Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Picture an office. It's large; not obscenely large, not top-floor large, but spacious enough to say: you are important—you're our star.

Maybe it's a corner office, with a private en suite bathroom and floor to ceiling windows across an entire wall. It's elegant. Luxurious. Empty.

There's an expensive coat on a hanger, wool or perhaps camel hair, and at least five tailored suits with matching footwear and accessories hanging in the built-in wardrobe. Standing beneath them, there's always an overnight bag packed and ready to go.

The luggage is simple in its design, classic, possibly a brown or champagne leather. Most people will see a nice bag. The right people will recognize the small, discreet, golden brand embossed in the leather.

The room is sparsely furnished, but even an untrained eye can tell it's not your run-of-the-mill office furniture. It's elegant, sleek, and polished; it's a space that's been designed. It is also barren.

The walls have sumptuous art on them, likely expensive, but the person inhabiting the office didn't choose it, and he isn't attached to it; it's just... there.

The desk has a single, large drawer.

Inside, there's your average office paraphernalia, all lined up in little trays, so it doesn't move around and create a mess. In another tray, there's a travel wallet with a passport, copies of insurance documents, credit cards, and a couple of hundred dollars in various currencies: Yen, Euros, Hong Kong Dollars, and British Pounds.

That's it. There isn't a single item that says a person, an actual individual, uses this drawer, not even an Advil or a forgotten wrapping paper from a sinful treat.

The desks surface shines, flawless in its reflection; no greasy fingerprints, dust, or personality. There are no photos, children's drawings, or a whimsical mug—not even a tiny, half-alive plant. Nothing that says the same person has been working out of this office for the past three years.

It's a fantastic office, the kind ambitious people strive towards. One that comes hand in hand with a six-figure salary, large bonuses, and generous perks. It's an office that says you're invaluable, that its owner's position is a certainty, and the only place he is going, is up.

That being said, certainty is a fickle thing.

At thirty-eight, Jensen Ackles was positive he'd never wake up beside a woman, convinced he'd never stay more than three years in the same town, and cocksure he was not relationship material.

He also knew that he would never, ever, wear a t-shirt with the text: HR Specialist: because miracle worker is not a real job title.

This was one of the few certainties that would pan out to be true.

Jensen wore suits; expensive, tailored, exquisite suits. He could wear a three-piece plaid suit and look effortlessly cool.

He was also a professional—organized, methodical, and structured. He viewed his career as an HR consultant with the respect and gravitas it deserved and he had no patience for bullshit; especially when uttered by a middle-aged, cowardly kiss-ass.

Or from an overgrown toddler wearing flip-flops in an office.

"Jensen, believe me, no one questions your competence or your results. But, we're attempting to move this company into a more contemporary vibe, and it feels as though you're not on board."

"Vibe?" Jensen gritted his teeth and gripped the arms of his chair tighter. "And what exactly is this vibe, David?" He knew the air quotes bordered on mocking—it wasn't his fault; he had sarcastic hands.

He looked at David's thinning hair and his ever-expanding midsection stuffed into a t-shirt with the company logo—he looked ridiculous. Unprofessional.

David sighed. "Jensen, we need to attract young professionals; we need to be an attractive employer in today's job market."

Inhaling, hoping to maintain his composure, Jensen said, "And replacing ergonomically sound office chairs with beanbags and yoga balls is going to achieve this? And here I thought health insurance, paid vacation, and generous sick days were what people sought in a good employer. My mistake. Who wants paid maternity leave when you can have a bouncy ball instead of a chair?"

"I think what Dave is trying to say"—Jensen felt like punching someone. To be more precise, he felt like punching the twenty-something with the ironic t-shirt, hipster beard, and drawling voice—"is that we need to be competitive in today's market. We need fresh curb appeal, a contemporary, approachable, less archaic feel."

Jensen was thirty-eight years old, but this little fucker, who'd been an adult for all of two seconds, was looking at him like he was pushing ninety. Civil and professional, he reminded himself, be civil and professional.

"Right." Jensen was proud of how cordial he sounded. "I understand what you're saying, and that vibe: the beanbag, sneakers, and PlayStation in the break room atmosphere is great—if you're a tech startup in Silicon Valley. We provide fortune-five-hundred companies with comprehensive HR solutions."

"Yes!" The child stood up and leaned over the desk that separated him and Jensen. "That's our point. Human Resources, oooh, scary." He knew he failed to hide his disbelieving: 'oh my GOD, you're an utter moron' look as the hipster waved his hands in a fake gesture of fright.

"Human resources sounds so serious. So patriarchal."

He contemplated pointing out that, in the United States, 71 percent of all human resource employees were female. But, he bit his tongue and remained silent as the nitwit prattled on.

"We're making it more approachable, more fun, and laid back."

Jensen made one final, stoic attempt at civility.

"I understand that you view me as rigid, but I can't headhunt a CEO for a multibillion-dollar company while dressed in ironic t-shirts and flip-flops. Last week I helped a company terminate five-hundred employees. What we do isn't fun and laid back—it's serious. We deal with people's livelihoods; they deserve our consideration and our respect."

"Jensen, we're arguing about a t-shirt." The voice tried to appear assertive, but try as he might, David Moore didn't have an authoritative bone in his body. If he had, he wouldn't be allowing this dimwit of a consultant to run the show.

"No. We're arguing about professionalism."

How someone barely out of college could have amassed enough knowledge and expertise to consult on anything remained a mystery.

"Jensen, you're my best guy, my rock. But the board and I agree that we need to reinvigorate this company and attract a new type of client. We need a fresh image. I need you on board, ready to embrace the new company spirit. If not…"

In hindsight, Jensen was proud of how he'd conducted himself. He hadn't screamed, hadn't pointed out how he alone had secured half of the current client list. He'd remained civil, and by some miracle, he'd even refrained from mocking sarcasm.

He'd calmly given his two weeks’ notice and spent those final two weeks ensuring he wasn't leaving behind any loose ends or unfinished projects.

He'd politely declined the offers compiled in attempts to persuade him to stay and had refused to train a replacement. After all, they wanted contemporary and fresh, not Jensen's archaic old ways. Petulant? Yes. Also, immensely satisfying.

In truth, he wasn't that upset. It was about principles, his reputation as a skilled professional, and having that skill acknowledged by his employers.

It was also a convenient excuse. A reason for him to walk out with his head held high and not having to answer tedious questions about why he would choose to leave such a high-profile position.

Jensen looked at the note on his kitchen counter. The letterhead read: Four Seasons Hotel, Washington. Beneath it, a simple message had been written in a flowing script. It read,

Let's do lunch, Darling.

It was time; he'd stayed too long—he had to move.

Despite the itching sense of urgency, he decided to take his time finding a new position. He needed to move, but he wasn't going to run or sneak away in the middle of the night. There was self-perseverance, and then there was pride; Jensen had both.

By his second week of unemployment, Jensen had completed three Masterclasses and had turned down five attempts to headhunt him.

They hadn't been bad offers; he'd declined purely on principle. If they wanted him to work for them, they could at least send someone competent to woo him—he would have.

Scrolling through job offers, he realized he was bored. He was fed-up with corporate America, tired of spending two hundred plus days a year on the road. Burned out on being the guy they sent in when something nasty needed fixing; he was done.

That's what motivated him to click on the header... boredom.

Getting up from the couch, Jensen walked to the other end of the room and stood in front of a large map of the United States framed on a corkboard hanging upon the wall.

The surface was littered with colored pins in red, yellow, green, and blue; red pins littered the map, yellow came a close second, green and blue came in at a shared third place.

Jensen put his finger on Washington DC, dragging it straight across the map and up along the Oregon coast until he found Newport. It didn't have a pin. In fact, the entire state of Oregon didn't have a pin.

Oregon. Why not?

He'd spent three years in Washington, DC. Two in Philadelphia before that, and another two in New York prior to Philly; he'd spent too long on the East Coast—he was becoming predictable.

It was time to break the pattern. Oregon meant a cross-country move, and despite spending much of his life on the move, the Pacific Northwest was a region he had little experience with; not enough sun—or gullible—rich retirees.

Tapping the spot on the map, Jensen pursed his lips, looked at the latest note, slipped under his door, and made a decision.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Jensen’s first shift at The Oceanview Hotel was in housekeeping. If you wanted to get a feel for a company, all you had to do was delve into the basement. If the most underappreciated and hardworking people in the building appeared content, it was a well-functioning business. If not, they’d be the first to tell you where the real problems lay.

The woman who greeted him introduced herself as Maggie and looked to be in her mid-fifties. She had an oval face, blue eyes and moved her short, curvy frame in a way that implied her body had its aches and pains.

She was polite in the careful, forced way people are when a manager shows interest in what they do. She chit-chatted politely, answered questions in a standardized manner, and kept any biting comments about the company or her employers to herself.

It wasn’t until Jensen said, “So, where do I find a uniform to change into?” that she realized he intended to spend the entire shift with her. He saw hesitation in her eyes, a slight annoyance and uncertainty, but she hid it well.

As she led him through winding corridors, they walked past room after room stuffed with boxes, and offices stacked with outdated furniture. Along corridors so depressing, he wondered how anyone could pass through them each day and not plunge into a state of clinical depression.

The staff changing room was no better. Gloomy and neglected, it was a cramped, cluttered space. As he donned the ill-fitting and outdated uniform, he thought to himself, if you didn’t hate your job when you got to work, you would by the time you stepped out of this room.

Jensen had worked plenty of blue-collar jobs. Not for pocket money, but out of necessity. He’d been a cleaner, worked the graveyard shift at a 7-Eleven, and his hands still had faded burn scars from all the diner kitchens he’d flipped burgers in.

He knew it was impossible to get the company manuals description of a job, and the actual work, to overlap. From an HR perspective, the goal was to make intention and reality coincide as much as possible.

When it didn’t, the people who employed Jensen wanted him to prove their staff was inefficient. More often than not, the real problem was the managements’ unrealistic expectations. Often they failed to supply the resources, training, or tools needed to do the job. It didn’t take him long to piece together that yet again; the problem lay at the top, not at the bottom.

Jensen had spent more time than he cared to remember cleaning motel rooms; it was a long time ago, but the memories still lingered. If you wanted to get a close look at how disgusting people were, all you had to do was clean hotel rooms for a few weeks.

Thankfully, The Oceanview Hotel seemed to attract a somewhat tidier clientele than that dingy motel had. It was still backbreaking work, especially since the equipment was at least thirty years old. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he lugged the heavy, clunky vacuum in and out of rooms, up and down narrow hallways and stairs.

It was also painfully obvious they were understaffed; Maggie was a professional, but there wasn’t enough time. Midway through the morning, they got a moment to catch their breath as they each pulled a sack of soiled linens down to the laundry room, or what passed for it. He watched her put in the first load, pressing her knee hard against the door to keep it closed until Jensen heard the lock click, and the cycle began.

In a casual tone, he said, “We should start charging the guests an entrance fee. The number of antiques still in use in this place qualifies it for museum status.”

That got him a sharp glance and a tiny, brief smile.

Maggie was friendly, but as the day progressed, she maintained her air of cool, controlled politeness, smoothly side-stepping around his probing questions.

He changed tactics. As they were both bent over a bed, tucking the sheets into place, he said,

“Once, a long time ago, I worked a few months at this shitty motel. One day the washing machine broke. The owner was too cheap to buy a new one, wanting to wait for his nephew to fix it.

“Well, we waited and waited. By day four, we’d run out of fresh linen, and there was nowhere to send the dirty laundry. So, we ripped the dirty sheets out of the beds, took them out back, shook them, drenched them in lavender-scented air fresheners, put them through our ironing press, and then made the beds with them again.”

As he’d hoped, Maggie let out a sharp little laugh. “That’s vile.” In the corner of his eye, he noticed her glancing his way. She licked her lips, hesitated, then said,

“When I lived in New York. . . ” That first simple sentence set off a conversation that became more and more relaxed with every awful work experience shared between them.

As stories of horrible bosses, sleazy colleagues, unsanitary working conditions, and unpaid wages were exchanged, he saw her lower her guard.

They’d finished all the rooms and were tidying up the lounge area by the reception desk when they saw Barbara approach.

“Jensen, things are going well, I see. Of course, they are; everything works out when Maggie’s around. Did she tell you she’s been with us for almost twenty years? She’s always been reliable; I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

And then Jensen understood. Observing Barbara’s overbearing smile, mirrored against Maggie’s tight one, he pieced it together. . . emotional manipulation.

The workload was too heavy, the staffing insufficient, and the equipment outdated. Watching this exchange, he understood that emotional guilt-tripping and misdirection would circumvent any attempt to address the issues. Barbara would throw any complaints back at the complainant as proof of disloyalty or rejection of friendship.

As the shift ended, and Maggie stood ready to step out the door, he said,

“You know, I get that you don’t trust me; I’m the new guy, and I’m management. But, I can already see that you’re overworked and understaffed, and if I can do anything about it, I will. You don’t have to open up to me but, keep in mind, I can’t fix problems if I don’t know about them.”

Jensen thought she might leave without a reply, but with her back to him, she said,

“They’re not bad people. They’re just. . . ”

When no more words came, Jensen finished the sentence with a question, “Out of touch?”

She didn’t answer, but he considered the split-second smile and slight nod a victory.

The week continued in much the same way. Jensen worked his way through most of the departments, and along the way, he put together a rough plan of action.

He spent his second shift working in reception. There, he had a first-row seat to the evident but unacknowledged power struggle between Barbara and her daughter.

When Natalie introduced herself, she turned out to be considerably more polite and welcoming than her brother.

She had her brother’s coloring and sharp, defined features, but without the edges. Her jaw was square but rounded instead of angular. The tip of her nose was slim and pointed like his, but slightly upturned. She had the same thin, wide lips, but her bottom one was fuller.

The only thing that seemed sharper on her than her brother was the slanted shape of her hazel eyes; Jensen suspected her winged eyeliner played a part in that illusion.

Standing side by side, Jensen noticed she resembled her mother, but she was her opposite in style and personality.

Barbara was vivacious and colorful with a bold body language and loud, infectious laugh. Natalie was restrained and correct, her manner as crisp and elegant as the immaculate silk blouse and skin-tight pencil skirt she wore.

There was no sign of an outright argument, no public disagreements; their conflict was of a more passive-aggressive nature.

At noon Barbara came over to the reception, telling the woman at the counter to reserve a specific room for a guest set to arrive later in the afternoon. An hour later, Nat came by, asking for an update about the room availability. Upon learning of her mother’s instructions, she counteracted her orders, stating that if the guest was paying for a single room, she’d get a single room.

When the guest in question arrived, she threw a tantrum. The poor receptionist took the blame.

Jensen met the last member of the Padalecki family when he pulled a double shift in the combined restaurant and bar. One glance was all it took for Jensen to understand that Kent did not give a shit.

Like his son, he was tall, with a frame that had once been muscular. Now, it had lost its edges, and there was a slight roundness to his middle. His hair and neat beard were gray, but you could tell his children had inherited their coloring from him.

His eyes were his most revealing feature. At their brief introduction, Jensen looked into his chestnut eyes and saw a man who had checked out years ago. He operated on autopilot, and his disinterest and fatigue with the day-to-day business were evident to anyone who met him.

The bartender on shift introduced himself as Matthew. He was about fifteen years younger than Jensen and handsome, in a jailbait kind of way.

He had sharp angular features, obsidian skin with a rich undertone that made it glow, and large light blue eyes that complimented his skin in a breathtaking manner.

Besides being a little too attractive for Jensen’s comfort, Matthew turned out to be a professional. He was also young enough to be devoid of Maggie’s tight-lipped loyalty; he had no problem pointing out what was and wasn’t working.

The chef was an unmitigated disaster. He had no control over the kitchen; the microwave was his most utilized appliance, and the food he served was best described as fifty shades of beige.

During the shift, Jensen prayed to a higher divinity that a health inspector wouldn’t make an unannounced visit. If that happened, they would unquestionably be shut down.

Despite the sparse number of guests, Jensen ran himself ragged; when the shift ended, his hair lay slick with sweat against his scalp, and his thighs trembled from exhaustion.

Running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, he collapsed onto a bench conveniently placed by the open backdoor to the kitchen and leaned his head back against the wall.

The bench shook as someone sat down next to him. A friendly pat on his thigh made him jump, and he opened his eyes to meet Matthews’s luminous gaze.

“You did good tonight.”

Jensen’s laugh was tired, and he shook his head, “No, I didn’t. This shift kicked my ass. I’ve been in an office too long.” The answering smile was smooth; young, Jensen reminded himself, it was young.

“Yeah, but you took it; that kitchen is a disaster. Many would’ve walked out halfway through the shift. You didn’t, and you’re still standing.”

He agreed with a non-distinctive hum. Matthew continued, “You looked comfortable in that kitchen.”

Jensen huffed out a laugh, “Unfortunately, yes. I know my way around diner kitchens and fast-food joints, and that’s what we were serving tonight. Fine dining, it was not.”

Matthew exhaled, “Nope. You did good, though, and it’s not like you had to. You could have just come here and gone straight to your office and stayed there—that’s what the rest of them do. The only time Kent or anyone else comes down here is to tell us we’ve done something wrong.”

Jensen shrugged, “I like to get a sense of how a place works before I move things around. You can’t get a feel for a position, or what it needs to function if you don’t do the work.”

The clinking sound of glass bottles colliding interrupted any replies, but soon another voice joined their conversation.

“And where does a human resource manager get such an extensive and well-rounded work-life experience?”

Jared Padalecki was considerably more dressed this time. Walking into the light, he put an empty crate on the ground in front of them and placed several glass bottles of beer on top of it. Then he pulled up another and sat down, long legs spread wide with his bent arms resting on muscular thighs that strained against the jeans covering them.

Jensen considered his reply, making an effort not to look towards Jared’s spread thighs. The sensible thing would be to adopt a professional attitude—Jared’s family owned the hotel—yet, his tart reply slipped out effortlessly,

“Not everyone’s parents own a hotel. Some of us have to work our way up from the bottom.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

Jensen let the comment slide. If things had been different, he’d have pounced, but even at this second brief meeting, he could tell Jared was deliberately provocative, baiting Jensen to see if he would bite.

As if he hadn’t heard, Jensen continued, “I’ve had a lot of shitty jobs—I learned something from each of them.”

Jared’s slanted eyes narrowed in a calculating gaze as a smile played across his wide lips. “I see, a genuine self-made man, from flipping burgers to wearing suits that cost more than Matthew’s monthly earnings.”

Jensen mirrored his smile. “I don’t have any say in Matthew’s wages, yet.”

The tension in the air was palpable. From the corner of his eye, Jensen saw Matthew’s gaze flicking between the two older men. In an attempt to defuse the tension and regain some control of the situation, he said,

“Did you bring that beer here as decoration, or are you planning on sharing?”

“Of course.” There was a thinly veiled sarcasm in Jared’s tone as he said with a nod, “After all, hospitality is in my blood.”

Jensen felt Jared’s eyes follow his movements as he brought the neck of the bottle to his lips, tilting his head backward, and taking deep, long drinks. Under the intense scrutiny, Jensen was aware of how his lips fitted against the bottle’s opening. He pushed the feeling down.

He let the cold, malty liquid run down his throat, swallowing it in big, greedy mouthfuls. With his thirst quenched, he ran a hand over his face, his skin sticky to the touch from dried sweat.

“So, Mr. Human Resources Manager, have you gained any grand insights during your week of working your way though this place?”

Jared’s eyes glittered in the light shining out through the open kitchen door. His tone wasn’t aggressive or even unfriendly, but it was flippant, bordering on mocking.

Jensen was tired; his body ached, and he smelled—he was in no mood for dealing with this type of attitude. Somewhere deep inside, he found an untapped reserve of patience.

“I have a few ideas; a couple of areas that need improvement. I’ll go through them at our meeting tomorrow. It would be unprofessional of me to discuss them here.”

“How about discussing them someplace more comfortable?” The leer was a little too good to be genuine.

“Really?” Jensen arched his eyebrows and snorted. “I know we’ve just met, but I thought you’d be slicker than that. You want to provoke me, see if I’ll bite? Go ahead. But have the decency to be a little creative. Or, at least, somewhat original. That’s not even offensive; it’s just boring.”

He put his empty beer bottle back on the crate, stood up, and said, “I’m going to call it a night. Thank you for the beer.” He turned to Matthew, “Thanks for taking me on. I learned a lot.”

As he turned to walk away, he heard Jared say,

“What about me.” Jared’s voice still held that tone that hovered right at the edge between amused and derisive. Jensen turned to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

Jared’s pose on the crate looked relaxed, comfortable regardless of his height; despite his long legs being spread so wide, Jensen had a full frontal view of the whole. . . package. He focused on Jared’s voice and pretended not to have noticed the way the fabric of his jeans stretched and bulged.

“You’ve done shifts in housekeeping and maintenance, bar, restaurant, and front office. You’ve examined what every other member of my family does here, but not me.”

Nodding, Jensen said, “I know. I did send you two messages, asking if you could set aside some time for me, but I never received a response.”

He’d attempted to keep his tone open and friendly but hadn’t quite succeeded; one or two minor passive-aggressive notes had managed to slink in.

Matthew remained silent, eyes still going back and forth between the two of them.

Jared’s smile was wide, savage.

Jensen said, “Anytime you think you can set aside some time for me, I’ll clear my schedule.”

Jared’s teeth gleamed as his smile widened. “I don’t think there’s much of a point, seeing as you’ll be leaving us soon.”

Jensen didn’t blanch or rise to the bait and kept his voice calm.

“I am?”

Jared’s boots scraped against the ground as he sat up straight and allowed his long legs to stretch out in front of him, ankles crossing. He said,

“Understand me right. I don’t wish you out of a job, but I know my mom. I’m sure she made it sound like this is the first time we’ve looked for outside help—it’s not. Once a year, our family has one major blowout over this place. The last couple of years, mom’s solution—her grand gesture to prove that she’s listening to us—is to bring someone in from outside; you’re number four.”

Jensen kept his face expressionless, but he felt annoyed, blindsided, irritated that he might have let Barbara’s appearance prevent him from looking too closely.

“My mom is great at asking for help; she just never accepts it. I’m sure you’re terrific at what you do, and you’ll have some valuable input. But, if your advice doesn’t add up with what she wants to hear, you’ll be out on your ass. If I were you, I’d go home and look over my resume again. I don’t think your stint as our human resource manager will survive tomorrow’s meeting.”

Jensen’s voice revealed nothing as he said, “I see. Thank you for the warning.”

Chapter Text

Jareds late-night revelation should have worried Jensen, made him anxious about the forthcoming meeting with Barbara and the rest of her family. Instead, he felt giddy. For years he’d been plodding along. Suddenly, he had a fight on his hands—one he hadn’t seen coming.

That was his own fault. The detached defeat in Jared’s voice had given Jensen the last piece of the puzzle, a part he hadn’t been aware was missing.

He’d allowed Barbara’s age, oversized jewelry, and bohemian style to distract him. Foolish. He, of all people, should know better than to judge a smart woman by her appearance; should know how often it was an act and how quickly it could change.

Like an ass, he’d not done his homework, not gone through his usual rigorous process when checking up on a new employer. It wasn’t only Barbara and her appearance that had fooled him; the small-town label had made him complacent and arrogant.

Opening his computer, Jensen checked LinkedIn and his favorite job searching sites; as feared, he found plenty of negative reviews by previous employees. By the time he’d checked TripAdvisor and Yelp, he had a blazing headache.

He got by on three hours of sleep. When morning came, he’d combed through everyone’s personnel files, made some early morning calls, and gone on a sunrise run that took him past the competition.

When Jensen stepped out of the shower and reached for his favorite suit, his game face was already in place. He had a plan. He wasn’t sure what he would face, but he had his arsenal ready. It might not be enough. But, whatever the outcome, he would make certain the lady regretted wasting his time.

They held the meeting in the empty dining room. It was a large but dreary space; everything felt heavy. Thick curtains in a polyester, imitation velvet hung in front of the many windows, blocking out the natural light.

The furniture was dark and had that plastic, faux wood feel, popular—and later hated—thirty years ago. The carpet was worn, in a brownish beige, and the wallpaper an apricot floral pattern so busy it triggered a headache.

It was a dreadful, depressing room. It was a space that could handle seating two-hundred guests—yet in this condition, people who could afford to avoid it did.

The breakfast service was over, and this time of year, the room remained closed until the dinner service began. As Jensen entered the room and sat down, he noted that everyone else: Barbara, Kent, Nat, and Jared were already there; the energy in the room emitted resigned boredom.

Kent was playing with a discarded menu. Nat kept her gaze on a spot slightly above Jensen’s head. Jared met his gaze head-on but kept his features blank. He noticed a shadow in the small round window in the door leading into the kitchen—they had a hidden audience. He guessed at least half the staff was eavesdropping on this meeting through the tiny, inconspicuous gap in the swinging doors.

The only one who seemed alert was Barbara. She held out a coffee cup and a thermos and gave him a questioning look. Jensen nodded, and she poured him a cup, handing him the steaming liquid. He took a sip and set the cup down. He waited. As suspected, Barbara was the first to breach the silence.

“So, Jensen. You’ve spent the week as part of the team. I’m eager to hear your thoughts.”

Nodding, he said, “As I’m sure you can imagine, there have been a lot of impressions. I’ve seen enough of what I need to, to gain a sense of where we need to make improvements. I think, as the dissatisfied party, you should take the lead; please, tell me what you think your issues are.”

Barbara let out what might have been a laugh, but may as well have been a huff.

“Well, as we’ve discussed, we can’t get our staffing situation under control. Last year, most of our seasonal staff quit halfway through the summer. This year’s recruitment has so far been a disaster, and we can’t seem to get our year-round staff to stay for more than a few months. It affects our service, and reputation; I don’t understand why, and I’m out of ideas. That’s why I hired you.”

There was a bite to her last sentence, and Jensen felt a tingle at the base of his skull. It was about to begin. He kept his voice calm as he repeated her words.

“You don’t understand why.”

“No. I do not.” There was an edge as her voice scaled up a note. It wasn’t aggressive or loud, yet. . . but it was getting sharper.

“Right.” Jensen fixed her gaze with his own. “Before I begin, you need to understand that I don’t coddle people; some conversations are uncomfortable because they have to be.”

He took another slow sip of his coffee, then put the cup down on the table; four sets of eyes following his movements as he now had their undivided attention. He said,

“The reason you’re having problems is that your staff is overworked, underpaid, and inexcusably underappreciated. You have ten other hotels and B&Bs within a one-mile radius, and they all pay better than you. Your equipment and appliances belong in a museum or a landfill; it’s a miracle no one’s sustained any work-related injuries wrestling with faulty equipment.”

Jensen picked up his cup and took another sip of coffee. Kent was sitting upright now. Nat looked pale as she glanced in her mother’s direction. Jared looked amused. Barbara was livid, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She was about to open her mouth and begin what Jensen suspected would be a tirade, but he cut her off, his voice sharp, cracking like a whip,

“I’m not finished.

“This is a small town, but it has plenty of job openings for people in the hospitality industry, and you have a poor reputation. All those people who quit halfway through the summer, they’ve already warned people about this place; sites like Glassdoor and Indeed are littered with bad reviews from previous employees.

“However, these issues, they’re easy to fix; the big problem is all of you. You’re all out of touch with this business; you don’t even seem to realize or remember that it is a business. I’ve been in town for five minutes, and I’m already better informed about your competition and reputation than you are.”

Jensen paused, stopping to meet all four stares head-on; Jared was the only one who didn’t look away. Directing his gaze onto the older man sitting beside him, said,

“Kent, you’re not interested; you checked out of this business years ago.” He waited to see if his words would bring forth a reaction. They didn’t. Although alert, Kent’s eyes remained unresponsive.

Jensen tilted his head slightly and fixed his eyes on the elegant woman sitting beside her father.

“Natalie, you are incredibly talented, and your organizational skills are outstanding. Yet, despite being frustrated with how your mother runs this place, you avoid direct confrontation. The result is a passive-aggressive battle of wills, where you both give conflicting instructions. When things, unsurprisingly, take a bad turn, the staff takes the blame.”

Unlike her father, Nat was clearly affected by Jensen’s criticism, but she hid it behind steely composure; a person less skilled at reading people might have been fooled, Jensen wasn’t.

You could hear a pin drop. It was like even the everyday sounds of the building, fans, air conditioning, the old wood creaking, had stopped to hold its breath.

When Jensen turned his gaze on Jared, he saw a small smile play in the corner of his mouth as he raised one eyebrow. Jensen met his gaze head-on.

“Jared, you’re disinterested and disillusioned; you’re just waiting around for the final collapse. I’m not convinced you even want this hotel to survive.”

If Jared had a reply, he didn’t have time to vocalize it, as a tight voice beside him said,

“And me?” There was a warning in Barbara’s clipped tone, a look in her eyes, daring him to continue. Jensen met her steely gray stare without wavering or showing any sign of weakness.

“Barbara, you’re wonderful with your guests, but you lead through emotional manipulation. You demand absolute loyalty but offer none in return. You’re unfit to handle personnel issues.”

He paused.

“We can offer competitive wages, upgrade the equipment, order new uniforms that aren’t so ill-fitting and ugly, and make hundreds of other improvements that will attract talented, loyal people to work for you. But it won’t matter what I or anyone else does if the four of you don’t straighten out your differences.

“You need to sit down as a family and decide which of you wants to put in the work, who is in charge of what, and who would like to step down. In short, you four need to get your shit together, or nothing I do will help.”

“How dare you!” The words came out sharp, each word ending on a razor’s edge. In the corner of his eye, Jensen saw Nat massaging the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed like she already had a thundering headache.

Jensen only listened with half an ear as Barbara, her voice rising note by note, worked herself into a full-blown tantrum, telling him just how insulted she felt, how wrong and unprofessional he was, and how everyone loved her.

A few minutes in, she was screaming right into his face. Jensen’s only reaction was to tilt his head so he could take another sip of his cooling coffee.

That made her even angrier, and she opened the taps, allowing enormous tears to spurt from her eyes as she continued her tirade. Jensen yawned.

It was plain his calm unnerved her. When screams and tears failed to get a reaction, she grasped a last, desperate straw, picked up his coffee cup from the table, and hurled it at the nearest wall where it shattered in a wide pattern of dark stains. Then she fell silent.

Jensen glanced at the mess on the wall. “You do realize this little tantrum of yours perfectly proved my point?”

Eyes shooting lightning bolts and chest heaving, Barbara hissed out her initial question, “How dare you?”

Jensen squared his shoulders and pinned her gaze with his. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as velvet but hard as granite.

“How dare I? How dare you; how dare you waste my time? Never had an HR manager before? That’s bullshit, and you know it. I might be your first HR manager, but I’m not the first person you’ve brought in from outside; I’m the fourth. Not only did you lie to me during the interview, you lied straight to my face. Clearly, the previous three didn’t have what it takes to deal with you, I do. Believe me.

“No doubt, you think I’m some desk jockey who’s spent the past fifteen years in a cubical dealing with petty personnel issues. That I’d come here and do a little dance, so you could look good.

“Lady, you have no goddamn idea who you’re dealing with.

“If you had done your homework, you’d know that I spent most of my career working with fortune-five-hundred companies. My first big job was just after the financial crash. I spent an entire year traveling around this country as a layoff consultant; I fired people all day—hundreds, thousands of people. People who I knew would lose their healthcare, their livelihood, maybe even their homes. Your over-acted tantrum and crocodile tears mean nothing to me; I don’t give a shit.”

Nat’s hand had stopped massaging the bridge of her nose, and she now sat, eyes wide and glued on his face.

“In my previous job, as a human resource consultant, I spent my days on private jets traveling all over the world headhunting and recruiting top-level executives for multi-billion dollar companies. I had a company car with a private chauffeur and a six-figure salary. I’m extraordinary at what I do. I’m the fucking Mozart of human resources; and here I am, willing to work for you for a fraction of what I usually earn.

“I’m not here because I need this job; I have twenty emails in my inbox offering me six figures for a twelve-month consulting gig. I’m here because I’m bored with corporate America, and I thought spending a year or two helping a small, family-owned business would be a pleasant change, a chance to make a difference on a human level.

“If you were smart and wanted what’s best for your business, you’d realize that you’ve hit the jackpot.

“But, instead of doing your homework and recognizing this, you act like a toddler and throw a tantrum when I tell you truths you already know.”

Hands trembling, Barbara made a move as if preparing to storm out the door; Jensen remained seated, body language relaxed.

“Really, you’re going to storm out? And then what, you’ll fire me? Do you think I give a shit? Fire me; I haven’t even unpacked. I’ll just load up my car, and on my drive out of town, I’ll pick one of those twenty offers at random and accept the big check, company car, and penthouse they’re offering. So, go ahead; run out of here and feel sorry for yourself because the truth hurts.”

Barbara had frozen. She stood rigid as a tin soldier, the muscles in her jaw jumping. Jensen stood up and walked over to stand in front of her.

Voice softening, without losing its command of the room, he said,

“Or, you can let me help you; turn this place into what it could be, what it should be. Barbara, just because I’m honest with you, doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I do, and I want to help. I’m not intimidated by the challenge of turning this place around. I can help you, or I can leave and continue on with my life.

“Despite you wasting my goddamn time and moving me across the country for nothing, I’ll land on my feet in a penthouse. You, you’ll hang on for a season. . . maybe two. But soon, even the most loyal of your employees will leave, and you’ll not be able to find people to replace them.”

Straightening his tie, he looked around the room. Kent’s eyes were fixed on him, and there was something there, a tiny little flicker behind the veil of detached boredom. Instead, it was Jared’s expression that had gone smooth and unreadable. He didn’t avert his eyes as Jensen met his, but the disdainful smirk was gone.

Satisfied, Jensen finished his monologue by saying,

“I’m leaving now. I’m taking the weekend off. I’ll be in on Monday morning, and you can decide if I’ll turn in my keys or if you want to save this place. Take the weekend, lick your wounds, feel sorry for yourselves, and then get your shit together so I can help you.”

On a Friday, five days after walking through them for the first time, Jensen walked out the doors of The Oceanview Hotel with a swagger. As far as he knew, it could be for the last time.

Even if that turned out to be the case, he felt satisfied; if nothing else, he’d at least made his point. Body buzzing with rushing adrenaline and pent-up energy, he put his brain on autopilot.

Walking along the harbor front, with its beachfront restaurants and whimsical wooden buildings in bright colors, Jensen found a patisserie. He bought three chocolate eclairs and ate them all. Passing a wine and cheese shop, he purchased an overpriced piece of Camembert and a bottle of Merlot to go with it. The attendant gave him a look but didn’t object as he told her to open it.

He walked home along the beach, nibbling Camembert and, although it was barely past noon, swigging expensive wine from the bottle.

He’d earned it.

Chapter Text

With an entire weekend stretching out in front of him and nothing to do, Jensen contemplated doing something fun. He could explore the town, take a drive along the Oregon coast and visit sights and landmarks. He didn’t see the point. If he wasn’t staying, he had no reason to get acquainted with the area.

Saturday morning, he took another walk, bought more cheese, eclairs, and a lot of wine. He spent the rest of the day on the couch, reading through his job offers, and sighing at their lack of imagination.

He had options, good ones. But, where before they’d only felt uninspiring, now another corporate job felt unbearably tedious. This place was a real challenge.

Nothing about this hotel, the people who worked there, or the family who owned it were easy; it was all jagged edges and dysfunction. Jensen ached to dive in and straighten it all out. Turn it into something shiny and well-behaved, something interesting.

Sunday morning, Jensen came down the stairs and into his kitchen to see the sun shining large and bright through the sliding patio door and Barbara sitting on his back deck.

Her back was stiff and straight, and her jaw tight as he opened the door.

“Would you like to come in?”

Her voice was controlled as she said, “It’s a beautiful day. Do you mind if we sit outside?”

He shook his head. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll join you. Coffee?”

She nodded. Fifteen minutes later, Jensen placed a tray on the table, poured them each a cup, and sat down. They sat in silence for another ten minutes, eyes glued on the calm ocean in front of them, the strong spring sun glittering across its still surface.

“You lobbed a grenade into my family.”

Jensen’s voice was soft but firm. “No, Barbara. I didn’t. Your house was already on fire; all I did was open the door, so you couldn’t ignore it any longer.”

She huffed, closed her eyes, the tip of her tongue coming out to rest on her upper lip as if trying to find some inner calm. When she opened her eyes again, she kept them on the horizon.

“You are unbelievably infuriating.”

Jensen shrugged and hummed against the rim of his coffee cup.

With her lips pressed together, she seemed to come to a decision. She said in a clipped tone, “So. You’re my knight in shining armor come to save my hotel?”

He shook his head. “No. You and your family are going to save your hotel. I’m going to assist you in finding and keeping talented people to help you accomplish your goals. You’re the hotelier, not me.”

She barked out a frustrated laugh. “You told me I was terrible at it.”

“No. I didn’t. If that’s what you heard, you weren’t listening. I said that you are terrible at managing your employees; you don’t have the right temperament. But I also said that you’re fantastic with your guests.”

He paused to take another sip from his coffee. “My job is to single out what every employee, including you, brings to the table. You need to be on the front office end of things: reception, concierge, host events, interact with people—that’s your strength. Putting a person in a role where they don’t fit is a waste of resources.”

