citizen?”
“No, I immigrated six years ago from Tel Aviv for graduate school. I got my green card

the first year I worked for Apple and am going through the process of becoming a citizen.”

“And where did you meet your boyfriend, Travis?”
“We met while we both worked at Apple.” Itai cleared his throat. “But we are now only

business partners,” he added, too late for Miles’s comfort.

That’s it. I’m going home.

He waited, though, standing on the periphery, for some look, some sign from Itai that he

mattered, but there was none. So he counted the rest of his cash to see if he could get a taxi.

There wasn’t enough.

He interrupted Itai as soon as the reporter was done, and before someone else launched

into her place.

“Hey,” he said loudly to be heard over the crowd.
Itai scooted closer to him, smiling. He squeezed Miles’s bicep. “You okay?”
“I’m going home.”
Itai frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to be here anymore.” Miles hated the petulance in his voice but

couldn’t help it. He was too drunk to act anymore.

“Whatever you want, baby,” Itai told him.
“Can I have some cash? I don’t have enough for a taxi.”
Itai reached into his back pocket. “You can use a credit card, you know.”
“Great. Thanks.” Miles turned away and headed toward the door.
“Miles, wait!” Itai rushed to catch up. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m saying you could if

you wanted. Here.” He opened his wallet and handed Miles forty dollars. “That should
cover it.”

“I’m not going out of state. Going home.”
“I know, but there may be traffic. Just to be safe.” Itai shoved the money into Miles’s

hand and kissed him on the temple. “See you later.”

“Bye,” Miles grumbled, turning back. He glanced around, but no one seemed to notice

the kiss or the money or him at all. He felt invisible, like the night before when he’d served
dinner, but this time it wasn’t a good feeling. It was just…empty.

Chapter Six

Pickled Nasturtium Capers

Itai didn’t make it home until the following morning.

He looked disheveled as he crawled into bed, hair standing on end, reeking of alcohol.

Miles asked if he had driven home in that state, but he didn’t get an answer; Itai was snoring
the second his head hit the pillow.

On his day off, Miles typically preferred not to go downstairs. He needed one day a

week where he didn’t smell like vinegar, one day to do all the other aspects of the business
and life, things like laundry or running errands. It was his day to get little jobs done or spend
time at home watching football on the couch or go somewhere with Itai.

But the idea of staying in the house right now with so much anger inside him toward Itai

seemed dangerous. He was likely to say something he meant but didn’t want to speak out
loud without further thought.

So he decided to make himself a coffee and make some soup for tomorrow’s lunch.

Soup prep, like pickling, was something he enjoyed doing when he was trying not to think.

It was repetitive motion, all muscle memory, and it left his mind blank.

He had a lot of creamer left over from the Hanukkah dinner, so he decided to make a

sweet-potato cream soup. He stared out the back window as it simmered and reduced,
wondering how awful the next week was going to feel.

He wasn’t sure what was worse—breaking up with someone or thinking about it

incessantly.

Miles’s phone rang. He checked the screen but didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
Someone cleared his throat. “Hi, Miles.”
It was Nic. A flood of warmth filled Miles. “Hey, Nic!”
“Sorry to call.”
“No, it’s okay! I was actually thinking about you.” Miles winced. “Er…thinking about

how I don’t have your number.”

“Well, now you do,” Nic said. It sounded like he was chewing on something. “How’s the

kraut?”

“Starting to smell.”
“Is that…a good thing?”
“Yes.” Miles walked away from the soup and lifted the cheesecloth on the sauerkraut.

“Smells like horse farts.”

“Being unfamiliar with horses or their farts, I’ll take your word for it,” Nic said. “So I’m

calling for two reasons. One, I have to testify on a former case tomorrow at ten in the
morning, so I’m going to come in late. But I will have my guys there undercover watching
out for the place. They have been instructed to give you the signal if they think anything’s
going to happen, and you’re to follow their lead. All right?”

“Sure.” Miles turned over his wooden spoon and poked at the sauerkraut. Pungent

pockets of gas bubbled to the surface. “That’s a big deal, isn’t it? To have to testify?”

“I’ve done it once before. I’m not worried about it, but I do hate the fact that I have to

wear a suit.”

Miles laughed. “I don’t know if I even own a suit anymore. But wait, you wore one the

other day.”

“Yeah, and I hated it then too. I only wore it to impress you.”
“Really?” Miles smiled, leaning against the counter. “You should have worn tight shorts

and no shirt. That would probably impress me more.” He winced, thinking he went too far,
but Nic chuckled on the end of the line.

“I’ll keep that in mind. How tight?”
“For the shorts?” Miles cleared his throat. “I’m a gay man with a lack of imagination.

You figure it out.”

Nic laughed at that.
“So what was the second reason?” Miles asked.
“Huh?”
“You said you had two reasons to call me.”
“Oh!” Nic started chewing something again. “Yeah. Want to go out for drinks tonight?”

Miles felt warm and excited. “Yes! But…” But he couldn’t. He wasn’t single, was he?

“But I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Sure it is, and let me tell you why,” Nic said confidently. “I want to take you to this

crazy Korean bar because they serve about fifty different types of kimchi and make these
lunatic pancakes that are bigger than a large pizza and cut with scissors.”

“Well…” Miles hesitated.
“It’s for research,” Nic reasoned. “I noticed you only make one kind of kimchi, and this

will give you a chance to broaden your horizons.”

“Count me in.” It sounded like fun. More fun than he’d had out in a long time, in any

case, and the sad part was, he truly doubted Itai would even notice he was gone, let alone
care.

“Great!” Nic was eating something else now. It was a good thing he did work out, since

the amount of calories he consumed every day was probably staggering. “You want to meet
me there or should I swing by your place? It’s close enough to walk, and parking’s a bitch.”

“Yeah, come here. We’ll walk.”
“Okay. See you around eight.”
“Bye.” Miles hung up and realized he was grinning from ear to ear, flattered and amazed

that someone like Nic would want to spend time with him.

Miles smelled something burning. “Shit, my soup!”

He rushed over to the stove and pushed the pot off the burner. The soup was

salvageable, but there was nothing that beat burned milk stuck to the bottom of a pan in
terms of lengthy cleanup.

He transferred the soup to a different container to cool, soaked the damaged pot in water

and soap, and moved to prepping his pickles. He put on the radio and dashed around the

kitchen, feeling more inspired than he had in ages.

He didn’t even realize hours had passed until he heard the upstairs door open. He

glanced at the clock over the sink, where he was scrubbing the burned pan. It was already
two in the afternoon.

Itai wandered in wearing his designer sweats and a tightly knit merino wool sweater that

had a small hole in the cuff and therefore was deemed no better than sleepwear. His hair
was slicked back, but he hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble covered his chin as if he’d spent a
good week harvesting a beard.

“Yanix Inc. is interested,” Itai declared proudly, yawning. He reached on the bread rack

for one of the loaves that remained from the day before and had yet to be converted into
croutons.

“Yeah?”

Itai nodded. He tore the roll and started eating. “They’re formulating an offer for us this

week. It would be huge if they bought us. They’ve become the hottest thing in online
message boards and secure document sharing, so it could really take Fantastic far.”

“Isn’t that great.” Miles scrubbed his pot.
Itai’s smiled vanished. “What’s your problem now?”
“Now?”
“You’ve been acting like a pouty bitch all weekend.”

The words were like a sucker punch. “I don’t know, Itai. Maybe it’s the fact that you are

cheating on me again?”

Miles waited to see the reaction, because that would reveal everything.

Itai flinched and looked guilty for a second before he cleared his face of all expression. It

was that second that revealed everything to Miles. “I wish you’d stop—”

“I’ll stop,” Miles interrupted. He sighed. He hung his head and dropped his sponge,

feeling so angry he’d grown numb. “I’ve stopped.”

Itai stood there silently, hands in pockets. “Look…”

There was a long silence between them, while Miles tried to swallow back the flood of

emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, and while Itai clearly searched for the right
thing to say.

“Miles…I’m sorry about last night,” Itai said at last. “I know I wasn’t there for you.”
“Or the night before,” Miles reminded him.
Itai’s eyebrows came together. “The night before?”
“My dinner? My Festival of Lights event? You didn’t ask how it went.”
“Yes I did.”
Miles stared at him.

Itai looked away. “Maybe I didn’t. It’s been a busy time for me. You have to understand

what I’m going through.”

Miles continued to stare. Like a dry branch breaking free, Miles realized their

relationship was over. He didn’t love Itai. Their love had withered months ago, dried up
without the nourishment it needed to survive.

Miles turned back to his pot and continued to scrub. Itai left. And less than half an hour

after that, he saw Itai through the kitchen windows that looked into the alley, coming down
the stairs. He got into his car and drove away.

Miles breathed out in relief because he didn’t want to have that conversation now. He

would have to, soon, but not right now.

Miles nearly wore the brown sweater Itai had given him that night as a form of revenge,

especially since the sweater had obviously been less for Miles than it had been a gift for Itai
himself, a way to dress up his guests at the launch like the faceless accoutrement Miles had
been.

