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They shimmied in their seat. “We’re sitting in it.”
“Flatterer.” Feb hid her pleased smile behind the rim of her glass, taking another sip before asking, “What’s number two, then?”
“Angelica’s Bakery.”
Whiskey sloshed over the rim of Feb’s glass as she banged it on the bar. “That place is insane. The mistletoe cannoli...” She mimed a chef’s kiss, and even that wasn’t praise enough for the best dessert—the best bakery—in town. She was only sad the too-short window for mistletoe cannoli had passed.
“They work well as bribes,” Dylan said with a wink.
“You’ve tried that?”
“More like I was the bribed. Totally worth it.”
Feb refilled their glasses. “It’s good you have family around.”
“I didn’t always.” Feb cocked a brow before she could stop herself from being nosy, but Dylan waved off her unspoken apology with an intentional flitter of their fingers, each nail painted a different color of the nonbinary pride flag. “My bio-fam kicked me out when I was a teen.”
“Dyl—”
They shook their head and, improbably, smiled, as wide and affectionate as before when they’d spoken about their niece. “Best thing that ever happened to me. Sucked that first year I bounced around homeless, but I ended up in a queer teen shelter, and that was where I found my real family. I wouldn’t have the family I chose without the ones who didn’t choose me.”
Feb swirled the rye in her glass, mimicking the guilt that swirled in her gut. “Now I feel like an ass for daily cursing mine for my name.”
Dylan leaned in, their breath whispering across the side of Feb’s face, their voice teasing and close. “They kind of deserve that one.”
Feb laughed, the tense moment broken by the quick, dry wit she’d come to depend on the past few months. Feb thanked them by sharing the highlights of growing up February Winters. More laughter carried her and Dylan through another round of drinks, Feb starting to feel it, suspecting she’d feel it even more tomorrow morning, but she was too intrigued by Dylan to let this moment go. She wanted to get to know them better, had wanted to since they’d first walked through UTT’s doors, but Feb was shit at making time outside the kitchen, especially for dates. Hell, even for friendships. But here, now, was the perfect opportunity to get to know one of the most intriguing people she’d met in... she couldn’t remember how long.
And Dylan seemed intrigued by her too, more than happy to continue to get to know her better. “They treat you well, though, your family?” they asked.
“Incredibly,” Feb answered with her own smile. “I’m lucky. They didn’t blink when I said I wanted to cook for a living, didn’t balk when I left Beaverton to move down here, and never once judged me for who I love.” Her parents had only ever cheered her on, the loudest of her fans.
“Even if those relationships ended as broken hollandaise?”
She flopped back in her stool with a dramatic sigh. “They were so disappointed it didn’t work out with Marissa. Mom thought she was the one.” Marissa was a med student at UCSF, sweet, well-mannered, a dynamo in bed. Crazy busy, same as Feb. Neither of them took offense at the other’s lack of time, but with virtually zero time together, their chemistry in the bedroom had zero time to bake into more. “As for Dad, he lobbied hard for Brett D’Moine at first.”
Dylan slapped a hand over their mouth, barely keeping their whiskey in. Once they managed to swallow, they barked out a laugh. “Like the cheese? You can’t be serious?”
“Oh, but I am,” Feb sputtered around a giggle. “The irony was not lost on anyone. Too bad he wasn’t nearly as tasty.”
“You said at first about your dad, so when did it get stinky?”
“Well played,” Feb said with a tip of her glass at the play on words. “Brett became my right hand in the kitchen where we both worked. I told him about the restaurant I wanted to open next. Then he stole the concept for his own place.”
Dylan’s outraged expression was the validation every chef who’d ever been in Feb’s position—and there were plenty—craved. “He didn’t.”
“Yep.” She polished off the rest of her drink. “At least he had the good grace to take it to SoCal. The coyote wasteland can have him.”
“So you swore off love for good?” Dylan said, as they poured Feb another.
“I didn’t swear off love,” she said with a flick of her hand. “I just didn’t have time to go looking for it. Making real hollandaise every day is hard enough.” She sipped at the whiskey and resteadied herself on her stool. “And if I wasn’t going to trust anyone from the kitchen again, finding time out of it became impossible once I opened this place and it started to get attention.”
“And your heart didn’t.”
“Heart, pfft.” She leaned close to Dylan and affected the same conspiratorial whisper they’d used earlier. “I’d just settle for something besides my vibrator between my legs.”
Feb giggled—until she noticed Dylan wasn’t laughing. Those green eyes were fixed on her, their intense gaze fiery again, sending a zing right to where Feb used that vibrator. She giggled again, then pressed the back of her hand to her lips, trying to stop the words from tumbling out. “Did I just say that?”
Dylan’s green gaze darkened. “You did.”