Staring back into space, she sighed. Jensen stayed quiet, allowing her time to process. After a few minutes of silence, she said,

“I don’t remember when it all got away from me. It’s not that I haven’t seen everything that needs doing, where we need to make improvements. I feel as though I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch-up. The weight of it all leaves me paralyzed, and every time someone points out a problem, I lash out. I’m so overwhelmed.”

Jensen’s voice was sympathetic. “That’s a normal human reaction, Barbara. It’s why it’s so important that you allow people to help you. The key to solving this is building a strong, reliable team.”

She groaned out his name. “Jensen, Kent barely sets foot in the place. Jared doesn’t care. Nat takes it seriously, but we end up arguing as soon as we try to talk about the hotel. How are we going to build something strong out of that?”

They were having a conversation. Jensen knew what he wanted to say, but he’d flattened this woman with a bulldozer the last time they’d met. He needed a softer approach this time.

“Have you considered that being a member of your family doesn’t automatically qualify one for a management position?”

She opened her mouth but then closed it again without a word. Jensen spoke instead.

“Look, I’ve worked with a lot of corporations and businesses. Off the top of my head, I can think of several people I could convince to come work for you, people with exceptional talent. But, if I’m going to put my reputation on the line, we need to get some things in order first.

“For a start, each member of your family needs to decide if they want to play an active role in the company; you need to let them make that decision, whatever it may be. If they decide to work at the hotel, they better step up their game.”

Jensen saw the wheels turning in Barbara’s head; her gaze distant, and the otherwise faint frown line between her eyebrows now pinched and deep-set. She didn’t continue the conversation. Instead, she stood up, ran her flattened palms down the front of her purple wool coat and, as she was getting ready to go, she said,

“See you tomorrow, then?” It was supposed to be a statement, but Jensen heard the question.

He nodded. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

At ten-to-eight on a Monday morning, Jensen strolled up the road towards The Oceanview Hotel. He felt amazing; his skin was tingling, and his brain buzzing with anticipation. In the distance, the large, blue building towered over its neighboring structures.

Jensen felt giddy imagining the absolute clusterfuck of dysfunctional disaster that lay in front of him.

It was so messy. The relationships so infected, the frustration seeping like a festering wound from the walls. It was an absolute catastrophe, and he was going to fix it. He was going to tear it down and build it all up again into something shiny, efficient, and perfect.

He hadn’t felt like this in a long time; the last several years had gone by on autopilot, one consulting gig the same as the one before and the one coming next. He’d grown complacent and, without noticing, bored.

The expensive fabric in his immaculate gray satin three-piece suit slid against his skin as he walked—he felt like he was on the prowl. Jensen ran a hand over his strawberry blond hair to be certain it lay in place and ran a finger along the side part to ensure it was still sharp.

As he came closer, he noticed Jared standing outside the hotel lobby. He looked like he was waiting for someone—waiting for him. He felt his eyes narrow, and his gaze sharpened. He hadn’t planned on starting the day with a fight though, if he had to, he would.

On further approach, he realized Jared looked softer. His face had lost that disdainful smirk and was open, approachable, attractive. Jensen lowered his guard, and softened his shoulders, saying

“Good morning.”

Jared nodded, then he held out his hand. “Good morning, I’m Jared Padalecki.”

Jensen hid his surprise; he felt one eyebrow twitch, nanoseconds away from arching, but he restrained it at the last moment; vindictiveness, petulance, and gloating would not win him this battle. Professionalism, empathy, and congeniality would. He took Jared’s outstretched hand.

“Jensen Ackles, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jared.”

Their handshake was firm, but Jensen noticed that they both reigned in any hint of a challenge. It was a handshake that said: I acknowledge you, and I’m not intimidated.

He kept his voice relaxed and asked, “So, who else turned up?”

Jared gave a brief, tight smile. “We all did. We’re all a little battered, it’s been an”—he paused, searching for the right word—“interesting weekend.”

Jensen saw the red veins branching out in the whites of Jared’s eyes, and his dull, grayish complexion—interesting probably didn’t begin to describe his weekend; he looked worn out, exhausted.

“I imagine it was.”

Jensen made a gesture, silently asking if they should go inside, but Jared said,

“I wanted to apologize; I’ve been an ass. It wasn’t personal. I’ve been frustrated by the whole situation, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Jensen made a dismissive gesture, waving his words away.

“I appreciate it, but it’s unnecessary. I’ve had worse, and there’s plenty of pent-up frustration here.”

Jared said, “I was wondering if you’d clear your schedule for me this afternoon? I think you have an accurate picture of the rest of my family’s strengths and weaknesses, but you haven’t met the real me. I was hoping for a chance to make a new first impression.”

The request, once again, took him by surprise. Jensen observed the man in front of him, eyes roaming over his face. When he saw nothing except a genuine desire to be understood, Jensen said, “Sure, four o’clock?”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up here.”

This time Jensen did arch an eyebrow, but he kept any comments to himself and nodded.

The first meeting of The Oceanview Hotel’s management was a subdued affair.

Barbara, Nat, Jared, and even Kent each seemed to have decided that, despite all the complications, they wanted to stay involved. There was a sense of determination in the room, but it was faint, overpowered by the crushing air of exhaustion and unhealed battle wounds.

They had many tough conversations and decisions ahead of them, conflicts that needed to be aired, but this wasn’t the time. Jensen knew they needed to recuperate and gather strength before they went another round, or he’d lose them.

He settled for easy, safe subjects, areas where changes wouldn’t interfere with anyone’s territory.

By the end of the meeting, some minor, yet important, decisions had been made.

Jensen found Maggie in the laundry room. He knocked on the frame of the open the door to get her attention, and when she turned to him, he said,

“Good news. You, me, and Nat are going shopping tomorrow morning.”

She looked confused, and Jensen continued, “You and I both know a lot of things need upgrading around here. I’ve convinced Barbara and the others that we need to start from the ground up. Tomorrow we’re going to go shopping for new washing machines and dryers; I’m thinking three heavy-duty machines each? What do you think?”

“They said yes to new machines?” The wary hope in her voice made him feel a little sad. “They did; you can’t do laundry in-house with one half-broken machine.”

Jensen leaned into the room. It was a good size but so stuffed with boxes, old furniture, and other crap accumulated over the decades that the space available for the actual laundry itself was insufficient.

“How’s our supply of linen and towels? With our planned occupancy, do you think we can survive a week without doing any laundry?”

Maggie looked up, gaze planted on the ceiling as she seemed to mull over the question. “If we can get today’s load done, we should have enough. Why? Do you think the installation will be a problem? I know we only have one machine at the moment, but there are plumbing and outlets for more; we used to have several, they’ve just broken and were never replaced.”

Jensen shook his head, “No, as I understand it, it won’t be a problem, but while we’re out with Nat, Jared, and Kent will roundup some people and clear all the crap out of this room, put up some decent shelving and get a fresh coat of paint on the walls. I’m not the one organizing it, but I think they’ll be bringing in a plumber to look things over before installation, just in case.”

Eyes roaming over the room again, Jensen added, “And, in a worst-case scenario, we’ll just have to outsource the laundry for a week or two if things don’t go as smoothly as we hope.”

Maggie nodded. “It sounds great. But why do you want me to come? You and Nat can handle it.”

Jensen watched as she slammed the door to the machine shut, once again holding it shut with her knee as she started the cycle and the lock kicked into place.

He asked, “Do you like eclairs?”

Twenty minutes later, the counter staff at Patisserie C’est Si Bon placed two cappuccinos and two salted caramel eclairs on the table between them. Jensen moaned as he immediately bit into his. Mouth still sticky, he said,

“Oh my God, it’s better than sex. . . almost.”

Maggie laughed, and Jensen did a mental fist pump at the unrestrained sound. It wasn’t a proclamation of undying trust and loyalty, but it was a tiny first step towards letting her guard down around him.

“I’ve avoided drugs, gambling, tobacco, and over-consuming alcohol, but good pastry is my weakness—I can’t resist it.”

Her smile was genuine as she bit into her own, a satisfied groan escaping between her full lips. “Screw almost. It is better than sex.”

Jensen chuckled into the foam on his cappuccino.

She averted her gaze, scratched at a stain on the table with her index finger, then angled her head and searched out his eyes with her own.

“Thank you for what you said at the meeting, for deciding to stay even though this place isn’t what you expected. Even if it doesn’t work out, even if the hotel doesn’t survive, I want you to know that we all see that you’re fighting for us, and we appreciate it.”

Jensen smiled and nodded a silent thank you. After swallowing a scalding mouthful, he leaned back in his chair. He said,

“So. I want you to go with us tomorrow because I want to promote you to head housekeeper. We discussed it during the meeting, and the others have agreed. If you accept, I have papers back at the office ready for you to sign.”

Maggie had frozen, her cup halfway to her mouth. “What?”

Jensen repeated, “I want you to manage the housekeeping department.”

As he watched her reaction, Jensen decided it was best to get everything out before she declined the position out of sheer panic.

“Maggie, we both know that despite Natalie being head of your department, you’ve been doing the actual work. The staff respects you. You know exactly what needs doing, and no matter how understaffed you are, you make sure it gets done.”

He paused. “I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not already doing. All I’m suggesting is that we formalize your position and, in doing so, ensure that you’re paid a salary and benefits that reflect the work you put in.”

Letting out an audible breath, she said, “Jensen, I have no leadership training. No managerial experience.”

He made a dismissive grimace. “Maggie, you’re like the resident mom. If you say jump, the whole damn building jumps. You’re one reason this place has held together, even though its leadership has been so inadequate.

“This promotion should have happened ten years ago. I can get you training, and I’ll be your support system. Whenever you feel uncertain, you can come to me, and we’ll talk through the issue together.”

He paused, then said, “I’ve been recruiting for management for a long time, I know you can do this.”

She had her fist clenched, the nail of her thumb flicking against her teeth as she thought, eyes fixed on a coffee stain on the table. With her free hand, she reached out and wiped it away with a napkin. At last, she raised her eyes to meet his. She said,

“Ok. I accept. But, Jensen, if I screw-up, you must tell me, and you have to have my back because Barbara won’t.”

Jensen met her gazed head-on. “I promise.”

They held each other’s gaze for a second longer, and then the tension evaporated.

Smiling, Jensen said, “Shall we celebrate with a macaroon? I have my eyes on the raspberry flavored and the passion fruit, but I can’t decide which one.”

Maggie looked towards the colorful display and said with little enthusiasm, “Maybe we could pick a flavor each and share?”

Jensen said, “Or. . . we could have two each.” They had three.

Chapter Text

At four o’clock that afternoon, Jensen stood waiting outside the hotel entrance when a black, Chevy pickup truck came to a stop in front of him. Raising one eyebrow, Jensen tilted his head and looked in through the window. From the driver’s seat, Jared waved at him and motioned for him to get in.

Opening the door and seating himself in the passenger seat, Jensen buckled himself in and, as Jared drove away, said,

“I gotta tell you, this isn’t what I was expecting. A pickup?”

Jared grinned. “Yeah. It probably doesn’t add up right now but, once you see what I do for a living and what I have to transport to get it done, it’ll make more sense.”

Jensen snorted. “Or, you could just tell me now.”

Grin still in place, Jared glanced at him. “And ruin the mystery, where’s the fun in that?”

Jensen rolled his eyes but didn’t push the issue.

It wasn’t a long drive, ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Jensen wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but when Jared signaled his blinkers and entered a shabby old harbor front industrial area, it still surprised him. They stepped out of the car in front of a cluster of old brick buildings that seemed to be part of a long-abandoned warehouse complex.

Jensen looked at him quizzically as Jared led him towards a large, high sliding gate covered in sheets of corrugated steel.

“Is this the point when I run? I feel like I’m walking straight into my own true-crime documentary.”

Guffawing, Jared said, “You’ll be fine.”

As the gate slid aside, Jensen’s mouth parted in astonishment.

Behind it was a large outdoor area; the ground was rough gray cement, but everywhere Jensen looked, large containers, enormous ceramic urns, and whimsical pots held everything from trees to small, hardy outdoor plants.

Even now, it was evident that in spring and summer, the area must be a lush oasis of green and vibrant color.

String lights, fabrics, floating chairs, and pots hung or clung to the metal framing that must have, at some point, held up a roof.

Everywhere Jensen looked, something caught his eye; a wall brought to life by bright, beautiful tiles. Water features in ceramic and glass enveloped the space in a soothing, rippling wall of sound.

There were sculptures in various living materials and wind chimes in stained glass; Jensen imagined that, when the sun shone, the space would sparkle in multicolored reflections.

Towards the far back, he noticed a wooden deck covered by a glass roof, and behind it, a wall covered in floor to ceiling windows, framed in black steel.

The deck was covered in oriental rugs of varying sizes, comfortable-looking loveseats, and recliners draped with heavy blankets.

As they stepped onto the deck, Jared pulled out a key, and a second later, a door opened in the middle of the wall of windows. As he peered closer, Jensen realized they weren’t windows but several seamless sections in a huge door that folded to allow indoor and outdoor to become one massive space.

The inside was even more impressive. It was furnished in the same captivating mix of old and new, soft and hard, vintage, and high-quality art pieces as the outside. It was a space that screamed expensive interior design magazine and homey at the same time.

Jensen had come to a standstill in the middle of the space. As Jared came to stand beside him, he felt a rush of air leave his lungs. He turned and asked,

“Who are you?”

Jared’s smile was blinding, pleased that he’d taken him by surprise. Jensen thought it bordered on smug. He said,

“Let me give you the tour.”

The ground floor was one large, open space. The front of the building, opening onto the yard, held comfortable seating areas and an entertainment center artfully hidden by great design pieces. Jensen ran his fingers along the aged, saddle brown leather of a plush, masculine sofa.

He asked, “Vintage?”

Jared nodded. Jensen sighed. “I love leather.”

“I’ll remember that.”

His sudden laugh was sharp, genuine, and Jared’s answering grin, cheeky and unapologetic.

As their eyes met, their gazes locked, and they shared a look. It said, “Yeah. Ok. So we have a shit ton of chemistry. In another life, we’d be fucking like rabbits right now. But, not in this one; wrong time, wrong place, too many complications, so let’s be grown-ups about it.”

Releasing a small sigh, Jared gave a tiny nod, and with a small, half-smile playing on his lips, shrugged as if to say, “Too fucking bad.”

Jensen gave a little nod of his own and a tiny smile in acknowledgment. Too fucking bad, indeed.

Breaking the spell, Jared held out his arm and said,

“Let me show you the rest.” Nodding, Jensen allowed himself to be led towards the back half of the building.

At each side wall, two steel spiral staircases led up onto two smaller mezzanine floors that rested against the back wall. Beneath them were the only walled off areas and turned out to be a bathroom and a utility room.

Jared led him up one staircase and onto the first mezzanine. It held a reading nook and home office. The space was fenced in by the same heavy, black steel and had an unobstructed view of the lounge area on the ground floor.

Jensen turned on the spot, captivated by the atmosphere and design. He said,

“I can’t believe you’re able to get such amazing light this far back from the windows. Jared smiled and pointed upwards. When he raised his gaze Jensen inhaled, a sudden, sharp little breath.

At some point, the old weathered building had lost its original tiled roof. It had been replaced by one in the same black steel and glass as the folding door; it reminded him of the style of peaked, glass roofs common on greenhouses.

Tearing his gaze away from the roof, Jared said, “This way.”

A long bridge in steel and glass ran across the large, open space, connecting the two mezzanines. Standing on the bridge, you could look straight down on the kitchen and dining space below. The second mezzanine held Jared’s en suite bedroom, a large space decorated in leathers and muted, earthy tones, and mostly taken up by an enormous bed.

Without prompting, Jared said, “I’m a big guy, and I like to stretch out.”

Jensen’s answering smile was neutral—safe; inside, his libido stomped its feet and whined: NOT. FAIR.

Leading him downstairs and towards the kitchen, Jared said,

“Red or white?”

Still processing what he’d walked into and rallying self-control, Jensen’s said, “Huh?”

Accompanied by the sound of glass clinking, Jared repeated his question, “Wine. Red or white, which do you prefer?”

He tore his eyes away from their exploration and walked towards where Jared was standing. He’d placed two large wine glasses on a long kitchen island in front of him.

Jensen looked at the polished surface and the counters behind it; they looked like they’d been tailored to fit the space. As he came closer, he realized they were made of concrete, poured, molded, and polished into solid pieces that looked like they’d grown out of the floor.

Jensen noticed his host looking at him, he arched an eyebrow, and Jensen remembered the question.

“Red, please; I prefer red.”

Jared nodded, leaned down, and Jensen realized there must be a low shelf on the other side of the island; straightening back up, he held out a bottle.

“Pinot Noir?”

Jensen looked at the label and nodded; he wasn’t an expert, but he recognized an expensive bottle of wine when he saw one.

Soon the cork popped out of the bottle with a satisfying sucking sound, and burgundy liquid filled the glass in front of him; picking up his glass, Jared said, “Cheers,” and drank deep.

Jensen followed his example, and an audible sigh fell from his lips as it slid down his throat. He licked a few stray drops from his bottom lip and looked at the stranger standing before him.

“I repeat my question. A week ago, I was introduced to what I thought was an over-aged beach bum who spent his days surfing instead of working. And here I stand, in an exquisitely designed home, drinking a seventy-dollar wine. How do those two images fit together?”

Jared’s laugh was loud and untamed. “Over-aged? Fuck you very much.”

Jensen put a hand over his mouth to stop wine from escaping between his lips as he snorted; swallowing and wiping his chin, he clarified,

“Too old to be running around half-undressed in your mother’s hotel and idling your days away on the beach.”

Jared grinned. “Fair enough.” He said, “You caught me on a bad day. I surfed a lot when I was young. I still enjoy it, but only casually. I was going to sneak in through the backdoor, but there was a huge delivery, and they blocked the way. I had to sprint around to the main entrance, where I bumped into you.”

Jensen nodded into another sip of wine. “Makes sense. And this place? Somehow, I doubt whatever it is you do at the hotel paid for this.”

Jared topped up both their glasses, picked up his, and said, “Come on.”

He led Jensen towards the side wall. Behind a sliding glass door, a hallway, brick on one side, and glass towards the yard connected the main building to a smaller side wing. Through the glass, Jensen saw the open yard, and on the opposite side, another glass connector and wing, mirroring the one they were about to enter.

With the three buildings connected, they created an enclosed rectangle with the yard in the middle; the large gate in the front closed the space off from prying eyes.

What they stepped into when they entered the wing was another large, open space. It had the same folding windows that open out onto the garden, peaked glass roof, and brick walls. But this wasn’t a space made for living.

What Jensen had walked into was a workshop. The walls were lined with tall shelves stacked with striking pieces of art in glass and ceramic. These were intermingled with finely crafted household items so elegant in their design, Jensen would have been afraid to use them.

There were ceramic sculptures in shapes so ethereal that Jensen did not understand how the clay had held its shape.

Clean-lined contemporary pieces in white and gray mixed with stacks of handmade ceramic tiles in varying shapes and shades of blues and greens.

Glass lamps in shapes of Jellyfish hung from the steel beams that ran across the length of the room. They seemed to float in the air and accentuated the enormous chandelier made from an array of flowing shapes in deep blue glass; it looked like water swirling down towards the floor.

Other parts of the room held varying work areas, equipment, utensils, and machinery. Jared said, “The reason my role at the hotel is vague is because it isn’t my day job. This is my job.”

Jensen sighed. “If this is supposed to answer my question, I have to tell you, I’m more confused than ever.”

Jared let out a breathy chuckle. He said, “Do you like pasta?”

Jensen groaned. “That depends if you’re asking me or my approaching middle-aged metabolism.”

Jared snorted in amusement and said, “Come on, I make a mean Carbonara.”

Seated on a barstool at the kitchen island, Jensen watched as Jared, on the opposite side, collected and placed ingredients on the counter beside him. He noticed that both the pancetta and the pecorino cheese were wrapped in paper with logos from an upmarket delicatessen.

Jensen watched him work in silence, then said, “So. . . ” He left it open, and, as he’d hoped, Jared filled in the sentence.

“So. I grew up at the hotel, right? Mom and Dad were always working. It wasn’t a job—it was their life; Nat and I never had a choice in the matter. As a kid, I loved it; as a teenager, I hated it; that’s when surfing became an escape. By the time I graduated High School, I was sick of the place. I left as soon as I could.”

Jared sliced into the pancetta, cubing it with ease. “I drifted around for about six months. Through a series of random events, which included hitchhiking, a boy with golden hair, being spectacularly broke, and a man far too old for me, I ended up at a community college in New Jersey. The school had a two-year associate’s degree in glass arts.”

The pancetta sizzled as he threw it into the hot pan. The aroma made Jensen’s mouth water as he listened while Jared continued his story.

“After I graduated, that man—the one who was too old for me—took me on as an apprentice. I stayed for two years. I loved the work, and I learned so much. But being in a relationship with someone almost twice your age when you’re in your early twenties creates an imbalance of power, and I had to go.”

“Was it difficult? Leaving, I mean?”

Jared looked at him as if pondering Jensen’s question. “Yes. But not in the way I think you mean. There wasn’t an element of abuse or anything dysfunctional in the relationship. I was very young; he was our age. He had his shit figured out; a career, money in the bank, all the grown-up stuff. I was just starting out. He wanted to mold me into a mini version of him. I wanted to be myself.”

Jensen nodded. He said, “I dated this twenty-two-year-old a few years back. I had a minor crisis when I realized I was four birthdays from forty, and I started going out to bars again. So, I met this twenty-two-year-old guy, and things were fine.”

Jared reached out and topped up Jensen’s glass while listening.

“We dated for a while, and I remember thinking, sure, he’s a little twenty-something cocky, but we’re having a good time. So, after about a month, we finally went to his place instead of mine. We walk into his two-bedroom apartment, and I meet his three roommates. I’m served a five-dollar wine in a plastic cup, and I swear they furnished the place with lawn chairs and dumpster finds. I didn’t even stay the night. All I could think was: No. I can’t do this again—fuck feeling young, I need a real glass of wine and my own apartment.”

Jared had an infectious laugh, unrestrained. His chest was still jumping from tiny aftershocks of laughter as he said,

“Being twenty-something is overrated; I’d rather be thirty-eight in this place than twenty-three in a rat hole with three roommates.”

Jensen raised his glass. “Amen to that.” He took another drink and watched as Jared strained the pasta. The conversation paused as Jared put the dish together and plated it.

Jared’s dining table was large and heavy, in a dark oak that complemented the brick and softened the hard materials and surfaces around it. The dining chairs were large and curved with padded leather seats; they were chairs made for meals that lasted hours.

As Jared opened another bottle of wine, Jensen made himself comfortable and ran his hand along the irregular edge of the large sloped plate in front of him. He smiled at the muted light blue color and black specks; the coloring reminded Jensen of a Blue Jay egg.

He looked quizzically at Jared. “Your work?”

Mouth already full of creamy pasta, Jared nodded. Jensen made a satisfied sound as he took his first bite. They ate a few more mouthfuls in silence before Jensen said,

“So, you left the man and the apprenticeship, then what?”

Jared licked his lips clean and continued his story. “I went to Arizona State, did another two years of studying, and got a bachelor in Fine Arts—that’s where I fell in love with ceramics.”

Jensen wiped some stray sauce from his bottom lip. “This might be a dumb question, but the difference between pottery and ceramics is?”

Jared shook his head while chewing.

“It’s not dumb. Honestly, it’s technical and has to do with materials, techniques, and history. Pottery is a form of ceramics that works exclusively with clay. Depending on your preference, what materials you favor, and how skilled you are, some call themselves potters, and some, like me, refer to themselves as ceramic artists.”

“Right.” Jensen cleaned out his mouth with another mouthful of wine. The warm feeling that had spread up from his toes told him he should favor his glass of water a little more than his wine.

“So, you were what? Twenty-four, twenty-five when you graduated from Arizona state?”

“Twenty-five.” With some satisfaction, Jensen noticed that Jared took a deep drink from his glass of water. “I did another apprenticeship in New York. Or, well, I worked at another artist’s studio for two years. Then I struck out on my own. I had a bit of luck, got to exhibit in some major galleries. By the time I hit thirty, I could live comfortably selling my work.”

Plates empty, Jared cleared the table and shook the empty bottle on the table.

“Should I open another?”

Jensen felt the warmth spreading up through his body and looked at the two empty bottles on the counter. “Probably not.”

Jared nodded. He glanced down at the shelf beneath the counter, and raised one eyebrow. “I have a mean bottle of Merlot down here.”

Jensen’s resolve faltered. When Jared said, “It’ll be fine. I’ll make a cheese board; the fat will soak up most of the alcohol,” he knew it was a lost battle.

Ten minutes later, Jensen was lounging in a deep leather chair, drinking a spectacular Merlot, and nibbling a piece of Gorgonzola. He said,

“So, where in the story do you transition from a New York-based artist to this? And why?”

Jared sucked his teeth as he seemed to contemplate how to continue the story.

“This is home. I missed the ocean, this beach. I missed my family, my roots. I even missed the hotel. I found this lot dirt cheap, hired a firm to do the construction, and a year later, when I was thirty-two, I came home. I’m lucky enough to run my business from here. I make most of my sales though commissions and my website.

“I have one full-time apprentice, and, when I need more hands, there’s a great artist’s community here, and we help each other when we’re making large or complex pieces. Apart from that, I hold classes and week-long courses a few times a year.”

Jensen asked, “And how does the hotel fit into all this?”

Jared sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “I—” He stopped as if gathering his thoughts.

“Nat and I have always been clear about our relationship and how the hotel fits into it; there’s been no rivalry between us. Despite being five years younger than me, Nat is a lot more suited to run the place than I am. Whenever we discuss the future, our roles are clear: she’ll run the place, and I’ll be there when she needs me. If we survive.”

He stopped, took another drink, then said, “When I came back, we had these grand plans that we’d update the place. Nat would handle the business, and I would deal with the visual aspects of the brand. We’d use my art in the design, offer package deals with a two-week pottery course and accommodation at the hotel. We had so many ideas. . . ”

Jared trailed off, but Jensen knew how to finish the sentence. “Enter Barbara.”

“Bingo.” Jared wiped a few cheese crumbs off his lips. “I love my mom. Outside of the business, she’s loving and accepting. When it comes to the hotel, whenever we suggested the slightest change, we were—are—shut down. It’s been like bashing my head against a brick wall. I tried. I tried for years. Eventually, I stopped. It felt like I was beating myself bloody for nothing.”

Jensen ran a hand over his forehead, rubbing it as he considered what Jared was telling him. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he held out his glass when Jared leaned forward in his seat with the bottle ready. Trying to put words to a thought that wasn’t fully formed, he asked,

“So. . . I mean.” He halted, the words tripping on his tongue as he couldn’t quite think of the right way to say what he wanted to express. In frustration, he exclaimed,

“I just don’t get it. I look at the hotel, and then I see this place. There’s not a single piece of your work anywhere in that building; there’s no hint of your style or your obvious eye for design. Why are your plates not used in the restaurant? Why aren’t your chandeliers hanging from the ceilings? How is it that the hotel looks so outdated, when your place, which you designed, looks like this?”

Jared scratched the back of his head. The hand came down to rest at the back of his neck as he said,

“Because I said no.” Jensen’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s like you were saying this morning when mom asked about your contacts and how soon you could use them to get people to work for us. You said that you needed to see results first, that you wouldn't put your reputation on the line before seeing some genuine change. I feel the same way. I’ve worked hard to build my business. I’m in a good place; I can live comfortably on what I create. If the hotel goes down, I’m not getting pulled down with it.”

Jensen hummed as pieces fit together and transformed into a picture. It wasn’t complete, but Jensen felt like he was at least starting to get a solid frame to work from.

“How does Kent fit into all this? Your dad is always around, but he never says much. I haven’t gotten a good picture of him yet. He’s just there, in the background.”

“Dad’s always on mom’s side.” Jared slouched deeper into his chair, long legs stretching out as he lifted his gaze to stare up through the glass roof at the evening sky. He said in a contemplative voice,

“I don’t think he agrees with her, but he’s always got her back. I mean, dad’s been at the hotel since he was a teenager; they married before they turned twenty; they’re one solid, unmovable structure.”

The leather creaked as he changed positions. “If it was up to him, I think they’d step down, let us take over. He’s been fed up for years, ever since he stepped down as head chef.”

Jensen sat up a little straighter and said, “I didn’t know your dad was a chef.”

Jared nodded. “He doesn’t have any fancy formal education, but he worked in our kitchen from the time he was fifteen. He trained under the previous head chef. It’s hard to believe it now, but we used to be a big deal. We had a great restaurant; during the high-season, you had to book a table weeks in advance, but the last thirty-something years, the place kind of stagnated.”

Jared took another drink. “People’s traveling habits changed, the industry changed, my parents didn’t. Honestly, Jensen, I don’t know if they can.”

Jensen’s cheeks were flushed and his hands a little more animated than usual, but it was him and not the wine talking when he said, “Yes, they damn well will. I don’t care if I have to drag your parents kicking and screaming out of the past and into the future—they will change.”

Jared smiled, but Jensen noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Like he wanted to believe but couldn’t convince himself it was possible.

“That sounds great. But, Jensen, don’t underestimate my mother. She’s done this before. Allowed some minor changes when we’ve threatened to leave the business. That you’re still here is a massive victory. Mom took some heavy blows in your confrontation, but don’t for a second think she’s capitulated. As soon as she recovers, she’s going to fight back again.”

Jensen felt the beginning of an idea swirl around in his wine-soaked mind. He saw it now, one key piece of the puzzle, and he saw who he needed to pull it off. He stood up, somewhat unsteadily, body animated with excitement, looked at Jared and said,

“Your dad’s our way in. He’s your mom’s support system, the one she leans on behind the scenes. We need him on our side. We need to get him excited about the hotel again.”

Jared sat up in his chair, but his voice was questioning when he said, “Jensen, dad hasn’t been involved in the hotel for years. He came to the meeting for mom—he’s not interested. How do we get him over to our side when he’s already given up?”

Jensen swallowed the last of his wine, smiled, and said, “We’re going to steal us a chef.”

Chapter Text

When Jensen walked into the hotel the next morning, the bright spring sun was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it explained why he was wearing sunglasses in March, and a curse because he might have to remove them.

Not for the first time that morning, Jensen cursed Jared and his bottomless supply of incredible wine. He had vague memories of a fourth bottle being opened. Had there been a fifth? The sour bile coating his esophagus said there might have been a fifth bottle.

His single comforting thought on this vile morning was the knowledge that he hadn’t been the only one drunk off his ass when he’d stumbled into a taxi a few, short hours ago.

Standing in the lobby, trying to compose himself and push down the need to hurl, Jensen heard shuffling feet on the carpet behind him. Turning to the side, he saw Jared coming to stand next to him; they nodded.

“Nice shades.”

Jensen grunted, his voice pained. “Fuck you and fuck your great taste in wine.”

Jared let out an amused snort. Jensen noticed with satisfaction that he winced while doing so.

“I admit, red wine hangovers are the worst; we’ll switch to bourbon after dinner next time.”

Jensen groaned. “I’ll throw up on you if you don’t stop talking about alcohol.”

Jared chuckled, winced, then he said, tentatively, like he was testing the waters, “It was fun, though.”

Pulling off his sunglasses and wishing he hadn’t, Jensen squinted at him and managed a weak smile.

“It was.”

Jared nodded. Grimacing, he said, “Great. So, I’m thinking, Friday; steak, a nice Bordeaux, and bourbon for dessert. Plus, if we drink too much again, I have a couch you can pass out on.”

Jensen shaded his eyes as he looked at him. Despite the red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and pale complexion, Jared’s untamed, floppy hair and unguarded facial expression screamed, let’s be friends; it made him look like an overgrown puppy—Jensen wasn’t sure if he should nod or throw a stick.

As an afterthought, Jensen added, if puppies had chiseled jaws, biceps that strained against the fabric of their knitted sweaters, and a six-pack.

On the other hand, Jared had managed something few people had—he’d taken Jensen off guard; his home, his art, his true personality had surprised him, and suddenly, he’d been lying on Jared’s floor, blinding drunk on amazing wine, gorging himself on great cheese, and laughing his ass off at some outrageous story from Jared’s time in New York.

It really had been fun. But, Jensen wasn’t in the habit of forming personal relationships with people he worked with; truth be told, Jensen wasn’t much for developing intimate relationships with anyone.

He had a knack for finding a way in with people, to make them trust him—in a professional capacity—but he never stayed long enough to connect with people on a deeper level.

Jared though, Jared was just so friendly, so charismatic; the way he stood there, looking so expectantly at Jensen, waiting for an answer, it was like it’d never occurred to him that, perhaps, you didn’t want to be his friend. But, Jensen mused, considering Jared’s looks and his captivating personality, it had probably never happened to him.

He should say no; for a million different reasons, Jensen should revert to his professional persona and decline the invitation. He could; he’d done it many times before; spun words that sounded genuine and thwarted attempts to get close to him without insulting the person. He should.

He watched Jared’s eyebrows raise slightly as he waited for an answer, and the words stumbled out of his mouth unchallenged.

“Friday. With luck, this hangover should have cleared by then.”

Jared grinned and looked about to say something when a loud crash, like something had been flung to the ground, interrupted him. Wincing in tandem, they looked at each other, and together they walked, slowly, towards the sound. Soon, loud, agitated voices lead them onward to the back of the building, where Kent and two other men were emptying the laundry and changing rooms.

The open area was filled with an array of old boxes, broken furniture, and other random objects.

Jensen had insisted those were the areas they had to start with. The laundry room because the need was desperate, and the staff changing rooms because it looked like a landfill—not a good look when trying to attract new talent.

Standing amidst the piles were Barbara and Nat. Natalie, dressed in an immaculate burgundy dress that brought out the dark copper in her hair, looked to Jared when she saw them approach and said,

“One day. One day was all it took for her to revert.”

Barbara, as agitated as her daughter and voice pitched high, said,

“I am not reneging on what we agreed to.” She looked at Jensen, and with apparent effort to remain calm, said, “All I want to do is talk things through before they trash everything.”

“Oh, my God.” The frustration in Nat’s voice was as sharp as her heels. “There are decades of crap here. Decades. We can’t open every box and go through every single thing. They’ve been stuffed into these rooms for years; if we haven’t needed them during all that time, we don’t need them now.”

Flustered, Barbara said, “Just because we haven’t used them doesn’t mean it’s garbage, Natalie.”

Nat pointed at an open box at her feet. Reaching down, she pulled out a piece of fabric in a brown and dirty orange pattern. She said, “Uniforms. Ugly uniforms. From the seventies. Why would we keep these?”

Jensen rubbed his eyes. He saw the full-blown meltdown approaching and knew he had to bring a stop to it. Once again, he cursed Jared and his delicious wine. He inhaled and exhaled on a sigh as he stepped into the space where the two women stood. In a sharp tone, he said,

“Enough.” More softly, he continued, “Clearly, this is a sensitive project; we need to figure out a compromise that will make it easier for everyone involved.”

He swallowed another bout of nausea, and with more authority than he felt, said,

“This is what we’re going to do. Everything clearly broken goes into one pile; Barbara, you will take nothing out.”

She looked ready to object, but Jensen put up a hand, silencing her.

“Everything not broken or in boxes will be put into a separate pile; Barbara, you may go through them.”

Jensen saw a victorious smile start to creep onto the older woman’s face. It stopped half-way as Jensen said,

“However, they were stored away for a reason. I’m going to give you three rules that you have to keep to.

“One. You have to go through them all—today.

“Two. You can only keep ten items, not boxes, ten singular items. Everything else we will donate to an appropriate charity—tomorrow.

“Three. Except for items that clearly belong in the laundry room or the changing rooms, nothing taken out goes back into the building.”

He looked at them both. “This is a compromise and not what either of you wanted. But, Nat, we will get rid of most of the things pulled out. Barbara, you will have time to go through the items and save those most important to you. Do you agree?”

Nat nodded. Barbara looked at the surrounding piles. “What if there are twelve things I want to keep?”

He watched Nat’s chest expand. She looked like she was about to yell, but he held his hand up, silently telling her to swallow whatever primordial scream of rage was threatening to erupt.

“The goal is ten. If you save fifteen things then, tonight, you and I will sit down, and you’ll explain why they’re so important to you; no one’s going to force you to throw them away. I’m setting the goal at ten because I want you to think about what really matters. OK?”

The words seemed to set her mind at ease and, even though Jensen had his suspicions the last word hadn’t been said, she nodded.

In the end, Barbara saved twenty-five items. After some tough love, Jensen negotiated the number down to eighteen. It wasn’t ten, but when Jared and Kent drove out of the parking lot the next morning, one heading to the recycling center and the other to a nearby charity, Jensen considered the situation a clear win.

By the end of Jensen’s second week at The Oceanview hotel, the laundry room was spacious and efficient, and the changing rooms airy and welcoming. It was a small first step on the long journey that lay ahead, but considering that a week ago, Jensen had been on the verge of getting fired, he considered it a success.

Walking into his office that afternoon to gather his things, a small pink box was sitting on his desk. Inside, he found six eclairs in various flavors; inhaling the sweet scent, Jensen moaned in delight.