But he didn’t like the sweater, so he went to his old staple, a dark blue button-down that

had a cut that complemented his frame and made him look stronger than he was. He wore
clean jeans and his dark suede boots and decided he looked acceptable enough for kimchi,
at least.

Because it wasn’t a date, he reminded himself.

Around eight he realized he’d forgotten to instruct Nic to come up the alley and knock

on the second-story entrance, so he gathered his wallet, phone, and keys and waited for Nic
outside the front of the store.

It was dark and windy, and even though there wasn’t any rain, the air had a sharp, damp

chill to it. He wished he’d brought his gloves.

He only had to wait a few minutes before Nic’s green truck roared up the road. It was a

big thing, not very practical for urban life, but looked useful for fishing or being a man in
the outdoors.

He parked up the road from the deli and walked toward Miles, the beige scarf around his

neck blowing wildly in the wind. His dark hair rushed around his face in the breeze, wild
and free. Miles wanted to run his hands through it. Run his hands through another man’s
hair, he realized, and not feel gel and hair spray.

“Hey.” Nic stopped close by, smelling sweet, like cloves or wine. There was a flush to

his cheeks despite the cold. He looked beautiful, Miles decided.

“Hi.” He smiled. “Have you had some wine already?”
Nic looked embarrassed. “Yeah. Just a glass. Calm my nerves a bit.”
“Nerves? Why are you nervous?” Miles asked. Nic started walking the opposite direction

from his truck, and Miles walked alongside him.

“No reason.” Nic was behaving a little shyly, but then again, so was Miles. It had been a

long time since he’d done this.

“Where’s Itai tonight?” Nic asked.
Miles shrugged. “No idea. We had a fight, and he left.”
“Sorry.” Nic didn’t sound it, though. If anything, it seemed to perk him up. He asked a

few questions about the kimchi Miles had made, and that launched them into a long
conversation about various ethnic foods and which were their favorites.

As they walked, the wind battered them around, and more than once Miles found

himself leaning against Nic, the two close enough to hug. At one point Nic threw his arm

around Miles as if to keep him warm.

“If you keep doing that, people are going to think you’re gay,” Miles warned him.
“I am gay.”

Miles stopped and turned. Nic didn’t look like he was being sarcastic. He raised his

eyebrows. “What? You think a police officer can’t be gay or something?”

“No! I just…” Can’t believe my luck? Miles shook his head. “I’m surprised, is all. I can’t

believe my gaydar is so rusty.”

Nic continued walking. After a second Miles followed along. “I don’t flaunt it, if that’s

what you mean,” Nic said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not going to wear a
sign around my neck. It’s a hard enough job without adding to the insults the public and my
fellow officers would throw. But I don’t lie about it either.”

“So your coworkers don’t know?” Miles asked.
“The ones in my department do.”
“And they’re okay with it?”
“Most are.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck again. “There’s the occasional snide

remark or asshole who comes through the department and thinks it‘s acceptable to say
something inappropriate, but we have a pretty tolerant district. And I’ve got a mean right
hook if I need it.” Nic smiled then, just for a second.

“Wow. And here I was thinking all your pickle innuendos were merely hilariously

innocent comments.”

Nic laughed. “Oh no. I slip a dick joke in every chance I get.”

They reached the bar, which to Miles’s dismay, looked like a complete dump. It had a

neon sign with half its letters burned out, and a drunk on the sidewalk searched the damp
debris at his feet for cigarette butts. Two other men smoking outside watched Nic and Miles
approach with matching looks of distaste.

But Nic sauntered in without a care. He was a cop, Miles reminded himself. Nic knew

how to take care of himself.

And inside, it was different than he expected. The front of the bar was full of the typical

accoutrements: an old, stained industrial carpet, furniture stinking of cigarettes despite the
state having a no-smoking law in place for a decade, and old arcade games littering the front
and around the bar, where half a dozen men sat watching small screens and drinking alone.

But in the back of the bar the lighting changed and there were small tables beside red velvet

wallpaper. The tables were sticky, the lighting low and poor, but almost all of them were
full of couples or groups of four, their tables shrouded by dozens of small bowls of food.

Luckily a couple was getting up as Miles and Nic arrived, so they were able to score a

table. Nic offered to get the first round. He went to the bar and returned with two beers and
a bowl of nuts. He carried them like a man who’d spent a lot of time waiting tables. It was a
skill set Miles appreciated.

“So what do your parents think of the changes you’ve made to their store?” Nic asked.
“They’re happy. I think my dad was a little shocked at the idea of expanding and having

to hire additional staff, which was unnecessary when it was only a pickle store. But my
Mom and I talked over the idea for years. They just didn’t have the money at the time.”

Nic quirked an eyebrow. “So you used your money?”
“Yeah.” Miles took a deep pull of his beer. It was lighter than he usually drank, but he

liked it. “I worked doing accounts for a local manufacturer for the last ten years, and I saved
every penny because I knew I wanted to come back to Ballard and rebuild the store.” He
shook his head. “It took everything I had, but I’m sure it will pay off in the long run.”

Nic scoffed. “Long run? It’ll be turning profit in no time. It’s a great location, it has

tradition and an ambience you can’t buy, and besides, it’s very trendy at the moment.

Everyone’s looking for some artisan food niche these days, from bitters to bread, but

you’ve got the pickle world cornered.”

Miles smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”
“I know so. When’s that food critic coming by?”
“Farrah Chapman? Wednesday.” Miles’s stomach churned a bit saying her name.
“Once she writes that review, you’ll be swamped. You’ll have to hire a team of assistants

to keep up.”

“All I need is one person as good as you and I’d be home free.”
Nic smiled.

An old man wheeled a cart by their table and started unloading small dishes, more than a

dozen of them. Miles’s eyes widened when he realized how many there were.

“How are we going to eat”—the man put down a giant flat, yellowish pancake that had

to be at least two and a half feet in diameter—“all of this?”

Nic rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Oh, don’t worry. I have an appetite.”
“I’ve noticed.”

Nic took a pair of scissors from the old man and happily started cutting weird shapes out

of the pancake.

“Are they supposed to be sliced?” Miles asked as Nic made some curves, then picked up

his creation with the flat of the scissors to transfer it onto a plate. He handed it to Miles.

“They traditionally cut the pancake into strips, but it’s much more fun to make Pajeon

animals.”

Miles studied the shape on his plate. “This is an animal?”
“It’s an elephant.”
“Really?” Miles squinted and turned the plate. “I only see a penis.”
“We all see what we want to see, don’t we.”

The pancake was served with a spicy soy sauce that Miles immediately wanted the recipe

for. It went very well with the potatoes, eggs, and fresh vegetables in the pancake, as well as
the amazing variety of pickled and spiced vegetables. Miles realized he could make some
sort of version of the cake that would be kosher to serve at his restaurant.

Miles ordered a second round of beer, and they spoke more about the police department

and attitudes toward Nic’s orientation. Nic seemed to find it interesting that Miles’s parents,
while traditional Jews, didn’t have a problem with their son’s homosexuality.

“What did they say?” he asked.
“When I came out?” Miles asked for clarification.
“Yeah.”

Miles snorted. “My dad told me once he knew I was gay the moment I was born. He

likes to say, ‘There’s somethin’ funny about that boy, and I was right!’ and my mother nods
her head.”

Nic grinned. “So I take it they’re okay with it.”
“They’d prefer I get married and have lots of children. But they’ve learned to accept

what I am. Besides, compared to my brother, I’m a saint, so they gotta take the good with
the bad, I suppose.”

“What’s wrong with your brother?”
“He’s struggled with drug addiction off and on since high school. He’s either standoffish

or strung out, so we don’t see much of him.”

Nic frowned. He didn’t say anything. Instead he got up from the table and returned with

an entire bottle of cognac.

Miles shook his head. “You don’t mess around, do you?”

Nic smiled. “I rarely go out and drink, and this stuff is expensive and delicious. It’s best

when shared.”

“Who says I want to do a shot?” Miles asked as Nic placed down two shot glasses.
“Your eyes are saying it. They are saying, ‘Get me drunk, Nic,’ and I’m complying.”
Miles laughed. “So what about your folks?”
“My family is very traditional.” Nic poured them both a shot. “And when I say that, I

mean devoutly Catholic. That plus the fact that they expect me and my brothers to fully live
the American dream they sacrificed so much for, makes some things awkward between us.”

“Like your dating habits,” Miles filled in.
“Yeah.”

Miles was beginning to understand more about Nic’s strange choices. “And that

encourages you to make up for it in other ways…like following a respected career.”

Nic sighed. “I think I was reacting to realizing my orientation more than anything else. I

didn’t want to rock the boat. And I saw how much my parents admired my older brothers
for their decision to join the police force.”

He shook his head. “I worshipped my older brothers. I did everything they did. They

fought like mortal enemies but were also the best of friends, but they both saw me as the
baby brother and let me get away with following in their footsteps. I wanted them to be
proud of me.”

“So they must be,” Miles concluded.
“Yeah, but…” Nic shook his head.
“What?”

