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OLIVIER
The brownstone’s kitchen has seen me through multiple failures and some epic successes. My best dish by far, according to Drew, is filet mignon and truffle asparagus, which I sort of resent because cooking a good steak isn’t hard at all, especially filet. It’s almost impossible to fuck up. Chicken, however, is a fickle little bitch, and Drew usually says something along the lines of “good try” when I serve it.
He’s a terrible cook, though. It’s like he has a total blind spot in his brain when it comes to seasoning anything, so the kitchen has become more or less mine, which is why I’m here on this sunny summer day serving bacon and pancakes to Drew’s mother and his youngest sister Angie. They’re in town for a few days, seeing the sights and shopping.
Angie is by far my favorite of Drew’s sisters whom I met at our wedding in May. And yes, it took that long for Drew to introduce me to his whole family.
And I wouldn’t necessarily call it an introduction either, more of an ambush. He’d sent his mom an invitation, obviously, but we wanted to keep the wedding small. That was shortly after we finally moved to Brooklyn, and after a move like that, neither of us wanted the additional stress of planning a wedding.
We kept it super casual. So, when his mom showed up at our little rooftop ceremony with all the girls except Peggy in tow, it was a surprise to both of us.
Needless to say, my parents had to read about the wedding after the fact in the society pages. And so did Peggy if she ever bothers to read shit like that.
“Smells sooo good,” Angie gushes, grabbing for three slices of bacon as soon as it’s within her reach.
“What do you ladies have planned for today?”
Charlotte, or Charlie for short, Drew’s mom, answers me in her soft, quiet voice. “Washington Square Park, Soho—she wants to try that edible cookie dough.” Charlie wrinkles her nose at that, but I’m intrigued.
“Is that a thing?”
Angie leans forward, blond hair swinging. “You don’t know about it?”
“Can you bring me back some?”
“What flavor?”
“Um…chocolate chip? No—mint chocolate chip if they have it.”
“I’m sure they do,” the twenty-one-year-old Harvard pre-med student says confidently. She’s smart as fuck, so I trust her judgement.
Yesterday, Drew and I took them to Times Square to see his billboard. He’s been the face and body for Primal products for more than two years now. The new company now outsells Axe even among teen male-identifying consumers, which I obviously attribute to Drew’s godlike beauty. Who could resist? Lord knows, I couldn’t.
Now, I don’t love that there’s an 8,000-square-foot digital screen displaying my husband’s nearly naked body in high definition at Broadway and 54th, but at least I know whose filet is his favorite.
“Is Drew going with you?” I ask. We hadn’t talked much last night, and he was still asleep this morning when I felt the need to play host.
“No,” Charlie says. “I think we wore you two out plenty yesterday, and I realize we didn’t give you much notice when we popped in.”
I sit at the table and fix myself a plate. “Let us take you out to dinner tonight, though. I’ll make reservations—best pasta in Brooklyn.”
Angie snorts. “Drew eats pasta?”
“Sometimes.”
Drew walks into the sunny kitchen in gray joggers and a t-shirt. His bed head game is strong today. He mumbles good morning and heads straight for the Nespresso. I drag my eyes away from his perfect ass and pour syrup on my pancakes. I know exactly how I want to spend my day.
He takes turns ruffling my hair and then Angie’s before he sits and inhales a slice of bacon. He has the same conversation I just had with them about today’s plans, and he slides a look my way along with a delicious smirk.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to get me pregnant. We have sex almost as often as I used to jerk off.
He blames my hair, which I’ve let grow out a few inches at the request of a few designers I walk for who like to be able to tie it back. For my part, I blame his confidence. Brewd was hot, but Primal’s Drew Riley is next level. And while neither of us is completely sure whether we’ve ever gotten “gay sex” right, we’ve nailed our own dynamic. And nailed it and nailed it…
And now I have a hard on in front of his mother. Perfect.
When the ladies finish their breakfast and go upstairs to get ready for their trek to Manhattan, Drew and I linger at the table, sipping coffee and holding hands. We’re utterly disgusting. We might as well have heart eyes.
I roll mine and groan. “Sap,” I say.