There was no card or note, but when Jensen—box held in one hand—waved goodbye to the staff at the reception desk, he saw two of the room attendants peeking out at him from behind a pillar. When they saw the box in his hand, they smiled. He smiled back and nodded a silent thank you. As he walked out the doors, Jensen kept his face neutral, but on the inside he was gloating.

Under no circumstances did he underestimate Barbara, her family, or the massive uphill struggle he had in front of him. A few new washing machines, a coat of paint, and some ruthless decluttering didn’t fix the many problems this business faced.

But Jensen was already getting the employees on his side. A few more weeks and wins in his favor and they couldn’t fire him even if they wanted to, not without their entire staff walking out.

Jensen went home, changed out of his suit into more casual black slacks and a simple gray cashmere sweater. On the way home, he’d nurtured the vague idea that he would bring the box of eclairs with him to Jared’s. But, somehow, two eclairs disappeared, and looking down into the half-empty box, Jensen felt it would be rude and dropped by the wine and cheese shop instead.

On his way to the industrial complex Jared called home, he received a text message from Jared. It read,

“Need to finish some work. The gate and door are unlocked; let yourself in. I’m in the workshop.”

Walking in and setting the shopping on the kitchen island, Jensen made his way to Jared’s workshop. As he opened the adjoining door, a wall of heat slammed into him.

Jared stood in front of a furnace, the fiery orange glow reflecting on the bare skin of his arms. He wore faded jeans, a simple black tank top, heavy work boots, and thick, bulky gloves that made his hands appear even larger. He’d tied back his unruly hair in a half-bun, a pair of safety glasses protected his eyes from the intense heat, and sweat gleamed on his face and the exposed skin on his muscled arms.

Jensen swallowed.

He was holding a long metal pipe. At the top of it, a large shape glowed in bright orange, and Jensen watched in fascination as Jared worked the molten glass.

What Jensen hadn’t expected was the flurry of activity surrounding him; he counted five other people in the room, all centered in various poses around Jared as they watched his every move.

As the glowing glass once again emerged from the furnace, everyone sprung into action when Jared barked out orders. The words were not harsh, but they were commands.

Jensen tried to follow what was happening, but people moved, changed positions, and stepped into his field of vision. He had to lean back from the heat as three of the assistants turned on blowtorches, heating the shape as Jared moved around and appeared to attach a new segment to the larger piece.

More time passed. Someone shifted, allowing Jensen to view the piece without obstruction. It was an enormous sea turtle, body positioned as if gliding through water. His lips parted as he took in the sculpture. Even through the glowing heat, he saw the details, the patterns on its shell, the eyes vivid—it looked alive.

The tension rose in the room as they appeared to reach a critical moment. Jensen’s view was obstructed again as one assistant, dressed in what looked like the top half of a tinfoil hazmat suit, held out his arms beneath the enormous sculpture. Then, the room turned silent as Jared gave the pipe a hard, decisive tap.

Jensen almost screamed as the massive piece of glass detached from its fastening and plummeted straight into the shiny, foiled arms of the man standing ready to catch it.

Knees buckling and arms straining, he hurried towards what resembled an enormous chest on legs. Soon more gloved hands were around him as they carefully lowered the turtle into the box. There was a collective sigh of relief. Jensen felt his chest deflate as he exhaled, and the room erupted in laughs and elated hugs.

Jared’s laugh cut through all the others. Pulling off his gloves and removing his safety glasses, he ran both hands up his face, exhaling. Jensen watched him turn, walk over to a large sink, turning on the tap, and running his head under the spray. He came up with a laugh, shook off the water, then toweled off with a hand towel hanging on the wall next to the sink.

Even from his far-off position on the other side of the room, Jensen saw stray beads of water trickle down Jared’s arms and neck, disappearing beneath the tank top’s neckline.

In hindsight, Jensen would recall that sight as one of the key moments in what would, eventually, turn into a whirlpool that spiraled things out of his control, the first dent in his determination not to give in to chemistry.

Still unaware of that unavoidable future, Jensen watched as Jared nodded in his direction, smiling and making a gesture as if to say,

“Give me a second.” As he walked towards his crew, he turned again, walking backward, and mimicked uncorking a bottle. Jensen got the hint and exited the workshop. After some rummaging around, he found a corkscrew and opened a bottle.

Somewhat impatiently, Jensen let the wine air. As he waited for Jared and with no wine to occupy him, he thought of the four eclairs back at his cottage. He fingered the wrapping paper on the assortment of cheeses and deli cuts he’d bought and tapped the lid on the expensive fig jam that he knew would pair beautifully with the brie.

Ten minutes later, Jensen heard the gate rattle, and Jared appeared. He ran a hand through his wet hair, saying,

“Sorry. That took longer than expected.” Instead of coming to the kitchen, he steered his steps towards one of the large staircases. “I’ve been in front of that furnace for hours, and I’m rank. I’m going to grab a quick shower, and then I’ll start dinner. Serve yourself some wine, relax, and I’ll be right down.”

As Jared disappeared up the stairs, Jensen did as suggested and poured himself a glass of Bordeaux and made himself comfortable in one of the plush leather chairs.

As he sat down, he heard the muted, rhythmic tapping of raindrops hitting the glass roof. He took a long drink from his glass and sunk down deep in the chair, leaning his head back and watched the sky become distorted behind a veil of water tracing patterns on the roof’s transparent surface.

In his slouching position, Jensen’s mind fluttered over the fact that already, on his second visit, he felt completely at ease in this space. He felt none of the discomfort or sense of intrusion that so often accompanied being left alone in a house you were a stranger in.

Instead, he rested comfortably, feeling content. The only thing troubling him was his traitorous mind, which seemed fascinated by this discovery. He sensed it hovering, ready to dive deep and dredge up answers Jensen didn’t want to examine. He shut it down.

It wasn’t rocket science. Despite their shaky introduction, and the unspoken understanding that there was a time and a place for mindless screwing, and this wasn’t it, he and Jared had a lot in common. They had that natural chemistry that marked two people who instantly liked one another. It wasn’t complicated, and there was no reason to dig any deeper.

The sound of Jared descending the staircase saved him from his musings. Jared’s damp hair was tied back from his face, and he wore faded blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and an unbuttoned gray flannel shirt above it.

“I needed that. Sorry for making you wait.”

Jensen waved his apology away. “Don’t think of it. Besides, you were kind of in the middle of something.”

As Jared walked into the kitchen, he got up from his seat, walked over, and sat down at the kitchen island where Jared was already pulling out ingredients. With everything on the counter, he picked up the bottle, read the label, and, pouring himself a glass, said, “Nice.” He took a deep drink.

Jensen asked, “What was that last box you placed the turtle in.”

After another mouthful, Jared answered, “It’s called an annealer; it’s sort of like an oven. It allows the glass to cool in a controlled manner, so it doesn’t crack.”

“That was something special. Is it a commissioned piece?”

Washing potatoes in the sink, Jared answered, “It’s for an exhibition. Have you visited the aquarium yet?” Jensen shook his head.

“It’s great. Huge space. They’ve commissioned me to create pieces to display in their various themed areas, sort of like a permanent art exhibit. I’m doing several sculptures, and what will hopefully be a massive installation. It’ll be cool when it’s finished.”

Jensen looked at him, the realization hitting him hard and fast. “When you said you can live off your art, you were underselling yourself, weren’t you? You’re a big deal, and you don’t have time for all this bullshit with the hotel.”

Scratching the side of his head, Jared said, “It’s not that cut and dry. Yes, I’m doing well. But the hotel is such an integral part of my family—our sense of identity. If we lost it—I don’t know what it would do to us. I know I’ll continue to flourish professionally, but on the personal plane, I don’t know.”

He stopped. Jensen remained silent and let him collect his thoughts as he put the potatoes in the oven and began preparing the steaks. As he seasoned the meat, he said,

“I think it would break my family apart, scatter us. We’ve lived in this town for five generations, but I can’t imagine any of us want to stay if we lose the hotel. I mean, driving past that building knowing it’s not ours, I don’t think any of us could stand that. We love each other, but there’s a lot of unspoken words and frustration between us. With the way things stand, if the hotel goes down, we would drift apart.”

Jared paused, topped up both their glasses, and took another drink.

“I want to be involved. I want a piece of me in the building. But, a week ago, I didn’t think it was possible. So, yes. At the moment, I’m busy with this exhibit, and I will be until May, but as soon as it’s done, I’ll be able to plan and balance my time more easily.”

Jensen opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question, but Jared said, “No. You’ve prodded and picked my family and me apart for two weeks now. It’s time to talk about you.”

Jensen felt his tongue trip over the word as he asked, “Me?”

Jared put the frying pan on the range with a decisive bang. “You.”

Jensen stuttered. “Well, I’ve been working in the industry—”

Jared leaned forward with both hands on the counter. He said, “No. Not your resume. I found your LinkedIn page; I know where you’ve worked. I want to know about the person. What about your family? Where did you grow up?”

Jared’s eyes focused intently on him, and Jensen felt like he was being illuminated by a giant spotlight. He contemplated telling a fabricated story, but lies were too much work keeping track of. Then he considered trying to dodge the questions, but Jared didn’t look like he was going to budge. Jensen settled for some kind of truth.

“I grew up all over the country. I never stayed long enough in one place to call it my hometown.”

“Army brat?”

Jensen shook his head. “No. My dad passed when I was very young. After he died, my mom and I were on our own; her”—Jensen paused, it was brief and, he hoped, undetectable—“work took us all over the country.”

Jared looked up from preparing the steaks. “What line of work was she in?”

“Sales.” It wasn’t a lie; it was more of a. . . creative interpretation. “You know, the type of traveling salespeople you had in the 80s’and 90s’, going door to door, state to state, trying to sell you a twenty-volume encyclopedia, or a vacuum.”

Jared nodded. He asked, “And you went with her; how did that work?”

Jensen shrugged. “I did, most of the time.”

He saw the immediate follow-up question forming on Jared’s lips. In a scramble to keep the situation under control, he said,

“Look, my childhood was unstable. My mother is my only living relative, and our relationship is strained and sporadic; I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. I appreciate you wanting to know more about me, and I don’t want to appear standoffish or secretive, but my childhood. . . isn’t a place I like to revisit.”

Jensen waited, prepared for the probing questions to come, for Jared to coax out the nasty details.

“Tell me about the suits.”

The question took him by surprise. “Suits?”

“The first time we met, you’d been driving cross-country, all the way from Washington DC, and you stepped straight out of your car, wearing an immaculate three-piece suit so well-fitted it looked like it had been sewn onto your body.”

Jared paused, then said, “You’ve been here two weeks now, and there’s still not a single personal item in your office. But, so far, I’ve seen you wearing a suit with polka dots and one in black satin in a paisley print. There were the bold checkered dark blue one and the one in gray tweed. You wear pocket squares, ties with bold flower patterns knotted in intricate styles that must take fifteen minutes to tie; you wear honest to God pocket watches.”

Taking a breath, he finished with a question, “Understand me right, I admire your style, and you pull it off effortlessly, but why?”

A generous dollop of butter sizzled as Jared dropped it in the hot pan. Jensen took a drink and contemplated the question. Eventually, he answered,

“Moving as often as I have, you learn not to get attached to items. Packing and unpacking is tedious work; things get lost or broken. I’ve always been on the move, so I’ve never attached my self-image to a town, a house, or the items I own.”

Jensen paused, took another drink, and listened to the pan spit and crackle as Jared placed the steaks on its scalding surface.

“I grew up on the road, never really settling: with my choice of career, that nomadic lifestyle has continued into adulthood. The past ten years, I’ve had one, two, sometimes even three hundred days away per year. I spend a month in Biloxi consulting on a sexual harassment crisis. Three weeks in San Jose, developing a new, more efficient workflow procedure. Eight weeks in Nebraska, building a comprehensive catalog of policy documents.”

Jensen watched as Jared put another large glob of butter in the pan and imagined his waistline expanding. His attention focused on the pan, Jared’s eyes flickered up to show that he was listening.

“I suppose the suits are a way for me to show my personality without having to rely on objects or a building. Like you, I enjoy great design and quality pieces, but investing in furniture or interior design is wasted money with my lifestyle. Clothes I can always take with me, so I indulge myself. It’s extravagant but, to me, it’s worth it.”

He watched as Jared added even more butter. “The downside to investing in such expensive clothing is that I have to make sure I continue to fit into it; this dinner alone is going to cost me a long workout.”

Jared snorted out an amused little laugh. He said, “Eat it and then tell me it wasn’t worth it.” As he sat down and took his first bite, Jensen concluded that it was definitely worth it.

His concentration focused on the food, Jensen’s head shot up at the sound of a cork being pulled out. “We can’t be on the second bottle already.”

Grinning, Jared replied, “Yes, we are.”

As they turned their attention back to the food, the conversation halted for a few minutes, then Jared broke the silence.

“So, tell me about the food thing.”

Jensen halted in the middle of wiping a stray drop of sauce from his bottom lip with his thumb. A startling sense of self-consciousness assaulted him as Jared watched him suck the droplet from his finger. Voice breaking, he asked,

“The food thing?”

Putting his cutlery down, Jared sprawled back in his chair and looked at him. His gaze was open, friendly, but penetrating. He said, “You eat like you’re in a passionate relationship with your food. Like it’s a sensual experience.”

Stunned, Jensen said, “Excuse me?”

Jensen could read nothing but honest curiosity in Jared’s expression.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you, but you’re such a controlled person; not repressed. . . you’re”—Jared halted, searching for the right word—“proper; you’re a very correct person. Your appearance and actions are meticulous, but when you eat or drink, all that careful decorum evaporates, and all that’s left is pure enjoyment. It’s delightful.”

Jensen felt his lips form shapes without bringing forth words as he searched for an answer. He watched as Jared sat up again, picking up his utensils and finishing the food on his plate. At last, he said,

“I’m not sure how to answer; I enjoy great food, and I have a sweet tooth a mile wide.” Squirming awkwardly, he said, “There’s no story; I’m just a glutton who loves food.”

Plate now empty, Jared scraped up the last dollop of sauce with the point of his knife, sucked it clean, and then leaned back in his chair. There was an amused, contemplative expression on his face as he said,

“You’re not used to this, are you; answering personal questions?”

A slight smile passed Jensen’s lips. “No. I’m not.”

Gaze intent and smile widening, Jared asked, “Do you like it?”

Jensen barked out an unexpected laugh. “No. I really don’t.”

Joining in the laugh, Jared said, “Fair enough. You’re off the hook for tonight.”

Monday morning, Jensen sauntered into his office and placed his cup of coffee on the desk. He removed his scarf and slid out of his coat, putting it on a hanger. As he placed the hanger on the hook behind the door, he froze.

Turning, he walked back to his desk, and there, on the otherwise bare surface, slightly to the side of his computer monitor, sat a glass turtle; a miniature version of the one Jensen had watched Jared complete the other night.

He reached out, one gentle finger tracing the pattern of its shell. He exhaled. Eyes fixed on the figurine, he cradled his midsection with one arm, palm pressing into his stomach as he inhaled to control the pinching that made his abdominal muscles cramp.

He sat down, composed, and didn’t look at it. He turned on his computer, shuffled papers around, and almost screamed when the corner of a file slid against one glass flipper, making the turtle slide across the surface.

He looked around, opened his desk drawers, and took out the stapler, the hole puncher, and the wooden tray that held his pencils, placing them alongside the edge of the desk behind the turtle.

If anyone looked in through his office door, they’d see a regular desk; no one could have guessed they were looking at a fortress made to protect the first gift Jensen had received since he turned thirteen.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Thursday afternoon, fifteen minutes past two, Jensen, Jared, and Nat stood waiting outside the hotel. Jensen, attention focused on his phone, glanced up when he heard Nat gasp and Jared say,

“I don’t believe it; it’s Baby.”

Attention still on his screen, Jensen said, “What baby?”

Nudging him on the shoulder, Nat pointed towards the parking lot and the sleek, black, vintage car sliding up towards them. She said, “That’s Baby. Dad treasures that car above everything else; it’s a family joke that she’s his second wife. But he never takes her out these days.”

The car slid to a stop beside them. Through the rolled-down window, Jensen saw Kent; he looked relaxed, dressed in blue jeans, a white grandfather shirt, faded brown suspenders, sunglasses, and a black fedora sitting at a casual angle on his head.

Jared said, “I can’t believe you let Baby out of the garage.”

Smiling, Kent replied, “Baby’s too good for commuting; she’s not made for menial transportation. But if we’re going to drive to Vegas, we’re going to do it in style.”

He grinned in a way Jensen hadn’t seen before; it looked mirthful, almost exuberant. He said, “Nat and Jared, you two get in the back. Jensen, ride in the front with me. We have a long drive ahead of us, and I want to know what’s waiting when we get there.”

They drove out of the parking lot, accompanied by the sound of an engine rumbling. Jensen decided not to comment that Barbara had neither come out to see them off, nor offered encouragement or good wishes. It was plain that, although she’d accepted the reason she couldn’t come on the trip, she was not happy and had made that fact clear. If anyone else had anything to remark on the issue, they kept it to themselves.

The conversation was shallow and sparse until they’d made it out of town and through the city of Eugene, about two hours from Newport.

As they left the city behind, the road took them through heavily forested areas, into a region where everything seemed to be mountains, waterfalls, or hiking trails.

Jensen had thought Kent would begin cross-examining him as soon as the drive began, but three hours in, he sat, eyes on the road and, if not a smile, then at least a look of contentment on his face. Jensen decided not to interfere and was satisfied keeping the conversation to a minimum as the miles and hours sped by.

Four hours into the drive, they stopped for a leg stretcher and bathroom break at a diner in a small town no one remembered the name of as soon as they’d driven out of it.

Without warning or carefully easing into the conversation, Kent said,

“Jensen. Why was I invited on this trip? I don’t mind—I’m happy to be involved—but you don’t need me to tell you if Chris is good enough. We don’t really know each other yet but, looking at what you’ve accomplished in such a short time, we wouldn’t be on our way to Vegas if you had any doubts Chris was the right person for the job.”

Kent paused. “I appreciate the inclusion, but I’d like to go into this meeting knowing what I’m supposed to do. Why am I here?”

Jensen glanced to his side. He nodded. “Fair enough.” Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Jensen said, “Despite what you believe, I do value your input and knowledge. But you’re right, I have other reasons for bringing you along.”

Jensen paused again. Kent noticed him weighing his words and said, “Don’t cushion your words, Jensen. I was raised by hardass chefs—I prefer straight talk.”

Jensen nodded. He inhaled and said, “I wanted you to come, not for me, but for you. You’re right that we don’t know each other. Nevertheless, I do understand that this will be painful for you. You spent your entire career in that kitchen, and it didn’t end well. Now, I’m bringing someone else in to revive it. I want to involve you, to make you feel a part of what we’re doing; show you that, even though you’re not the chef in charge, you’ll be an integral part of this revival.”

He paused, and as Kent briefly took his eyes off the road, Jensen met his steady gaze. He said, “I wanted you to come so you can prepare yourself for what is about to happen. I want you to meet Chris and see that your kitchen will be in expert hands. We’re gambling everything on this relaunch; I need to know your ego won’t get in the way.”

Jensen saw Kent nod, more to himself than as a reaction to Jensen’s words.

“I see.” There was a bitterness in Kents wry smile. “Thank you for speaking plainly. I appreciate your frankness and your concern, but you don’t have to worry. I stopped being a chef over ten years ago; I don’t have the passion or the interest in running ours, or any, kitchen again. I’ve hung up my chef’s jacket, and I have no intention of ever putting it back on.”

Changing topics, he said, “Tell me about the other two, the head waiter and the sommelier. Who are they, and what makes you think you can convince them to come?”

Jensen heard a crinkling, tearing sound. As a hand holding an open bag of gummy bears was thrust forward from the back seat, he remembered that there were two more people in the car listening in on their conversation.

Kent immediately reached in and grabbed a handful. Jensen, nose creasing at the lumps of fluorescent artificial coloring and cancerous sweeteners, hesitated but concluded that, in time of need, any sugar is good sugar and grabbed a few.

Chewing thoughtfully, he said,

“The head waiter’s name is Ella Miceli, she’s forty-three. Her family owned a restaurant, so she’s learned the business from the ground up. Her father was second-generation Italian, and her mother’s French; she speaks both French and Italian fluently. She has fifteen years’ experience as head waitress and has worked at three of the top New York fine-dining restaurants.”

Kent nodded. He said, “That’s something to consider, what title do we use: head waiter”—he corrected himself—“waitress, or maître d'?”

Jensen hummed. “I think that’s something we all need to sit down and decide once everyone is in place. Although, instinctively, I feel that if we’re going for the fine dining look, we might as well go as fancy as it gets. The French title ties into the restaurant’s history, Ella’s heritage, and Chris, although a rather coarse person, did spend a long time training and working in France.”

Kent nodded in agreement. He said, “If she’s so good, why would she abandon a flourishing New York career for us?”

Jensen smiled. “I spoke to her shortly before coming here. She wanted to know if I’d heard of any good restaurants outside of New York who were looking for a new maître d'.”

At Kent’s questioning gaze, he explained,

“Ella is a single mom. She has two sons and no support. The oldest, he’s thirteen, has started getting into trouble. With the hours she’s working and the neighborhood they live in, she can’t keep him out of trouble. She thought moving away from New York could, perhaps, be a solution.”

He said, “When she called, she sounded worried, but I didn’t have anything to offer. As far as I can tell from her Instagram, she’s still in New York.”

Kent’s voice held a note of reigned in excitement as he said, “A small beach town in Oregon might be just the change she and her boys need. We’re a quiet town, and we have great schools.”

Jensen returned his smile. “Exactly.”

Leaning forward from the back seat, Nat joined the conversation. She asked, “And the sommelier?”

“Max Weber.” Jensen popped another bear into his mouth and chewed. “Max is young; he’s only twenty-four, that’s practically an infant in the sommelier circle. He’s also arrogant, and,”—Jensen grunted—“a hipster. He wears bow ties ironically.” He sighed, then said,

“He’s also brilliant. He’s already a certified advanced sommelier, has won several awards and accolades, and last year they awarded him Best Young Sommelier in the World. People with insight are already betting on him becoming the youngest master sommelier in the US.”

Kent groaned. “Jensen, a wild chef and a desperate single mom, I understand; I can see how you might convince them. But a twenty-four-year-old with the world at his feet? How the hell are you going to accomplish that?”

Jensen shrugged. “The same way I’m going to convince Chris. Max wants to build his own reputation, use his skill to build his own collection of wine. He can’t do that now. Everywhere he goes, there’s an older, more experienced sommelier working above him. People are interested and impressed, but they would never trust a twenty-something to curate their wine cellars worth millions.”

Popping a fluorescent yellow bear into his mouth, Jensen said,

“If he comes here, he’ll start with a blank slate. He can build our collection, and reputation, and his own. Anything we’re able to achieve will be his achievement. No other sommelier has been involved, so he won’t have to share the praise. His ambition, hunger for recognition, passion for wine, and his youthful arrogance will make our offer a very interesting one.”

Jared’s voice sounded from behind him. He said, “So, potentially, we have an untamable chef whose personality, in your words, takes some getting used to. A stressed, desperate single mom and an arrogant child. Am I the only one who’s slightly concerned?”

Jensen snorted, but it was an amused sound. He said,

“Jared, I can get you passionate professionals, or I can get you stable, inoffensive people—I can’t do both. These are not simple personalities, and they’ll never win a congeniality award, but they are unbelievably good at what they do; this is as close to a dream team as we can get. Making sure all the conflicting personalities, including all of you, meld into a smooth-running business is my job; fortunately for you, I’m extremely good at what I do.”

Five hours into the journey, they crossed the border to California, and the landscape changed from lush forest to an endless view of an agricultural landscape with fields beginning to sprout their crops. Through the windshield, they got a front-row seat to a spectacular sunset.

Jensen thought about offering to drive several times, but Kent looked relaxed and happy. Jensen got the distinct feeling he wasn’t keen on other’s driving his lady. After another leg stretcher, Jensen offered to switch the front seat, Jared declined, but Nat took him up on the offer.

Another two and half hours, and they crossed the border to Nevada, and the landscape changed again, the mountainous views shadowed and shifting in dark shades of purple and reddish-brown as darkness settled over the barren landscape.

They drove late. Finally, nine hours into their journey, reaching the small town of Fernley, they stopped by a motel with its vacancy sign lit up. Jared jumped out, walked to the reception, and came back with three sets of keys. He said,

“They had two singles and one twin; Jensen and I can share.”

There was no logical reason Jensen would object, so he didn’t. Jared still offered an explanation.

“Dad snores like a bear and Nat talks in her sleep. The best way for all of us to have a few hours of rest is if we share.”

Tired, they quickly separated. As they began walking in different directions, Kent called out,

“Let’s get an early start tomorrow. We’ll meet at the car at seven and get breakfast along the way.”

Jared raised his hand in a backward wave to show they’d heard him, and then they walked to their room to get a few well needed hours of sleep before the second leg of the journey.

Their room was basic and only just hygienic enough for them not to run out screaming. They dropped their bags on the floor and prepared for sleep.

Not for the first time, Jensen noticed how smoothly he and Jared shared a space. They moved around the cramped room in a set of movements that seemed chiseled out during countless hours of cohabitation but were instinctual.

Jensen had crawled under the covers when Jared exited the bathroom and shut off the ceiling lights. As he got into bed, a single small lamp shone beside it, he said,

“I’m shutting off the lights; try not to molest me while I sleep.”

Snorting, Jensen said dryly, “I’ll try to restrain myself. Good night.”

The light clicked, and the room turned pitch black. Jensen pulled the covers up to his chin and turned on his side, back towards Jared. In the darkness, Jensen heard the vending machine outside their door hum and the swishing sound of cars passing on the freeway.

In the darkness, Jensen’s eyes were growing heavy when Jared said,

“Want to come over here and cuddle?”

Reaching for his spare pillow, Jensen threw it into the darkness; the thud and Jared’s laughter told him it had hit its target.

Chapter Text

A hand on his shoulder shook him awake. He opened blurry eyes and looked at his phone; Jensen groaned in disgust.

Too close for comfort, he heard a voice say, “Was that lovely sound your way of saluting the sunrise?”

Jensen groaned again, burrowing his forehead into the pillow. Voice muffled by fabric, he said,

“Fuck off, or I’ll throttle you with this pillow.”

Jensen felt the air change as a minty fresh breath slid over his skin. Turning his head and opening his own eyes, Jensen looked straight into Jared’s shining, alert ones. He looked fresh. Jensen grunted.

Jared’s maniacal morning grin grew wider. “Do we have somewhat of a morning temper?”

Jensen turned his head again and whined into the mattress. “Begone, you vile, morning-loving psychopath; go be cheerful someplace else.”

Jared’s unrestrained, delighted laughter reverberated in the small room. In between bursts of mirth, he said,

“Get out of bed, and I’ll find you some coffee. Maybe it will make you civil before we have to join Dad and Nat.”

Face still pressed into the pillow, Jensen heard the door open and close.

Thirty minutes later, Jensen had dressed and was sitting in the back of the car nursing a takeout cup of coffee.

Getting into the car, Kent, as obnoxiously awake as his son, had immediately said, “I was thinking about what we—”

He didn’t get further before Jared interrupted him. “Dad, Jensen is not a morning person.” Taking a long look at his passenger in the rearview mirror, Kent nodded.

By the time they stopped for breakfast, Jensen had regained control of his civility and could hold a calm, friendly conversation.

The rest of the drive was uneventful but relaxed. Jensen spent most of it lounging in the back seat, and all of it ignoring the way Jared’s knee kept bumping into his. He needed his head together if he was going to pull off the meeting that lay ahead of him.

Sometime after noon, the barren, beige landscape transformed into suburban areas as the city of Las Vegas spread out in front of them. Jensen felt his stomach clench and his skin begin to prickle.

This time, it was worse; this time, he was driving into town; he’d not done that for twenty-five years. He hated this city. Irrationally, at that second, he hated Chris for choosing to work there and forcing him to come here. Again.

Jensen had booked a hotel a little way out of the city center. They stopped there, indulging in well-needed showers, and Jensen changed out of his comfortable traveling clothes into one of his more expensive suits.

It was still afternoon when they made their way into the city center and The Strip. They passed oversized hotels, bright lights, and neon signs. Jensen felt his stomach cramp. He inhaled and reminded himself that it had all been a long time ago. Something must have shown on his face because, observing him in the rearview mirror, Kent asked,

“You’re not a fan of Vegas?”

Jensen tried to smooth over his reaction. He said, “I lived here for a short time; never took to the city.”

Kent smiled and said, “I’ve never seen the appeal either; it’s so garish.”

Jensen let out a short little laugh. It sounded genuine. Vegas’ outrageous design wasn’t why he felt nauseous, but it was a simple, safe explanation. He said, “Yes. It is.”

Driving into the busy area, Kent seemed to know where he was going. Jensen figured he’d read up on the way before they left the hotel. Nat asked,

“What did Chris say when you told him we were coming? Isn’t it weird we’re meeting him at the restaurant when we’re there to convince him to quit?”

Jensen answered, “I haven’t told him we’re coming.”

At their taken aback reactions, Jensen said, “The most successful headhunt happens when you take someone by surprise. If you give them time to think, the part that craves security takes over. It’s easier to convince someone to throw themselves into the unknown if you don’t give them time to prepare and think it over.”

As they neared the restaurant, Jensen told Kent to park in a big parking lot. They walked a short distance and turned in on a side street leading to the back of a large building. Jensen was walking confidently towards a large door when it suddenly banged open.

A young man stumbled through, and after came a shorter, older man clad in chef’s clothes. His long brown hair was tied back with a bandana. He was red in the face, and his luminous blue eyes blazed as he yelled,

“Fuck off. And when you get there, fuck off from there too. Then fuck off some more. Keep fucking off until you get back here. Then fuck off again. Fuck. Off.”

Three sets of wide eyes swiveled to Jensen. He shrugged, and as the younger man stumbled away, he called out,

“Still charming as fuck, Kane.”

The red-faced man swiveled around, round face still set in a furious scowl. He looked at Jensen, and in the seconds it took him to understand who he was seeing, his face changed from red to tan, and a joyful surprise replaced his scowl. Arms coming out in an invitation, he yelled,

“Jen? What the actual fuck? Come here, Boy.”

Jensen laughed, walked up to the man who enveloped him in a giant hug. Jensen felt himself lifted from the ground as the arms wrapped around him.

Back on solid pavement and putting some space between himself and Chris, he felt a hand slap him on the shoulder as Chris said,

“When did you blow into town; why are you here? You fucking hate Vegas.”

Jensen glanced behind him, and he noticed Chris look in that direction. Jensen said,

“I’m here to see you, Chris.”

His eyebrows shot up, and his eyes narrowed. “Really? Why?”

Meeting his gaze, Jensen said, “I want to steal you.”

Chris’ eyes were intense as they met his. He said, “Isn’t that going to look bad? The company that recruited me, stealing me from an old client.”

“Oh, I don’t work for them anymore. They wanted to explore the sandals and yoga ball vibe and felt my way was rigid and old-fashioned. So I quit.”

Jensen felt a feral smile stretched across his lips. “So now, I’m going to steal back some of all that talent I found.”

Chris’ laugh was deep and husky. His eyes glittered as he said, “Well fuck, Boy, come on into my kitchen and give me your best pitch.”

Ten minutes later, Jensen had made a brief introduction, and they were sitting at Dice’s chef’s table. It was a long oak table standing in an alcove in the large kitchen, sectioned off by a large glass door that offered a full frontal view of the busy prep work being done in the tiled room.

To the left, at the head of the large table, an opening in the wall showed off a smaller kitchen that, Jensen guessed, was used exclusively for the benefit of the high paying guests, who wanted a more intimate, privileged atmosphere.

Chris came in, placing trays of cold cuts, cheese, and fruit in front of them, then sat down. Soon a member of staff came in with decanters of wine and glasses. Jensen looked at the wine and sighed. Before he could make the sacrifice, Kent said

“I’ll stick to water, please. I’m driving.”

Nodding, Chris looked at the server who placed a water glass in front of Kent; she asked, “Sparkling or still, Sir?”

Giving her a friendly smile, he said, “Sparkling, please.”

Once everyone had been served, Chris looked across the table at his guests and said,

“So, Jen, for old times’ sake, let’s cut though all the bullshit sales talk and give it to me straight—what do you want from me?”

Jensen took a deep, silent breath. Although their youthful friendship had been brief, it was intense, and Jensen understood how Christian Kane worked. He was loud, wild, and profane, but he was professional and had no patience for bullshit.

Money, glossing over the unflattering parts, or appealing to his ego wouldn’t work. Jensen’s only chance was to awaken his ambition and competitiveness and hope the enormous challenge would entice rather than dissuade.

Jensen moistened his dry lips with a sip of wine, and put the glass back on the table. He inhaled.

“Here’s the unvarnished truth. The Oceanview is a fifth-generation family-owned hotel; three of its four members are sitting here. The hotel’s location is spectacular, and the building is charming, but its interior is outdated. There are major issues within the management; it’s led to staffing issues and the hotel’s reputation declining—I’m working on that.”

He paused, took another sip, then said,

“Their restaurant used to offer fine dining, with a classic, French cuisine and had an excellent reputation for many years. Not anymore. To be blunt; it’s a disaster. Frankly, I can’t promise the hotel will survive. I’m committed to turning the place around, and so is the family, but it’s an uphill battle, and I’m not confident we’ll make it.”

Chris ran a hand over the light stubble that covered the lower half of his face and began fingering the tiny hairs beneath his bottom lip. He said, “But. . . ” and left the sentence open for Jensen to finish.

“But, Newport is a fantastic location. It’s a popular destination during the summer, and more and more people are discovering it as a fall and winter retreat. People come for nature, the winter surfing, the quirky, charming town, and there’s an eclectic artist community that draws crowds. They have a large fishing fleet with amazing seafood available all year round, and there’s an oyster farm close by. There are several organic farms offering locally sourced vegetables, meat, fruit, berries, dairy, and artisan cheese.”

Jensen paused, Chris’ eyes were sparkling.

“It’s a family-owned hotel, which means you don’t have to adhere to any chain hotel or franchise requirement. It’s a blank slate. If we’re going to bring the restaurant back, we have to start over. There’s no money for a refitted kitchen, but there’s enough to invest in a few basic new appliances and a refurbished dining room. We have an edge there.”

Jensen leaned down and picked up the bag he’d been carrying with him. He opened it and took out three bubble-wrapped items. He unwrapped them, placing each item in front of Chris. The first was a wine glass with a delicate octopus climbing up the stem. The second, a set of Jared’s blue speckled plates, and the third a large turquoise ceramic bowl with a sculpted octopus climbing along its side.

“Jared”—he nodded in Jared’s direction as he said his name—“is a glassblower and ceramic artist. This is his work. I think his visual style and your food combined could create something unique, something that will draw crowds all year round.”

Jensen paused briefly again. “It’s an enormous challenge; a potential career damaging gamble. But, if you accept, you can create a restaurant and menu that is entirely your own; your vision, your style, your food.”

Chris had not stopped fingering the short strands of hair, and he continued as Jensen stopped speaking. For almost a minute, the room was silent. Then he asked,

“What happened to the restaurant? You said it used to offer fine dining, and then it declined. Why did they let that happen? Why did the chef in charge allow it?”

Jensen winced. That was the one question he’d hoped Chris wouldn’t ask. The situation was already a challenge for Kent. The last thing Jensen wanted was for someone to stab at an already wounded pride.

Jensen opened his mouth to smooth over the situation, but Kent beat him to it. He said, “Because I lost the spark.”

Chris’ eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he stayed silent as Kent continued, his voice sounding distant, lost in the past.

“I was fifteen when I walked into that kitchen; back then, this hard ass Frenchman, Chef Emilè, ran it. He was ruthless, a raging alcoholic, and completely mad. If he wasn’t happy with your work, he’d smack you on the back of your head with a spatula. But, after ten years working under him, I could cook; I’d whip up a ten-course French cuisine menu without breaking a sweat.”

Kent paused. Jensen looked at Jared and Nat’s faces, their attention rapt and focused on their father. Jensen felt their anticipation, and he wondered if they were hoping for answers they’d never received.

“In nineteen-eighty, Chef Emilé’s liver gave out, and I took over as head chef. The eighties were good, nineties too, but we stopped evolving. Somewhere along the line, we became complacent and stuck in our ways. When the new millennium rolled around, there’d been a generational change. Our old regulars who came every summer, the old guard who liked things to stay the same, got too old or died off, and suddenly we had a new clientele. One used to traveling in a way our old guests never had; they had wider horizons and higher standards.”

Kent scratched his forehead, face lined with regret. “Our profits started declining, and my wife, who dealt with the financial side of the business, cut my budget. Soon I had frozen, prepackaged shrimps from China in my freezer instead of having them freshly delivered by the local fishermen every morning.”

Jensen watched as Chris’ eyes closed, and he nodded his head. He looked sympathetic, like he understood Kent’s emotions on a deeper level. Kent continued,

“It became a vicious cycle; when the quality of our produce declined, so did the food. I had to decrease the prices. We lost the high paying customers. But, instead of realizing we had to prioritize the restaurant, she cut my budget even more. The situation spilled over into my personal life, and my wife and I fought all the time.”