He spun the full shot glass slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t love it.” He shrugged and

threw the shot back. “I’m on my eighth year on the force, and I feel just like I did the first
year—out of my depths and underwhelmed by it all. It doesn’t suit who I am.”

Miles followed with a shot of his own. The cognac was sharp and bitter, but with a

slightly oily, smooth aftertaste that didn’t burn as much as he’d feared it would.

“Okay, now try this one.” Nic shoved one of the small plates closer.

Miles tried a bite of the pickles with the pancake. The taste, after having such a bitter

drink in his mouth, burst open, fiery and powerful.

“Wow,” he said, closing his eyes. “That’s crazy good.”
“Crazy good,” Nic agreed, helping himself to the same combination. “Damn, I love this

place.” He scooped generous helpings of the other pickle dishes onto his plate. “What about
you? Do you have a regular bar or restaurant you go out to?” He poured them both another
shot.

Miles shook his head. “Back when Itai and I first dated, we had a few Thai places we

loved, and this one Chinese restaurant near his original office that we’d go to at least once a
week.” He sighed. “But of course we don’t do anything like that anymore.”

Nic looked at Miles hard. He threw back his shot and immediately refilled his glass.
“Whoa. Slow down. Give me a chance to catch up,” Miles said.
Nic stared at him. “Itai’s cheating on you.”

Miles froze, waiting for the pain of the words to sink in. But this time, they didn’t. He

felt cold rather than hurt.

“How can you not see this?” Nic demanded, suddenly angry. “It’s obvious. I could tell

the first day I worked at the deli, overhearing the conversation he had on the phone. You’re
a fool if you really think he’s out working when—”

“I know.” Miles picked at the label on his beer. It was damp from the bottle’s sweating,

and it peeled easily.

Nic paused. Quieter, he asked, “You know?”

Miles shrugged. “Well, I have my suspicions. It isn’t the first time. We’ve been through

this before.”

Nic scowled. “Then what the hell are you doing with him?”
“Itai believes in open relationships. He thinks monogamy is a death sentence for any

healthy gay couple. He insists it has nothing to do with how he feels about me. It’s just
fucking.”

Nic shook his head in disapproval. “And you agreed to his bullshit?”
“No.” The label peeled off the beer in one pull. Miles laid it on the table. “Two years

ago we broke up over it. When we got back together, I made it a condition of our
reconciliation. I don’t tolerate sleeping around.” Miles felt embarrassed admitting as much
and then angry at his own embarrassment. Why should he apologize for his own morality?

He straightened his back and made eye contact. “Honesty and fidelity are what kept my

parents married for fifty years. I’m sticking to that model.”

Nic’s scowl softened. “Then you picked poorly.”
“I know.”
“Why the hell do you put up with it?”
“Because I love him… I thought I loved him.” Miles cleared his throat. He had never

said this aloud, and it felt strange. “I thought it was worth another go. I’d invested so much
in our relationship in the past.”

“But that’s like throwing good money after bad.” Nic sipped his beer. “You deserve

better than that.” He glanced down at the food, looking a little lost.

“I do.” Miles sighed and did his own shot. The alcohol stung on the way down, but he

knew the kick that came after would be worth it. “That’s why I’m going to end it.”

Nic stared at him with a look Miles couldn’t read. Excitement? Pity? He had no idea.

Nic tried to refill his shot glass, but Miles put his hand over the top. “No, I shouldn’t

have more. I’m already three sheets to the wind; any more and I’ll lose it completely.”

Nic scoffed. “So?”
Miles smiled. “I talk about inappropriate things when I’m wasted.”
“Like?”
“Like how much I think you’re attractive.” Miles winced. “Damn, see? I’m already

drunk.”

“Tell me other inappropriate things you want to say.” Nic grinned wickedly.
“Should I tell you how I like to be fucked? That kind of thing?”
Nic’s eyes widened in surprise. “Move your hand.”
Miles laughed. “I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, no, you should.” Nic grabbed his glass. “I’m very interested in learning more about

how you like to be fucked.”

“Too bad. I don’t think I should tell you.” Miles felt like resting his head on his arms.

Shit, when did he get so drunk?

He glanced down and realized they’d eaten the entire pancake.
“When did we eat that pancake?” he asked.
“Why, you want more?” Nic asked, mumbling around a giant bite of food. He looked a

little guilty. “I thought you were done.”

“I’m a slow eater,” Miles said.
“Uh-oh. I eat like the restaurant’s on fire.”
“Does that mean a relationship between us is doomed?” Miles said. He rested his head

on his arm and picked up the cabbage leaf-wrapped bundle of kimchi on his plate. It was
seaweed, fruit, and cabbage, fermented lightly. “This is so good. I mean it. So fucking
good.”

“I know.” Nic smiled at him. “I took my friend Wyatt here a few months ago, and he

thought it was distasteful.”

Miles made a face. “How? He’s a moron.”

Nic laughed. “He isn’t very adventurous with food, and some of this stuff can be spicy.

Anyway, I really wanted to share it with someone who would appreciate it.”

“I’ll come here and watch you stuff an entire two-foot-diameter pancake in your mouth

anytime.” Miles crookedly held up his empty beer bottle. Nic clinked his against it.

By the time they left, Miles was drunker than he’d been in recent memory and could

barely stand. Nausea swelled and receded through his body at each step, and the world spun
in a sickening circle around the unnecessarily bright streetlights. At some point he clung to

Nic’s side and admired how strong and steady he was. He smelled like booze, sweat, and

leather, and as they walked, Nic scanned the area around them almost unwittingly. He’d
clearly been a police officer so long he couldn’t help but keep an eye out for trouble.

“Stay upright, Miles. I might be tough, but I still can’t carry you.”
“Want to try?” Miles slurred.

“Sexy.” Nic laughed. He threaded his arm through Miles’s and led him back toward the

store. “I didn’t realize you were the kinky sort.”

“I’m not kinky,” Miles defended himself.
“No?”
“No, I just like being fucked hard, and I like it described to me. Is that kinky?”
Nic’s eyes fluttered closed. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“I’m getting a hard-on, and it’s like twenty below.”

Miles laughed and swerved, nearly toppling over. Nic wrapped an arm around Miles’s

shoulders and pulled him closer, supporting him.

“Are we on a date?” Miles asked wistfully. “I’d like to be on a date with you.”
“Then yes.” Nic nodded. “Yes, we’re on a date.”
“You sure?” Miles mumbled. “I think I’m in a relationship.”
“Not a good one,” Nic growled. He steered Miles around the corner. “Come on. Let’s

go back to the shop and get you some coffee to sober up.”

“You’re the one who wanted me drunk.”
“Yeah, but now that I actually do want to fuck you, I need you sober. I’m not that kind

of guy.”

“No,” Miles confirmed. “You’re a police detective.”

Nic’s eyebrow rose. “Well, that doesn’t exclude dickish behavior, but it does in my case.

Come on.”

Once they reached the store, Miles couldn’t get his key anywhere near the hole, so Nic

took over. It was almost as if he were sober, but there was a sheen to Nic’s eyes that
showed he wasn’t quite as put together as he played.

“Hey,” Miles said. “You can’t drive home.”
“Nope.” Nic opened the shop door, and the bell chimed. Miles flinched at how loud it

seemed. Was Itai around? Did Miles care if he was?

Clearly Nic was thinking the same thing. “Is that asshole around?” he asked.

Miles stumbled his way through the dark deli into the kitchen and looked out the back

window. Itai’s car was still gone. Where once that would have filled him with anguish and a
sense of betrayal, now he felt nothing but relief.

“Nope.”
“Good.” Nic grabbed hold of Miles’s shoulders and steered him into the deli. “Sit

down.” He pressed on Miles’s back and made him sit at one of his tables.

Miles smiled, blinking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen my store from this angle before,” he

said.

“Yeah?” Nic took off his coat and made his way behind the counter. “Where are the

lights?”

“By the staircase.” Miles rested his head again to try to get the room to stop spinning. He

watched blurrily as Nic made himself at home in his store. He turned on the espresso
machine, washed a mug, and ground a portafilter full of fresh beans.

“You like cappuccinos, right?” Nic asked.

“How did you know?”

Nic shrugged. “I’ve paid very close attention to you, Miles.” He went to the fridge for

some milk.

Miles remembered watching Itai make Travis a coffee the other day, and how the fact

that he’d known the other man’s drink seemed intimate. Now he felt flush with the
knowledge that in only two days of working together, Nic knew Miles’s tastes better than
Itai did after living with him for a year.

The sputtering of the milk frother sounded homey, like his childhood all wrapped up

with the smell of warm milk, and he closed his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Nic warned, but Miles wasn’t going to. He was only going to

rest his eyes.

Chapter Seven

Banana Tamarind Mint Chutney

Miles’s neck hurt.

Scratch that. It killed. He tried to lift his head, but it was heavier than his neck could

support. He blurrily opened his eyes and found out why his neck was so stiff. He’d fallen
asleep sitting upright in one of the deli chairs.

In a panic, he checked his phone to see if he had to open. Nothing like throwing open

the doors with a drunk owner passed out on the floor in the deli.

Actually, at the table. The person passed out on the floor was Nic, who snored quietly as

he lay curled around one of the table legs, head resting on his leather coat.

Miles moved slowly, feeling the pain of last night’s poor drinking choices. His head

pounded, and he needed to find a chiropractor, stat. But according to his phone, he had a
mere hour to somehow clean himself up and get business started for the day.

He felt worse for Nic, who had an appointment in an hour with a courtroom. And Miles

had no idea how far away home was for him. If it were across town, there was a good
likelihood he’d be late.

“Wake up, sunshine,” Miles croaked, throat dry. He shook Nic’s shoulder gently. Nic

didn’t wake up. Instead, he curled tighter around the table leg.

Miles continued to rub Nic’s shoulder. He was warm and soft and earthy smelling, and

Miles had a strong urge to curl up against Nic’s back and spoon with him until they screwed

or fell asleep, both options sounding equally appealing at the moment.

Finally, Nic stirred. He blinked, rubbing the stubble on his face.
“Oh, fuck no.”
“Yes,” Miles said hoarsely.
“We didn’t fall asleep on the floor of the deli, did we?”
“You fell asleep on the floor of the deli,” Miles corrected. “I slept unsoundly in a chair.”
Nic rose slowly, wincing. “Is that why your neck is at that angle?”

Miles self-consciously tried to hold his neck straight, but it hurt too much. “I have to

open in an hour. And you—”

“Fuck.” Nic scrambled to his feet. “I gotta go home.”
“Do you live far?” Miles asked.

Nic shook his head. “No, I’m up on Phinney Ridge. Should take me ten minutes.” He

felt around for keys. “Where’s my phone? Oh.” He felt himself up again, looking miserable.

“Sorry you have to go put on a suit.” Miles started up the espresso machine.
“Yeah.”
“Can I make you a coffee and bagel to go?”

Miles watched a fascinating process of indecision rack Nic, who clearly wanted those

things more than anything on earth but was also desperately late.

“I can’t. Rain check?”

“Of course.” Miles smiled.

Nic wrapped his scarf around his neck, despite the fact that outside it looked clear and

warmer than last night. He hesitated at the door. He turned back and walked to Miles.

“I enjoyed last night.”
Miles smiled. “Me too.”
“I want a repeat.” Nic’s eye clenched shut. “Well, maybe less cognac.”

Miles nodded, not trusting his voice with his gut fluttering about in a mixture of

excitement and severe nausea.

“I’ll see you later.” Nic moved forward, stepped back, then moved in again and gave

Miles an awkward hug. He rushed out, cursing as the door caught on his finger, and

disappeared to start a day that was bound to be worse than Miles’s.

A rare moment of decency on the part of fate made the deli slower than usual that

Monday. A few of his regular clients commented on Miles’s disheveled appearance.

During the first lag of the morning he prepared a list of the more exotic pickles he

wanted on hand for Farrah Chapman’s review. Many of the ones he loved took weeks to
prepare, so if he didn’t have them stocked, he was out of luck. But a few of his favorites
could be prepared in under forty-eight hours and would make a statement.

He started with his vodka-soaked cherry peppers. They sold out whenever he stocked

them; however, the smell of the vodka nearly made him vomit after last night’s excesses.

His banana tamarind mint chutney only needed to be prepared the day before, but he

started on it right away because it was messy, and he wasn’t sure how much time he’d have
later in the week.

Miles was engrossed in making sandwiches, so he didn’t hear the door from the alley

into the kitchen open. But seconds later Itai appeared, wearing the same clothes he’d left in
the day before.

“Hi there.” Miles tried decency while there were witnesses.
Itai frowned. “You look rough.”
Miles shrugged. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

Itai hesitated. He glanced at the staircase door but decided against his original plan and

made himself a coffee instead.

A few minutes later Miles was able to break free and join Itai back in the kitchen.
Itai wouldn’t look at him.
“You okay?” Miles asked. Itai looked surly, withdrawn, but also sad. Miles may no

longer have loved him, but he wished him no ill.

The question seemed to take Itai aback. He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, why?”
Miles shrugged. “Just checking.”
“You going to be down here all day?”
Miles nodded.
“Where’s your philanthropic helper?” Itai asked.
“At work. He may stop in later to help out.” Miles reached into the bowl where he was

soaking his cherries and pulled two out, offering one to Itai. “Want one?”

Itai ate it and made a face. “Vodka.”
“Yup.”

Itai hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll be home much today. Yanix’s offer came in. Travis and

I are going to review it with our lawyers this morning, and then afterward—”

“That’s fine.” Miles washed the booze from his hands as he heard the front door open

again.

As he headed out, Itai grabbed his arm, stopping him. “What do you mean it’s fine?”
“I don’t mind. Have a good time.”
“Why aren’t you pissed off?”

Miles wondered if not being upset pissed Itai off more than when he was angry. “I told

you yesterday. I’ve stopped caring anymore. I’m not going to change you, Itai, and I’m not
going to complain about who you are. ”

A spark of hope lit Itai’s eyes. “So…you are okay with me spending the night elsewhere

but coming home to you?” The corner of his mouth curled. “Because you are the one I
love, even if—”

“No.”
“Hello?” someone called from the deli.
Miles sighed. “I have to help this person. I’ll be back.”
“I’m going upstairs to change,” Itai said.
“Don’t leave. I’ll be up there, and we’ll talk.” Miles helped the person at the counter,

and the next, and the following one. By the time he could rush upstairs and check on Itai,
he’d gone.

Store closed, deposits made, groceries purchased, and orders placed, Miles had an

evening to himself with nothing looming over him. At first he had grand ideas of starting
another complex pickle recipe downstairs. What he really needed more than anything else,
however, was a nap.

So Miles went to bed. It was a luxury to take it over at the early hour of six, and rather

than find himself upset at being alone in the house, for the first time in ages, it solaced him.

He promptly fell asleep. He dreamed of Nic cutting dirty shapes out of a big pillowcase

and then eating it. This promptly dissolved into a series of scenes where Nic was swallowing
all sorts of things, and when Miles woke up, he was only vaguely ashamed of his erotic
dream.

When he awoke, he felt clearer-headed and more refreshed than he had in a long time.

He made himself spaghetti, and got out the menorah and candles and the present he had

planned on giving Itai. He was going to enjoy it himself instead.

As he cooked, he got a call from his mother and they chatted about their respective

holidays apart, but he didn’t disclose the impending doom of his and Itai’s relationship. He
left things vague, his goal to impart how much he missed her but that he was going to be
fine on his own.

He made way too much spaghetti, the problem of being in a relationship for so long.

He’d forgotten how to cook for one. He was going to have to pack up half to refrigerate.

There was a knock on the door.

The sound startled him. He rarely had visitors on the second-floor stoop of the house.

He went to the door and looked through the peephole.

Nic stood outside, looking anxious but less peaked than this morning.
Miles opened the door. “Nic!”
Nic glanced around. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“I’m about to have dinner. Are you hungry?”

Nic smiled. Ah, what a foolish question. Miles smiled back. “Sit down. Open the bottle

of wine.”

“What are we eating?” Nic unzipped his hoodie, still glancing around as if unsure they

were really alone.

“Spaghetti and mushroom garlic marinara.”
Nic’s eyebrows rose. “Did you know I was coming over?”
Miles laughed. “No. I happen to cook other things than Jewish food, you know.”
“It’s just that spaghetti is one of my favorite things in the whole world.”
“With a name like Delbene? Who would have known?”

Nic smirked. He moved to the dining table and noticed the candles lying on the table. “Is

this for Hanukkah?”

Miles nodded. He served up two heaping plates of spaghetti. Now that he had a guest,

he found himself automatically throwing two rolls from this morning into the oven with
some butter, and whipping up a quick green salad.

One-entrée meals were for loners.
“How was your court appearance?” Miles asked.

Nic groaned as he sat. “Lengthy, dreary, and ultimately not that valuable. The defendant

has a rock-star attorney and the DA is going to lose this one.” He opened the bottle of wine
on the table. “Can you light the candles and everything? I want to see the holiday in action.”

Miles smiled at the idea of Hanukkah being in action, wishing he had pyrotechnics to

light off. Instead he had to make do with impressing Nic’s gastric system instead. He placed

Nic’s plate before him, and he felt giddy with joy at Nic’s openmouthed expression of

delight.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nic declared. “Where’s Itai?”
“Out.” Miles sat across from him. “I don’t know or care where.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nic said again. “He’s an idiot to give you up.” He poured them

both wine and held up his glass. “Happy Hanukkah, Miles.”

“And to you too.” Miles clinked his glass and took a sip. He then gathered up six of the

candles and placed them in the menorah, right to left. He lit the Shamash candle and lit the
rest from left to right, saying, “Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, asher
kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah. Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu
Melech HaOlam, she’asah nisim l’avoteinu, b’yamim haheim bazman hazeh.”

He placed the Shamash candle in its place at the center of the menorah.

He then reached into the candle box and pulled out the cheap plastic dreidel his mother

had saved from his childhood. “We could play dreidel now,” Miles informed Nic, “or we
can forget that part and just eat.”