Nat interrupted and said, “When?” She looked over at Jared for confirmation as she said, “We never noticed anything.”

Kent smiled. “When it got that bad, Jared had already left home, and you were a teenager, wrapped up in hormones and self-centered teenage drama.”

He sighed. “Eventually, it got to the point when I realized that I didn’t have the spark, the vision, or the passion left to save the restaurant, so I quit and saved my marriage instead.”

The sound of a chair hitting the floor echoed in the room. Jared had hastily gotten to his feet, causing the chair to topple. Now he stood with his hands pressed into his hips, face turned to the wall. Even without seeing his expression, Jensen saw his anger in the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

Concerned, Kent said, “Jared, wha—” but was interrupted by Jared’s harsh words bouncing between the tiled walls.

“Un-fucking-believable. She just has to have it her way, no matter what. No matter that it costs the people around her everything—she has to drive her will through. She’d rather sacrifice a well-renowned restaurant than listen to what other people tell her.”

Kent said, “Jared, tha—” but was interrupted again as Jared turned around, eyes blazing. He hissed, “Don’t you dare. I understand you felt tired. I understand why you made the choice you did. But don’t make excuses for her. She could have backed down for the sake of your marriage; could have listened and saved the restaurant—she didn’t. I love you, but don’t make excuses for her, or I’ll lose all respect for you.”

Observing the stand-off between father and son, Jensen covered his eyes with one hand, pressing his fingers into his temples to stop the headache he felt approaching.

As if this mission wasn’t challenging enough. Instead of being on their best behavior, Chris’ potential new employers were having a family meltdown right in front of him. Through his spread fingers, Jensen saw Chris stand up and leave the room. He sighed. Chris was crazy, but he wasn’t suicidal. They’d just lost one of Jensen’s trump cards.

He inhaled, preparing to tell everyone to pack up and leave, but halted as Chris came back into the room, a piece of white fabric clutched in one hand.

He looked at Kent and said, “What’s the ideal inner temperature for a medium-rare Beef Wellington?”

Taken aback, Kent said, “What?”

Chris, enunciating every word, said, “Beef Wellington. Medium rare. Inner temperature.”

The answer came instinctively as Kent said, “A hundred thirty-five degrees.”

Chris nodded. “How long do you let a beef bourguignon rest before you serve it, one hour or two?”

Kent’s eyebrow shot up. “I don’t. Everyone knows you don’t serve a bourguignon the same day you cook it.”

Looking Chris straight in the eye, he asked, “Is there a point to this?”

Kent’s hand instinctively shot up as Chris threw the white fabric at him. As he held it out, Jensen saw it was a chef’s jacket.

Chris said, “The fucktard you saw in the alley was supposed to handle the meat station. I’m one man short, and you’re taking his place.”

Kent’s eyes widened, and he looked ready to protest. Chris held up one finger and said,

“Listen, old man. I trust Jensen. Whatever the fuck is going on here”—Chris made a sweeping gesture over the members of the Padalecki family—“I trust he can handle it. I know him; I know he would never jeopardize my career for nothing; risk it? Yes. But not throw it away. If I’m even going to consider your offer, I need to know at least one person in charge understands food. You said you can cook, prove it.”

Chris’ eyes fixed on Kent, who returned his intense stare. Without taking his eyes off the older man, Chris said,

“The rest of you, fuck off. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you my answer.”

Nat, who’d shrunk back in her chair at Jared’s outburst, looked at her father in concern but Kent, not averting his eyes, said, “Go. You three take a cab back to the hotel, and I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.”

Eye trained on the older chef, Jensen asked, “Kent?” It was one word, but it offered an escape route. It was clear in the way Jensen said his name that all he had to do, was give a sign, and he would take charge of the situation.

Breaking eye contact with Chris, he looked at Jensen and said, “It’s fine. This is why I’m here. You’ve done all you can; it’s up to me now.”

A minute later, the three of them stood in the alley and watched as the steel door slammed shut. Jensen looked at Jared and saw bursts of anger still rippling through his body; exhaling audibly and running his palms through his hair, Jared turned to them and said,

“Look, I know we talked about going out, but I’m not in the mood for a night on the town. You two go, have some fun, and I’ll meet you at the hotel later.”

Jensen watched as Nat shook her head and, pinching the bridge of her nose, she said, “No. I’ll go with you. I’m just not. . . ” She trailed off, but they understood.

Jensen said, “I’m fine with going back to the hotel; I’ve had my fill of this town.”

They stood momentarily undecided, then Nat said,

“Want to find a convenience store, buy a bunch of snacks and alcohol, and get drunk in my hotel room while watching shitty Hallmark movies?”

They both looked at her, then Jared said, “Yes. Tequila. I want a lot of Tequila.”

Feeling restlessness, an emotion incited by this town, lack of control, and the meeting not going the way he’d planned, Jensen sighed and said, “We need to find a bakery on the way.”

Chapter Text

Coming back to the hotel, they’d dumped the supplies in Nat’s room and then split up to change into more comfortable clothes.

For Nat, that meant make-up off, leggings, and a roomy sweatshirt. For Jared, jeans so faded the fibers barely held the fabric together and a black tank, and for Jensen, slim cut light-colored chinos and a short-sleeved olive green button-up shirt, neatly tucked in.

Opening the door, Nat looked at his clothes and asked, “What happened to changing into something casual?”

Looking down at his clothes, Jensen ran a palm down the front of his shirt to smooth out nonexisting creases and said, “This is casual.”

Nat’s laugh was joined by Jared’s, who said, “Unbelievable. You’re like a walking, talking, Hugo Boss billboard.”

Glancing at himself in the mirror by the door, Jensen said, “What? This is casual. Look, short sleeves, no tie, top three buttons undone, pant legs rolled up to the ankles―I’m one three o’clock shadow away from looking like a bum. And I don’t wear Hugo Boss.”

From his reclining position on the King-sized bed, Jared guffawed. Nat snorted, and gathering her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, said,

“We’ll do our best to look past your ragged appearance.” Walking over to the large bed, she sighed in contentment as she settled down next to Jared, her toes wiggling a happy little dance as though they were relishing their freedom—considering the shoes she wore, they probably were.

From his standing position, Jensen looked around the room in search of a chair. The enclosed space was only just large enough to fit the bed, two bedside tables, a small desk and chair, and a dresser with the TV mounted on the wall above it.

Jensen looked at the chair on the other side of the room. Nat must have noticed his look because she said, “Don’t be ridiculous; there’s plenty of room left. I’ve already prepped the salt and lime; bring the Tequila and come sit down.”

They didn’t even bother with glasses; taking turns, they threw back shots, swigging the tangy, stinging liquid straight from the bottle. Reading the room, Jensen thought they were all seeking release, but for different reasons.

Jared was still grappling with his burst of frustration and anger that had broken free. Considering the amount of restraint it must have taken to stem the flow of this anger, Jensen wondered how much more was buried down deep, gripped tightly by Jared’s self-control.

Nat had a more collected personality, a cool rein on her emotions. Jensen had observed her during arguments with her mother; noticed the irritation, even fury, stoking her hazel eyes into a fiery blaze. Even during those moments, she’d showed a steely composure, never losing control.

But something was simmering under the surface; Jensen felt the approaching eruption inching closer and closer. Jensen knew it took a lot to make someone like Natalie express real, out-of-control anger, but once that line had been crossed, it was best if you were far away—preferably in a different state.

Jensen was drinking tequila before six pm because. . . because he was in fucking Las Vegas. The shittiest fucking shithole of all the fucking shitholes he’d ever been forced to endure.

It wasn’t entirely fair; objectively, this city wasn’t better or worse than others he’d lived in. It just happened to represent a time in Jensen’s life when he’d lost his last tiny shred of faith, his belief that God or the universe didn’t hate him. That it was a decent place that meant him no harm.

This city had proved him wrong. If there was such a thing as a higher divinity, it really had it out for him. Which, he’d felt, was unfair. He was thirteen at the time; what could he possibly have done to warrant that kind of hate?

Jared’s grunt as the potent liquid hit the back of his throat interrupted Jensen’s unpleasant reminiscing. He took the proffered bottle from his outstretched hand, licked the salt, drank deep, and bit down hard on the lime. He was not going there.

Somewhere around the third shot, the TV was turned on, and the first awful movie began. An hour later, Jensen’s abs were aching. Jared and Natalie’s mocking comments, snide remarks, and spontaneous reenactments of the more cringe-worthy scenes were so hilarious Jensen’s sides were cramping from laughing too hard.

Despite her elegance, it turned out that, off the clock, Nat had a filthy mind, a dry, morbid sense of humor, and very few inhibitions.

He knew he should try to be professional, try to keep a cool detachment. But, if Jensen was powerless with one Padalecki in the room, when both siblings turned on the charm, he was completely outgunned.

It was a new experience for him, not being able to keep a distance; but, the sheer force of the siblings’ determination to be his friend left him defenseless.

Jensen laughed and laughed. The tequila helped. It also made it funnier the longer the evening progressed.

Around the fifth shot, something was said, Jensen laughed, and Nat collapsed on the floor. Gasping for breath, she pulled herself up so she could rest her arms on the bed and said between bouts of laughter,

“You giggled. That’s adorable. Do it again, Jensen.”

With an air of intoxicated indignation, Jensen tried to smooth his clothing and said, “I did not.”

Beside him, Jared, clutching at his stomach as he laughed, said, “Yes, you do. You giggle when you’re drunk. It is adorable.”

Grunting and probably pouting, Jensen said, “You both suck.”

In the interim between the second and third movies, the battle of the ranch dip occurred; it was brief but brutal. Jensen gripped the side of the mattress as Nat and Jared battled over the last few scoops.

At one point, Jared whined, “Stop pinching me. Jensen, tell her to stop.”

Jensen snorted. “I’m off the clock; sort out your own problems.”

They handled it, in a way. When the empty jar of dip hit the floor, Nat, somewhat unsteadily, climbed over Jensen and pushed him into the middle of the bed, squeezing him between the two of them.

When Jensen tried to protest, saying, “Wha—”

Nat pressed a finger against his lips and, with unfocused eyes and slightly slurred enunciation, said,

“Shhh, you’re supposed to help us handle our dysfunctional communications skills. Handle it.”

Dryly, Jensen replied, “I would have asked for more money if I’d known it was a twenty-four-seven job.”

Nat asked, “What job did you think you were getting?”

Jensen leaned across her and picked up the carton with the bakery logo that he’d placed on the side table. He said, “I thought I was leaving a stressful, travel intensive corporate job for a few years of easy, small-town life.” He opened the box and picked up the first eclair, biting into it.

Moaning in delight, he reminded himself he was an adult who knew how to share and swallowed his protests when two more hands reached into the box, picking up a pastry each.

Mouth still sticky with cream filling and chocolate, he said, “I thought I was going to spend my days reminding people about company spirit and arranging pointless team-building workshops.”

Taking another shot of Tequila, he said, “Forget I said that. Pretend I said something professional.”

Jensen felt a large palm reach out and pat him, somewhat awkwardly, at the side of his head. Jared said, “You poor bastard. You thought you were getting a prolonged, paid vacation, and you landed in this cluster-fuck.”

On his other side, Nat was leaning her head on his shoulder, laughing as she patted him on the chest. She murmured, “Team-building exercises. That’s so dumb.”

Jensen warned, “Careful, if you’re not nice, I might just arrange a few. I know plenty of idiotic ones.”

Sucking her sticky fingers into her mouth one by one, Nat asked, “What’s the worst thing you ever had to deal with in your job? Is it us; it is, isn’t it?”

Jensen guffawed. “You? Not even close.”

Picking up another pastry, Jensen leaned his head against the headboard and mused. “The worst thing I ever had to deal with? God, that list is long.” He bit into the creamy bite of heaven and thought it over as he chewed. At last, he said,

“The pedophiles are probably the worst.”

To his left, Jared said, “What?”

Jensen hummed. “You’d think they’d be savvy enough not to watch child pornography on their work computer; they’re not. There’s been five, six? Six pedophiles. Even if they’re not discovered at work, when an employee is suspected of a crime, HR is the one who has to deal with it. Do we suspend the employee during the police investigation, and so on.

“Then there’s all the issues with the remaining employees. Imagine what happens to an office when it’s revealed that the favorite hobby of the person in the cubical next to yours is murdering sex workers; when the crime is grizzly, it’s messy as hell.”

Nat, head now upright as she looked at him, said, “The murdered sex workers were a made-up example, right?”

Jensen made a face, attacking his eclair. He said, “The thing about being a consultant is that you’re always brought in on tough cases. A touch of sexual harassment, a hint of racial discrimination; usually, companies feel their HR department can handle it. But, when the lead designer of an unnamed toy company is caught watching kiddie porn at work, that’s when they call people like me.”

Repeating himself, Jared exclaimed, “What?”

Jensen nodded, adding, “I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement, so don’t ask.”

Nat’s head returned to its position on his shoulder as she mumbled, “That’s so messed up.”

Jensen hummed his agreement around the mouth of the bottle.

They were halfway through the fourth movie when Jensen’s hand collided with Jared’s picking up the last eclair. Jared’s reflexes were quicker, and Jensen gasped as Jared, triumphantly, snatched the last pastry out of the box.

Eyes narrowed, and all thoughts of sharing gone, Jensen said,

“Don’t you dare eat that.”

Holding the eclair out of reach, Jared said, “Mine.”

Sighing, Jensen said, “You have two more bags of potato chips, eat one of those, give me the pastry.”

“You want it?” Jared asked, holding the pastry just within reach from Jensen. He made a move as if to hand it to him, then suddenly snatched it back and licked along its sides.

Jensen gasped, and Nat laughed as she said, You’re such a dick.”

With an impish smirk, Jared held out the pastry. “You want it, here, take a bite.”

People often underestimated Jensen. They saw a well-dressed professional who appeared to be a proper, rather controlled individual. It wasn’t an incorrect assessment, but that’s not where he’d started in life.

What most people didn’t know, was that Jensen could play dirty better than most. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, drowning in Tequila, the sensible part of him screamed, STOP. No. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Jensen didn’t listen.

Locking eyes with Jared, he widened his large, green eyes in a way he knew was attractive. He licked his lips, leaned forward, and engulfed the elongated eclair. It was a gesture that could not be interpreted in any other way than provocative.

He carefully bit off a bite-sized piece and leaned back, carefully chewing and slowly licking his lips free of their chocolate coating. He said,

“Moist.”

Eyes still on Jensen, Jared nodded, grinned, and held out the remaining piece of pastry for Jensen to take. He said,

“Well played.”

Jensen accepted the proffered offering, with a smug smile. “Thank you.”

A hand on his shoulder and a croaking voice awoke Jensen. With considerable reluctance, he opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Squinting through slanted eyes, Jensen tried to take stock of his situation. He came to three conclusions,

One. He’d fallen asleep. Alternatively, passed out, in Nat’s room.

Two. So had Jared. Jensen doubted the hard, muscular body behind him belonged to Natalie.

Three. Drunk Jared snored—loudly.

Head pounding and mouth drier than the Atacama desert, Jensen focused his vision on the person shaking him, and the blurry outline turned into Nat’s ravaged vision; she looked like Jensen felt.

Cursing his stupidity and lack of professionalism, Jensen tried to speak, but what came out was gibberish, mouth, and throat too dry and sticky to form actual words. Without speaking, a water bottle was thrust in front of him, and he grasped at it with gratitude.

Raising himself on one arm, he drank greedily, letting the soothing liquid run down his throat. For a brief moment, his esophagus convulsed, and Jensen prepared to throw himself off the bed into the bathroom, but the feeling passed as soon as it came, and he continued drinking.

Bottle empty, Jensen wiped his brow were small beads of sweat—or possibly Tequila—slithered out through his pores. Groaning, he berated himself again.

Dragging him out of his self-flagellation, Nat, voice dry and brittle, said, “Dad’s not back. I went to get some water, and Baby’s not in the parking lot; I knocked at his door, and no one answered.”

She stopped, seemed to hiccup, or possibly swallow a mouthful of second-hand alcohol. She grimaced. “Jensen, it’s noon. Where could he be?”

Pushing himself into a sitting position was more challenging than he’d expected. Not only because maneuvering himself into a vertical position made his head spin and his stomach cramp. But, because Jared’s unconscious form objected to the idea, holding on as Jensen untangled himself. Jensen asked,

“Did you try calling?”

Sinking down in a heap on the floor, leaning her forehead against the carpet, Nat answered in a faint voice,

“Voicemail. Jensen, I’m worried. What if he got into an accident on his way back to the hotel?”

Jensen’s head spun as he looked around the room in search of his phone. He swallowed the small, nauseous burps that tried to force their way out, not so much out of modesty, but because he feared once released, his breath would self-ignite.

He found his phone underneath his own body; unlocking it, he pulled up Chris’ phone number. When no one answered, he tried the restaurant and felt his face wrinkle up in a tight grimace when a high pitched, cheery voice answered. After a brief conversation, Jensen flinched as Chris’ gruff voice sounded in the receiver.

“Who the fuck is this? I’m busy.”

Jensen’s voice was a little smoother as he said, “It’s Jensen, you foulmouthed sourpuss. Listen, Kent didn’t make it back last night. What time did he leave the restaurant?”

Chris answered, “He didn’t, he slept on the couch in my office. Now fuck off, we’re busy.”

Jensen snapped. “Christian, I’m too hung-over for your goddamn attitude. I can’t pass out or throw-up until I know what’s going on; tell me what I need to know and do it now.”

Chris’ voice turned into smoky silk as he said, “You know, Jen, when you pull out that prickly, bossy attitude, I almost regret that I’m not even a little bi-curious.”

Wiping his forehead again, Jensen said, “Chris, stop or I’ll come over there and tell everyone that you gave me food poisoning. Trust me, the state I’m in, they’ll believe me.”

He heard Chris snort. “Look, Kent is fine; we’re cooking. Drink some water, take an Advil, and go back to sleep. You and the other two, come to the restaurant at six. Now fuck off and sober up.”

As the call disconnected, Jensen collapsed back down on the bed again. Nat crawled on all fours over to the bed and then, with obvious effort, pulled herself up enough to slide onto the mattress. She asked,

“What did he say?”

“Your dad’s fine. He slept at the restaurant. We’re supposed to meet him and Chris there at six.”

Nat began to say something, but a rough voice interrupted her. Jared said, “Will the two of you shut up. Dad’s fine, and we can sleep for five more hours before we have to get ready and leave. Nat, turn off the lights, pull up the comforter, and be quiet.”

As a heavy arm settled over his waist again, Jensen knew the situation was beyond improper. He contemplated getting up and moving to his own bed. His room was three doors down, but imagining the walk, it felt like preparing to cross the Sahara on foot.

The whole situation had gone from unprofessional to imprudent to—Jensen didn’t even have a word for it. What did you call getting blind drunk and passing out in bed between two of your employers who were also siblings?

A mistake didn’t seem to cover it. From behind, Jared said,

“Stop over-thinking things; your brooding is so loud I can’t sleep. We had a good time, got drunk, and fell asleep. End of story. Now cut it out.”

It all sounded so simple when Jared said it. As the heavy comforter settled over him and Nat wiggled into a comfortable position, Jensen made a sound that might have been the beginning of a tirade on professionalism but turned into an “oomph” when a pillow hit him in the face.

Chapter Text

By the time they set out from the hotel, the tremors had finally stopped. After a long shower, plenty of water, and some fresh clothes, Jensen felt almost alive—almost. As he looked at his two companions, he marveled that the three of them, despite everything, looked put together and professional.

At the restaurant, they knocked on the backdoor and were let in without comment, busy hands pointing them towards the alcove.

As they stepped through the glass doors, the mouthwatering scent of harmonizing flavors enveloped them like a thick, dewy fog.

In the private kitchen, Chris and Kent were bent deep in concentration over a plate. Briefly acknowledging their presence, Chris waved a hand towards the table and let out a distracted grunt that Jensen interpreted as,

Please, take a seat. Or, possibly, Sit the fuck down.

They sat down, all three ignoring the decanter, pushing away the wine glasses and pulling their water glasses close. Chris came up and put a plate down in front of each of them. He said,

“Squid, served in a blue mussel shell, with onion, dill, lime, black caviar, and a chili garlic jelly.”

Looking down, Jensen heard Nat let out a breathy little, “Oh.”

Jensen understood the sentiment. The small dish looked exquisite, the details unbelievable.

To his right, Jared groaned; Jensen and Nat soon joined in when the food hit their palates.

As soon as their plates were empty, they were replaced when Kent came out and put a deep plate on the table. The rounded shape was filled with pebbles, and the airy smoke of liquid ice swiveled around the stones.

On top of them, oysters rested in their shells. The effect was striking, creating the illusion of an early morning fog along a pebbled shoreline. Kent said,

“Grilled oysters, served with horseradish leaf butter and Kaluga caviar.”

They barely had time to cleanse their mouths when Chris came back and set the next dish down in front of them. This time, a scallop, resting in its shell, sat on top of green moss and a bundle of juniper. Beside the plate was a bowl of what looked like mint green powdered ice that he sprinkled over the scallop.

Explaining the dish, he said,

“Juniper smoked scallops with fresh juniper berries and snow infused with pine needles.”

Chris fingered the plate that Jensen now recognized as one of Jared’s speckled ones. It looked perfect. As he’d hoped, Chris’ style of food and plating blended perfectly with Jared’s aesthetic.

He asked, “Can you make these in green, a muted, powdered green, like this blue?”

Still clearing his mouth, Jared covered it with his palm as he chewed. Mouth clear, he said,

“Yes. Green, beige, gray, pink, yellow, purple, I can make them in plenty of colors, this is the one I prefer for myself. We could create a seasonal color palette; there’s a lot we could do. It’s just a matter of us sitting down and planning a theme and a cohesive style.”

Chris looked both thoughtful and excited as he walked away, and Kent entered with the next dish.

“Torched mackerel, served with a mackerel tartare, nostrum oil, and a dill emulsion.”

Time slowed as one ethereal dish after the other came out of the small kitchen.

Kent and Chris alternatingly presenting plates of food that held such class; you didn’t have to taste it to understand that this was cooking on a level few people were privileged enough to experience.

Soon the only sounds in the room except for Chris or Kent’s explanations were groans, moans, and exclamations of delight, their hang-overs forgotten as the food entered their mouths and slid down their throats in one orgasmic bite after the other.

After what felt like hours of eating, the parade of plates ended, and Chris and Kent, sweaty and tired, came and sat down opposite the three of them.

Taking a deep drink of water from a bottle in his hand, Chris put it down on the table and then asked,

“Who else have you called?”

At Jensen’s blank look, Chris scowled. “Don’t give me that, Jen. I know how you think. You always have a list; your A, B, C, and D candidates. Which am I, and who else have you talked to?”

Jensen said, “You’re at the top of my list, Chris, and I’m not calling anyone else until you shoot me down.”

Chris fingered the hair underneath his bottom lip. “Who’s number two?”

Jensen resisted the urge to roll his eyes, silently berating all chefs and their egos. “Donovan James.”

“What?” Falling back hard against the backrest of his chair, Chris scowled and threw his hands in the air. “That fucking poser. Tell me you’re joking.”

Jensen’s only reaction to Chris’ exclamation was a calm composure. He said,

“Chris, I have a rundown, small-town hotel and a restaurant with a ruined reputation. My budget is minimal, the management needs a lot of work, no one in town wants to work for us; we’re one, maybe two, bad seasons away from closing. I have roughly ten, maybe eleven weeks, to get this restaurant working before the summer kicks off. My list of people to take on this suicide mission is short. I came to you first because you’re my best option; you’re the only one talented and crazy enough to pull this off.”

Chris hummed; it sounded smug. He asked, “What about the rest of the team? I’m a great chef, but I can’t resurrect a restaurant without a talented team. What’s your plan? Who have you called?”

Jensen replied, “No one.” Seeing Chris scowl, he added, “Yet. I think I can convince a woman named Ella Miceli to be our maître d'.”

Chris asked, “Ella, didn’t she used to work at Atera?”

Jensen nodded. “She still does, and before that, Le Bernardin and Marea.”

Chris whistled. He asked, “Who else?”

“Max Weber.”

Chris said, “He’s that kid sommelier, won best young sommelier last year.”

Jensen nodded. “Yes. That’s him.”

Chris sucked his teeth. “I met him at some fancy industry event a few months ago, kids an arrogant little asshole.”

Jensen nodded. “Yes. He is. He’s also brilliant. Besides, you love when twenty-something’s give you attitude; it gives you an excuse to yell at them—you like that.”

Chris’ laugh was husky as he replied, “That’s true.”

Chris drummed his fingers on the table. “And you think you can get them?”

Jensen answered, “If I can say that they’ll get to work with Christian Kane, then yes, I think I stand a chance at convincing them. If you say no. Then no. You’re the ace up my sleeve, Chris. If you say no, my plan crumbles.”

He could see the thoughts whirring in Chris’ eyes, one hand drummed a rhythm on the table, and the other had returned to fingering the short hairs on his chin. Jensen felt the tension rise in the room as no one spoke. At last, after what felt like days of uncertainty, Chris said,

“I want three things.” When no one objected or spoke, stunned by the sudden shift, he continued,

“One. I get to choose my own chefs.” He held Jensens gaze. “You’re in charge of all the personnel bullshit, and I won’t interfere. But, if someone fucks-up in my kitchen, I reserve the right to fire them; even if they haven’t done something wrong according to all those laws and shit, you can recite like running water.”

The tone and sly look in Chris’ eyes made Jensen snap out of his food and alcohol-induced lethargy. His spine tingled as he sat up straight in his chair.

“Deal, as long as you understand that if one of your chefs breaks one of those laws and shit, I’ll be the one throwing them out on their ass. No drinking while on duty, zero tolerance on drugs, no misogynistic or culturally insensitive comments, no pinching the ass of waitresses, or waiters, etcetera, etcetera.”

Chris’ eyes narrowed and glowed in that way most would describe as demented, but Jensen recognized as excitement.

“Deal. I’m poaching some of my people here. I spent two years training them not to suck; I’m not leaving them behind. They’re going to need a place to stay, so am I.”

Before Jensen could speak, Nat cut in,

“I can arrange that.”

Jensen watched Chris tear his attention away from him to look at Nat. It was as if he were only just noticing her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nat cut him off. If she was still feeling the effects of her hangover, her voice or body language didn’t betray her.

“Before I do anything, I need to know your people understand what they’re getting themselves into. You’re making it sound like you’ve only now decided to accept our offer. I understand that it’s probably an act, but I still need to make sure you’ve discussed this with the people in question. Do they understand they’re taking an enormous professional risk and a pay cut?”

Chris’ eyes narrowed, and Jensen noticed a small twitch in one corner. Without breaking Nat’s unwavering gaze, Chris leaned back, opened a slit in the glass door, and yelled,

“Smith, Garcia, Lee, and Wong, get your asses in here.”

In seconds, three men and a woman appeared. Without turning, Chris said,

“This is Natalie Padalecki; she wants to know if you understand that, coming with me to Oregon, you’re taking a professional risk and a pay cut. Do you understand that?”

A strong and unanimous, “Yes, Chef,” sounded in the room. Eyes intent on the hazel-eyed woman, Chris asked, “Satisfied?”

She nodded. “I am.” Jensen saw Nat prepare to continue, but Chris caught her off. The husky, amused tone was gone and had been replaced by a cool, serious note.

“If we’re going to work together, you need to understand something about me. I’m a hardass. I yell a lot, and I don’t have any patience with fuckups or people not willing to work. Step into my kitchen as a young chef, and I demand absolute loyalty, obedience, and dedication. But, put in the work, and I’ll train you to be amazing; you’ll walk out of my kitchen a chef talented enough to stand on your own two feet and able to build a reputation of your own.”

Chris paused, then locked his intense eyes on Nat.

“I would never put my people at risk if I didn’t think I could get them out on the other side unscathed. I’ll bring these four with me because, despite me yelling at them all the time, they’re fucking brilliant. It’s my job to make sure all that potential can flourish. They’re too fucking good to spend their lives stuck in a job that’s safe and boring. I push them because they’re good enough to take it.”

Nat didn’t speak but nodded her head, showing she’d taken his point. The slight gesture made her long neck arch slightly to the side, and Jensen couldn’t help but admire the gracefulness; Nat’s entire presence was always effortlessly elegant.

Her slight movement made the sharp v neck cleavage of her immaculate navy wrap dress stretch, and for a second, revealing a hint of pink, rounded skin. Jensen watched Chris’ eyes flicker. The movement was so quick it was hardly noticeable, but Jensen thought, in another life, his gaze might have flickered too.

Nat said, “Could you please make sure they all write their contact information, so I can get in touch when I prepare to arrange your accommodation.”

Snapping his fingers, Chris said into the air, “You heard her, have it ready by the time they leave.”

Another “Yes, Chef” sounded in the room. As the doors slid shut behind them, Chris said,

“We understand the risk we’re taking. You need to understand that this fucking pay cut is temporary; as soon as I turn a profit, my people get a pay rise, and we renovate the kitchen.”

Nat’s brow furrowed. She said, “I’ll agree to a pay rise, but a completely refurbished kitchen is costly. We have a lot of holes to patch.”

Chris’s eyes narrowed as Nat said, “This is my counter, when you arrive—if you arrive—you and I will inspect the kitchen. Together we’ll come up with a five-year plan, spreading out the cost over several fiscal years.”

Chris sucked his teeth, eye intense as he said, “And if I say fuck you?”

Jensen inhaled, preparing to intervene, but Nat smiled. She put her head to the side, and said,

“You could if you’re stupid.” She paused. “You wanted me to understand how you work; well, now you need to understand how I work. I’m not a chef like my father, an artist like my brother, or an HR wizard like Jensen. I am an organizer, a saleswoman, and I’m good at building professional relationships. I know Newport inside out, and I’ve been shouldering the responsibility of the day-to-day running of this hotel since I was twenty-three.”

Nat changed position in her chair, sliding sideways so she could slide out from under the table and let one long, well-shaped leg cross the other. Jensen watched as Chris’ eyes flickered again. Nat said,

“All those organic farms, fishermen, and artisan cheese makers Jensen dangled in front of you yesterday; I’m on a first-name basis with most of them. I went to school with them, or their children; we took dance classes together, I was on the same cheer squad, and I’ve probably dated a few of them over the years.”

She licked her lips. “Now, if a chef they’ve never heard of calls and says he wants their products, he’ll end up at the bottom of their list and have to settle for whatever they have left. If I call, you’ll have your pick of the produce delivered that same day. So, if you’re stupid, you’ll tell me to fuck off. If you’re smart, you’ll see the benefits of meeting me halfway.”

Nat stopped speaking and met Chris’ piercing look, her own not wavering even for a second. Jensen was impressed; few people could face Chris’ stare when he had that look. Chris’ eyes narrowed, his gaze intensifying. When Nat still didn’t break eye contact, he let out a short laugh, nodded, and said,

“Yes, Mam, five-year plan of action it is.” He smiled. “If I ask nicely, can I have a vegetable garden?”

Pursing her lips as if in thought, Nat said, “Not this year. But, if you turn a profit by next spring, there is room at the back of the building for a container or raised bed garden.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, his legs stretching out in front of him. There was the tiniest hint of admiration in his voice as he said, “Deal.”

As their standoff ended with a peaceful resolution, there was a collective releasing of breath. The room turned momentarily quiet. Then, beside him, Jared said,

“That’s one dealt with. What’s number two?”

Chris, eyes still trained on Nat, tore his eyes away. He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Two. I have complete creative control of the restaurant.”

Jensen’s eyes flickered over Kent’s face to gauge his reaction, but it stayed neutral, unfazed.

Chris continued, “Obviously, Jared and I will have a lot to do with one another. But, how our relationship works, and how we meld our styles together is sorted out between us; in a creative process, we develop.”

Glancing to his side, Jensen saw Jared nod and say, “Deal.”

Jensen said, “I’m not arguing your request—” Chris corrected him. “Demand, Jensen. Not request.”

Jensen smiled and conceded. “I’m not arguing your demand, but the restaurant is part of a larger business.”

Chris shrugged. “Look, I cook, and I lead my team, but I don’t do management crap. Kent can be the link between the kitchen and upstairs. I’ll discuss things with him and only with him; if he has any constructive input or criticism, I’ll listen, and he can be my voice in meetings and all that bullshit.”

Eye’s searching Kent’s, Jensen asked, “Are you comfortable with that role?”

Kent took a few moments to answer. He said, “Remember that first meeting, Jensen? You told Barbara that you don’t cushion your words. Allow me that same respect, don’t wrap your words in cotton to save my ego. Ask me what you really want to know; can I take a step back and let Chris take charge of the restaurant?”

Jensen’s voice was soft as he said, “Ok. Can you?”

Kent huffed out a breathy laugh. He said, “Forty-eight hours ago, I thought my days in a professional kitchen were over. And, here I sit, having just spent the better part of thirty hours cooking on a level I never thought I’d get a chance to do, a level I wasn’t even sure I’d be capable of.”

He stopped, took a breath, and moistened his mouth with a drink of water. “I’m a fantastic chef, but I’m not a visionary. I can cook incredible food but, these dishes we just served, I could never have invented them. That’s the difference between Chris and me, and that’s why he should run the restaurant.”

He paused, drank some more water, and without sentimentality said,

“Look, it’s all straightforward. Chris will run the restaurant, and together with Jared, we’ll build something unique. Our roles are not complicated, yours, however”—Kent stared directly at Jensen as he said—“your role in all this is a lot trickier.”

Even though not addressed, the underlying meaning was understood, foreshadowing the conflict that would arise once they got back.

Jensen nodded. “I understand my role; I can handle it. But”—Jensen held Kent’s gaze as he asked—“can you hold out this time? If we do this, if Chris and his chefs pack up and move, risk their careers, can you hold out until she folds?”

Jensen felt the tension creep into both Nat and Jared’s bodies; saw, in the corner of his eye, how they both went still, backs straight and rigid as they waited.

Kent’s returning gaze didn’t waver as he replied, “Have my back, Jensen, and I’ll hold out; I’m not giving in this time.”

No one spoke for a handful of heartbeats, then Jensen said,

“And number three?”

Chris’ face turned stony, unbending. He said,

“There are issues within this family that I don’t understand. Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck; that’s your fucking problem. I’m interested, but a big reason I’m considering this is that I trust Jensen; I trust he can handle the bullshit. If, at any point, he is asked to leave, I leave with him. That’s my last demand, and it’s non-negotiable,”

A thick silence settled over the room. After a lengthy silence, it was Kent who said,

“If Jensen is asked to leave, it will be the last nail in the coffin for all of us. For me, and I think for both Nat and Jared, this is the last push; a last attempt to scale the hill, and if it doesn’t succeed, if the climb is too steep or the resistance too fierce, we’ll not try again.”

Chris nodded, stood up, and walked out of the room. He came back with five whiskey glasses and a bottle filled with amber liquid. He filled each glass with two fingers of Tennessee Rye, and holding up his glass in a salute, he said,

“Do or die.”

Chapter Text

Jensen fell asleep as soon as they got back to the hotel; no one seemed to mind. Kent was exhausted after only taking a catnap in Chris’ office, and now, when the tension had found its release, both Nat and Jared felt the lingering effects of their hang-over return.

Still, as they gathered the next morning, the atmosphere felt different. There was a sense of something new in the chilly, pre-dawn air; excitement, hope, maybe even a tiny pinch of conviction.

Sense of hope aside, as Jensen walked into the parking lot, he waved the three good mornings away with a grunt. Jared needed to be back in Newport by Monday; it was Sunday, and they had to drive the entire leg of the journey in one day.

That’s why they’d gathered at five in the morning—as far as Jensen was concerned, it was still night.

Kent, and his son, looked disgustingly alert. Turning to Nat, Kent said,

“I talked to Chris last night. If we’re going to pull off having the restaurant up and running by June, we need to haul ass. I have a list we need to get through. I figured, since we’re stuck in this car the entire day, we might as well get a head start.”

Nat nodded and threw her laptop case into the backseat. Reaching into his pocket, Kent threw something at Jared, who caught it and looked down into his open palm. Eyebrows raised, he looked up at Kent and said,

“Really?”

Waving a hand distractedly, Kent said, “Your sister and I have to work the whole ride back. You drive, we work, and”—looking to his side, Kent said—“Jensen can sleep.”

It was a long day. A long ride. But, somehow, the hours flowed by comfortably. Nat and Kent spent most of the journey in the back seat making phone calls, writing to-do lists, looking at schematics over the dining room and kitchen, and comparing prices on professional stoves and appliances.

Once Jensen was fully awake, he and Kent discussed the current staff in the kitchen—who would stay, and who they would let go.

Kent said, “There’s not a lot of talent. The people Chris brings will make up the bulk of the kitchen staff. We can keep the dishwashers, and I think these two”—Kent leaned forward and pointed at two names on the open screen of Jensen’s laptop—“could be good if properly trained. I can work with them until Chris arrives, and we can set them up as prep-cooks to start off.”

Jensen nodded, made some notes, saying, “Do you want me to deal with the people being let go?”

Kent pursed his lips. “Let’s set a date and time, and we’ll do it together. I have no problem doing it. Firing that useless charlatan calling himself a chef is something I’m looking forward to, but it’ll look better, more professional if you’re present.”