“Oh, eat. Definitely eat.” Nic paused. “Unless there are prayers?”
“I just said them.”
“What did you say? I hope it was a prayer for a nice piece of Italian ass.”

Miles nearly choked on his wine. “Ah, maybe in spirit, but the words are the same all the

time.”

“Interesting.” Nic lifted up his fork. “So…we can just dig in?”
“Dig in.”

Nic shoved his fork into the spaghetti and spun, using his spoon in expert noodle-

gathering style to get the maximum amount of food and sauce on his fork. He shoved the
entire ball deep into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed.

“Amazing?” Miles asked, waiting hesitantly.

Nic winked at him as he chewed. When he finally swallowed, he said, “Delicious, but

mine are better. When can I come over and cook for you?”

Miles felt a momentary shock of disappointment but then laughed. “I guess I should take

that as a compliment. It means you are honest when you like things, as well as when you
don’t.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Nic corrected. “I’m just saying I do a better job. And I want

to show you how.”

“I look forward to it.”

Over dinner they talked about the Hanukkahs while Miles grew up, and Nic’s own

family. Nic cleaned up, and Miles cracked open the box of expensive ginger chocolate treats
he’d bought for Itai.

Nic glanced at his watch.
“You have to go?” Miles asked, surprised how much he didn’t want the night to end.

Nic looked at him sheepishly. “No, I just wanted to see if the game had started.

Seahawks are playing.”

Miles blinked. “Shit! Football!” He rushed over to the television and switched it on. He

was thrilled when Nic happily joined him on the couch, yelling curses at the New Orleans
Saints as the game continued.

They talked between plays and during the perpetual commercial breaks. Nic turned out

to know a ton of football stats, rattling off each player’s record and injuries and former
teams without pause.

And here Miles thought he was a Seahawks fan.

It felt natural talking to Nic, sitting with him on the couch, and when Nic asked

permission to use Miles’s kitchen, he fried up some potato wedges and made a sour cream
dip during the halftime break. Miles didn’t think he had room for another bite after his
dinner, but he ate more than half, the salt and grease tantalizingly addictive.

The Seahawks made a touchdown. Miles roared, hands in the air. An unreadable glint lit

Nic’s eye, and before Miles could ask what he was thinking, Nic kissed him.

This was not a gentle kiss like Itai’s. Nic kissed so hard Miles fell back against the couch.

Nic didn’t stop. Nic pressed harder, grinding Miles down beneath him, pushing his tongue

deep into Miles’s mouth, and all at once a need in Miles thundered to life.

Yes. Yes, yes. This is what I want. This is what I’ve been needing.

Nic writhed against Miles with careless need. His cock was hard and heavy through his

trousers, and it rubbed against the sensitive top of Miles’s cock with maddening sensation.

Miles’s entire body caught flame with the hungry, frenetic energy of Nic’s squirming

body. This wasn’t the slow, delicate lovemaking that had stifled Miles for a year. This was
wanton, senseless, graphic intercourse, all teeth and fingers and bone, and at once Miles had
two thoughts in equal measure.

I need him to fuck me and this is wrong.
“Stop. I can’t do this.” Miles broke the kiss, panting. His dick strained against the

waistband of his jeans, face flushed hot. “I’m not a cheater.”

Nic breathed heavily, his eyes glazed over with arousal, his lips red and swollen from

their kisses. He looked so delicious Miles wanted to do nothing more than kiss him again.

“I…I’m not a cheater,” Miles repeated, mostly to remind himself. “Until I officially

break up with him, I can’t do this.” But God, he wanted to. Because it would be so easy to
just follow Nic into the bedroom. It would be so wonderful this once to have someone
demand his love, seek his touch, take what they wanted.

“You’re right.” Nic sat back. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I liked it just as much as you did.”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Nic continued. He shook his head. “I just… You’re so

goddamned beautiful.” He looked wistfully at Miles for a moment, then turned away. “It
won’t happen again.”

Crushing disappointment filled Miles’s chest at those words, but he didn’t know how to

respond. He wanted to tell Nic that things were nearly over with Itai, that he wanted Nic
more than anything he’d wanted in a long time, that he’d loved the roughness of his
embrace. Even now, looking at Nic crouched there, large dick clearly outlined against the
tight press of denim, rough face warm with desire, his body smelling of sweat and soap,
Miles couldn’t believe what he was doing.

What would Itai do in this situation? He’d fuck Nic, Miles realized, and deal with his

partner’s rage afterward. It’s what Itai always did. Why couldn’t Miles do the same, just this
once?

Because he wasn’t Itai. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
Nic touched his shoulder briefly. “You want me to go?”
“No. Let’s watch the rest of the game.”

Nic nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was unexpectedly

erotic, and Miles had to look away before his boner stopped its recession.

They sat next to each other uncomfortably for the last three minutes of game play, which

of course stretched into a good fifteen minutes of television time.

When the game ended, Miles was glad. He felt extremely uncomfortable. “I really

enjoyed tonight.”

“Yeah.” Nic eyed him carefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early!” Miles tried to defuse the tension with a cheerful tone, but it fell flat.

They both saw it for what it was.

They stood there, staring at each other, for another long, awkward moment at the door,

before Nic broke the tension and squeezed Miles’s bicep. “Take care.” It was not the right
thing to say either.

But what did one say in a situation like this?

Chapter Eight

Indian Hot Lemon Pickle

Itai joined Miles in bed at some point in the night.

He’d obviously tried not to wake Miles, but Miles had tossed all night long, debating

what to say. It was one thing to determine you were in a doomed relationship, but another
thing to take the next step and end it.

Miles realized he was terrified.

The right thing would have been to end it right then, when Itai undressed and climbed

under the covers to lie beside Miles. Having Itai’s hot skin against Miles didn’t arouse him
now. It left him feeling dirty. Those thighs had likely just been entwined with Travis’s. And
now they were touching him.

And of course, there was no guarantee it was just Travis Itai had spent his nights with.

When they’d broken up before, Itai had been fucking behind both Miles’s and Travis’s

backs, meeting with strangers and hooking up in nightclubs. It was his hobby, he once told

Miles, but now that he’d broken his promise of fidelity with one partner, what was to say he

wasn’t breaking it with the other?

Miles did get a little sleep, but when he woke at his usual early hour, he couldn’t wait to

get out of bed.

He considered putting off the inevitable longer. He had to prep the kitchen. But he

doubted he’d have another uninterrupted stretch of time, so he dressed, shaved, then
returned to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, beside Itai’s head.

He watched Itai sleep in his bed for the last time. He felt sad about it, less to do with a

faltering love than with the fact that they’d started with such great hopes. The hardest part
of a breakup was the death of all those expectations and dreams, and now he took a
moment to mourn the vision Itai and he had built of their life together, all those months ago.

“Itai, wake up. We have to talk.”
Itai stirred. He sat up and blinked. “What?”

Miles wanted to look at the bedspread. He forced himself to make eye contact. “I’m

happy things are working out for you and Travis.” He sounded confident, and he believed
in what he was saying, but his throat started to go dry in anticipation of the next sentence.
“But you do need to move out.”

Itai looked scared for a moment. “What?”
“I’m breaking up with you.”

Itai was fully awake now. He folded his legs into his chest. It would be the last time

Miles would see Itai’s cock, draped darkly over his testicles. “Are you kidding? One or two

nights of staying out and you suddenly decide it’s all over?”

“Suddenly?” Miles lifted his eyebrow. “Itai, there’s nothing sudden about this. Our

relationship has been slowly dying for months. It’s time to put it out of its misery.”

Itai swallowed. “You said you loved me only the other day.”

“And you promised to never cheat on me.” Miles’s stomach churned.

Itai clenched his eyes shut. “Miles, it has nothing to do with you. It’s only sex. You need

to learn that I don’t mean anything—”

“No.” Miles stood. “I don’t need to learn anything. I set rules when I took you back, and

you broke them. I can’t trust you.”

“Don’t do this.” Itai swung his legs over the side of the bed. He looked shaky. “Not right

now, when I’ve so much going on.”

“You want to break up in two weeks, when it’s more convenient for you? A month from

now? Because it’s inevitable.” Miles took a deep breath. “You have to go.”

Itai dressed. He looked stony, so it was hard to tell if he was pissed or sad.
“Does this have to do with that new assistant? The Italian?” he asked.
Miles considered lying, but lying was what had started all their problems. “Yes.”

Itai seemed shocked by this. He froze, expression crumpling and then turning furious.

“Are you fucking him?”

Miles would have commented on the hypocrisy if his heart wasn’t trembling in his chest.

“No, but I want to. I’m giving you the honesty you never gave me.”

“Fuck you.” Itai spat the words. He grabbed his wallet and phone and his jacket.

“You’re a selfish prick, Miles.”

Miles stood there, holding his ground.
“I’m coming by later to get my shit. See you.”

Itai stormed out of the house. Miles stared at the crumpled bedspread, congratulated

himself on getting it over with, and then went into the bathroom and puked.

Nic showed up just before opening. Miles let him in with a weak smile but didn’t say

much. He wasn’t ready.

Unlike Itai, Nic seemed to have an ability to read Miles. Nic gave Miles distance,

working at the register and not engaging in small talk. Miles made drinks and bagel orders
and packaged the to-go pickles, chutneys, and tapenades he’d made.

Nic exchanged jokes with Miles’s customers as he rang them up. Sometimes he would

say one and look askance at Miles, clearly hoping for a reaction. After several attempts

Miles couldn’t help himself, and he finally laughed, his dark mood lifting. Nic clowned his

way around the back of the counter, made some rude gestures to Miles with the larger
pickles when customers weren’t looking, and arranged lox on a plate in the shape of a penis,
which he presented to Miles.

“Breakfast is served,” he said, grinning.

Miles rolled his eyes but stuffed the lox in his mouth anyway. Now that his stomach

wasn’t clenched, he realized he was starving.

Mr. Nedlich finally appeared around noon, proving he wasn’t dead after all. He was

joined by his two nephews, who’d accompanied their uncle on occasion over the last ten
years.

“Hello, Mr. Nedlich,” Miles said with a smile. He immediately started compiling the

man’s regular order. “Are you all having lunch with us today as well?”

Mr. Nedlich nodded. He looked like he’d been sick recently, his face gaunt and eyes

pinched with exhaustion. “May I get your soup and pickles on bread?”

“Of course.”
“Jake?” Mr. Nedlich asked, turning to the older of his nephews.
“I’ll have the Reuben,” Jake said.
“Me too.” Saul claimed the table next to the counter.

Miles nodded to Nic. “Ring him up also for a dozen full-sours and a jar of bread-and-

butter.”

“Don’t forget the duck eggs,” Mr. Nedlich chimed in.
“I give those to you on the house for being a regular customer,” Miles said.

Mr. Nedlich wasn’t much of a smiler, but he seemed to grimace a form of gratitude at

Miles. “Thank you.” He shuffled to the table, carefully stashing his purchases in his

shopping bag. When Miles served his soup and bread, Mr. Nedlich nodded at him. “You’ve
done well here, Miles. Your parents must be proud.”

“Thank you.” Miles grinned, already imagining the conversation that night with his

mother, bragging he’d won over another old-timer.

More customers came in, so Miles hurried back to the counter since Nic had started in

on the sandwich orders. The young, good-looking man scanned the deli, but instead of
ordering, he seated himself at Mr. Nedlich’s table. Another nephew? Miles wondered.

Miles was in the middle of restocking his habanera pineapple relish when the bell chimed

and Travis entered the store. A flare of jealous rage burned within Miles but was quickly
tamped down. Travis didn’t matter anymore.

Travis beelined for the counter and glared at Miles. “Hey, asshole,” he said loudly.

Everyone in the shop stared at Miles.

Miles narrowed his eyes. “Keep it down.” He moved to the side of the deli, near

Nedlich’s family but hopefully far enough away that whatever Travis said could be kept out

of earshot. “What’s the matter with you?” Miles whispered.

“You’re kicking Itai out? After everything he’s done for you and this shitty little hole-in-

the-wall?”

Yes, since he can’t keep his dick out of your ass . Miles took a deep breath but didn’t

respond out loud.

“Itai came over this morning more upset than I’ve ever seen him,” Travis said. “I ought

to hit you for hurting him this way.”

“Everything all right, Miles?” Nic called out. He eyed Travis.
“Who are you, his bodyguard?” Travis snapped, looking Nic over.
Nic visibly tensed. Miles gestured for them both to lower their voices.
“Take it easy, guys,” he said quietly. He nodded to Nic. “I’m fine. We’re only talking.”
Nic hesitated but seemed to take the hint and left Miles and Travis alone.
“So let me understand this,” Miles said, keeping his voice low. “You were pissed

because Itai moved back in with me, and now you are pissed because I kicked him out?” He
snorted. “Wow, you two really are made for each other.”

The upstairs door opened, and Itai appeared behind the counter. Miles focused on his

breathing. This was turning into a clusterfuck.

Travis looked relieved, however. “You done packing?”

Itai nodded. “I loaded what I could in my car and put the rest in yours.” Itai glowered at

Nic.

The chances of this coming off without a scene were quickly dissipating. Luckily the

woman and man chatting at the table across the way seemed too engrossed in each other’s
company to notice, and the old woman at the table near the window appeared captivated by
her novel. Mr. Nedlich, his nephews, and their guest were starting in on an argument of
their own, their voices rising.

Itai turned to Nic. “What’s your name again? Nic?”
Nic kept making sandwiches and didn’t answer. The muscle in his jaw tensed.
“Don’t ignore me!” Itai shouted.
“Wait, this is the guy you are ditching Itai for?” Travis declared, waving his hand at Nic.
“Lower your goddamn voice!” Miles shouted, realizing he was talking nearly as loud

now. But all he could see was red.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Travis yelled. At the same time Mr. Nedlich

shouted, “You son of a bitch!”

“Calm down!” Miles yelled.
Nic straightened behind Itai, going very alert. “Miles. Clear out.”

Alarm zinged through Miles, but Itai’s expression darkened. “You’ve been here a week,

you steal my lover, and now you’re ordering him around?”

Miles noticed the couple across from Mr. Nedlich both look to Nic and stand.

I would never have guessed them, Miles thought. Then he realized what it meant that

both Nic and the undercover officers stared at Nedlich’s table.

“Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed Travis by the cuff. “Go into the kitchen.”
“Don’t touch me!” Travis shoved Miles into the wall.
Mr. Nedlich’s nephew, Jake, stood and pulled out a pistol. He aimed it at Miles.
“Everybody just shut the fuck up!” he shouted.
Everything seemed to happen at once.

Itai took one look at the gun, turned on his heel, and fled upstairs, locking the door

behind him.

Travis froze with his hands up.

And Nic vaulted over the counter. He slid over the cold case and tackled Jake. The gun

went off twice, and someone screamed. The two other officers went for Nedlich’s younger
nephew and the guest, but Nedlich wore an expression of sheer rage and looked like he
would rip out Nic’s throat. He reached into his jacket, and Miles glimpsed the butt of a gun.

Fury and terror flooded Miles. He reached for the first thing he could lay his hands on

and sent it flying at Mr. Nedlich. Hot habanero relish soared through the air. The plastic
container popped apart upon impact, spattering red oil and peppers across the old man’s
face and into his eyes.

Nedlich shrieked, falling back, clawing at his face. Another gunshot split the air, and

then Nic pinned Jake to the floor and was yanking the man’s arms back to handcuff them.
The female officer came around with her gun raised.

“Hands against the wall, now!” she yelled at Nedlich. He stumbled blindly for the wall

and put his hands up, fingers dripping with spicy pepper spread.

Miles’s heart raced. Travis and he stared at each other in shock.
Nic stood, wincing. “You got them, Clarkson?” he asked.

The female officer nodded. “Yup. Calling backup.” She and the other officer directed

Nedlich, his family, and his client into the corner.

Miles finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He noticed his hands trembled with

adrenaline.

And then he realized what the shattering noise had been. His espresso machine smoked,

leaking water on the floor.

“Shit!” He nearly ran to it when he also spotted blood on the tiles. He turned around.
Nic leaned against the counter, clasping his left arm tight to his chest.
“Are you shot?” Miles rushed to his side.
Nic was pale. “Bullet ricocheted off the cold case.”
“God!” Miles grabbed a clean rag from behind the counter and returned to Nic’s side,

stanching the wound. He grabbed his phone to call for an ambulance.

“One’s on the way already, Miles,” Nic assured him. He closed his eyes.
“God. What can I do?”

Nic’s mouth curved into a weak smile. “Don’t worry. It just grazed me; I’ll live. But the

same can’t be said for your cold case.”

Miles looked at the case. The glass had shattered from one of the bullets, and the light

was out.

“Damn it!” He could afford to repair either the cold case or the espresso machine, but

not both.

Travis approached shakily. “For fuck’s sake…” he mumbled, still pale.

Miles nodded toward the upstairs doorway. “Go on, find your cowardly lover and get

the hell out of here.”

Travis narrowed his eyes but nevertheless waited for Miles to fish out his keys, unlock

the door, and let him through. Miles slammed it behind Travis.

And started laughing.
Nic frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“This day.” He wiped his eyes. “I break up with my boyfriend, get a gun to the face,

blind a client of twenty years with habaneros, have my shop shot to hell, and end up
watching the man I’ve fallen in love with get hit with a bullet.”

Nic snorted. He reached out with his good hand and gripped Miles’s. His palm was

bloody, and the blood transferred to Miles, who didn’t care.

“You were brave, and you probably saved my life with those peppers,” Nic said.
“You can make it up to me by getting out of the hospital fast.”

Nic winked. “Oh, I will. And then I can think of half a dozen ways I’m going to make it

up to you after that.”

Chapter Nine

Beet-Pickled Duck Eggs

Nic wasn’t released from the hospital until later that evening.

Afterward he was detained at the police station for hours, cleaning up the aftermath of

his investigation. Miles killed time by cleaning up the mess Itai had left upstairs when he’d
taken all his things, then cleaning the restaurant once the crime scene investigators were
done trashing the place. There was broken glass, chalk marks, fingerprint dust, bloodstains,
and habanero drippings everywhere.