Jensen nodded, looked at his phone, and said, “Tomorrow, I can—” but was interrupted by Kent, who said, “Jensen, in four days we’ve done thirty hours in a car and worked though the weekend; we’re taking Monday off.”

Smiling and nodding, he said, “Yes, good plan.” He looked at his phone again. “I can block off three hours on Tuesday, starting at nine.”

Nat leaned forward and said, “Good. We’ll handle the redundant staff on Tuesday, and Wednesday we’ll close the restaurant. We’ll repurpose the lounge by the reception for breakfast, and I’ll try to get contractors in the dining room by next week.”

She asked, “Jared, I know you’re busy, but do you think you and Chris will have time to discuss how you want the dining room to look.”

Eyes on the road, Jared answered, “I’ll try, Nat. I don’t think it needs to be complicated. Stick to something neutral; Chris’ food and my art will add personality.”

He paused. “Look, the important thing is getting all the groundwork done now; having the new appliances installed, deep cleaning the kitchen, ripping out carpets, those sorts of things. That way, in May—when the exhibition has premiered—I can immediately get dialed in on my part of the project. By then, Chris and I will have a plan together.”

Nat hummed, and Jensen heard the clicking sound of rapid typing.

Kent asked, “Jensen, what about the dining room staff? Can we use what we have?”

Jensen looked at his watch. It was eight in the morning. He asked, “Does anyone know the time difference between Nevada and New York.”

He heard Nat type and, after a few seconds, she said, “New York is three hours ahead of Nevada.”

“So, eleven then. Good.” Jensen pulled up his phone, opened his contacts, and found the number he was looking for. As he pushed in the earpieces of his headset and the dial tone began, he noticed the backseat grow quiet. Three, four rings went by then, she answered.

“Ella, it’s Jensen Ackles. How’s the job hunt going?”

The call lasted a long time. An hour into the conversation, the speakers were turned on, and Nat and Kent joined the conversation. Nat kept her computer open and, thanks to portable Wi-Fi, school districts were researched, three-bedroom condos looked up, and the current staffing situation was discussed.

Another hour went by, and Ella’s smooth, velvet voice said, “Jensen, you’re asking me to pull my kids from everything they know and take a huge gamble on you pulling this off.”

He answered, “Yes. I know. It is a huge risk, but I wouldn’t be calling if I thought it wasn’t achievable. Difficult, yes. Impossible, no.” He paused, then said, “Besides, and please forgive my bluntness, with the company your kid is keeping, how much longer do you think his adventures will stay misdemeanors? You’ve already had to pick him up at the police twice, and he’s thirteen.”

In a softer, apologetic tone, he said, “I know I’m an asshole for using your kids’ situation against you, but I need you.”

Jensen heard a soft snort, like someone inhaling and exhaling forcefully through their nose.

“You’re a dick, Jensen.”

He didn’t deny it. “I know. Do you want the job?”

Jensen heard the leather upholstery squeak as two bodies leaned forward. The air in the small space stilled as everyone held their breath. At last, the voice on the other end of the line said,

“Yes. I want the damn job. But I won’t pull my kids out of school this close to the end of the term. I’ll call my mom, see if I can convince her to come to stay with us so I can come down to you a couple days a week until we move permanently. But you can’t count on me full time until July.”

She paused, then added, “I’m a single mom, Jensen. If I move, I move away from everyone I know, every babysitter, everyone who’s helped me out when the kids have been sick; I won’t have a support system.”

Before he could answer, Kent leaned forward and said, “Don’t worry, Ella. There’s always someone bringing their kids to work. My children grew up at the hotel; so did their mother. If your boys are sick, we’ll tuck them up in an empty guest room. If you need a sitter, there’s always someone around, and if your teenager has a talent for finding trouble, there’s plenty of work to keep him occupied.”

It was the right thing to say; it was even better coming from not only her new employer but a father who’d raised his own kids in the business. Even if Jensen had said those same words, they wouldn’t have carried the same weight as they did now.

It sealed the deal, and as Jensen hung up the phone, he couldn’t stop the laugh bubbling out as Kent thrusts his hands up as far as they could go in the tight space and yelled,

“Yes. Two down, one to go.”

They stopped for a quick leg stretcher and bathroom break, then ordered lunch at a drive-through on their way out of some nondescript town.

Jensen had barely finished chewing the last pieces of his hamburger when he noticed the impatient glances. The looks were so obvious Jensen couldn’t resist the urge to take extra long to finish his drink, sucking the sugary liquid up through his straw so slowly he saw Kent’s left eye twitch.

It was Nat who cracked first. She leaned forward, snatched the medium-sized cup from his hand, and ordered,

“Jensen, make the damn phone call.”

The call with Max only took forty minutes. Jensen kept his temper in check for fifteen of them; then the arrogant little shit got on his nerves. Max was brilliant; he was also a very immature twenty-four-year-old with poor social skills and too inexperienced to realize his talent didn’t make him unique.

After listening to Max spend fifteen minutes droning on and on about himself, Jensen snapped.

“Shut up and listen, you little shit. I know you think you’re super-duper special, and. . . you are. But so is everyone else in my phone book; I don’t deal with mediocrity, and I don’t award participation trophies. I called you first because I thought you’d be hungry and ambitious enough to realize what an opportunity this is.

“Who else is going to allow you the freedom to create your own wine list, handle all procurement of wine, deal with suppliers and vineyards at your age without having to kowtow to an older sommelier for the next decade? Work for us, and there’s no other sommelier involved, only you. And you’ll get to do it while working with one of the best chefs in the country.”

Jensen paused, took a breath, and continued his chiding. “You think we’re lucky to get you. You’re lucky to come work for us. Not only will you—at the practically fetal age of twenty-four—have responsibilities and opportunities most sommeliers twice your age can only dream of, you’ll also be working alongside people with an intimate knowledge of the industry; people with immense talent whose tutelage and instruction can help further your knowledge and career.”

Jensen paused briefly again. In a milder tone, he said,

“I want you, Max. But stop acting like a little asshole. You’re not that special; I have other people I can call.”

Ten minutes later, Max had a Zoom meeting booked with Nat the following Tuesday and would hand in his resignation the next morning. As they ended the call, Jensen said,

“And when you have your meeting with Natalie, be fucking polite. Of all the people at the hotel, Nat is the one person we can’t do without; if she’s unhappy, nothing at the hotel works, do you understand? Good. Great to have you onboard, Max; see you in May.”

With the call disconnected, the car’s interior fell into a hushed silence. With a mix of confusion and admiration in his voice, Jared said,

“Did you just scold someone into working for us?”

Jensen shrugged. “Max’s knowledge of wine is incredible, but he’s only worked in the industry a few years. Despite his arrogance, he’s inexperienced, immature, insecure, and not leader material; he needs clear directions and to know his place in the hierarchy. With Chris and Ella there to set the boundaries and lay down the law, he’s going to flourish.”

Jensen noticed Kent watching him. Leaning back against the backrest, he laughed. “You’re good. Damn, you’re good.”

Nat asked, “What about the PR person. Do you know who to call yet?”

“Yes. I do.” Jensen didn’t turn as he spoke, but met Nat’s questioning look in the rearview mirror. He said, “I’m not calling her today, though; she’s not having a good week.”

Jared asked, “How do you know?”

“I spoke to her assistant a few days ago. I wanted some inside information, and she shared some interesting details.”

Kent asked, “Why would she tell you anything?”

“Because her company brought me in to deal with a sexual harassment scandal. I’m the one who made sure the executive who groped her, made disgusting daily comments, and left a dildo on her desk, got fired.”

Kent said, “Ah.”

Jared asked, “So, what did she say. Why aren’t you calling the PR person this week?”

“Because tomorrow, she has to be in court to finalize her messy divorce. When that’s over, she has to go to work and meet her now ex-husband in the corridors.”

Nat asked, “They work at the same company?”

Jensen nodded. “Yes, that’s how they met.” He added, “So did the receptionist that made the divorce so messy.”

Nat snorted. “So, he cheated on her with the receptionist; how cliché.”

Jensen burst out laughing. “No. Cho’s very decent husband walked in on her fingering the receptionist in her office; she’s not particular about things like gender or fidelity.”

It took a few moments for Nat to find her words again. She said, “And”—she paused, then said, diplomatically—“you think she’s right for us?”

Jensen snorted out a laugh. “Look. Cho is a walking personal disaster. At thirty-eight, she’s thrice-divorced, she’s broken five therapists, and if she’s ever confronted with a personal dilemma or choice, she’s going to make the wrong decision. She’s not the person you turn to for advice or support. She is, however, a spectacular public relations manager.”

He paused, then said, “Probably because her own life is one continuous PR disaster.”

Jensen noticed the silence and three sets of eyes observing him. He said, “Listen, like I told you the other day, I can’t get you both brilliant and stable—not with what we can offer. Five years down the line, when we’ve built something amazing, then we can afford to be picky, now we can’t. As a professional, Cho’s phenomenal. As a person, she’s a mess; but she keeps that messiness confined to her personal life.

Behind him, Nat said, “When she’s not fingering receptionists in her office.”

“Not while I’m in charge of HR. Cho and I have already butted heads over how she conducts herself in the workplace.” Jensen’s voice was steely as he said, “I won.”

That last sentence put an end to the conversation. The confined space became comfortably silent as Kent and Nat leaned back and continued with their work.

Jared had his window open, one arm leaning on the rim, the other firmly on the wheel. He looked content, the type of contentment that can only come from finally, at thirty-eight, being allowed to drive your dad’s treasured, vintage car.

Jensen lounged in his seat. At this moment, there wasn’t much else he could do except sit back and relax.

Jared asked, “Hey, what do you want for dinner tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Jensen watched Jared’s profile and said, “You’re going to be busy for weeks now. I figured you’d want to focus on your work and pause our dinners until you were done.”

“What?” Jared made a face. “Busy, yes. Working around the clock, no. I’m going to be holed-up in my studio for a month; I’m counting on you to come and keep me company, tell me about the outside world, and stop me from falling too deep down the rabbit hole.”

Jensen turned his face to the window and bit the inside of his cheek, preventing a stupid smile from breaking out on his face. Inside, something fluttered and pinched at the same time. He couldn’t tell if it was giddiness or that indescribable feeling of control slowly slipping through his fingers; it was probably both.

It was after ten o’clock when Jared turned into the parking lot in front of the hotel. Exiting the car, they all stretched and groaned, muscles protesting and joints popping after the long drive.

Jared went around to the trunk of the car, lifting everyone’s luggage out and handing it to them. He had just picked up the last two bags and held his own and Jensens in either hand when the front doors opened, and Barbara came walking out.

As she strode towards them, Jensen watched her face and felt his stomach drop. Not now, he thought. Not. Now. Not after so much work and effort. They’d secured a top-tier chef, head waiter, and sommelier in four days; Jensen had seen the excitement and hope for the future ignite inside the other members of the Padalecki family.

They were energized, inspired, bursting with ideas; for the first time in years, they were excited by the thought of getting out of bed and going to the hotel in the morning.

But, it was a brittle hope. It wasn’t strong enough to withstand pressure or resistance. One wrong word, one sentence, and that hope would deflate and shrivel up like a popped balloon.

Jensen wanted to round the car, run up and stop her approach. Take her by the arm and lead her back into the building where, whatever made her so spiteful, could do no harm. He knew he couldn’t.

Even before she’d reached them, Jensen felt the air change as everyone tensed up in apprehension. He watched the people around him stiffen and envelop themselves in impenetrable armor.

It was absurd, ridiculous that one person should have such control over the emotional state of the rest of her family; that, even before she’d uttered a single word, they were all on edge.

Jensen wanted to jump in front of them and deflect the coming attack. He wanted to lower his head, scrape his feet on the ground, and charge; he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t. That wasn’t his role.

He could support and encourage, but he couldn’t fight their battles for them. They were in this situation because they’d never persevered; faced with her outbursts, emotional manipulation, and threats, they’d always caved.

And yet. Not tonight. Not now. They’d convinced a Michelin star chef to abandon his prestigious, well-paid job to come and work for them. He and two other brilliant professionals would come together in less than two months and begin to build something outstanding; it was a victory. A victory that one member of the family was too vindictive to let the other three enjoy.

As she reached them, even before she opened her mouth, Jensen knew what was coming; the bile seeping out from her pores, enveloped in a blanket of passive-aggressive cheerfulness.

Her wide smile was as warm and friendly as a hyena’s as she said, “So, you’re back. The drive went well, I hope?”

There was something in her voice; Jensen listened and heard it—ammunition. She’d had four days alone, four days where she’d gone unchallenged and marshaled her strength. Jensen felt his own predatory smile unfold.

He said, “It did. It was a long drive. But it went well. Kent let Jared drive on the way back, so I think he’s happy.”

“You should have stopped at a motel. You didn’t need to rush home like this; I could have managed another day. It’s been long, stressful days; unending work, but I could have managed.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. Less than a minute into the conversation and the martyr was already making her appearance.

To his side, the tension already noticeable in his voice, he heard Jared say, “You know I had to be back tonight. I have a team of people coming on Tuesday, and I have to prepare.”

Jensen figured it was the eye roll more than the dismissive, “Yes, yes, your little exhibit,” that moved Jared to turn on his heel and walk to his car without comment.

Without stopping to acknowledge his departure, she continued untroubled, “Well, the reception was a success; everything went off without a hitch.”

Even in the gloom of the parking lot, Jensen noticed the stiffness of Nat’s smile as she said, “That’s great, Mom. Do you want to know how our trip went?” Without stopping to wait for her answer, she said,

“It was fantastic. Chris, the chef, is amazing, and he and Dad cooked the most unbelievable food. You should have seen dad in that kitchen—he was incredible.”

There was a note of desperation in Nat’s voice, a silent plea begging the person listening to not ruin the moment.

“That’s nice, Dear.” The words were kind, but the tone unmistakably derogative.

Jensen sighed and winced as she said, “Although, I don’t see the point; Jack did a wonderful job with the food this weekend. I think we should reconsider any plans for taking on a new chef. We can revisit the question after the summer.”

Jensen felt his lips part in appalled fascination. He’d expected setbacks, had been prepared for Barbara to lash out when they came back. But this arrogance and complete lack of consideration for others’ feelings and hard work was a shock.

He thought he’d seen her worst when she threw her first tantrum with him, but this behavior was on another level.

He needed to step in. Inhaling in preparation to intervene, Jensen stopped as Kent’s low, steely voice said,

“No. We will not. Chris, and four of his chefs, are all coming in a month. We’ve also taken on a new head waiter and a sommelier who will be joining us soon. Jack’s days are finished, and the restaurant will close for refurbishment on Wednesday. The deal is done; there’s nothing to discuss.”

Jensen watched as the older woman’s mouth opened to protest. But Kent caught her off.

“No. I gave in last time. We’ve done it your way, Barb. The result is a disgrace. This time, we’re doing it my way.”

“Kent.” His words must have shaken her because when she said his name, it was with a mixture of shock and reproach.

He ignored her and turned on his heel, walking over to Jared, giving him a hug, and saying, “Don’t run yourself ragged. I’ll come over Friday night, make you and your team some dinner, ok?”

In the grainy light, Jensen saw Jared’s stiff nod and a brief smile. Continuing on, Kent kissed Nat on the cheek and said,

“Don’t work tomorrow. Remember to take it easy, and I’ll see you Tuesday morning, bright and early.”

She nodded, her smile longer and warmer than her brothers. She said, “You too, Dad. Good night.”

She gave him a little wave as she walked towards her car, stopping only to give Jensen a hug and a warm smile, saying, “Thank you for this weekend. See you Tuesday.

Kent and Jensen said goodbye with a handshake. When Kent pulled him into a one-armed hug, Jensen murmured,

“I’ve got your back. If it’s too hard, call me, and I’ll come. Don’t give in.”

A firm slap on his back was Kent’s only reply, but it was enough. Turning to his wife, he said,

“I’m tired, and I’m going home. If you want to ride home with me, get in the car because I’m leaving.”

Scowling, she walked towards the passenger side of the sleek car. As she opened the door and sat down, she said, “This discussion isn’t over.”

Walking over, Kent grabbed the door and, slamming it shut, he said, “Yes. It is.”

Chapter Text

As both Kent's and Nat’s cars disappeared out of sight, Jensen walked over to Jared.

As he approached, Jared said, “Get in, I’ll drive you home.”

Jensen was about to say that he lived five minutes down the street; it would take longer to drive than walk home. But, noticing the tension in Jared’s body and the rhythmic working of his clenched jaw, Jensen swallowed the words and nodded.

He stayed silent as Jared put the truck in gear. He didn’t comment when he ignored the exit to Jensens’ side street and kept his thoughts to himself as Jared sped the car down the road towards the rundown industrial complex he called home.

Even as they exited the car and Jared pulled both his own and Jensen’s overnight bags out of the trunk, Jensen stayed close-mouthed. He followed Jared in through the gates and through the folding doors.

It wasn’t until Jared threw the keys on the concrete kitchen island and immediately grabbed a bottle of wine that Jensen intervened. Placing his hand atop Jareds, he carefully took the bottle out of his hand and put it back on the shelf.

“I think we’ve used alcohol as a coping mechanism enough for one weekend, don’t you?”

A grunt was his only reply, but Jared didn’t reach for the bottle again. Instead, he stood frozen in place; so still that after a minute, Jensen placed his hand on Jared’s chest and said,

“Breathe.”

A short, sharp inhale followed at Jensen’s urging but immediately transitioned into another prolonged moment of complete stillness.

Jensen saw the same intense rage he’d glimpsed in Las Vegas. Watching it closely this time, without outside interference, Jensen recognized that beyond the anger boiling up, there was an old wound. One that had been there for a long time and never healed.

The anger was always there, but Jared had been swallowing it down. Or he had until now. By the looks of it, Jensen wasn’t sure he would be able to for much longer.

Watching his still chest and the tight jaw grind, he was overwhelmed by the certainty that if he couldn’t help Jared deal with this avalanche of pent-up frustration and anger, he would lose him. He quickly amended the last thought to, the hotel would lose Jared; he was balancing on the edge, ready to walk out and leave it all behind.

Voice deep and soft, he repeated, “Breathe.”

He did, but Jensen felt how shallow it was, like he was afraid to draw too deep. As if allowing his chest to expand would give too much room for whatever he was trying to contain. He stepped closer, put his other hand on Jared’s stomach, and said, “Inhale.”

When another shallow breath stuttered out, Jensen pressed harder, pushing his palm against Jared's flat abdomen. Through the thin fabric of Jared’s t-shirt, he felt the muscles ripple underneath his hand.

“Inhale. From the belly.” Another intake of breath, deeper this time; it caught in his throat, and Jensen spread his fingers wide over Jared’s chest. “Exhale.”

Jared’s body sunk in on itself. “Inhale.”

This time, Jensen felt Jared’s whole torso grow and straighten as the deep breath made every available crevice fill with air.

“Exhale.” Deflating, his body shrunk in on itself. As it grew again, this time without urging, Jensen made to remove his hands, but Jared’s larger ones came up, placing themselves atop his. Body going stiff again, Jensen continued his steady mantra, feeling the muscles and flesh beneath his hands rise and fall in rhythm with his words.

“Inhale. . . Exhale. . . Inhale. . . Exhale. . . Inhale. . . Exhale. . . Breathe.”

Jensen lost count of how long they stood like that, counting out the beats of Jared’s breathing; it could have been minutes or hours. Finally, it was Jensen who spoke.

“Please don’t give up. I can’t fix this in a month; I need more time.”

Jared’s hands were heavy on top of his. When he replied, his voice was hoarse but steady.

“I’m not.” Taking another deep breath and exhaling, he repeated, “I’m not. I believe more in what we’re doing now than I have in a long time. That’s why I get so angry.”

He stopped, walking backward until he could sit down on a barstool by the island.

Jensen’s hands were still trapped, leaving him with the option of either pulling free, or moving in tandem with Jared. He opted for the latter. Jared’s fingers had pushed underneath his hands, encircling them; pulling free had the potential to add a whole other level of awkwardness to what was already an unpredictable situation.

Jensen let himself be pulled forward until he stood in front of Jared’s seated form, arms stretched out in front of him in an awkward angle, as he tried to keep a distance between himself and Jareds spread thighs. With his breathing calming, Jensen felt the steady thump of Jared’s heart underneath his palm.

Jared said, “It’s not even anger; it’s exhaustion from constantly having to readjust. At home, she’s the best mom in the world: kind, loving, encouraging. A day, or even only a few hours later, we shift into our professional roles, and it’s like the venom seeps into her, and I have to dive for cover. I feel like I’m constantly suffering from emotional whiplash.”

Closing his eyes, Jared sighed, the frustration still noticeable, giving an edge to the sound.

“I can handle us clashing over conflicting ideas—it’s the irrationality that I can’t wrap my head around. She will fight tooth and nail, stir up conflict, for something that everyone can see is not working, just to have it her way. She will, without fail, choose the opposing side and fight for it, even if it’s clearly the wrong decision from a business point of view.”

Jensen tried to shift position and move into a more comfortable stance. Once again, he faced the option of either pulling free or stepping closer, an action that would put him between Jared’s spread thighs. Jared, in what Jensen decided was an unconscious movement, shifted on the chair. It forced Jensen to follow his lead and step closer or risk being pulled forward and losing his balance.

Jared said, “I’ve tried, time and time again, to talk to her about how she acts in those situations. All she does is throw out platitudes about needing to separate our personal and professional roles.”

Jared snorted. “I can separate our roles. I can lead a team, bark out orders, train apprentices, and have no problem telling them when their work sucks. But, when the day is over, I’ll step out of my leadership role and just be their friend. I can handle that. I could handle it with her too, if she made sound decisions and acted rationally. She doesn’t. I just. . . ”

He faltered, searching for words to explain the emotion. “I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she behaves like this. Five days ago, I was at her house, and all she wanted to talk about was my work: how it’s coming along, will I be ready in time, should she ask dad to make me freezer meals, so I don’t have to worry about food? Tonight, she acts like this. Like, what the hell? Who does that; who is this person?”

As Jared’s rant trailed off, Jensen said, “Maybe she doesn’t know herself.”

At Jareds questioning gaze he elaborated. “Look, I haven’t been here long enough to understand the deeper levels of what is going on. But, in my experience, this behavior usually stems from something a lot deeper and emotionally complex than is first apparent. If we dig deep enough, we’re going to find the core issue. I’m confident it won’t have anything to do with you, your dad, Nat, or even how you run your business.”

As he paused, Jensen noticed Jared’s intense stare and tried to ignore the feeling of his own hands enveloped within Jared’s firm grip. He said,

“All I can do is make educated guesses, but it seems to me there’s something buried deep—something painful. Right now, she’s fighting tooth and nail not to have it dug up.”

Groaning, Jared asked, “What are you saying, Jensen?”

He moistend his lips. “I’m saying, it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better.”

A long, breathy sigh passed Jared’s lips. “And you’re sure it will get better?”

Jensen shook his head. “No. I’m sure that if we don’t give in, if we don’t reward her behavior, she will eventually have to choose between confronting what she’s trying to avoid, or she’ll take things too far.”

Jared’s voice sounded rough and tired when he asked, “And if she takes things too far, then what?”

Jensen shrugged. “Then at least you’ll know that you gave it your all. That you failed, not because you didn’t try hard enough. That, rather than confronting her fears, she chose to run the business into the ground.”

Jared sighed again. He released one of Jensen’s hands as he reached up with his own, running it through his hair. With one hand free, Jared’s hold on the other became more distinct. Jensen felt the length of his fingers, the rough patches in the creases, and slight moisture building up where Jared’s palm pressed against the back of his hand.

Jared tightened his grip, and then Jensen was stumbling forward the last few inches that separated their bodies. With his free hand he grabbed Jared’s shoulder to prevent himself from crashing into him. A hand that was clearly not his own came round his waist, grabbing on to his hip to steady him.

Heart beginning to race, Jensen kept his eyes averted, face slightly down-turned as he cleared his throat.

Jared said, voice low and gravelly, “You’re about to say that this is a bad idea.”

Clearing his throat once more, Jensen murmured, “Something like that.”

That was a lie. It was what he should say, but, professionalism aside, Jensen was only human, and his self-control, although strong, was not infinite. He could barely control his attraction to this large man when they stood a few feet apart and in the company of other people. Here, with Jared this close, his hands so big around his own and so firm on his waist, Jensen felt his composure and every sound argument in his arsenal crumbling to dust.

Jared said, “I have three arguments to counter that statement.”

Jared’s other hand let go of Jensen’s; it climbed up his side, over his chest, and slid along the line of his neck until it came to rest at his jaw, thumb gracing the sensitive spot right behind the ear.

“One. Our hotel has no policy against coworkers being involved. Half the staff, including the owners, met their significant others at work.”

Jensen hummed, trying to focus as the fingers on his hip found their way down the waistband of his pants and under his tucked-in shirt.

“Two. Both you and I are experienced enough to separate our private and our professional relationship.”

Jensen inhaled sharply as the fingers tickled their way up his side, over his ribs. He gasped as the hand beneath his shirt slid back down, continuing below the back band of his pants, and grabbed on.

Breath becoming heavy and deep, Jared said,

“Three. It’s obvious we’re attracted to one another. We’ve been tip-toeing around this moment since we met. You know we have. I’ve been holding back because I saw what you could accomplish, and I was afraid mom would use our involvement as an excuse to get rid of you. But, she can’t. Not anymore. Not after this weekend and the talent you’ve secured for us.

“We need them, desperately, and they won’t come if you’re not here. So, there’s nothing she can do. Not unless she’s willing to let everyone, including her family, walk out for good. Your place here is secure.”

A finger on his chin urged him to lift his head and met Jared’s smoldering gaze head-on. The heat emitting from his hazel eyes was so intense, Jensen half expected his clothes to spontaneously combust and turn to cinders, leaving him exposed.

“I’m tired of treading lightly, Jensen. I’m so brain meltingly attracted to you, I feel like I can’t breathe when you’re in the same room. We can be adults and all that crap, but you know as well as I that we’re going to end up here, eventually.

“So, we can either act on it now, when we can talk things through, set some ground rules about how this will work. Or, we can wait and let the attraction build until, at the least appropriate time, we can’t hold out and end up getting caught while I’m fucking you raw bent over a cleaning cart in a supply closet.”

Knees buckling, Jensen’s grip on Jared’s shoulder tightened, and his breath hitched as black spots began to dance in front of his eyes.

Feeling Jared’s long fingers sink into the rounded flesh of one buttock, Jensen swallowed. “Sound arguments. You’ve clearly thought this through.”

Jensen’s hand gripped the cotton of Jared’s t-shirt as he leaned down, his lips fluttering up the side of his neck. Electricity crackled along his throat, and Jensen shuddered as Jared murmured against the sensitive skin.

“You have no idea; I’ve thought this through so thoroughly, every morning, every night, every long, steamy shower. I’m lucky I can explain away the blisters on my work because, fuck, Jensen, I haven’t jacked-off this much since I was a teenager.”

Jensen’s labored breathing came out in sharp, stuttering puffs of air. Grasping at straws, he said, “What if it doesn’t work out?

Mouth sliding up to hover at the curve of Jensen’s ear, Jared said, voice deep and rough with desire,

“If it doesn’t work out, we’ll deal with it. My involvement with the hotel is sporadic; it won’t be hard for us not to be directly involved with each other.”

The hand cupping Jensen’s jaw moved upward and to the side, sliding into his hair and cupping the back of his head. With his body trapped between Jareds thighs, one hand gripping his behind, and the other in a tight grip at the back of his head, Jensen came to the startling conclusion that, through smooth maneuvering, Jared had steered him into a position where he had all the leverage.

With effort, Jensen tried to take a step back to break the hold, but in one swift movement, Jared unfurled himself from the stool and spun them around. Jensen felt the grip on him tighten, and then, he was sitting on the kitchen island, his legs spread wide, and Jared pressed close against him between them, his grip still firm on Jensen’s body.

He felt Jared’s hand come up and grip the back of his neck, leaning in until their lips were ghosting against each other. Voice rough, Jensen said,

“This isn’t how this usually works when I’m involved.”

Jensen felt Jared’s lips drag against his own as Jared spoke. “This is how it always works when I am.”

The hold on the back of his head tightened as Jared, clearly done with the conversation, pulled him forward and dove into the kiss. Jensen’s pulse exploded as his heart gave a thundering thump and landed somewhere in his stomach and his brain relocated to his pelvis.

Overwhelmed by an acute sensory overload, Jensen wound his arms tightly around Jared, hitched his thighs on his hips, and let out a moan so filthy he would have been embarrassed if he hadn’t been so horny.

Pulling free from the kiss, lips glistening with saliva and pupils blown wide,Jared looked at him, one hand sliding up until it came to rest around Jensen’s neck, right below his chin. Thumb softly caressing his jawline, Jared said,

“You’re going to be the hottest fuck of my life, aren’t you, Babe?”

Pulse racing, and body trembling from pent up desire, Jensen said, “Stop talking, and find out.”

Jensen awoke to the sound of rain hitting the glass roof and a folding tray on Jared’s side of the bed. Blinking to clear the sleep out of his vision, he saw a mug, two thermoses—one large, one small—and a plate wrapped in clingfilm. Looking closer, Jensen saw two plain croissants with what looked like a ham and cheese filling and two pain au Chocolat, the creamy, dark chocolate oozing out of its sides.

Pushing himself into a seated position, he groaned as his body reminded him that, this time, things had not unfolded in the usual way. Shifting position Jensen twinged and then let the sensation of a satisfying ache envelop him.

Raising his arms in the air and stretching, he felt the muscles and joints in his back go pop, pop, pop. Looking back at the tray, Jensen saw a note underneath the coffee mug; pulling it free, he read,

Breakfast is served. The robe is yours. There’re towels in the cabinet to the right in the bathroom. I put a new toothbrush on the sink. Use any products you find. Eat, sleep, lounge. See you at lunch. DO NOT get dressed!

Jensen smiled as he read the last line—it had been underscored three times.

Looking down at the foot of the bed, he saw a navy blue linen bathrobe laid out.

Mouth salivating at the inviting tray, Jensen wanted to dive right in. But the feeling of travel grime, dried sweat—and other fluids—on his skin made the thought of a shower take precedence over his hunger.

Walking into the large en suite bathroom, Jensen thought, if you wanted to know the real Jared, you had to see his home.

Out and about, Jared was hard to miss; with his height, muscular build, charisma, and—Jensen tried to think of a suitable descriptive—general attractiveness. But it was here, in this building of steel, glass, brick, and his own creations, that you really saw him.

In the large room, the walls and floors black slate, and the furnishings and fixtures all sleek and seeming to grow out of the walls and floors, one thing stood out.

The entire back wall, sectioned off by the same doors in glass and black steel as the rest of the house, was covered in the same turquoise fish scale tiles he’d had seen down in Jared’s workshop.

The whole thing was one large shower with an enormous rainfall showerhead mounted in the ceiling. It was decadent, and Jensen loved it.

The shower he indulged in was a little too long for his conscience to be clear.

Standing underneath the showerhead, Jensen leaned one palm against the wall as hot water eased the strain out of his muscles and the room filled with steam. His breath hitched as snapshots from the previous night flitted through his mind.

His knuckles white and pronounced as he fisted the sheets, its fit against the mattress becoming looser and more crumpled with every hard push and pull.

Jensen’s knees slipping over and over against the silky material, unable to hold himself up. Jared’s large hands in a tight grip around his hips, holding him in place and keeping up the rhythm.

His forehead leaning against one bent arm as his harsh, moist breath left a wet patch on the fabric beneath him. Jared’s breath warm as it ghosted across his body, groans, and moans mixing with wet, opened mouth kisses on his skin, and an endless litany of filth and praise whispered out against the rim of his ear.

His body pulled upright, straddling the larger one behind him. Jared’s hand in his hair and around his neck, his own clenching and unclenching in the empty air, desperate for something to hold on to, something to ground him.

Jensen's back arched so far off the mattress he was almost bent backward, his arm stretched out above his head, hands clenched into fists, eyes open wide, and legs hitched high on Jared’s hips.

His throat raw, voice hoarse and desperate in its plea, “I can’t. It’s too much. I can’t.” Jared, body slick with sweat, driving into him relentlessly, and voice coaxing, encouraging, commanding, “Yes you can. I know you can. You can take it”

Jensen let out a strangled groan as he spilled over his own hand, and a shudder ran through his body. Leaning his forehead against the tiles, he let the warm water rain down on him until his breath had steadied and his legs stopped shaking.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he washed and, reluctantly, turned off the water.

Jared’s soap and shampoo smelled of pine needles and wood smoke; the scent lingered on his skin as he dried himself and slid into the robe.

Walking back into the bedroom, followed by a trail of hot steam, Jensen glanced at his overnight bag and the change of clothes he knew was in there; after a few seconds of debate, he abandoned the idea.

Jared’s bed was pure hedonism; it was the type of bed you needed a ladder to scale and a map to find your way round in. It was big and so comfortable that once you’d scaled its height, you sank down into pure fluff.

Climbing in underneath the covers again, Jensen traversed the endless mattress until he reached the tray of food. Sitting down in a comfortable position, back resting on downy pillows propped up against the cloth-covered headboard, he reached for the mug. Examining the two thermoses’ contents, he discovered one held coffee and the other, frothy, warm milk.

Serving himself and groaning around his first bite of buttery croissant, Jensen tried to feel guilty about not doing something productive. He tried to feel anxious about the mess he was in—sleeping with his employer—even if it wasn’t technically a breach of the rules, it was stupid. Every single part of his professional self and all his years of experience told him, in no uncertain terms, that playing where you worked was a dumbass move.

Jensen tried to feel all that, but, at this moment, in Jared’s bed, with the rain tapping on the roof and flaky pastry melting in his mouth, all he felt was contentment.

Jensen was raised into wakefulness, for the second time that day, by the sound of footsteps on the iron staircase. He was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when Jared came into view, scaling the stairs two steps at a time.

Before Jensen could speak, Jared was toeing off his heavy work boots and socks while simultaneously pulling his black tank-top over his head. Whatever Jensen had thought of saying caught in his throat as Jared’s belt jingled, and his jeans and underwear fell to the floor.

Without warning, the duvet was ripped off the bed, and cold air hit his warm, comfortable body. Gasping, Jensen’s sleepy voice protested, “No. Cold.”

Ignoring his protest, Jared climbed onto the bed, and growling in dissatisfaction, said,

“No clothes, Jensen. I said, no clothes.”

A whoosh of air rushed out of his lungs as Jared kneeled on the bed, grabbed his thighs, and pulled Jensen flush against his groin. Protesting, he said,

“It’s a robe, not clothes.”

Grunting and impatient, Jared untied the sash, and Jensen was pushed and pulled as Jared wrestled him out of the fabric, the navy blue material landing in a soft pile on the floor when Jared threw it carelessly behind him.

Legs wrapped around Jared’s waist, Jensen found himself flat on the mattress with Jared leaning down, going down on his neck, sucking, and nibbling, like it held the answer to some universal mystery.

One hand in Jared’s hair and the other grabbing onto his shoulder, Jensen gasped out a strained, “oh my God, you bastard,” when Jared bit down, hard, right at the soft indentation above his collarbone.

Grunting again, Jared mumbled against the side of his neck, “Serves you right, just lying here all delicious. I had to wake up at six, get out of bed with a hard-on, and go be productive for six fucking hours knowing you were up here—naked.”

If Jensen had a reply, it was muffled by the tongue sliding into his mouth. He sighed into the kiss, so hard and moist it was filthy.

To his side, Jensen heard a drawer opening and someone rummaging around blindly in it. Jared must have found what he was looking for because the sound ended with a thump as the drawer was slammed shut. Seconds later, Jensen found himself unceremoniously flipped onto his front and dragged up on his knees.

Jensen thought of objecting that this was the second time in less than twelve hours he found himself in what was, for him, an uncommon position—more for the look of things than because he actually wanted to. But, as the sound of a lid flicking open sounded in the room, he decided the sensible thing to do was grab the headboard and hang on.

Later, Jensen laid stretched out on his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow. Legs slightly spread, just existing in that moment, he heard footsteps echoing on the stairs again.

The bed dipped as Jared climbed in. Jensen’s nose twitched as the scent of fat, butter, and salt caressed and enticed his nostrils. He groaned as powerful arms maneuvered him so Jared could slide into a sitting position behind him. He dragged Jensen into a half seated position, back leaning against Jared’s chest.

In the corner of his slitted eyes, Jensen saw that the tray had been restocked. Soon, Jared’s hand came into view in front of his mouth, and he said,

“Grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough pane siciliano with an aged Gouda, and Prosciutto ham.”

Taking a sizable bite, Jensen groaned as the taste of hot melted cheese and salty, cured ham exploded on his tongue. They ate in silence as Jared alternated between feeding Jensen and himself, then a glass came to rest against his lips. As the first sip slid down his throat, Jensen said,

“Wine at noon, classy.”

Jared snorted in amusement. “You’ve earned it.”

Taking another deep drink from the glass held out before him, Jensen said, “Damn right, I have.”

Plate and glass empty, Jared grabbed onto Jensen and moved them both, so he landed on his back, legs hooked high on Jared’s hips. Upper body raised on one bent arm, Jared stroked a few stray hairs from Jensen’s forehead.

Glancing at his watch, he sighed. “I have a meeting at the aquarium in thirty-five minutes.”

Leaning down into a kiss, Jared mumbled against his lips, “I should be back in three hours. I’m going to stop and get some groceries on the way back. If you’re good and promise not to move from this bed or get dressed until I get back, I promise to stop by the bakery and buy you an entire box of eclairs, deal?”

Stretching his arms above his head, Jensen said, “I don’t think I could move even if I wanted to.” He yawned and sighed, adding, “You keep blindsiding me.”

Long fingers spread out across the side of Jensen’s face and thumb tracing his bottom lip, Jared asked, “How?”

Humming softly, Jensen said, “First, I think you’re a loser beach bum, probably living in a campervan somewhere, and you turn out to be a successful artist with an amazing house. Then, I think you’re a nice, relaxed kind of guy, when, really, you’re a toppy bastard who fucks like a beast. Jesus Christ.”

Even with his eyes closed and Jared’s face buried in his neck, Jensen could tell the smile on his lips was smug.

Glancing up at his watch again, Jared grabbed Jensen’s thigh, pressing closer, and groaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Sighing to compose himself, he said, “Be good and stay naked. Rest, and I’ll be back in a few hours for round three.”

Moaning, Jensen said, “Fucking hell, Jared, I have to sit all day tomorrow, with your dad right beside me. He and the people we’re letting go are going to think I’m squirming because I’m nervous.”

Stealing one last kiss with his hand still keeping a hold on Jensen’s thigh, Jared sat up and said, “You can blame me.”

Jensen snorted out a laugh. Dryly, he said, “Sure. I’ll tell Kent the reason I look so uncomfortable isn’t that we’re firing people, but because I spent all day yesterday with his son’s huge cock up my ass. That’s great, I’ll do that.”

Grinning, Jared said, “Tell you what, Babe. In round three, if I hear any words other than: Yes, God. Please don’t stop. Harder, Jared. Oh my God, don’t you fucking stop, I’ll consider taking your complaints seriously.”

Reaching out, Jensen mustered his last reserve of strength and threw a pillow at him. He laughed as Jensen said,

“Fuck off and go have your meeting.” He added, “And I want six eclairs. Six, Jared.”

Jensen fell asleep again soon after Jared left. When he woke up, it was May.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Jensen stared at the enormous sculpture in silence. For the past hour, Jared had walked him through the aquarium’s exhibitions and grounds, showing him the sculptures and installations that would now become a permanent part of the park.

Jensen had passed through a narrow, blackened corridor with tanks of ethereal jellyfish on either side and hundreds of Jared’s jellyfish lights in different shades and sizes hanging from the ceiling.

He’d walked through the coral reef and seahorse exhibitions and seen delicate sculptures of clownfish, sea dragons, and manta rays.

There was the large sea turtle Jensen had previously seen. In the exhibition dedicated to the giant Pacific octopus, Jared had made a chandelier that created an illusion of a whole swarm of small octopus swimming through the air.

Outside, the wildlife enclosures and the many water features were decorated with installations and sculptures, ranging from the beautiful but abstract to lifelike irises rising from the green water of a pond. In another, bubbles in iridescent glass dotted the surface. Further on, eight giant tentacles rose into the air from the top of a fountain.

Jensen had watched it all and more; now, he stood in silence in front of the last, vast sculpture.

Wavelike curls and swirls in shades of blue and green climbed their way high into the air, so high Jensen had to strain his neck to see all the way to the top. It stood like a wild pillar of water, preparing to fall and drown everything around it. In between the twirls, sea creatures in silver and iridescent white filled it with life.

Jensen searched for the words but couldn’t find them. Reaching out, he grabbed Jared’s hand and laced his fingers with his. Beside him, Jared asked, “Good?”

Turning to look at him, Jensen nodded, leaned in, and kissed him.

Leaning against the wall of the massive tunnel, Jensen watched as fish in all shapes and sizes moved through the water all around him; their slow, wavy movement hypnotic in its tranquility. Beneath him, the thick air mattress squeaked as he leaned forward and picked up the glass from the floor. He asked,

“Are you sure we’re allowed to drink in here?”

Beside him, Jared topped up both glasses. “They’re giving me some temporary special privileges; as long as we don’t get too drunk, we’ll be fine.”

He leered. “Although, they do have cameras almost everywhere, so if we decided we really can’t go without sex for one night, we’d have to hide in a bathroom.”

Jensen snorted. “Jared, I know we’re gay, but I have standards; I’m not having sex in a public bathroom.”

Jared’s calm but amused, “of course,” was not reassuring. Jensen said, “Seriously, Jared. No.”

Jared nodded placatingly. “Understood.”

Later, when the bottle was empty, they were lying on their backs, Jensen’s head on Jared’s arm, watching the fish glide through the water above them.

Jared said, “Thanks for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”

Jensen felt his stomach flip. “Thank you for asking. This is”—he faltered, self-conscious, but pushed through the feeling—“special; I’m honored to be here.”

Jensen felt Jared reach out and grab his hand. His long fingers laced with Jensens, thumb absentmindedly stroking patterns onto his skin. In the silence, the delicate sensation made Jensen’s stomach flutter and ache.

Something deep inside pinched, and he was struck by the absurdity of the situation; that he was here, with Jared, allowed to share this remarkable, genuine experience. It was wonderful, but the pinching deep inside made him feel like an intruder—like he didn’t belong.

Without knowing where the question came from, he asked, “Why do you like me?” He immediately regretted it and laughed awkwardly. He said, “I don’t know where that came from. Forget I asked.”

Beside him, Jared was quiet. His cheeks burning, he felt himself shifting as Jared moved. Jensen’s head slid off his arm as he turned onto his side, his upper body supported on one bent arm as he looked down on Jensen. With his free hand, he reached out, running his fingers through Jensen’s hair and down one cheek, letting his thumb caress his cheekbone.

“I like you because you care. You’re confident without arrogance. Your sarcasm can be biting, but never cruel, and you always punch up, never down. You tell people what they need to hear, even if it’s difficult, but you always stop at exactly the right moment; you never cross the line between constructive honesty and deliberately hurtful.”

Jensen couldn’t meet Jared’s stare; eyes flickering, he settled his gaze on the hollow above his collarbones, visible in the lining of his v-necked t-shirt.

“You see people; make them feel important. After one week, you knew the name of every person who works for us; you know if they’re married, the names of their children, and what their childhood imaginary friend was called. Before you, Maggie walked around the place like a shadow. Now, three months in, she struts around the place like she owns it, barking orders; you make people believe in themselves because they feel you believe in them—that you believe they have worth.”

Jensen felt Jared’s long fingers idly playing with his own, the sensation amplified by their serene surroundings. Languidly, Jared lifted Jensen’s hand, pulling it up to his lips, kissing the back of it. He turned it around, running his fingers up the palm, tracing the blue veins, and pressing his lips against his pulse point before bringing it back down and kissing his palm.

“You look impeccable; dress in clothes that are obviously expensive, and yet, the other day, when that waitress toppled your glass, and you got red wine all over your pants, you shrugged it off.”

Finding his voice, Jensen said, “It was an accident.”

“Yes. But most people would still have yelled or been rude to her. You didn’t. You spent fifteen minutes comforting her, and then you left a forty percent tip.”

Jensen shrugged. “I’ve been on her side of the table; depended on tips to make ends meet. There’s a special place in hell for those who are rude to people in the service industry; it’s so petty and cowardly—lashing out at people you know can’t fight back.”

“A lot of people work in the service industry at some point in their life; most forget what it’s like.”

“Yes. But, working for pocket money as a teenager and doing it to survive isn’t the same. When your tips are the difference between making rent that month or not, things become a little more serious.”

The look Jared gave him felt piercing, boring into him.

“This is why I like you. You’re a shameless glutton and a snob. You wear tailored clothes, look down your nose at twenty dollar wines, and will only eat croissants if they’re from an actual bakery, and then you say something like that. There’s so much more to you than a gorgeous guy in great suits; there’s depth, compassion, a hidden anger at injustice—at the weak being taken advantage of.”

Jensen felt the heat rise in his face again. He wanted to wave the words away, but Jared continued.

“Then, of course, there’s the more superficial, carnal reasons. I love how much you enjoy food; the way eating is a sensual experience for you. I adore the way you giggle when you’re drunk and the kittenish little sniffing sound you make when you’re right at the edge of falling asleep.”

Jensen felt like someone had released a can of carbonated bubbles inside of him, his insides fizzing and hopping about as Jared spoke.

“You’re snarky, funny, and you have the most amazing laugh; I can’t get enough of it.”

Jared’s hand traveled down as he said, “You have a perfect freckle on your hip, right about here.” Jensen’s stomach cramped, and he inhaled as Jared’s fingers pulled at the lining of his pants and ghosted over his exposed hip.

“Coming back up again, Jareds hands cupped his cheek. “You are unbelievably beautiful. Not attractive or good looking; you’re beautiful. If we’d lived four-hundred years ago and I worked in marble, I’d sculpt a giant statue of you and make sure the world never forgot your face.”

The blood whooshed in Jensen’s ears as his heart sped up, the steady thumping, loud and firm. Bashful, he said, “Jared.”

He didn’t listen. Instead, Jared leaned down closer, voice becoming low and smooth.

“My favorite thing about you; the thing that pushes me over the edge every time; that could drive me to insanity, is this insignificant little moan. Sometimes, when everything around us is calm, and the outside world has faded away—when I’m so deep inside of you, it feels like we’re one person, and you’re hovering right at the edge, you make this sound—a tiny sob.

“It’s so weak, but the way you look: head thrown back, body taught, lips parted and your eyes wide and wild, it’s like I’ve driven you so deep inside your own pleasure, there isn’t a sound strong enough to express what you’re feeling—all you can produce is that trembling little whine. I can’t get enough; it’s addictive.”

Lips parted and breath rapid, Jensen heard himself whisper, “Fuck, you’re smooth.”

As he leaned down further, lips only just touching his, Jared murmured, “Bathroom?”

Groaning, Jensen cursed. “You bastard.”

Later, lying in their sleeping bags, his head on Jared’s arm, eyes once again fixed on the fish gliding through the glowing blue water all around them, Jensen said;

“I’ll never be able to look at a changing table without feeling dirty again.”

Jared’s laugh sounded in short, caught off beats.

Hand coming up to cover his eyes, Jensen groaned. “Oh, my God; we’re so filthy. I don’t know how this keeps happening.”

Laughing even louder, the sound filled with pure, unabashed delight, Jared said,

“Sex? Well, you see, when two people like each other—”

Pinching his side, Jensen said, “No. It’s just, I see myself as a fairly decisive person. I say no, and that’s it. But with you, I say no, you say ok, and ten minutes later, I’m bent over a changing table in a public bathroom. It’s like a superpower—you get me where you want, and I don’t even know that it’s happening.”

Turning his face into the side of Jensens, Jared kissed his cheek. “I promise to only use my powers for good. Or sex.”

Leaning his forehead in the groove of Jared’s neck, he said, “Please do.” He paused, felt a burst of anxiety rush through him.

“I’ve known you for ten weeks, and you already hold more sway over me than I’ve allowed anyone, ever, and I can’t stop you.”

Jensen felt fingers glide into his hair and Jared’s nose coming to rest against his scalp. Voice low and sincere, Jared said,

“I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Jensen had counted on Jared’s family and Cho coming to the opening of the exhibition. What he hadn’t been prepared for was Chris sauntering up to them as they stood together after walking through the show.

Kent looked surprised but genuinely thrilled to see him. Smiling widely, he embraced him in a bear hug, slapping him on the back, saying,

“What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming for another week.”

Chris shrugged. “They promoted one of the useless sous chefs. He’s itching to prove himself, giving me attitude all day. I’m done with the place, so I figured I’d let the little shit start ruining the place a week early. The rest of the team won’t show until the date we decided. Anyway, since we’ll be working together, I wanted to see what your boy can do.”

Jensen looked on from the sideline as he was introduced to Barbara. The first handshake was stiff, and Jensen saw the slight worry on Nat’s face as the older woman let an acidic, passive-aggressive comment about who would decide what spill from her lips.

Jensen noticed Chris sending him a look, Jensen replied silently with a shrug and watched as Chris, true to form, said,

“Lady, you concentrate on running the hotel, and I’ll deal with the restaurant. Stay in your fucking lane, and I’ll stay in mine.”

Jensen couldn’t quite keep the grin off his face. Chris didn’t have any patience with bullshit, and he’d tell you so, to your face.

Barbara’s mouth shriveled up like she’d just chewed a whole lemon, but she kept her composure. Jensen figured that, despite her flair for drama, she understood that making a scene at this place and time was taking things too far—Jared would never forgive her.

Sauntering up to him, Chris looked at the impressive structure of the gigantic installation.

“He’s not your run-of-the-mill poser, is he; this guy is the real deal.”

Nodding, Jensen said, “He’s brilliant, Chris.”

One eyebrow raised, Chris asked, “Is that the slight tremble of a crush I hear in your voice, Ackles?”

“Fuck you, Chris.”

Chris guffawed. “Boy, you’re already fucking the guy, you slut.”

Snorting, he didn’t deny the mocking accusation. “If my sexual habits make me a slut, where does that leave you, you bottom-feeding hussy.”

Grin wide and laugh husky, Chris replied, “This is why I’ve always liked you, Boy. Everyone else clutches at their pearls and gasps in fake offense when I call them out, but you, even as an eighteen-year-old kid, you clapped back without flinching.”

Pausing, Chris shook the hair out of his eyes. “You don’t take shit, and I respect the hell out of you for it.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, Jensen turned his gaze back at the sculpture.

“Thank you for coming, Chris; I know the risk you’re taking.”

Chris made a sucking sound as one side of his mouth twitched into a half-smile. “Thanks for asking; I was so fucking bored, Jensen.”

Jensen nodded. “I figured.”

Eye’s facing forward, Chris said, “We’re a long way from that shitty diner. How the hell did we end up here?”

Jensen shrugged and huffed out a small laugh. “We worked our asses off, Chris. Then we got what we wanted, and found out we’re too restless to enjoy it, and now we’re bored. We need a fight.”

“Restless?” Chris snorted. “Damaged, you mean.”

Jensen made a dismissive little sound. “Please, cancel the therapy session. So, we had a slightly rough start in life, we’re fine now.”

Chris’ laugh was low, void of humor, and rough. “Yeah, Jen. We worked eighty-hour weeks at a crappy diner while squatting in an abandoned motel, with twenty other street kids and a bunch of crackheads, because we had a slightly rough start in life. Understatement of the fucking century.”

Keeping his voice neutral, Jensen replied, “We got out. We moved up. We moved on.”

“Did we?”

He was taken aback by the low, serious tone. He realized at that moment that, in the past twenty years, Jensen had made exactly two friends. Real friends. Three if you counted Nat, which he had to admit, he was beginning to do.

Jensen had three friends, and they were all here. It was a. . . strange feeling. It was nice, but it was also worrying. Having Chris in the same place as Jared and Nat also meant that the person Chris had known twenty years ago was here too. He didn’t want Jared and Nat to know that version of him.

He turned to look at Chris. At twenty, he’d been smooth-skinned and wide-eyed—not as in, naïve. Chris had been born into a life where the innocent didn’t survive. But, his eyes had been big, full of expression—mostly anger, a simmering fury. But, when he’d looked at Jensen, there had been other emotions there too: brief joy, mischief, concern.

He’d worked hard, worn his hair short, kept his Oklahoma accent and vocabulary in check, and tried his best with their limited resources to look clean, professional, and put together. It had worked, earned him a scholarship, and Jensen had been genuinely happy when they’d hugged goodbye. It left him alone, more vulnerable, but Chris was getting out, which meant he could too.

Now, he wasn’t pretending anymore, didn’t need to; the wild, angry part of him had been let off its leash. But, there was something new; Chris’ eyes were not quite as large anymore, gravity and bags underneath his eyes had invaded their space, but they were still the most expressive part of him—where his emotions lived.

Jensen met their cool, blue gaze and saw fatigue.

Not waiting for Jensen to answer, Chris tore his gaze away and said,

“I came because I believe in you; because, despite all these fucking years that have passed, you’re still the best friend I ever had. I want to build something good, something outstanding—a place where I want to stay. I ran away at thirteen. Thirteen. I’m forty fucking years old, Jensen. I want to settle down.”

At Jensen’s raised eyebrows, he waved his hand in annoyance. “I’m not talking about buying a fucking minivan and taking up golf. I just want to do something meaningful that will improve my life in the long run. I’ve worked my fucking ass off, building-up these restaurants, creating amazing menus and flawless reputations, and then, one day, I wake-up feeling discontent, move-on, and I have to start over. I don’t want to start over anymore. I want to stop.”

Turning to face him, Chris asked, “Aren’t you tired? I’m fucking tired, Jen.”

Confronted with Chris’ raw honesty, Jensen heard the truth escape between his own lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m tired.”

Chris nodded. Eyes determined, he said, “Right. So, we do it again, what we’ve always done; gather our strength, kick-ass, and win, one last time, so we can stop and finally rest.”

Jensen managed a nod. Faced with Chris’ sudden sincerity and uncensored emotions, it was all he could do to keep his own composure.

Breaking the moment, Chris exhaled sharply and turned to look at Barbara standing a few feet away. In a casual tone, he asked, “Is the lady going to be a problem?”

Jensen kept his face neutral as he replied, “You can bet on it. I’m working on the issue, but we have a long road ahead of us. I’ll do my best to contain the bullshit, but I can’t promise there won’t be confrontations when I’m not around to prevent it.”

“I won’t hold back, Jensen, you know that.”

“I’m counting on it. Barbara is a lovely woman, but she’s got issues, and people have allowed her to get away with her crap for too long; if she gives you shit, clap back. Don’t hold back because of her age, she’s tough, and she can take it.”

Nodding as he fingered the hairs underneath his bottom lip, Chris asked, “What’s her deal, anyway?”

Shaking his head and pursing his lips, Jensen answered, “I don’t know, Chris. Not yet. But, whatever it is, it’s buried deep, and she does not want it to surface.”

Chris chuckled. “You’re going to prod her until it does, though, aren’t you?”

Smirking, Jensen replied, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Eyes leaving the older woman, Chris asked, “Who’s the tall, black-haired woman, the one with the resting bitch face?”

Jensen snorted out a laugh. “That’s Cho. She’s the best public relations manager in the business. She’s made some poor decisions and is currently struggling with an image problem, making her basically unemployable. I’ve brought her in to help with rebranding the business.”

“Image problem? Translate that from HR talk to normal people’s speech, would you?”

Jensen said, “Alright. She’s made a string of bad decisions, like sleeping with subordinates, or clients, creating annoying situations and costly solutions for her employers. The last one included sleeping with a receptionist in her office and being discovered by the company CEO, who also happened to be her husband; the divorce lasted longer than their marriage.”

Chris looked at him, one eyebrow arched. “Can you control her?”

Opting for honesty, Jensen answered, “Probably not. But, at the moment, her options are limited. I’m the only one willing to give her a chance, and she knows that if she screws this up, she won’t get another one. She needs a big win if she’s going to get people to notice her again; she needs this to work.”

“And the older woman, she’s accepted her?”

Jensen laughed. “No. But, it’s easier for Cho to fly under her radar; at the moment, she’s focused on building our online presence. Barbara doesn’t understand what she does, and Cho’s work hasn’t encroached on her territory yet. I know there will be more conflicts as Cho begins to be more hands-on off-line as well.”

Chris nodded. “Will I have to deal with her?”

“Yes.” At Chris’ noticeable scowl, Jensen said, “Look, she’s not an easy person, neither are you. But you need to cooperate if we’re going to pull this off. She’s going to invade your space and annoy you, a lot. But, when it comes to promotion and social media, there’s no one better. If you let her do what she does, she’ll help build an image and hype that will draw crowds. She’ll aggravate the shit out of you, but she is useful—don’t shut her out.”

Jensen heard him sigh, but he nodded in acceptance. With a scowl and a grunt, he said, “Fine. You better introduce us then.”

Chapter Text

Chris wasn’t subtle, and he wasn’t the type of person to wait for a formal invitation. Which was why, when Jensen sauntered down the staircase the following morning, he wasn’t surprised to find him standing in front of the stove instead of Jared.

An empty plate pushed to the side, Jared was nursing a cup of coffee while examining a row of papers laid out before him on the counter.

Hearing Jensen’s approach, they both looked up; Jared smiled, then turned back to his papers. Chris said,

“Look who’s decided to join the land of the living; is it safe to talk, or do you still bite people’s heads off before noon?”

Snorting out a short little laugh, Jared said, “Careful, it’s only ten, and he hasn’t had coffee yet.”

Eyes narrowing as he approached them, Jensen said, “Shove your head up your ass and eat shit.”

Without missing a beat, Jared said, “Coffee, Dear?”

Grunting, Jensen sat down next to Jared and held out a hand aimlessly in the air. To his satisfaction, a cup soon appeared in it.

From the other side of the counter, Chris said, “Twenty years later, and you’re still a ray of foul-mouthed fucking sunshine first thing in the morning.”

Flipping the French Toast he was making, he reached out and turned off the stove.

Coffee warming up his insides and calming his temperament, Jensen said, “Your temper and vocabulary are just as nasty as mine, and not only in the morning.”

“Yeah, but I have the looks and the attitude to go with it. You don’t.”

Smiling sweetly around the rim of his coffee cup, Jensen replied, “I guess you just bring out the best in me, Christian.”

Chris turned to Jared and asked, “Is the sex that good? It must be fucking outstanding for you to put up with that bitchy attitude every morning.”

Chuckling, and without taking his eyes off the papers, Jared reached out and grasped the back of Jensen’s neck, running a thumb down his cheek. He said,

“The key is to have coffee ready when he comes downstairs and not talk to him until at least his second cup.”

Grunting again, Jensen asked, “What are those papers?”

Chris answered, “Concept drawings for the dishes I’m putting together. We—”

Jensen could see Chris was about to jump into a long, passionate explanation. He put up his hand, and said,

“No. Give me food and fuck off into the workshop.”

Beside him, he heard Jared break into a deep laugh, leaning back in his chair and clapping his hand in amusement.

Eyebrows raised and pulling a plate within reach, Chris began plating up the food he’d obviously been keeping warm for Jensen.

“Boy, you must give the most spectacular fucking blowjobs for him to just laugh.”

Grunting as Chris placed the plate of food in front of him, Jensen waved a hand dismissively.

“Just fuck-off. Go be productive, artistic, and brilliant; I’ll come and tell you how amazing you are later. Now piss off.”

Jared got off his chair and pulled two thermoses into Jensen’s field of vision. He said,

“There’s coffee and warm milk for at least two more cups in there.”

Jensen felt a little sheepish; he’d just told Jared to fuck off in his own home. With a small, guilty smile, he looked at him. “Sorry.”

Jared’s only reaction was a calm little smirk. As he walked by, he kissed Jensen on the head and then mumbled into his hair, “That’s ok; you really do give spectacular blowjobs.”

Jensen was halfway through his second cup of coffee when his phone pinged. Jensen looked at the notification and groaned. Opening the message, Jensen read,

I’m out front. Unlock the gate.

Groaning once more, he shuffled to the front gate and yanked it open. Phone in hand, Cho smirked. She was dressed in a tailored black pantsuit that elongated her already tall frame and a thick black leather belt around her waist to accentuate curves that weren’t there.

One defined eyebrow arched, she purred out, “Good morning, Whore. Sleep well in your employer’s bed?”

“Like a fucking baby. How about you, Witch; the gutter wasn’t too uncomfortable, I hope?”

She snorted. “How come you get to fuck someone at work, and I can’t.”

Groaning, Jensen turned on his heels and began walking back towards the main building. Behind him, he heard Cho’s spiked heels clicking against the concrete. He answered,

“Because my office romances never lead to lawsuits, and yours always do.”

“Correction, Jensen. It’s not the romance that leads to lawsuits; it’s people not being able to move the fuck on. Why are people so fucking clingy? I mean, what do they think I’m going to say: Sorry I stopped eating your cunt, please don’t sue me.”

Freezing and turning on the spot, Jensen said, “Cho. Fuck. I’m only on my second cup of coffee; I need at least three more before I’m ready to talk about your tongue in someone’s vagina.”

“What do you have against vaginas.”

Groaning—he’d walked right into that one—Jensen said, “Nothing, Cho. I’m completely indifferent towards them.”

Walking back inside the house, Jensen turned and asked, “Why are you here? It’s Sunday.”

Cho threw her laptop case on the counter and pulled out the computer. She shrugged. “I’m bored, and we’re on a tight schedule. Take a look at these reviews of your hunk’s exhibition.”

As Jensen sat down on a barstool and began reading, Cho asked, “Where is Loverboy?”

Jensen made a dismissive gesture towards the workshop. “He and Chris are in the workshop going over designs.”

“What? Fuck. I told them not to do that without me there.” Turning swiftly, she began walking towards the door leading to the workshop. Without looking back, she called out,

“Make more coffee. I called Nat; she’ll be here soon.”

Downing the contents of his mug, Jensen swallowed the last of his cold coffee and the litany of profanity threatening to burst out. Inhaling, he searched for his center while silently reminding himself that this was his job. Sunday or not.

Being an HR consultant meant that at a certain point—once you’d specialized and climbed high enough on the ladder to attract the really high-profile clients—your job meant dealing with divas, creatives, and geniuses lacking in social skills. Officially, it meant you took the backseat while talented people worked their magic. In reality, it meant Jensen, surreptitiously, pulled everyone’s strings from behind the curtain, directing them to do what he wanted.

How he pulled those strings depended entirely on the person in question. Jensen didn’t allow just anyone to call him a whore and get away with it; he could put Cho in her place—he chose not to. Not this time. Nor did he mention that figuring out he was sleeping with Jared was hardly an accomplishment; they hadn’t tried to hide it.

But it made her feel like she’d won this round. Jensen had noted the slight droop in her shoulders and the flashes of momentary regret in her eyes. She was wounded.

Cho wasn’t the type of person who responded well to pep-talks, heart-to-hearts, or motivational speeches. Jensen needed her at her best. To get her there, Cho needed a win, to feel in control again.

So, he swallowed the poison coating his tongue and let her believe she’d outwitted him. She hadn’t, but this gloating would make her cocky and push her work up to the level it needed to be.

Exhaling once more and loosening his shoulders, Jensen made a fresh pot of coffee. Nat arrived twenty minutes later with her laptop in one hand and a large, pink carton in the other. Holding it out towards him, she said,

“A peace offering; for not discouraging Cho.”

Sinking his teeth into a buttery croissant, Jensen groaned and said,

“I love you.”

“Pearls and garnets set in silver.”

Frowning around his second bite, Jensen let out a muffled, “Huh?”

Nat’s voice was deceptively mild as she said, “Garnets set in silver and genuine pearls, that’s what I prefer; you know, for when you pick out my future birthday and Christmas gifts.”

She must have noticed Jensen tripping over unspoken words. She said, “Look. I won’t make a big deal out of it. But, if you’re sleeping with my brother, then the least I expect is that you take charge of the gift situation. Mom gives me horrendous pink shawls and felted wrist warmers. Dad buys me practical stuff. And Jared always cheats by giving me something he found in some dank corner in his workshop.”

Jensen made a face. He considered objecting that she was jumping to conclusions and he wouldn’t be around that long, but he stopped himself in time.

He said, “Just so you know, I think princess and cushion cuts are tacky.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough. I prefer a pear or oval shape, anyway.”

As he served them both a cup of coffee, he said, conversationally, “I can see you in Tom Ford.”

She paused, her cup half-way to her mouth. “Buy me Tom Ford, and I’ll choose you in the divorce.”

Jensen chuckled as Nat picked up a croissant, took a large bite, and changed subjects.

“Did you see the website Cho built? And our social media platforms; they look great.”

Jensen nodded, “Yes. Cho is a handful; but, she’s the best.”

Taking another bite of her croissant, Nat nodded. “Yes. I can see that. Now, all you have to do is control her.”

Jensen huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. No problem.”

Nat shrugged and said, with thinly veiled admiration, “I don’t know, Jensen. You’ve dragged my dad out of his depression, spellbound my brother, and taken down my mother; I can’t imagine what kind of person could take you on and win.”

Shrugging, Jensen left the comment unanswered; he could imagine someone.

Finishing their pastries, they brushed their hands free of flaky crumbs. Jensen said, “Let’s join the others.”

Walking into the workshop, they saw several of Jared’s creations pulled from the shelves and placed among the papers on a large work table in the room.

Holding a delicate ceramic bowl, Chris was gesticulating excitedly as words spilled out of his mouth. Opposite him, Jared was listening intently, head nodding and eyes intense. Cho hovered around them, making notes, taking pictures of the table, items, and drawings.

Jensen felt a little jealous. Not so much because he didn’t have any artistic talent, but because he’d never felt that passionately about anything. His life had always been too unstable and nomadic for him to develop hobbies or the opportunity to cultivate any interests.

Jensen didn’t envy Chris’s talent for cooking or Jared’s incredible art; he felt jealous they’d discovered their passion, to begin with.

On the other hand, passionate or not, under the right circumstances, Jensen enjoyed his job; he enjoyed fixing people. He liked solving problems, coming into a building and feeling the dysfunction like a thick wet blanket suffocating everything and everyone, and then, a few weeks or months later, sauntering out and leaving things neat, tidy and well-functioning.

Jensen liked who he was, and he didn’t regret the choices he’d made. Even so, watching Chris and Jared engaged in their animated conversation, he thought it might have been nice to feel that passionately about something.

It was Cho who spotted them first. Eyes fixed on Nat, and with triumphant glee, she called out, “Nat. Did you know your brother is fucking Jensen?”

Unfazed, Nat only shrugged.

“Cho, I spent a drunken night holed up in a hotel room with them eye-fucking each other; trust me, I’m not even a little surprised.”

At Jensen’s raised eyebrows, she said, “Yeah. Because you fellating that eclair was so discreet.”

“Are we done discussing Jensen and I?” Judging by the looks of the people around him, they were all slightly taken aback by the no-nonsense quality in Jared’s voice. It wasn’t unfriendly or even harsh, but it held that firmness Jensen had heard when he’d observed him leading his team.

“Max and Ella are coming in two days, and we have a ton of work to do. So, how about everyone minding their own business, and we get some work done.”

Tuesday afternoon, Nat was walking Ella and Max through the renovations being done when Jensen heard a knock on his office door, standing slightly ajar, and Mathews’ head peeked in.

“You wanted to see me?

“Yes. Matthew, thank you. Please come in.

Shutting the door behind him, Matthew sat down in the chair on the other side of Jensen’s desk. His blue eyes were slightly wider than usual, and Jensen noticed him playing with the sleeve of his shirt. Jensen quickly put him at ease.

“Nothing’s wrong; you’re not being let go, reprimanded, or forced to work on your day off.”

Exhaling, Matthew deflated and laughed. “I was really nervous. I’ve never been called into HR before.”

Answering his laugh with one of his own, Jensen said, “We don’t bite. I promise.”

Changing positions on his chair, Jensen said," Actually, this isn’t an official meeting; I wanted to ask for your help. You’re not obligated to say yes and saying no won’t affect your position or future here."

Matthew leaned back in his chair and said, “Ok. Yeah, of course, you can ask me anything.”

Jensen hesitated, wondering how to begin. “You know our new sommelier, Max, arrived today? You probably saw him while Nat was giving him and Ella, the new maître d', a tour of the dining room.”

Matthew nodded. “Yeah. About my age; short, blond, sinewy, dressed like he just stepped out of an episode of Peaky Blinders.”

“That’s him. So”—Jensen hesitated, choosing his words carefully before continuing—" Max just moved here, alone. He’s incredible with wine; he can talk non-stop for weeks and be very charming and engaging. When it comes to everything else, he’s a bit. . . awkward. He’s not socially gifted. He’s spent the better part of his early twenties hanging out with snobs two, even three times his age."

Jensen paused. “Look, he has no idea how to hang-out with people his own age; he’s insecure and, I believe, lonely. Again, you’re not in any way required to do this, but you’re clearly a charismatic, popular guy. As a favor to me, could you take him under your wing? Show him around town, introduce him to some people, teach him how to be twenty-four?”

Completely at ease now, Matthew’s face was open as he replied, “Sure, yeah. No problem. I’ll strike up a few conversations during my shifts and invite him out with me this weekend.”

Relieved, Jensen said, “Really? You’re sure? You don’t have to.”

With a carefree, dismissive gesture, Matthew said, “Really. It’s no big deal. I love getting to know new people, and this town, this state, is full of awkward, nerdy hipsters; I know lots of them. Plus, he can teach me about wine; it’ll be fun.”

Exhaling, Jensen smiled. “Thank you, Matthew.”

When Jensen entered the unfinished dining room, everyone was standing in groups in the bare, half-finished room. Almost everyone.

Once again, Barbara was making her feelings known by her absence. In a gesture so dramatic even the most seasoned prima donna would have been impressed, she’d informed them that, since she’d been ordered to stay out of matters concerning the restaurant, she would not be attending the meeting.

When Jensen reminded her they would be discussing things concerning the long-term plan of the whole business, she’d sniffed and told him the two of them could discuss it at a later date.

He’d contemplated pointing out that, in behaving this way, she took herself out of the decision-making process; effectively, doing to herself the very thing she was accusing them of. But, reading her state of mind, he’d decided she wasn’t emotionally able to process such a confrontation and let her have her diva moment.

Jared, Nat, Maggie, and Cho, stood to one side, while Kent and Chris spoke animatedly.

Max was hovering somewhere in the middle, rocking from foot to foot as if unsure in which direction he should try to inch closer.

He looked very young and entirely out of his depth. “You just want to wrap him in blankets and sing him a lullaby, don’t you?”

Turning to face the velvety, female voice, Jensen smiled at the woman who now stood beside him.

Ella wore her thick, dark hair in a bun sitting at the nape of her long neck. Her mature, olive skin looked fresh, and the ‘no makeup’ look she sported accentuated her large doe eyes, thick black lashes, and wide, plump lips.

She wore the same uniform she had since Jensen first met her, ten years prior: skinny jeans, expensive enough to flatter the more voluminous parts of her hourglass figure, ankle boots, a simple black top, a few pieces of understated, gold jewelry, and a black blazer cinched in at the waist. Colors and fabrics would change depending on the occasion and season but, the silhouette was always the same. Some might call it unimaginative. In Jensen’s opinion, she’d figured out what suited her best and stuck to it.

“Yes. When you’re not fighting the instinct to throttle him.”

Ellas’ laugh was as rich as her figure. “Yes. I know. We’ve met. But, look at him. He’s like a shelter dog, leaning with his paws against the gate, begging you to love him.”

Frowning at the imagery, Jensen said, “You’re making me all teary-eyed. Just remember that imagery three weeks from now when he’s getting on your nerves. You and Chris are the adults in charge here; think of him as the socially awkward foster-son you never asked for.”

Dryly, she said, “Great, another troubled son; just what I need.”

“Did Nat give you a tour of the town after she picked you up at the airport?”

Ella nodded. “Yes. It’s very quaint.”

At his look, she added, “I grew up in the Bronx, Jensen. I’ve lived my whole life in New York; small-town life is going to take some getting used to, no matter how idyllic and cute the town might be.”

At the other side of the room, and without being noticed by either group, Max’s inching back and forth had turned into insecure little footsteps, one step to the left, then his nerves got the better of him, and he stepped back. Then, the process repeated itself in the opposite direction. Deciding he’d suffered enough, Jensen took pity on him.

Walking up to him, he said, “Max. Great to see you.”

The relief at being acknowledged and noticed showed in his face. Jensen noted that it really did make him look like a shelter dog desperate to belong.

“Jensen. Hello.” Max had a mild, precise way of speaking. He spoke in the way DIY challenged people used a hammer or a saw; apprehensively, with care, and in constant fear they would eventually land themselves in the ER.

Coming face to face with the younger man, Jensen was reminded that, although you tended to remember Max for his hubris and blunt comments, what lay behind the attitude was a person who was exceptionally intelligent but lacked the instinctual ability to read social situations.

No matter how hard he tried, and he did try, he never quite stayed on that thin, blurry line that distinguished confidence from arrogance.

On the other hand, Max had never worked where Jensen was in charge of HR; steered by Ella and Chris’s steady hands, befriended by Matthew, and nurtured by Jensen, he would make certain Max flourished.

“How’s the cottage, Max; have you settled in?”

“I have to paint my bedroom. The wallpaper doesn’t line up; there’s a place by the south-facing window where it’s been mismatched. It’s annoying. The sound of the ocean is nice. Relaxing. And I enjoy walking barefoot in the sand.”

“That’s good.” Jensen smiled encouragingly. “We’ll talk to Nat about the bedroom. If you don’t want to paint it yourself, I’m sure she knows someone who can help you for a reasonable price.”

Nodding, Max said, “When?”

Distracted by Jared breaking out in a loud laugh, Jensen said, “When, what?”

“When will we speak to Natalie about my bedroom? I don’t want to paint it myself.”

Focusing his concentration and tearing his eyes away from the alluring lines of Jared’s long neck thrown back in mirth, Jensen said,

“After the meeting, Max. When we’re finished for the day, we’ll speak to her before she leaves. Is that ok?”