When he returned upstairs at the end of the day, he took a shower and tried to find a

way to contact Farrah Chapman and see if she’d be willing to reschedule the tasting. The
state of his deli, without espresso or a cold case, meant he wasn’t going to reopen anytime
soon.

Miles caught news coverage of the shoot-out on the evening news, and after deciding it

was only a matter of time before his parents heard, even all the way off in Arizona, he made
that terrible call to inform them of what had happened.

By the time he got off the phone, he had no energy to do anything, let alone cook. He

picked up his phone to order pizza delivery, but the phone rang him instead.

It was Nic.
“Hey.” He sounded as tired as Miles felt.
“You okay?” Miles asked.
“It’s been a bitch of a day. A lot of reports and explanation needed when gunshots are

fired in public places.”

“Go figure.”
Nic snorted at that. “Anyway, I’m beat. But I thought I’d check on you.”

Miles grinned. “I’m starving, and I don’t feel like cooking. I was going to order a pizza.

Want to join me?”

“How about I make you some spaghetti?”
Miles smiled. “You sure you want to cook after everything that happened today?”
“Cooking relaxes me. Besides, it’s the seventh day of Hanukkah, isn’t it? I want to make

you a holiday dinner that will make up for such a shitty rest of the week.”

“You’re on.”
“I’ll stop at the store and be there in half an hour.” He hung up, his excitement obvious.

Miles lay back against his bed and smiled.

The problem with having other people cook in his kitchen, Miles realized afterward, was

that they cooked like it wasn’t their kitchen. Somehow Nic had managed to use every
spoon, strainer, pot, and most of the plates by the time he was done preparing his feast.

And the meal was fantastic, too good to begrudge him, but as Miles scanned the disaster

zone of his kitchen, he knew he would be doing a great deal of scrubbing tomorrow.

As it was, he left the dishes in the sink and sat with Nic at the table after the meal. They

both stared at the guttering candles of the menorah. Tomorrow, the holiday would be over,
and while he wasn’t going to miss the passing of this one in particular, it was definitely a
week he would remember forever.

“I can’t believe it was Mr. Nedlich you were looking for. He’s one of my mother’s

favorite customers.”

Nic shook his head. “Don’t let someone’s age or frailty fool you. He’s been in the

narcotics business for well over twenty years. We’ve just never been able to have a snitch
close enough to rat him out.”

“And his nephews? They’re involved?”
“Yes. They’re clearly taking over the business from their uncle. Or they were until we

stopped them. How well we’re going to be able to stick charges on them all has yet to be
seen, but it’s a start at least.”

Nic fished around in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I got you a Hanukkah gift,”

he said.

Miles opened it. Inside was a business card of someone he didn’t know.
“This is Tony’s card. He’s a family friend, a skilled repairman, and he’s going to fix

your cold case on me.”

Miles’s eyes widened. “That’s way too much—”
“No.” Nic reached across the table, placing his palm against Miles’s cheek. “It’s not

nearly enough.”

Miles walked over to where Nic sat, leaned down, and kissed him. Nic’s mouth opened,

tentative at first, but within seconds Nic gripped him by the back of the neck and pulled him
tight. Miles made sure to avoid touching Nic’s injured bicep, letting Nic set the pace, take
control.

“I have a present for you too,” Miles gasped, breaking for air. He reached into his back

pocket and pulled out the two small packets. “Lube, condom, and free access to my ass.
Happy Hanukkah.”

Nic laughed. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Miles led Nic into the bedroom. But before they made it that far, Nic kissed him again,

pushing him against the wall and pinning him in place, grinding his hips against Miles,
tongue thrust deep. Miles’s erection pushed against the band of his jeans.

The kiss almost hurt in its intensity, and Miles groaned into it. For too long he’d been

treated with kid gloves. As Nic ground himself against Miles’s crotch, nearly lifting Miles
off the floor in his effort to get to his ass, Miles reveled in being treated like this—like
someone Nic couldn’t get inside fast enough.

“Let me fuck you; please, let me fuck you,” Nic whispered hoarsely.
“Yeah,” Miles said.
“I’ve wanted to do this all week.” Nic ran his tongue around the inside of Miles’s mouth.

Miles’s eyes fluttered with sensation. Nic’s fingers deftly unbuckled Miles’s belt and pulled

open his fly. He pushed down Miles’s jeans and underwear and dropped to his knees.

Miles breathed heavily. Nic stared intently, as if memorizing the sight before him, before

opening his capacious mouth and taking all of Miles’s cock deep down his throat.

The sensation was like dipping himself in silky fire. Miles’s head slammed against the

wall, eyes fluttering closed. The feeling overwhelmed him. His legs began to tremble as

Nic’s lips tightened at the base of Miles’s cock, slid back and forth, taking all of Miles in so

deeply that Miles feared he would choke Nic with such long thrusts.

Thoughts melted and became liquid. He couldn’t hold them, and they slipped through

his grasp as he tried to concentrate. The sight of Nic crouched, staring with adoration at

Miles as he sucked his cock, nearly brought Miles to completion then and there. But Nic

stopped right before Miles came, standing shakily and moving into the bedroom with
flushed cheeks and dilated eyes.

Nic ripped at Miles’s clothing. When he yanked Miles’s T-shirt clear, he threw it across

the room, a gesture so simple and yet so pleasing Miles couldn’t help but smile in relief. All
of Itai’s clothes folding, hand washing, endless cleaning—and here Nic was, ripping off his
clothing carelessly, tossing it wide and far in his desperation to get naked and fuck. That
was what Miles had wanted all this time.

Nic’s body was so different from Itai’s. Instead of smooth, gym-toned muscles and a

carefully waxed chest, Nic was muscled only where he used his muscles. He had powerful
thighs and strong arms, but his gut was thin. He had hair over his chest, forming a line to
the dark thatch surrounding his erection.

With shock, Miles noticed Nic lacked a circumcision scar. He reached down and

brushed Nic’s thick cock. Nic’s entire body trembled with even that light contact. He
smelled musky and dark. Miles never knew how erotic a man’s natural scent was until he’d
missed it for so long.

“Lie back on the bed, Miles,” Nic said shakily.

Miles lay on the edge of the tall bed, spreading his legs so Nic could stand and fuck him.

Nic seemed to understand the position immediately, jaw going slack as he held Miles’s legs

open.

“Fuck. What a view.” Nic brushed his fingers from Miles’s crack up around his testicles,

and gave his saliva-slicked cock a stroke. “Look at how big your balls are,” Nic said huskily,
reaching down to fondle them. “Damn, I can’t wait to see what they look like smashed
against my rod.”

Miles nearly groaned with the words alone. Itai had been such a quiet lover, and Miles

loved hearing what a man was doing to him.

“Your ass looks so tight and hot,” Nic said huskily. He rolled on a condom and slicked

his cock with lube.

“I don’t need a lot of prep,” Miles started.
“Good.” Without hesitating Nic lined up his cock with Miles’s ass and shoved inside.

Miles held his breath, amazed at the sudden onslaught, the size of Nic inside of him. He

had no idea he had that much space to offer up. He felt incapable of breath, as if every
molecule in his body had been taken over by this delicious invasion.

“Oh fuck, yeah,” Nic whispered. “Oh, fuck, you should see what you look like right

now, see what it looks like to have my dick inside you balls-deep.”

“I…don’t need to see… I can feel it.” Miles gasped, and Nic smiled down at him.
“You okay?” He kissed Miles, and the effort of bending over contracted Miles and

shoved him harder against Nic’s swollen erection.

“Yeah,” Miles croaked, although he wasn’t 100 percent sure he was okay. There was a

lot of cock inside of him, and the idea of it pumping deeper sort of scared him. “Go.”

Nic went slow. Not for long, but clearly he was paying attention to Miles’s initial

discomfort. “I’m shoving in all the way,” Nic said, voice rough and husky. “Your ass is
puckering around me like it doesn’t want to let me go. It’s beautiful, red and swollen, ahh…
God, I can feel the inside of you…”

The narration, while something Miles had always wanted, had the unfortunate effect of

making him ready to come within seconds of starting. Miles didn’t give in to his aching
need to touch himself, watching his own dick bob, neglected, a string of precum connecting
the head of his prick to his stomach.

“Can you feel the slap of my balls against your ass?” Nic asked, breathless.
“Yeah. Go harder.”
Nic grinned, gripped the leg closer to him, and started pounding into Miles fast and hard.

Miles felt the shock of every penetration like an explosion within his body, the sensation of
Nic inside his ass firing sensation all the way to his fingers, and the buzz of Miles’s orgasm

hummed beneath his skin, ready to explode.

Nic’s hot, lube-slicked palm pumped Miles’s cock only once, and Miles came loudly,

shouting as his cum shot profusely over his chest, all the way to his neck. He clenched
around Nic’s cock, and Nic came as well, nearly doubling over in his ecstasy.

Miles closed his eyes, panting and shivering. Nic’s heavy weight lay over him. After a

few moments Nic stood, slowly pulling out of Miles’s ass.