Nodding, Max smiled. He said, “That’s fine. There’s a pullout couch in the living room; I can sleep there for now.”

Kent had rigged up a large table in the middle of the dining room, and it stood there waiting, laden with cold cuts, snacks, open-faced sandwiches, and thermoses of varying sizes.

Jensen had objected when Nat suggested the dining room, worried that they’d waste a day needed for renovations. But, she’d assured him the contractors wouldn’t be working that day; something needed to dry or air out, Jensen hadn’t been paying much attention to the specifics.

Once everyone was seated and had served themselves from the array spread out before them, they all turned to look at him. Dryly, Jensen noted that, even though three of the four owners were sitting at the table, it was assumed Jensen would be heading up the meeting.

On the other hand, not having to waste time on being smooth and surreptitious made things easier. Jensen let his gaze travel around the table and briefly met everyone’s stares to acknowledge them individually.

“Welcome. It’s so great to see you all sitting here together. This whole thing happened so quickly, I feel like I’m constantly one step behind, and yet here we all are.”

He watched as everyone smiled and nodded. He said,

“Under normal circumstances, this would be the point where we begin the slow, steady process of building a strong team. I’d force you to do trust exercises and take part in team-building puzzles and challenges.”

The look on their faces said it all. Jensen smiled. “Fortunately, we don’t have time for that shit. These are not normal circumstances. Our financial situation is precarious, and we’re on an extremely tight schedule. Everyone around this table has gambled everything on this working; on us raising this restaurant, and this hotel, from the dead.

“You all have quirks and prickly personalities; you’re also all brilliant. I handpicked every one of you because I believe you can deliver something outstanding. I prefer a work environment where I can help you achieve the results we need by inspiring, encouraging, and supporting you. That’s what I want moving forward; that’s what we need. I want us to take this day, introduce ourselves properly to one another, examine what each one of us brings to the table, and discuss how we’re going to turn that into one cohesive, high-quality experience for our guests.”

He paused to meet the stare of the people now watching him with solemn, determined expressions.

“But, before we do that, I need you to understand our situation. Let me be blunt; I don’t have time to baby you or cater to your egos. We don’t have the money or the reputation for you not to get along, for you not to cooperate smoothly, and we don’t have time to work out any tangles in our communication. We can’t afford a bad season. I don’t care if you hate each other; inside of these walls, you will cooperate. You will be a team.

“Whatever you believe you’ve risked or sacrificed being here, be sure that the person next to you has risked and sacrificed just as much. We are all in this together; we succeed as one, or we all fail separately. If we can’t make this work, this business will fail—promptly, and no one in this room will walk away unscathed.”

Pausing for effect, Jensen said, “Do we all understand our situation?”

The looks he got in return were sober but resolute.

The meeting took all day. Thermoses were refilled, lunch cooked and eaten, and eventually dinner as well.

Kent told the hotel’s history and explained, without self-pity or excuses, how they’d ended up in this dire place. Nat explained their current situation and their short-term plans; power points were shown, spreadsheets examined, and budgets reviewed.

Chris introduced his creative vision for the restaurant going forward, while Jared explained their planned design and aesthetic. Cho’s presentation was professional, competent, and. . . colorful; poor Max was wide-eyed and blushing by the time she’d finished. Cho looked delighted and leaned in to whisper something in his ear but stopped mid-way when Jensen gave her a long death stare that said: You break that boy, and I will destroy you.

Maggie and Ellas’ presentations were brief and succinct, but they got their points across. As their eyes met across the table, Jensen saw something click and knew they’d wordlessly found each other.

That left Max. Jensen saw the nerves jittering under his skin as he prepared to explain what he wanted to do. Clearing his throat, he changed position on his chair and fixed his gaze, so it enveloped the table but didn’t actually make eye contact with anyone. He said,

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Oregon has a wine belt.”

Jensen thought it was a decent start. The: I don’t know if you’re aware, signaled that he’d at least considered that, maybe, the people in this room weren’t complete morons.

“It runs, roughly, from the area around Springfield up to Portland. There’s well over a hundred small independent wineries; at least fifteen of them are located less than an hour’s drive from here.”

Fingering his bowtie as he paused briefly. “This hotel has a long history and a strong attachment to this town. Chris, you’re a chef focused on natural flavors using few but high-quality ingredients sourced locally. Cho, you’re creating a branding that centers on us rising from the ashes, fighting the big, impersonal hotel chains. That’s the common thread I want to build on; history, locally sourced products, and independence.”

Max paused once more as if prepared to be interrupted or challenged, but no one spoke. Instead, they waited for him to continue.

“There’s some truly excellent wine produced in this region. As you’re aware”—Jensen was impressed, this was humility on a level Max hadn’t shown before—" the trend in fine-dining is community and regional produce. The same is true for wine and beverages. There’s a reason craft beer has become so popular; people are searching for something genuine. Both wine enthusiasts, and the average conscious consumer, are tired of fifteen-dollar wines produced on an industrial scale.

“They want to experience something authentic; they want a story. We can’t compete with the wine cellars of established fine dining restaurants. We don’t have the budget. It’s impossible and, frankly, unimaginative. It’s boring.

As Max paused, Jensen let his eyes sweep across the table. Chris’ eyes were fixed intently on the younger man, his fingers playing with the tiny hairs beneath his chin. Kent was focused, his attention sharp and nodding to himself as Max began to speak once more.

“We should build a wine cellar focused on wines produced in the Oregon wine belt. It’ll make us stand out, give us our own niche, and it’s a decision in tune with current trends. I have a working relationship with five local wineries. I’ve had brief contact with three others, and I’ve exchanged contact information with several more at industry events. I would like to continue to build these relationships. If I can serve a guest a fantastic glass of wine while telling the story of that particular winery, and we can then offer them an excursion to that same winery the next day, that’s great service.”

“Yes.” Max jumped at the interruption but didn’t object as Cho said, “And, it’s great fucking branding.” Leaning forward, eyes alert, she said, “We can tie it into our story. We’re a small, family-run hotel fighting the big, impersonal giants by focusing on great design, impeccable service, native flavors, and using locally sourced products.”

Nat cut in, voice excited, as she said, “And in a longer perspective, we can build a mutual relationship with these wineries, helping to promote each other; both the restaurant and when we’ve refurbished the rooms, the hotel as well. We can offer day trips, arrange wine tastings, Max maybe you could do guided tours? Jared, maybe we could work out some deal with the wineries where they use your wine glasses during their tastings? There’s so many possibilities if we go down this route.”

Jensen smiled as the room began to buzz and more voices joined the conversation.

This was what he’d hoped for; there were plenty of rough edges around the table, but even more talent. He’d know that, under the right circumstances, they would complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses. More importantly, they would inspire and trigger each other’s creativity.

This meeting was a first, tiny step towards their goal, and there were no guarantees his plan would work. But, observing how this group was jumping in on each other’s sentences, the ideas being thrown into the air, grabbed and expanded by someone else, was a good sign they were headed in the right direction.

He felt a pleasant shiver travel up along his spine as Jared’s voice sounded from behind his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed him getting up from his chair.

“Gloating much?” There was laughter in his voice. Turning his head and meeting Jared’s amused stare, Jensen answered,

“I think I’m entitled.” The laughter gave way to fondness and admiration as Jared said, “Yes. You are.”

Chapter Text

JUNE

Jensen would have loved to say the re-opening of The Oceanview hotel’s restaurant was a roaring success. That people stood in line for hours and they were so fully booked you had to call four weeks in advance to get a table.

That, of course, didn’t happen. The restaurant had been mismanaged, and its upkeep neglected for a long time. As a result, it had the reputation it deserved.

And yet, the re-opening and the weeks leading up to it were a turning point.

By the time Chris’ chefs arrived, every crevice, counter, pot, pan, ladle, and spoon in the kitchen had been scrubbed and sanitized until it gleamed.

There were new stoves and, even though the rest of the kitchen had seen better days, it was clean, organized, and waiting expectantly to be used properly.

More importantly, there was no microwave; Kent had made sure of that. Jensen mused that it must have been a cathartic moment for him, pulling the machines—all four of them—from their shelf, loading them up in his car, and taking them to be recycled.

In the dining room, the worn-down carpets had been ripped out to reveal the original hardwood floor. After some tender loving care, it gleamed, the light ash coloring creating a seamless transition for the eye to the outside deck and the golden sand below it.

The tall windows had been freed from their heavy curtains, and the walls seemed to breathe again now that the outdated wallpaper was gone. A warm, misty blue created a calm backdrop that allowed people to notice the most striking feature of the room—the view.

They’d saved where they could; Jensen watched in awe as Nat made deals with contractors and local businesses that bordered on insulting. And yet, somehow, they all left satisfied. Jared called in favors from local artisans he’d lent out his workspace to, and the well-made furniture was stripped of their plastic veneer, sanded down, and given a new, neutral finish.

When everything was ready, they had a warm, open space created with the single purpose of allowing Jared’s creations and Chris’ food to shine.

Cho was present for every step of the way, the transformation documented and published. Jensen watched in satisfaction as their social media accounts filled with images and videos of Jared working molten glass into chandeliers or in front of his pottery wheel, making the dinnerware for the restaurant.

Chris had surprised him by accepting Cho’s presence and allowed her full access. There were images of Chris in the kitchen, pictures of food cooked and plated as the menu was developed.

Somewhat surprisingly, Cho loved Max. He was an old man, in a young man’s body; he wore tweed, bow ties, and flat caps. It was too hipster for Jensen, but it looked great on social media. He wasn’t sure if Cho’s fondness was because of how good he looked on Instagram, or because he was even more prone to blurting out blunt comments than she was.

Jensen had been concerned and called Cho into his office. Lounging on the opposite side of his desk, she’d snapped at him, saying,

“Jensen, I don’t fuck the helpless. That eighteen-year-old you keep going on about was a fucking beast. He was as large as Jared and had already screwed half his highschool and three of his teachers; I was sore for a week. I make bad decisions, but I don’t take advantage of people. I like the kid; he’s brusque and awkwardly bitchy—I appreciate that in a person. Besides, Max is a puppy, and I fuck wolves, ok?”

Observing her with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, Jensen replied, “I apologize, Cho. I misread the situation.”

Clearly surprised, he watched her shoulders loosen as her guard lowered. He remained silent as her dark eyes began to twinkle in the belief that she’d won another round.

Casually, he said, “Of course, Max isn’t as tough as you, Cho.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means”—Jensen smiled—” that he’s now your responsibility. Not everyone is as gallant as you, Cho. Other people will take advantage of him; you will not let that happen.”

He watched her blanch, opening her mouth to protest, but he didn’t let her.

“Max is very talented, and he’s highly intelligent, but people are a closed book to him. Intellectually, he understands that people—like winery owners—will try to cheat him or make deals that are disadvantageous to us. But, he’s not experienced enough to recognize when it’s actually happening. You are, and you will help him.”

Protesting, she said, “But, you’ve said that Chris and Ella wi—”

“Chris and Ella are in charge of the restaurant. They will set boundaries and further his education and experience in the industry. You will protect him.”

Brow creased, she snorted. “Jensen, are you giving me a pet to teach me responsibility?”

Jensen leaned back in his chair. “That’s one way to look at it.” Eyes narrowing and voice deepening, he said, “Only, in this case, if he doesn’t make it, you’ll be the one flushed down the drain.”

“You dick.” Exhaling, she said, “Fuck. Jensen, he’s going on a tour tomorrow visiting all these wineries he’s been talking to. He plans to stock up in preparation for the re-opening.”

He nodded. “I know. Wouldn’t it be a great idea if you went with him? Think of all those likable images of vineyards and the great posts you’ll get out of it.”

Cho leaned back in her chair, defeated. “What is it like inside your head, Jensen? Do you know how it feels to have someone pull a string and watch your arms move of their own accord; are we even people to you, or are we just pretty puppets?”

If there was a visible reaction, Cho didn’t register it. Keeping his features under control as icy heat pierced his muscles, Jensen said, “You’re all people to me, Cho; every single one of you. I would never, ever take advantage of my position or manipulate you. I push you, challenge you, demand that you perform on a level I know you’re capable of. But, I would never put you in a position where your personal boundaries, integrity, or autonomy is threatened or disregarded. I just wouldn’t.”

Cho grunted and said, “Fine. Am I excused? I need to find Max and tell him we’re going walkies.”

“Yes, you’re excused.” As she rose, Jensen said, “Try to be smooth, Cho. I want you to help him, not kill his confidence. I don’t want him to think I doubt his capabilities.”

She snorted. “But, you do.”

“No. I don’t. I don’t doubt Max’s skill, Cho. I just know that people are assholes, and in contrast to him, both you and I can spot one a mile away.”

That had been a good talk, and Jensen was secretly a little smug about how well it had turned out.

That didn’t mean everything leading up to the re-opening had gone smoothly. There were bumps in the road, but not as many as Jensen had feared. Predictably, it didn’t take many days after their initial meeting for Chris and Barbara to clash, but the outcome of their tussle was unexpected.

The fight was primeval; Jensen heard the echoes all the way to the parking lot when he and Jared arrived in the morning. Walking around the back of the building, the door to the kitchen stood ajar, and shrieks, screams, and profanities in alternating pitches were flying out through the opening and bouncing against the pavement.

Jensen had stayed where he was, only intervening to stop the rest of the family from running through the doors to try to mediate. Kent was the one who’d put up the biggest fight, saying with wide eyes and suppressed panic in his voice,

“We have to stop this, Jensen. This is my”—Kent paused—“our last chance. If this goes too far and she chases him away. . . ” Kent didn’t finish, but Jensen understood. This was Kent’s last chance. A last opportunity to ensure all those years in this kitchen had amounted to something. His legacy.

With a comforting hand on his arm, Jensen said, “Kent, you’ve done your part; you fought your battle, held out, and won. This is between Chris and Barbara, and if we don’t let those two duke it out, we’re going to spend our days tip-toeing around them, waiting for the next explosive situation to defuse. They need to sort it out, and we have to stay out of their way until they have.”

When Kent made one more attempt to move towards the kitchen, Jensen stepped in front of him, put his hands on his shoulders, and said reassuringly.

“Kent, Chris isn’t a quitter. Why do you think he’s here? He loves a fight; he needs the challenge. If he wasn’t a chef, he’d probably spend his days in a gym somewhere getting his face beaten to a pulp. This has to run its course; let it.”

Kent had just been about to answer when they both had to duck as a plate came flying through the door, shattering against the ground.

Through the open doorway, they heard Chris’ loud voice bounce against the tiled walls and out into the open air. “Throw all the goddamned china you want, you fucking harpy; we weren’t keeping those ugly old things, anyway.”

Jensen smiled and gently pulled Kent away. Looking at the audience that had gathered behind them, he said,

“I’m sorry, did I miss something, or are we not working today?”

His sharp tone told everyone that they were working today, and they should start doing it right that second.

The screaming stopped an hour into the argument, more time passed, and finally, nerves frayed, Kent said,

“It’s been quiet in there for almost ninety minutes now; why haven’t either of them come out?”

Another ten minutes passed until eventually, Jensen agreed that they should investigate. Slowly, pushing open the swinging doors, they stuck their head into the kitchen.

Barbara was sitting propped up on one of the kitchen counters, legs dangling in the air like a schoolgirl. Strands of her tamed hair had tugged loose from her head-wrap and were falling around her face in soft, bouncy curls. Her cheeks were rosy, and her face set in a contented smile as she slid a fork out of her mouth.

There was a glass of wine beside her on the counter and a large bowl cradled on her lap. Her eyes were shining as she listened intently as Chris talked, his voice intense and hands wild. He seemed to be in the middle of an anecdote from his time in France when they noticed their audience, and he stopped mid-story.

Chris said, “What the fuck do you want? We’re in the middle of something here.”

Shaking his head, Jensen said, “Sorry to interrupt. We just wanted to make sure everything was ok; we’ll leave.”

Looking at Barbara, Chris asked, “What the fuck is their problem?”

Licking a few drops of stray pasta sauce from her lips, she said, “Don’t mind them, Christian; they mean well, but they always overreact. You have one little heated discussion, and it’s like you’ve declared World War Three.”

Chris snorted. “Typical.”

It had been an interesting experience and, to Jensen, an important reminder that no matter how much he planned and how good a judge of character he viewed himself to be, you couldn’t plan for chemistry; Chris and Barbara had bucket loads, somehow, their personalities just clicked.

That fight was the last one involving the restaurant’s future. Well, the last one Barbara was involved in—there were some bumps in the road as Chris, Ella, and Max had to figure out the hierarchy.

In the weeks that followed, everyone learned that, if you couldn’t find Barbara, she was probably in the kitchen, laughing uproariously to some lewd story regaling Chris’ many crude adventures in Europe.

As the day of the relaunch approached, tempers frayed; the work was nowhere near done, and everyone’s nerves were on edge.

One morning, Jensen was walking alongside Kent and Nat as they entered the dining room. The activity was feverish as Ella trained the wait staff, Max was instructing the bartenders on the wine list he’d curated, Jared and his apprentice were mounting the chandeliers on their steel frames, and Cho was hovering around them all.

As they came further into the room, they heard yelling coming from the kitchen and went to investigate.

On this day, no one was being thrown out on their ass. That didn’t mean the volume of Chris’ voice was any lower or his language any milder. As they stepped into the room, they watched Chris, frustration visible in the stance of his body, scold the woman standing in front of him.

“I don’t give a fuck how good it looks; there’s no flavor. This is supposed to be a fucking Hollandaise, and you can’t even taste the acidity—flavor is everything.”

The last sentence was punctuated with Chris throwing the saucepan he’d been holding down on the stainless steel workbench beside him. The clang it made reverberated in the room.

He turned his face towards the ceiling and sighed. “Give me fucking strength.”

As Chris lowered his head and spotted them, he yelled, “Kent! Finally, there’s a chef in my goddamn kitchen.”

Walking up to the older man, he embraced him in a hard hug. Then, without letting go of his shoulders, he pushed him an arm’s length away and said,

“For fuck’s sake, we’re three days away from opening. Can you please teach these children how to make a fucking Hollandaise?”

For a second, Kent looked taken aback. Jensen had watched him tread carefully around the kitchen, passionately involved in the refurbishments, but careful not to step into Chris’ territory.

Chris must have noticed his hesitation. He said, “Kent, I’ve been trying to be all sensitive and shit, giving you space to get used to me taking over. But I can’t run this kitchen with just a bunch of kids running around my feet; they’re talented, but, fuck—I need a grown-up in here. I need a sous chef.”

When Kent still appeared unsure, Chris let go and pulled the pan towards himself again. He picked up a spoon, scooped up a dollop of the sauce, and, without ceremony, pushed it into Kent’s mouth.

“Tell me I’m wrong; tell me that that’s right.”

Kent’s cheeks hollowed as he tasted the sauce coating the inner walls of his mouth and tongue. Jensen saw him grimace and wrinkle his nose. Mouth clear, he looked at Chris.

“They’re cocky. They think they’re a big deal because you brought them with you.” Voice sharpening and volume rising, he said, “They think they don’t have to pay attention to the basics.”

Jensen’s eyebrows shot up as the older man straightened his back, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, transforming into someone new, a person Jensen hadn’t met.

Voice scolding, like he was speaking to naughty children, he said,

“They’re big-time chefs now, and they think big-time chefs don’t have to taste their sauces.”

From the sidelines, Chris came up and held up a chef’s jacket, holding it open so Kent could slide into it; it fit like a second skin. Jensen amended his thoughts. It wasn’t a second skin. It was a part of him, like the absence of it had robbed him of his true self.

Picking up an empty saucepan from a nearby shelf, Kent slammed it down on the metal bench.

“Alright, children, back to basics. What are the five mother sauces of the classic French kitchen?”

When no one gave an immediate answer, punctuating each word with a clap like he was beating out a rhythm, Kent yelled,

“Béchamel. Velouté. Espagnole. Hollandaise. Tomato. Today, you’re going to make all of them. You’re going to make them over and over until you get it right. No one takes a break until you’ve given me a perfect version of each and everyone.”

A polite cough turned his attention to Nat, who said, “Dad, I hate to interrupt your fun, but we’re supposed to have a meeting now, Hillside Farm, remember?”

Brow creasing, Kent said, “I don’t need to be in the meeting. You know what we need, what we’ve agreed on. Go to your meeting, I have work to do.”

As she and Jensen walked out, Nat turned her head and looked into the kitchen at her father. “Do you think he’ll be ok? I mean, he’s not exactly in his prime.”

Looking in through the swing doors that had been propped open, Jensen watched Kent move between the other chefs in the room, correcting and instructing with words too muted to hear in the busy room but gestures that spoke volumes. He said,

“I think, at this moment, your dad feels more alive than he has in a decade.”

All in all, Jensen thought the re-opening of the restaurant went better than expected.

No one quit, no one got hurt, everything was ready on time, and, with a few minor hiccups here and there, they came out on the other side, stronger, better, and more hopeful than he’d expected.

Opening night, there weren’t lines of people waiting to get in, nor the following night, or the one after that. But, as the weeks progressed, Chris, Kent, and the team put out one great plate of food after another, and word-of-mouth spread.

Cho pulled strings, made calls, worked the local media, and a favorable article in the local newspaper convinced some locals to return. Once the tourist season kicked off, slowly but steadily, business picked-up.

Day by day, plate by plate, they chipped away at their old, tarnished reputation as positive on-line reviews overtook the many bad ones.

Then, one day in mid-July, it was like someone, somewhere, pulled the stopper out of the bottle, and the crowds poured in.

Jensen was sitting with Barbara discussing an incident with one of the staff, showing up drunk to their shift. The employee had been sent home and they were planning how to handle the disciplinary meeting the following day when an abrupt knock sounded on Jensen’s office door.

Jensen immediately recognized the girl as one of the wait staff. She looked flushed and out of breath as she blurted out,

“Ella says you have to find more staff, now.”

When Jensen and Barbara both let out a confused, “What?” She blurted out, words hurried and overwhelmed,

“People just keep coming. Inside is full, the outside deck is full; people are waiting in line for lunch. Chris says the kitchen is coping, but we don’t have servers or dishwashers to clear the tables fast enough to keep the flow; people have to wait to pay their bill, and we’re getting backed up.”

She took a breath, exhaled, and said, “We need more people. Now.”

Looking at Jensen, Barbara asked, “Do we have more staff?”

Jensen shrugged. “Not that I can get here in the next ten minutes. I have a few spontaneous applications I could look at again and maybe get in at a few days’ notice, but now? No. The only ones we have are on their day off, and they need that.”

Slightly out of breath and visibly overwhelmed, Barbara asked, “What do we do?”

Taking a breath, Jensen took a split-second decision, grabbed his phone, and said, “I’ll call Jared, see if he can come in and help, then I’ll fetch Cho. You get Nat and talk to Maggie, see if she can spare anyone from housekeeping, then we’ll just have to roll our sleeves up. Everything that doesn’t have to get done today will have to wait; we can’t afford unhappy guests. Not now.”

Listening to Jensen, it was as if all indecisiveness ran off the older woman. Expression transforming into one of determination, she nodded and said,

“Right. I’ll get Nat, talk to Maggie, and meet you and Cho in the kitchen in five minutes.”

His phone already pressed against his ear, Jensen gave her a thumbs up and watched as she hurried away.

The rest of the day passed in an intense blur. They made it through the busy lunch service without incidents or visibly dissatisfied guests. After, those few precious hours before the dinner sitting were stressed as they worked through all the backed-up dishes, cleaned the dining room, set the tables, and did the busy prep work.

The situation was made even more stressful by them running out of ingredients, Chris dragging Nat with him to scour up the things needed for the evening’s menu.

Through it all, everyone worked tirelessly without complaint. There was a feeling in the air, a sense that this was it; they couldn’t fail, or the entire enterprise would.

In between bussing tables and washing dishes, Jensen watched as the four members of the Padalecki family, without thought or effort, cooperated, and with silent communication, moved seamlessly around the room and the work that needed doing.

At eleven-thirty in the evening, the dinner service was over. The kitchen and dining room were clean, and they had sent the chefs and waitstaff home with words of appreciation and more tips in their pockets than they usually earned in a month.

The only people left were the Padalecki’s, Cho, Chris, Ella, Max, Maggie, and Jensen. They’d gathered around a table in the dining room and were sitting in that exhausted state when your muscles and head are humming.

Silently, they all stared into space, trying to get their buzzing heads and limbs to cooperate and stand up. No one moved. At last, it was Barbara who said, voice distant and words slurred by fatigue,

“I would like a glass of wine.”

Shoes making a dull thud under the table as she toed them off with a groan, Nat said, “Me too.”

Cho, sitting on her left, leaned her head on Nat’s shoulder and waved her hand lethargically.

Across the table, Jared continued the monosyllabic communication and grunted.

Accomplishing the Herculean feat of rising to his feet, Jensen walked towards the bar, pulling up a tray, loading it with ten wine glasses, and reached for a bottle. He was gently pushed aside by Max. He said, “Not that one; we deserve better wine than that.” Walking around the bar, he reached down, a straining sound passing his lips, then stood back up, holding three bottles.

Coming up to the table and placing the tray on it, Jensen felt his stomach cramp and asked,

“Is anyone else hungry?”

The question was met with a unison of mumbled agreement, and soon leftovers had been pulled out and heated, cold cuts and cheese plated up on a tray, and wine sloshed into every glass.

Staring into space as he chewed on a wedge of brie, Jensen heard Barbara ask,

“What’s so amusing, Jensen?”

Coming back into the present, Jensen turned his head and looked at her.

“What?”

She said, quizzically, “You’ve been staring at that wall for ten minutes, smiling.”

Jensen replied, “Don’t you think we have reason to smile? Today was fantastic; hard work, but amazing.”

“Yes but”—trailing off, she seemed to grasp for words—“I don’t know, you looked so content like you’d solved some big mystery and were basking in it.”

Jensen chewed slowly, letting the gooey cheese melt in his mouth. He said,

“Do you realize that for the past twelve hours, your entire family has been working nonstop in a stressful environment, under an enormous amount of pressure, and you haven’t argued once? You haven’t raised your voices. You haven’t complained. You have cooperated and worked together without a hitch.”

Jensen’s gaze traveled from face to face as the realization sunk in.

He said, “Not only did you work well as a family; all of you worked together as a team.”

Jensen drank deep, then said, with a smile and a hint of smugness,

“I’m smiling because today, you all proved that I was right. I was right in thinking we could turn this place around, and I was right to pick the team I did. Together, you’re a dream team; we can save this place, we can make it a success.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER

It wasn’t easy. It was labor-intensive, backbreaking work, lugging decade’s worth of accumulated junk out of the spaces now designated to become their new offices.

But, it was surprisingly free of conflict.

Barbara worked her way through the boxes with a goal-orientated determination. Jensen stayed with her, and it was fun listening to her memories. Cho joined them, documenting the journey on their Instagram. As the weeks went by, the history of The Oceanview hotel was uncovered as boxes, old furniture, and random items were pulled out and recycled, donated, and, occasionally, saved.

They laughed as eighty phones with rotary dials were found stashed in a stack of boxes and wrinkled their noses as three hundred old ashtrays were unpacked—some still covered in a fine dusting of old tobacco ash.

They poured over old leaflets promoting businesses long gone and maps of the way Newport had looked fifty years ago.

It was a pleasant experience, and Jensen went through the process feeling slightly jealous, envious of how connected Barbara and her family were to the town. He wondered what it would feel like to be so grounded, to have such a strong foundation.

Despite all the positive progress, Jensen couldn’t shake that chill. The disconcerting feeling that clouds were gathering on the horizon and something big was approaching; it was all too smooth, too easy—nothing about this family was ever easy.

And the shit storm did hit. Not while they were cleaning out the rooms, not when they were fixing them up, or even when they slowly began moving into their new offices.

The volcano erupted when they began planning the design of the new suites.

It was such an insignificant thing that made the boiler blow. If they’d kept their promise, if they’d not started the discussion without Jensen there, he might have been able to derail the argument before it began, but they hadn’t.

On a rainy day at the beginning of October, Jensen watched as his favorite shop assistant wrapped up his pink box with a delicate bow. She was just about to hand him the box as his phone rang. Looking at the display, he apologized and answered the call.

“Jared, I’m just finishing up at the bakery. Can I call you back?”

Holding the phone against his ear by one hitched up shoulder, Jensen was pulling out his wallet when Jared’s voice, rushed and strained, made him stop.

“Forget the pastry, mom and Nat are fighting; Jensen, it’s bad.”

“Five minutes.”

Turning on his heel, Jensen called out as he walked to the door, “I’m so sorry, Katie I have to go; keep that for me, and I’ll come to pick it up later. I’m really sorry.”

Jensen ran all the way to the hotel but he was too late. Entering the room, he heard Nat shout,

“The whole point of this refurbishment is to create rooms that won’t be outdated in a few years. We need to stick to neutral colors and timeless classics. We’re a seaside hotel in America, not a safari resort; we can’t plaster the rooms in a bright pink fabric with a fucking giraffe print.”

Barbara’s face was flushed and her voice shrill as she yelled back, “If they want neutral and impersonal, they can book a room at one of the soulless chain hotels littered all around us; they come to us for personality.”

“Personality? This”—Nat held up the offending piece of fabric, Jensen had to concede that it was very pink—“is not personality. This is an LSD trip on meth!”

“Well, Natalie, maybe, if you had a personality, you’d recognize one.”

In the solitude of his mind, Jensen heard himself say, “Oh, fuck.”

A choking silence settled over the room. Barbara had frozen, mouth silently shaping words that were never spoken. In the rapid, flickering movements of her eyes, Jensen saw the panic rise; she’d gone too far, and she knew it.

Natalie had gone still. For ten, slow, thundering heartbeats, the room was deceptively calm as she slowly licked her lips and then, voice low and eerily controlled, said,

“A personality. If I had a personality. When, mother, would I have had the opportunity or space to develop a personality when you suck the air out of every room you enter.”

Voice still held in that tight grip of control as it rose, she said,

“When has there ever been space for me to be an individual in this family?” She hurled the question into the room.

“With my father—the passionate chef—always in your precious kitchen. I constantly felt in the way, as if asking for your attention was an inconvenience. That wanting you to spend time with me took you away from what you truly loved.”

Kent’s mouth sat half-open, his eyes wide, head slowly turning back and forth in silent protest.

“And then, when it all fell to pieces, you spent an entire decade moping. I was twenty-three when you threw in the towel and walked out. Who do you think had to pick up the slack around here? Me.”

Huffing and shaking her head as the muscles in her tight jaw jumped, she said,

“Jared sure as hell didn’t.” Jared winched. “Not my artist brother. No. Like his father, he checks out when things don’t suit him. I was left with the mess of navigating dad’s sulking and mom’s moods. And you.”

The depths of Nat’s eyes contained an ice age in their chilly stare, her voice dripping with venom and long-repressed anger as she turned to her mother.

“You, who throw a tantrum if you’re not the center of everyone’s universe. Who’d rather run this place into the ground than risk someone outshining you. Where, in the middle of all that desperate, pathetic need for attention and fragile male egos, was there ever any room for me to be a goddamn person.”

The last sentence ended in a scream of rage, and Jensen watched as Nat’s control finally snapped. As the internal dam that had held back thirty-three years of anger and frustration collapsed, and it all came flooding out.

“I learned early on that there wasn’t any room for me to be seen or heard in this family. Remember when I was eight? I took ballet, and they chose me to dance the solo; remember that, mom? I practiced for hours after school every day. I’d sneak into the reception, find an empty room, and steal the key because the guest rooms were the only place I could find a full-length mirror.”

Her breathing had become shallow, rapid, in her fury. “Then the day of the recital came; Dad, you didn’t come. God forbid, you’d take one night off. Mom, you did come; good on you. You swept into that room in clothes so outrageous, you blinded everyone. When it was time for my solo, everyone was too busy whispering about you to even look at me.”

Hands trembling now, she lifted one to dab at a drop of moisture on her bottom lip.

“Remember, when I brought my first boyfriend home? He stayed for dinner, and you came down in a dress so low cut, your cleavage was almost spilling out. I had to sit though the entire dinner watching the teenage boy I had a crush on, transfixed by your breasts. Who does that?”

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she turned her attention away from her mother and addressed the entire room.

“That’s what it’s like to be me in this family; a father too wrapped up in his work to notice me, a mother who couldn’t stand to see me get any attention at the expense of her, and a brother who left me in charge of all this shit when he left to become who he wanted to be.”

Nat turned to Jared, tears welling up in her eyes now, her voice accusatory.

“Don’t you think I wanted to go too? Don’t you think I wanted to figure out if I was good at something else besides walking these corridors? But no; I had to stay here, keeping this place afloat, while enduring mom’s pathological need to outshine me, and dad telling me how lucky they were I chose to stay. What choice? When did I ever get to choose?”

Jared had gone pale, but he kept silent, not trying to defend or deflect her accusations. At the other end of the room, Jensen watched Barbara open her mouth as if preparing to speak, but before she could utter a single syllable, Nat turned back and screamed,

“Shut up. For once in your life, be quiet, and listen.” On legs trembling from rage and adrenaline, Nat came up to her mother, standing so close their breath collided. With tears streaming down her face and teeth clenched, she said,

“I have a personality. The only reason it’s not as noticeable as yours is because, all my life, I’ve had to contain it to juggle the emotional immaturity and self-centered needs of this family. I’ve had to put myself aside because there wasn’t room for what I wanted. What I needed. But I have a personality; you childish, narcissistic, bitch.”

She turned, stumbled slightly on her spiky heels, then walked out of the room. Jensen saw Jared reach out as if wanting to grab her hand, but the sharp look she gave as she passed him made his fingers close into a fist, his arm sinking to his side.

As Nat exited through the door, Jensen looked at the three remaining members of the family. He felt words on the tip of his tongue but he held back; their pale complexions and shocked expressions told him they wouldn’t hear him.

Jensen caught-up with Nat in the parking lot. In her distress and assaulted by a barrage of emotions, she stood, turning on the spot indecisively, as if the turmoil inside of her was too intense to make a decision.

Walking up to her, Jensen gently grasped her arm. She flinched, looked up, and was about to wrench it out of his grip. When she saw it was him, it was like the fight slid right out of her. She stumbled on her heels again, and Jensen put an arm around her waist to steady her. Voice hitching and nose running, she said,

“I have a personality; I am a person.”

Pulling out his pocket square, Jensen unfolded it and used it to wipe her face, only flinching a little as she blew her nose into the delicate silk. He said,

“You do, and you are. Come on, Nat. Let’s go someplace else.”

Jensen began walking, pressing gently against her lower back to get her moving. In the corner of his eye, he saw Jared exit the entrance. He stopped, body language hesitant and uncertain. Jensen turned and gave him a brief smile, as if to say, I got her.

Slowly, one step at a time, Jensen steered her to his cottage. It was a slow walk, one made in silence. Unlocking the door and coming inside, Jensen removed his outerwear and then turned to help Natalie out of her blazer. As his hands grasped one wrist, he felt how cold she was. He said, “I’m going to find you something warm to put on. Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll be right back.”

He made to walk away, but briefly halted as a hand grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, Natalie mindlessly following in his footsteps. He contemplated walking her over to the couch and sitting her down, but the startled confusion in her flickering eyes changed his mind, and he allowed her to follow him up the stairs.

In his bedroom, Jensen opened his closet to find something for her to change into. In her current state of mind, he felt she needed to be comfortable rather than elegant. Sitting on the bed, Jensen saw her reach for a casually discarded blue plaid shirt. She asked, “Is this Jareds?”

He nodded. Wiping her nose with the pocket square clenched in her hand, she said,

“I’ll wear that. Is there wine?”

Jensen shook his head. “No. But I have coffee.”

Voice congested with sadness, she replied, “Liar. You always have wine.”

He smiled. “That’s true. But I also have a rule never to drown difficult emotions; the only place that road leads to is AA.”

She groaned. “Really? Where was this wiseass attitude when we were getting drunk in Vegas?”

Voice calm, Jensen said, “In Vegas, we were frustrated and needed to blow off some steam; that’s not what’s happening here. This”—he made a sweeping gesture towards her—“is a full-blown emotional meltdown; wine, or tequila, will not fix this.”

She made a disgruntled sound. “I hate you.”

He shrugged. “That’s ok; you’ll get over it. Would you like me to make some coffee while you change?”

They had coffee in bed. Nat, wearing Jared’s shirt and bundled up under the covers on his side of the bed. Jensen didn’t say much, just sat there, keeping her company as the thoughts and emotions whirled inside of her. At random intervals, she would curse loudly, or the tears would start running again; sometimes, questions, clearly, part of a larger internal conversation or debate, would be thrown out into the air, and Jensen would do his best to answer them.

“What is wrong with gray? It’s practical, flattering, elegant; gray, in the right shade, it’s a really nice color.”

Jensen nodded as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Gray is an excellent color: steel gray, silver-gray, charcoal gray is a real power color, misty blue-gray is wonderful.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “Right. It’s a good color; just because I don’t wear pink doesn’t mean I don’t have a personality.”

“Of course not.” He paused, took another sip of his coffee and said, “People have different tastes; you and I appreciate good tailoring and a classic silhouette. Then, there are people like your mother, who think mixing bright orange and lime is a good idea. We are not bright orange people; that doesn’t mean our personalities aren’t colorful; all it means is that we have style.”