“Jesus,” Nic said, voice rough. He carefully removed his condom, wincing as it slipped

clear of his cock’s swollen cap. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned a moment
later with a damp towel. He used this to clean Miles’s chest and ass, planting a brief kiss on
Miles’s opening before collapsing back on the bed and curling around Miles.

Miles lay there, feeling sated and stunned. The muscles in his lower back shook with

exhaustion. He hadn’t fucked that hard in a long time, and he was going to feel it the next
day for sure.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” Nic whispered, breathing hard.
“Why?” Miles did it anyway. Something soft touched his lips. Skin? No, it was rough,

and spongy…

He opened his eyes to a sandwich.
“What the…”
“Nothing more kick-ass than fucking and eating a sandwich right after!” Nic declared,

stuffing an entire half of a turkey and cheese roll in his mouth.

Miles laughed quietly, and then he couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing. It was

simultaneously the most ridiculous and, oddly, most romantic thing that had ever happened
to him, having someone stuff food in his mouth seconds after coming.

“You sure you aren’t a Jewish mother?” Miles took a bite. It had been a long time since

he’d eaten a good old-fashioned, nonkosher sandwich of meat and cheese, and damn, it was
tasty.

“Italian mothers are worse when it comes to food,” Nic told him. He stretched out

languidly alongside Miles. His body was beautiful, and Miles couldn’t help but reach out
and run his free hand along Nic’s flank as he ate.

“Food and screwing at the same time. I must be in heaven,” Miles said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“We’re going to have to start working out one of these days though, if we keep eating

like this,” Miles commented.

Nic nodded. “Especially since I won’t have access to the police gym.”
Miles frowned. “Why not?”
“I gave my month’s notice.” Nic finished his sandwich.
“You’re kidding me.”

Nic shook his head. “This morning was too close for comfort. It’s time I face facts. I

don’t like being a cop.”

“Yeah?” Miles rolled over and curled against Nic’s body. “In that case, I have a job

opening if you’re interested.”

Epilogue

Sweet and Tangy Pickled Pears

“Guess what review just got picked up by the Arizona Sentinel?”

Miles realized dressing and holding a mobile phone at the same time didn’t work well

when he ended up with his phone stuffed in his shirtsleeve. He took off the shirt, put his
mother on speaker, and tried again.

“Uh, a review of the latest vampire movie?” he replied.
“Don’t be an ass. It’s Farrah’s Foodie Finds, syndicated! And guess what food item

she’s focused on this week.” When Miles didn’t answer, because the question was clearly
rhetorical, she shouted, “Piekus Pickles! She calls them the most exciting culinary side she’s
found in the last twenty years!”

“I know, Mom. I read the article too.”
“But it’s all the way here, in Arizona! You must be getting swamped for orders.”
“The Web site is,” Miles admitted. “Luckily I’m sticking to my story that each order

requires two to three weeks for delivery; otherwise I’d be overwhelmed.”

“How did Friday’s event go?” his father asked, getting on the phone as well.
“It went well,” Miles said. “At least I think it went well. Let me know if Roger says

anything different to you.” Last night’s catering event had been for his father’s old
fraternity buddy, who was such a nice old man he’d never tell Miles even if he’d chucked
up every bite.

“I gotta go, guys. Nic’s waiting downstairs. We’re opening in a minute.”
“Okay, sweetie. We love you.” His mother made a kiss noise over the phone.
“We wish we could be there,” his father added.
“Love you too. Thank you.” Miles finished the call, dumped the phone on the bed, and

dashed downstairs.

The grand reopening of Piekus & Delbene was supposed to be a small, casual affair, but

word got out and it became something of a happening for Ballard locals looking for
something to do on a cold, rainy post-New Year’s Saturday. A line formed along the
sidewalk, and curious faces stared through the windows for their first glimpse of the
remodeled deli.

“You ready?” Nic asked. He was dressed up as well. They both looked clean, excited,

and tired. He rubbed Miles’s shoulder.

Miles nodded. Nic opened the doors and greeted everyone as the queued customers

poured in.

When Nic retired from the force, he’d used part of his retirement fund to help Miles

expand the store. It soon became clear they could do more than just fix the broken espresso
machine and cold case. They took out one of the storage rooms and expanded the seating
area, created a separate nook for the pickle barrels, and upgraded the menus and ordering
system.

They added an iPad instead of a register.

And with new partnerships came new menu items. Miles and Nic spent weeks

experimenting on kosher Italian dishes that could be served, and by the time they’d agreed
on offerings, it was as much Nic’s baby as it had been Miles’s. That’s why Miles insisted on
the name change.

Nic had protested. The store had been Piekus Pickles since the eighties. It remained

Piekus Pickles even after Miles had taken over and served far more than pickles.

But Miles liked the ring of Piekus & Delbene. It sounded exotic, and it was the joint

effort he’d always dreamed of having with someone. And it had been fun expanding the
deli, incorporating the Italian items that still fit within strict kosher regimen, and
experimenting with lasagnas, sauces, and other canned items customers could enjoy.

Nic looked nervous as he watched customers enter and peruse the shelves and cold cases

packed with to-go containers. Miles wrapped his arm around Nic’s waist.

Nic threw his arm over Miles’s shoulder. “Are you as anxious as I am?” he whispered.
“I doubt it,” Miles said. “You forget I’ve done this before.”
“What if no one buys my pasta sauce?” Nic worried quietly. “What if this is a huge

mistake?”

“Then we’ll have plenty to eat in our search for other jobs,” Miles assured him.

Nic laughed. He turned and kissed Miles. “Thank you.” Miles could tell by the way

Nic’s eyes were a little glassy, he was thanking Miles for more than just the joke.

As luck would have it, the first person Miles charged at the shiny new counter purchased

a jar of Nic’s pasta sauce. The next person in line put down a plastic bag of self-picked
half-sours. When Miles glanced up, his eyes widened. It was none other than Itai.

He looked a little chubbier, Miles thought. But he also looked less stressed and more

relaxed. “Hi, Miles,” Itai said.

Miles came around the counter and hugged Itai. Itai rubbed his back affectionately. The

two of them hadn’t seen each other since the shootout, but they’d spoken on the phone a
few times to resolve mail forwarding and ownership of a few shared items. And for all of

Itai’s cowardice the moment it had mattered, he had also checked up on Miles the following

day, for which Miles was grateful.

“How are you?” Itai asked.
“Good, thanks.”
“How’s Nic?”
Miles smiled. “Stressed but good. Thank you for asking. Did Yanix’s deal go through?”
Itai grinned. “Yeah. They bought it full price.”
“Congratulations. So what’s next?”
“Travis and I are starting a new project. There was a subroutine we had problems with

when developing Fantastic and… Never mind. Boring. But we’ve got a new idea, and I’m
excited to start on it.”

“I’m really happy for you.” Miles meant it. It was the benefit of months of reflection, to

make him fully appreciate a piece of advice his mother once gave him: sometimes you can
love a person and still have to let them go.

They were a terrible couple but good people. So he hugged Itai again, handed him the

bag of pickles on the house, and wished him well.

As Itai left, he spotted Nic talking to a couple, laughing and telling some wild story. He

paused, then went over and patted Nic on the back.

Nic turned around, his surprise obvious by the look on his face.

Itai left, and Nic finished up his conversation. He joined Miles back around the counter.

“What was that about?” he asked.

Miles shrugged. “I think Itai was making a tasteful exit, as compared to the last one.”
“Well yeah, that one ranks at the worst.” They stood looking out at the bustling store,

and Miles could feel Nic’s pride as strong as his own.

“Hey?” Nic asked quietly.
“Hm?”
“Remember when we talked about kink?”

Miles flushed, looking over the crowd to make sure no one heard. “Uh…yes. Why bring

it up now?”

“Because I think we should act on one of mine.”

Miles quirked an eyebrow, turning slowly to look Nic in the eye. Nic looked devilishly

pleased.

“And that would be…?”
“Screwing in a restaurant.”
Miles coughed. “Wow.”
“Up for it?”
“I assume you mean after closing.”

Nic laughed, loud and genuine. “Of course.” He leaned down to whisper in Miles’s ear.

“It so happens that the smell of vinegar is becoming a turn-on.”

“In that case, I could be convinced of its merits.” He gave Nic a smile and handed him a

pickle.

Loose Id Titles by Astrid Amara A Policy of Lies

Demolished

Holiday Outing

Intimate Traitors Love Ahead: Expect Delays Sweet and Sour

The Valde: Water

The HOLIDAYS WITH THE BELLSKIS Series Carol of the Bellskis Miracles of the

Bellskis

“Next of Kin”

Part of the anthology Hell Cop

With Nicole Kimberling and Ginn Hale

“Trust Me”

Part of the anthology Hell Cop 2

With Nicole Kimberling and Ginn Hale

Astrid Amara

Astrid Amara lives in Bellingham, Washington. She spends her days working as a civil

servant, her nights sleeping, and the time in between either writing, riding horses, hiking
around with her dogs, or staring at the wall. She has no unusual facial features.

For more information about Astrid and her books, please visit her Web site at

http://www.astridamara.com

.