That earned him a smile and a small, teary-eyed laugh, before another part of her inner monologue must have taken control.

“Spiteful old hag.”

Jensen didn’t contradict her; this wasn’t the time to work through things or find solutions. Nat had decades of anger bottled up, and it needed to be released.

So Jensen sat there, mostly in silence, and kept her company. He talked when she wanted him to, listened when she needed to be heard, and handed her a fresh kleenex when she needed one.

Two hours into their improvised coffee date in bed Jensen heard the front door open. It could only be Jared; Jensen knew he’d locked the door and Jared was the only one with a key.

Nat sat in silence as they listened to soft steps ascending the stairs, then they stopped. Jensen glimpsed a large hand as a pink box was slid in through the open doorway across the floor, coming to a stop a few steps from the bed. The footsteps descended the stairs again, and shortly after, Jensen heard the now-familiar sound of Jared cooking.

Leaning down and reaching out with one arm, Jensen grabbed hold of the box without leaving the bed; opening the carton, he sighed in pleasure.

Nat looked down into the colorful array of pastries and cakes. She said, “What does your inner HR handbook say about drowning your emotions in French pastry?”

Picking up a lavender macaron, Jensen admired it, saying, “It approves wholeheartedly.”

After another two macaroons, Jensen said, “You know Jared is cooking, right? We should probably save the rest until after dinner.”

Wiping away the last few stray crumbs of the chocolate Madeleine she’d just devoured, Nat said,

“First, I can’t have wine, and now you’re being an adult, making me wait with dessert until after dinner.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Be fair; it’s more like making you wait with your fourth portion of dessert until after dinner.”

She grunted. “Can I have wine for dinner?”

Chuckling, Jensen said, “No. But you can have a glass of wine with your dinner.”

Nat looked like she was about to say something acidic, but seemed to change her mind. Jensen jumped as she yelled,

“Jensen says I can have a glass of wine with dinner; I want a huge glass.” After a few seconds, she made him jump again.

“And I’m not leaving this bed, so you have to bring the food here.”

Jared did. A short while later, he came up the stairs and stood hovering in the doorway carrying a large tray with three bowls and three glasses of wine. As if waiting for permission, he stayed in the opening until Nat said,

“Oh my God, come and sit down. Don’t make me feel guilty by standing there looking like a huge, kicked puppy.”

Jared came into the room, Nat scooting further into the middle of the bed, as he sat down on the other side of her and began passing out bowls. It wasn’t the most convenient place to have dinner, but they made it work.

As Jensen took his bowl, he looked down into it and felt one eyebrow raise. His unspoken question was cut off as Nat began crying again. She said,

“You made sausage mac’ n’ cheese.”

Jensen looked at the two of them. “What am I missing?”

Jared said, “When I was a teenager, fourteen maybe, and Nat was eight, nine years old, I hated the hotel. I hated going there after school; I hated eating at the restaurant every night. I wanted a normal life—I wanted to go home after school, like everyone else.”

Jared ate a spoonful, making tiny huffing sounds as the scalding cheese coated his tongue.

“I got into this huge fight with mom and dad when I flat-out refused to go to the hotel. So, they gave me an ultimatum, one they thought would make me prefer the hotel; they said if I went home after school, I had to take Nat with me and look after her.”

Jared ate another mouthful and said, “It didn’t deter me, and so I did. Most days after school from then until I graduated high school, I’d pick up Nat from school or the hotel if she had shorter days than me, and I’d take her home with me.”

When Jared took another bite, Nat, now composed, continued the story. “If we were lucky, dad would forget to leave us any food, and Jared would make mac n’ cheese, with cut-up sausages. I know most would prefer dad’s food but, when you grow up eating fancy restaurant food every meal, mac’ n’ cheese from a box is exotic. It’d be just us, not a whole building full of people, and we’d have dinner in front of the tv, watch cartoons and play Nintendo.”

Jensen smiled. “That sounds nice.” Steeling himself, Jensen brought the spoon to his mouth. Once his mouth was empty, he said,

“This is not from a box.”

Jared snorted. “I’m not fourteen anymore. This is made with aged cheddar, gruyere, and pecorino cheeses, a nice bechamel, handmade pasta imported from Italy, a sprinkling of panko crumbs, and a gorgeous smoked Italian sausage.”

Groaning around another mouthful, Jensen said, “Thank God.”

“Oh my God, you two are such snobs.”

“Gourmands, Nat.” Jensen’s voice was slightly muffled. “Not snobs, we’re gourmands; we appreciate quality.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, you’re gourmands and snobs.”

Jared said, “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t want this glass of eighty dollar Cabernet Sauvignon.”

Nat snatched the glass out of his hand. “I never said I wasn’t a snob too, did I?”

They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Eventually, bellies full and glasses empty, Jared said, voice low and subdued,

“If I’d known, if I’d even suspected you wanted out, I would have helped you. I don’t know if I didn’t listen, didn’t ask the right questions, or if I didn’t understand what you were saying.”

He paused. “I understood it was rough butting heads with mom all day, but I thought you stayed because you wanted to take over running the hotel.”

He paused again, then turned to look at his sister. He said, “Nat, I never meant to leave you behind; I genuinely thought this was what you wanted.”

Leaning her head against the headboard and staring at the closet doors right in front of her, Nat sighed audibly.

“I did. I do. It’s not that I would have made different choices; I just wanted it to be a choice.”

She sighed again, and rubbed her red, swollen eyes. “It’s not your fault, Jared. I lashed out because I’ve always been jealous you were strong enough to walk away.”

“I didn’t make it easier, though, did I? It never occurred to me that my leaving made it so much harder for you to do the same.”

Cradling her forehead in her hand, Nat pushed her thumb and ring finger into her temples. “Yes. Your leaving made it harder, but that’s on mom and dad, not you. Jared, I’m thirty-three years old, and I never cut the umbilical cord—I never rebelled.”

Jensen said, “Until now.”

As they looked at him, he said, “This is it. Now you choose. Now, you set some ground rules with your parents. You’re at a crossroads, you can walk away—from everything, if that’s what you want.”

Turning back to stare at the wardrobe door, she said, “No, it’s not what I want. We decided to commit, and I will—I am—committed. I’m just tired of these arguments. I know I’m not innocent in all this; I get so frustrated that I become as unbending and uncompromising as her.”

Running a hand through her loose hair, Nat said, “Can I have more wine?”

“No.”

She sighed, a tiny, annoyed sound that bordered on a whine. “You’re so mean.”

Tilting his head in what might have been an acknowledgment, Jensen replied, “I can live with that.”

Wrinkling her nose, Nat said with a challenge in her voice, “You know, I’m thirty-three goddamn years old; if I want more wine, I’ll have more wine.”

Jensen inclined his head. “Of course. The bottle is downstairs; all you have to do is go down and get it. I don’t have any authority over you or your actions. I’m simply suggesting that it’s a bad idea to drink when you’re this emotionally fragile.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then wrinkled her brow, and said, “Are there any pink macaroons left?”

Chapter Text

Nat’s meltdown meant a lot of work for Jensen; Nat was angry, Kent distraught, Barbara hysterical, and Jared was penitent, tip-toeing around his sister. Jensen stood in the middle, working on damage control.

Three days later, he’d heard everyone’s side of the story—multiple times. He’d talked people down from ledges, calmed bouts of hysterics, and assured them they were not the most dysfunctional family on the planet; they were just people, imperfect but redeemable.

In the middle of that mess, and with half of the management team going through a crisis, it somehow got into people’s minds that Jensen was the one they should turn to with problems ranging from a broken ice machine to a guest complaining that it had rained during her entire stay.

While juggling the emotional needs of the Padalecki family, Jensen found a number to a repairman in Nat’s contacts and explained to the meteorologically challenged woman that The Oceanview hotel did not control the weather.

Tartly, he’d commented, that if she’d wanted sunshine, deciding to vacation in Oregon in October was a bad idea. And no, she would not be getting a refund.

On the fourth day, using every ounce of his powers of persuasion, Jensen had carefully coaxed everyone into the same room. They sat silent, with taut lips and strained expressions, eying each other in trepidation. Nat’s outburst had rattled them. It confirmed what they’d all tried to deny, that the conflicts that periodically erupted weren’t purely about the business—it was about them, as a family.

Everyone stayed still and quiet as Jensen served them caffeine and sugar. Sitting down, Jensen said,

“So. It’s been a rough couple of days; Tuesday was difficult on many levels. But, although these types of confrontations are painful and exhausting, they can also be a beginning. It can start a process that will strengthen your relationships, both professionally and as a family.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. He said, “We have a tough conversation ahead of us. Before we begin, I’d like you to remember that this is an opportunity. We can set new boundaries, improve communication, and solve issues you’ve been reluctant to mention for fear of creating more tension.”

The atmosphere in the room was stifling and Jensen realized he had to tread carefully. Which was why, when there was a swift knock on the door, and it opened unexpectedly, his tone was harsh.

“What?”

A nervous-looking receptionist peaked in through the slit in the door. “I’m sorry, Jensen. There’s a woman downstairs who’s booked our most expensive room, and when I asked for her credit card details, she said she’s your mother and that you’ll pay for it.”

Jensen felt his stomach drop and his features turn to granite. Jaw clenched, he asked, “Tall, blonde, calls everyone darling?”

The young woman nodded and then quickly stood aside as Jensen, strides long and aggressive, walked out the door. As he passed her, he barked out,

“Cancel her booking; she’s not staying.”

Jensen heard Jared and the others call out after him as he strode down the hallway. Soon after, hurrying feet echoed behind him.

Walking into the reception and scanning the room, Jensen spotted her instantly. She was hard to miss; even now, in her late sixties, she was a striking woman. In her heels—slightly more sensible these days—she stood tall over most other women in the room, standing head to head with Jensen, her body still slim and well-toned.

Taking her in, he had to admit that she’d been smart with the work she’d had done; he could see the areas she’d had surgically improved, but they were tasteful, discrete.

She’d carefully maintained a beauty that had always been there, allowing herself to mature gracefully, but not grow old and worn.

Noticing him, her full, red lips settled into a soft, supple smile. One finely sculpted eyebrow slightly curved, she asked,

“Darling, what happened to lunch?” Without waiting for an answer, Jensen watched as she moved towards him, subtly reading the room and the people standing behind him.

“Four weeks I waited for you to accept my invitation. And, when I finally grew tired of waiting and went to see you, you’d moved. Seriously, Darling. That’s rude.”

Reaching him, she let her slender hands move to the lapels of his jacket, smoothing out non-existent creases as she ran her palms across them. Arching her neck gracefully to the side, she looked at him through her long—fake—lashes.

“Darling, be honest, did you miss mommy?”

Jensen felt his muscles tense but kept his features smooth. Taking in the room, he searched for guests that would force him to keep civil. Thankfully, being the time of day when old guests had already checked out, and the new ones hadn’t arrived yet, the reception was empty except for employees.

With a smile sharp as a razor’s edge, Jensen said, “No, not particularly, you evil bride of Satan.”

If, until that point, there had been a low buzz of activity going on around him, it ceased; everyone froze as all sound in the room died.

He was impressed by how fast feigned hurt replaced the flash of annoyance in her deep blue eyes. The switch was instantaneous and smooth, undetectable unless you knew her. Her hands stayed on his chest, as she said,

“That’s charming, Dear. Not hurtful at all. Really, Jensen. Four years and you don’t call, you don’t text, not even on my birthday or Mother’s Day. I could die, and no one would know how to contact you.”

Jensen's smile was savage. “A boy can dream.”

She made a tiny, high pitched little sound; a mix between a huff and a flippant laugh. “I see we have our extra bitchy suit on today. Lovely.“

Taking a step back, so her hands fell away, Jensen said, “Veronica.”

She scowled. “Mommy, Jensen.”

Snorting, and with venom dripping from his lips, he said, “Of course. Because a grown man calling his mother, Mommy, isn’t incestuously creepy, at all.“

“Don’t be filthy, Jensen. It’s adorable and, as you well know, it’s what I prefer.”

He huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Mommy, why the fuck, are you here?”

She stroked away a few steel blond hairs, smoothing her immaculate bob.

“Darling, it’s been four years; don’t you think it’s time we end this little feud; heal our estrangement? I’m sorry we argued. I regret our harsh words, mine and yours, but we’re the only family we have. It’s always been you and me; it’s time we kiss and make up.”

Jensen laughed, a breathy, cold sound. “So, you’re broke then? That’s usually the case when you get a sudden urge to heal our estrangement.”

A tear appeared and came to rest artfully at the rim of one large eye. Bottom lip trembling slightly, she put a well-manicured hand over her mouth as the tear ran slowly down her cheek.

“That’s cruel, Jensen. I’ve come all the way here to find you, humiliating myself publicly, and this is how you treat me? You’re my son, my beautiful green-eyed boy; I miss you.”

Jensen felt the stares, frowns, and sympathetic gazes already focused on the older woman; he ignored them. Calmly, he went over to a sideboard and picked up a porcelain figurine of a woman standing on top of it. Grasping it in both hands, he said,

“For an outstanding performance as the resilient, loving mother, fighting for her ungrateful child’s affection, the award for best actress goes to Veronica Ackles.”

Jensen saw her frown as her gaze sharpened; it was brief, barely detectable. For a second, her gaze flickered to meet his, and Jensen saw the challenge; knew if he didn’t relent, she’d bring out the heavy artillery. He met her stare head-on. A tiny smile flickered across her lips, then her gaze honed in on the back of the room.

Her hand left her mouth and came to rest high on her chest as if she was trying to calm a racing heart; tone accusatory and sharp, she said,

“I can’t believe you’re still this angry. How did I raise such a spiteful person?”

Jensen rolled his eyes as he put the figurine back in its place. “Well, mostly, you didn’t, did you? If you think turning up and creating a public spectacle at my place of work will embarrass me into doing what you want, you’re mistaken.

“You’re not getting any money, and you will not spend a few weeks living well on my reputation. Slither back down to whatever pit of hell you climbed out of and stay away.”

“Jensen.” Barbara’s voice was piercing, eyes wide and moist. “That’s your mother.”

His voice was hard and unrelenting as he said, “Stay out of this, Barbara.”

But it was too late, she’d found her way in. Veronica stepped towards her and said,

“It’s the most ungrateful job in the world, isn’t it? Being a mother. We try, and we try, tear our hearts out of our own chests, and it’s still never enough—they always blame us for something. No matter how hard we tried, how much we sacrificed. I don’t pretend to be perfect. I know I made mistakes, but it wasn’t easy, becoming a widow at twenty-six.”

“Thirty-four.” Jensen corrected, calmly. “You’re sixty-eight, mother, not sixty.”

The look she shot him could have shattered a mountain. “He resents me because I was forced to leave him for weeks at a time when he was a child. I didn’t want to leave; I wanted him with me all the time. But, I was alone with a four-year-old and no family or income—I had to work, and the only work I could get took me away from him. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh shut-up, you forked-tongued bitch.”

“Jensen”—Barbara’s voice was indignant—"how dare you speak to her like that?"

He said, “Barbara do—” But she interrupted him. “You’ve strutted around this hotel preaching forgiveness, understanding, and communication to my family and me for months, and this is how you treat your own mother. What kind of hypocrite are you?”

Feeling his composure fray at the seams, Jensen said with a chill in his voice,

“Barbara, I understand that you’re feeling vulnerable, but don’t compare your situation with that woman.”

He inhaled and, voice affectionate, he said,

“You are a flawed but good person and a loving mother; you’ve made mistakes, but not unforgivable ones. She”—he pointed at his mother, voice sharp and jagged—"is not. She is a liar, a thief, and a manipulative bitch who made my life hell. You are not the same. She’s an expert at reading people, and at this very moment, she’s manipulating you—using your emotional turmoil to get back at me."

“I am not a thief; how dare you.”

Jensen’s voice rose as he turned to his mother again.

“Yes, you fucking are—you steal people’s money. You don’t rob their homes or hold people up at gunpoint; you trick them out of their pension funds, credit card numbers, and convince them to hand over their life savings. You are a thief, and I will not allow you to come here and pull off your tricks.”

“But”—Jensen saw the conflicting emotions whirl in Barbara’s eyes as her confusion deepened—"you have to forgive her."

Jensen shook his head. “No. I don’t. She was a shit mother: cruel, hateful, and manipulative. I don’t have to forgive her.”

“My God, Darling.” Shaking her head and lips slowly stretching into a disdainful sneer, Veronica said, “You’ve always been so melodramatic; you make it sound like I sold you to a pedophile ring.”

He huffed out a sardonic laugh. “My mother, ladies, and gentlemen, where the bar of successful parenting is set slightly above selling your child to pedophiles.”

“Stop whining, Jensen—it’s unattractive.” He smirked; her facade was cracking.

“What did I do that was so horrible, so unforgivable?”

Jensen ran a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Oh my God, you fucking sociopath.”

He sighed. “You want to have this argument—again?”

They’d had this fight so many times. It was pointless; trying to reason with his mother was like screaming into a void. Jensen thought about walking out, but it wasn’t an option. To her, retreating was the same as laying down and showing your belly. She would interpret it as a sign of weakness, and it would take weeks to get rid of her.

That was how she operated; every few years, she’d turn up unexpectedly at wherever Jensen happened to live. She’d choose a public place, make a scene, and try to make other people’s reactions guilt him into giving in. He had the first few times—it had been an emotional and financial disaster.

He’d held out the third time and the fourth, and he’d learned that if he only let it go on long enough, she’d lose her temper, and her mask would fall, revealing what she was.

With a put-on sigh, he said, “Fine. How about you repeatedly ditching me, leaving me for months at a time with fucking strangers. I never knew if this was the time you wouldn’t come back. I was six the first time. Six.”

She protested, saying indignantly, “They were not strangers, Darling. Occasionally, when I couldn’t take you with me, I left you with responsible, kind people. I was a widow, with no family to help me.”

“You did not. You’d drive into a town, find the nicest church, and con their members into thinking you were a destitute widow; convince them to care for me while you got back on your feet. The worst part is that the poor bastards always did. You’d come back a week, a month, two months later, usually around the time they threatened to call social service. You’d turn up in the middle of the night, and we’d be across the state border before they realized I was gone.”

Stepping closer, he asked, “How many times did you pull that con? How many church groups and charities did you force me to lie to as you played the poor, widowed mother? All they wanted to do was help, and before they knew what had happened, you’d stolen their checkbooks, forged their signatures, and cleaned out their accounts. You left me when I was inconvenient and used me when it suited you.”

He paused, exhaled sharply, and said, “That stupid con in Vegas.”

She groaned disdainfully, her voice now free of any trace of sadness or refinement.

“And there it is; every time, it’s always about Idaho. Would you just let it go; it was a fucking farm, in the middle of nowhere.”

Temper flaring, Jensen yelled, “It wasn’t a farm, it was an orchard; they grew apples. They were a great family; they wanted me to stay.”

“Of course they did.” Her voice was mocking. “You were cheap labor. Why pay illegal immigrants to pick your fruit when you can foster? The kids are grateful someone wants them, and you’ll look pious as fuck to your neighbors.”

“Fuck you.” He shouldn’t let her get to him; he knew she was only trying to hurt him, but this was a sore spot, and it hit right at his deep-rooted insecurities.

“You left for fourteen months. Then, out of nowhere, you turned up again. Not because you missed me, not because you wanted me, but for a con. You ripped me from a place where I had settled, where I was happy. You took me to Vegas, pulled off that stupid con, and a week later, you dropped me off at a shitty motel, gave me two-hundred dollars, and disappeared, for three months; I was thirteen.”

Jensen heard a muffled whimper behind him; he didn’t turn. He couldn’t face the expressions he knew he’d see behind him and fight this battle at the same time.

Inhaling deep lungfuls of air, Jensen calmed himself. Shaking his head, voice drained, he said, “There’s no point; something inside of you is broken—you’re unable to feel empathy and love, you always have been.”

He inhaled, moving his weight, so he stood steady and grounded. “Let me be clear, I don’t care if you’re broke. I don’t care if you have to spend your twilight years living on the streets—that’s your problem. You don’t want to be my mother, you never did, so don’t come here expecting the love of a son.”

Jensen watched her face and saw the exact moment she understood he wouldn’t relent. Face morphing into the blank, slightly condescending expression that was her default state, she said,

“It’s always about you. Do you have any idea what I had to go through? I did want to be a mother. You were planned, and I adored you. I’m not the reason your childhood wasn’t idyllic; that was your father’s fault. He broke his promise to us.”

And there she went. Jensen massaged his forehead absently as she set off into a well-rehearsed tirade, one he’d heard many times before.

“He was fat and dumb, but rich as fuck. I’ll admit I’m not overly fond of infants, and I don’t change diapers; but, the nannies were supposed to deal with that part, so I could focus on enjoying you when you were clean, cute, and quiet. It was a pain working off those pregnancy pounds, but you were a darling baby; your birth kept your father happy and my credit cards limitless.”

Jensen remained calm; age had limited her imagination, made her cruelty predictable.

Her voice grew a little softer. “Despite what you think, Darling. I loved being a mommy. I mean, you were gross and boring those first months when you looked like a little pinkish, red alien. But then you turned chubby and adorable. I’d dress you up in designer clothes and take you to lunch with my friends, and everyone just fawned over my beautiful green-eyed boy, telling me how amazing I was.”

She stopped, and then her face grew cold and arrogant again.

“We could have had a great life if your stupid, idiot father had kept his part of the bargain. Then the moron tanks his company, loses all of his money, blows his brains out, and leaves us with nothing. That asshole begged and pleaded for years for us to have a child, but when things got tough, he abandoned you. I had to watch as they auctioned off all our possessions. I was left with nothing, no house, no money, no nannies, only you.”

Jensen gave her a mocking smile. “Poor mommy.”

“Yes. Poor fucking mommy, Jensen. I’d already fought my way out of poverty once. I’d endured your fathers, sweaty, hairy body rutting against me like a big, disgusting blob of lard; laughed at his idiotic jokes, and pretended he was smarter than me when, really, he was dumb as a fucking brick.

“Mommy wasn’t made for poverty, Jensen. I endured him to escape it, and I would have continued to endure it for you, so you wouldn’t have to grow up the way I did. He took that security from us; forced me to go back out there and earn us a living. Mommy wasn’t made for working, Jensen. Do you know how hard it is to attract a rich boyfriend with a four-year-old on your hip?”

Voice neutral, Jensen answered, “Yes. You’ve told me repeatedly. But, please, go on, one more time won’t make a difference; tell me how difficult it was for you to have to care for your child.”

“You were a pain, but at least you were cute as fuck; everyone adored you. Then, suddenly, you went all awkward, and for a few years, your front teeth didn’t fit your face, and your freckles were out of control. What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

“But, then. . . ” She smiled, stepped closer. Jensen stayed cemented to the floor, knew if he took a step back, she’d go for the jugular. Coming up close, she put her hands on his face, her thumbs caressing his cheekbones. “Then, you turned thirteen, and my God, that’s when you could really see it, what you’d grow into. Considering what a troll your dad was, it’s a fucking miracle you turned out so damn pretty.”

Sighing audibly, face bored as he pulled himself free from her hands, Jensen said,

“Is there a point to this? It’s tedious having to listen to you spouting the same shit I’ve heard a million times before.”

“The point, Darling, is that this”—she gestured around the room—"is a waste of your time. You should be in LA, seducing movie stars; with your face, we should be drowning in diamonds and sipping champagne in our mansion. But the second you became useful, could have paid me back for all my troubles, you left me—your mommy. And for what? You chose this; what are you doing in this shithole town? Why are you wasting your time on these people?”

Head tilted and face set in an expression of pity, Jensen said, “I’d explain it to you, but you wouldn’t understand; you can’t—you’re too damaged.”

“Damaged? I’m the only one who ever thinks clearly; thankfully, you didn’t inherit your father’s looks, but you sure are as stupid as him.”

Patience having finally reached its limit, Jensen said, “Listen, you demon spawn, there’s nothing for you here. No money, no con, and no mansions. I washed my hands of you over twenty years ago, and you keep popping up. Not because you want a relationship, but because you’re getting too old to trick men out of money and expect me to carry on the torch.”

Voice increasing in strength, he said, “There’s nothing for you here. Now walk out those doors and get out of town before I’ll call a priest and have you exorcised.”

The slap was hard, stinging, but Jensen only laughed. “There you are, Mommy. And here I was, thinking you’d gone soft.”

Jensen watched as she prepared to strike again, but before he could dodge, a shadow moved past him, and he watched his mother stumble as a hard slap forced her head to the side.

Momentarily in shock, Jensen watched as Barbara slapped her again before she’d had time to compose himself.

Voice as sharp and clear as a diamond, she said, “Get. Out. You have thirty seconds to vacate my hotel.”

Cheek cradled in her hand, Veronica looked past Jensen and sneered. She opened her mouth to speak when the air moved around Jensen again as Jared strode past him. Effortlessly, he reached down and draped the older woman over his shoulder; shocked, she hung there silent and unmoving.

Voice calm, Jared turned to the woman behind the reception desk and asked, “Did she have any luggage?”

A large suitcase was quickly collected, and Jared grabbed it with his free hand and walked out. As the doors swung open, Jensen met his mother’s furious gaze; watching her hang there, he knew this was a humiliation she would neither forget nor forgive.

Stunned into inaction, Jensen watched through the glass doors as Jared carried the woman and her luggage to the hotel’s border and deposited them both carefully, beyond it.

To his side, he watched as Nat came to stand beside Barbara, arms encircling her waist and chin resting on her shoulder. Barbara’s chest was heaving, and her gray eyes stormy as she reached up with one hand, caressing her cheek.

Jensen felt someone come up on his other side; Kent carefully reached out and tentatively patted Jensen on the back as they watched Jared point towards the distance, his movements controlled and precise.

They couldn’t hear what was being said, but, at last, the unexpected reinforcements made her capitulate and walk away. Inside they all waited until, satisfied, Jared loosened his shoulders and came back inside.

As the door closed behind him, the room stayed silent; the shock still thick in the air. Jensen avoided Jared’s eyes and, wanting to defuse the tension, said, “Sorry for the interruption. Let’s leave the lobby, and we can pick up where we left off.”

He felt their looks boring into him from all directions. Slowly, carefully, Nat said,

“Jensen, we’re not having the meeting today. We’re fine, and you need a day off.”

Waving her words away, Jensen smiled. “I really don’t. I’m fine. We need to sort out your situation.”

“No, we don’t. Our situation is under control, and you need a personal day.”

“Really?” Jensen’s eyebrows rose. “Thirty minutes ago, the air around all of you was so tense you could hardly breathe; now, suddenly, everything is fine. What’s changed in thirty minutes?”

Wiping away a stray tear, Nat said, “Perspective, Jensen. The past thirty minutes have given me a large, unpleasant dose of perspective.”

She looked past him. “Jared?”

He felt a soft pressure at the small of his back; turning swiftly, Jensen faced Jared. “I’m fine.”

Jared nodded. Voice calm and soft, like he was speaking to a wounded animal, he said,

“Ok. You’re fine. But”—Jensen watched as he searched for the right words—"if you had just witnessed an employee involved in an exchange like this, would you tell them to keep working or send them home for the day?"

Jensen couldn’t protest. Inhaling to keep his face neutral, he said, “Of course. I’ll get my coat.”

Walking out through the entrance, Jensen kept his back straight, and his gaze faced forward. Walking across the parking lot and passing Jared’s truck, he felt a hand clasp his elbow.

“Where are you going?”

Swallowing, face blank, and eyes turned away, he said, “I’m going back to the cottage. You don’t have to come. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A hand on his jaw forced him to meet Jared’s determined eyes. “Jensen. Get in the fucking truck. Now.“

He thought of pulling free and walking away, but the ferocity in Jared’s penetrating stare made him relent. Jared wouldn’t budge; he could tell. He forced his aching muscles to relax and allow themselves to be steered to the passenger side of the truck.

He stayed mute, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery the whole way back to the house. For once, Jared accepted the silence.

As they walked through the doors, Jensen put away his coat and laid his laptop on the kitchen island. As he opened it, Jared asked,

“What are you doing?”

Jensen kept his tone casual. “I have a lot of work to do. Since I can’t do it in my office, I’ll do it here.”

He felt the air behind him grow warmer as Jared came to stand behind him. Turning to face him, he said, “Look, there’s no need to hover around me. I’m fine.”

Brow creasing, Jared nodded. “So you keep saying. I’m not sure if it’s for you or for me. If it’s for my benefit, I’ve got to tell you, it’s not working.”

Annoyed, Jensen turned his back on him and walked around the counter, grabbing a bottle of wine. Jared came up behind him, took it out of his hand, and put it back on the shelf. When he placed a hand on his shoulder, Jensen shrugged it off, irritation making his skin prickle.

“What are you doing? I’m fine.”

Eyes intense but worried, Jared said, “I’m trying to comfort you.”

His huffed out laugh was hard, annoyed. “Why? How many times do I have to tell you? I’m. Fine. I’ve been through this plenty of times; I can handle it. I don’t need comfort; I’m fine.”

When Jared didn’t answer and just stood there, Jensen exhaled sharply and made to push past him.

“I knew coming here was a mistake. This is why I don’t talk about my past; people can’t handle it.”

Shaking his head, Jared moved, blocking Jensen’s escape route. “That’s unfair—I can handle it. But, you have to give me some time to wrap my head around what just happened. I knew your childhood wasn’t perfect; I understood there were issues, but, you said your childhood was, and I quote, a little unstable. Having your father commit suicide when you were a toddler, and being raised by a narcissistic career criminal, isn’t a little unstable, Jensen; give me a second to process this.”

Exhaling, Jensen ran a hand through his hair. He felt the carefully tamed strands fall out of place but didn’t care. “Look. Obviously, this is too much for you. This is not what you signed up for; I get it. I’ll go back to my place. Don’t worry about it, don’t feel guilty. I’m fine.”

He tried to sidestep the large body standing firm in front of him, but Jared’s reflexes were instinctual as he reached out and grabbed him, pulling him into an embrace and forcefully moving forward until Jensen’s back hit a wall. Trapped between Jared’s chest and the wall, he tried to push, but Jared had the leverage.

“I can handle it; I’m not the one who’s running away. I’m still not a hundred percent sure I understand what the fuck I just witnessed. But, I’m not letting you walk out; you’re staying.”

Jensen felt his chest constrict and his breath quicken. The prickling in his skin pierced down into his muscles, making them tense and relax in a fight-or-flight instinct. He asked,

“What are you doing? Stop it; I want to leave.”

Arms tightening around him, Jared murmured into his hair, “I’m giving you a hug.”

Jensen put his palms on Jared’s shoulders, shoving against them. Jared’s heavy body had his arms trapped, and he couldn’t find the leverage to use all his strength; Jared didn’t budge. The prickling turned to fire, speeding through his nerves, his heart pounded, and he felt nauseous as his stomach cramped.

His breath hitched. Panting, he said, “Jared, stop. Let me leave; you don’t have to prove that you’re a nice guy. You didn’t know this shit was part of the package; it’s ok for you to walk away. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

Pulling away slightly so he could look Jensen in the eyes, Jared said, “You’re not getting away that easy. Do you really think I’m going to let you walk away; not a chance.”

Putting one hand on the back of Jensen’s neck, Jared caressed the smooth skin at the edge of his hairline.

“Jensen, stop fighting. You’re sad, that’s ok, let me comfort you.”

Making a last stoic attempt to take charge of the situation, teeth clenched to control the nausea slithering up his throat, Jensen said, “Jared, I understand you want to help, but—please—let me deal with this my own way.”

Jared grasped his face between two large palms.

“Deal with it? That’s not what’s happening here; you’re not dealing with shit. You want to know what I think? I think you’re terrified. Ever since you came here, we’ve all been in awe, seen you as some sort of messiah, always on top of things, always in control. And now, you’ve been unmasked. Suddenly, it’s obvious to everyone, to me, that you’re not invincible, that your life is messy just like ours; that you’re a person.

“I think you’re feeling vulnerable, and you hate that. You’re afraid to be rejected; that, knowing not everything about you is flawless, will somehow change how I feel about you. Now you’re trying to walk away before that happens so you can tell yourself it was your choice. Well, fuck that. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you; I won’t let you.”

Jensen felt the pain rip up through his throat like barbed wire and forced his breath to leave his body in stuttering, agonizing pants.

Facing Jareds unbending determination, he mustered all his strength and pushed at Jareds larger body once more, desperate to get away. Jared was straining now, moving his legs to keep his leverage, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing, but he didn’t budge.

As his vision clouded, Jensen blinked rapidly to clear it but couldn’t. His hands, still on Jared’s shoulders, clenched in the fabric of his shirt as his insides cramped, every single atom in his body tensing. It hurt; the pain rippled through him, demanding release; the only way to make it stop was to let it out or push it down again.

In between excruciating pants, he pleaded,

“Jared, please. Stop. Let me go.”

Jared’s answer was short and firm. “No.”

Jensen was trapped. Exhausted. Assaulted from all angles, by the pain wanting to burst free and Jared unrelenting in his determination to force Jensen to face his emotions instead of pushing them down. Inhaling, the agony making his breath wheeze, he tensed his arms once more to push, but his strength was spent.

Fingers fisting the fabric in Jared’s shirt, he loaded his last bullet and took the shot.

“Jared, stop picking at my scabs; if you don’t stop, my wounds will open, and you’ll see how damaged I really am. It isn’t pretty. So, stop, and walk away. It’s ok.”

Jared’s arms came down to wrap tightly around him again. Voice unyielding, he said,

“No.”

Exhaling in defeat, Jensen’s body deflated as he leaned his forehead against Jared’s chest. Feeling his surrender, Jared loosened his hold and kissed him on the top of his head.

Jared’s hand was soft on his neck, and his breath warm against his ear as he said in a coaxing voice, “Come on, let’s get you comfortable.”

In a haze, Jensen stood swaying on trembling legs as Jared helped him out of his jacket, vest, and tie, unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt, and unbuckled his belt, removing it. A large palm on his abdomen steadied him as his shoes were removed and his shirt untucked.

Then, Jared’s arms were around him once more. Eyes closed, Jensen felt himself moving in tandem with the body holding him across the room and sinking down on the large leather couch.

Keeping his eyes closed as they laid down in a comfortable embrace, Jensen focused on calming himself. Ear pressed against Jared’s chest, he counted his heartbeat and timed his breathing to the steady rhythm.

The piercing fire had finally died down, and the nausea subsided when Jared’s soft voice asked,

“Were you really alone in Las Vegas for three months at thirteen?”

Breath hitching, Jensen said, “Not Vegas, Jared. Ask about my past, but don’t start there—it’s too hard.”

Jared’s arms tightened around him as if apologizing for pushing too hard, too fast.

He said, “So, not a saleswoman, then?”

Jensen’s voice was raw. “She’s a saleswoman; she just never delivers what she’s promised.”

“She can’t be very good if she’s still at it at sixty-eight.”

Voice low and serious, Jensen said, “Yes. She is; she’s very good. Her problem is that she has no self-control. She’s conned people out of millions, Jared. Millions.”

Calloused fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. “What do you mean, no self-control?”

Wetting his lips, Jensen said, “It means she spends money as soon as she gets it. We’d live weeks, months, in shitty motel rooms, or out of whatever car she was driving. Then, she’d pull off a con, and suddenly we were staying at a five-star resort in Miami or a luxury cabin in Aspen for six months straight.

“I’d wear clothes two sizes too small from the Salvation Army, the week after I was wearing designer brands. She never saved a penny; never put anything aside for the future or even the next week. Some people live paycheck to paycheck, we lived con to con; one week at a motel six, and the next in unbelievable luxury.”

He heard Jared fumbling for words as if trying to find the right order. “How does something like this even work? I mean, what about school?”

“Officially, I was homeschooled. She taught me what she thought I needed to know, not so much for my benefit; having an illiterate, uneducated child would have made her look bad. But, I had no formal education until I left at sixteen and started taking night classes to get my GED.

He paused. “You have to understand, she’s extremely intelligent and mostly unburdened by emotions like guilt, remorse, or empathy. She’s not a psychopath; she understands emotions—feels them—she just doesn’t believe other people’s needs have any relevance unless it benefits her.”

Jensen faltered, trying to find the word to describe a life no one could understand unless they’d lived it.

“We existed below society’s radar; we were never the same people for long. We lived on the road, we never had an address. She had a glove compartment full of fake ID’s. When she started using cell phones, she kept five of them, each with a different phone number tied to a specific fake identity. Then, every few months, she’d destroy everything tied to those identities and never use them again.”

Jensen’s head slid down on Jared’s arm as he changed positions. Jared asked,

“And, she’s always like this? This. . . awful.”

Sighing, eyes fixed on the ceiling, Jensen said, “No. My mother is the most charming, likable, and affectionate person in the world—when you do exactly what she wants. She’s a grifter, Jared. She can convince people to hand over everything they own after knowing her—or whoever she’s pretending to be—for a few days. With me, I don’t know.”

He faltered again. “I think she views me as a possession more than a person. In her eyes, she gave me life, so she owns me. I came from her body, so I belong to her, and therefore everything I do should be for her benefit.”

“Jesus.” Jared leaned his face into Jensen’s hair. “What the hell have you lived through?”

He didn’t answer, and Jared didn’t push.

Chapter Text

Jensen startled awake as Jared’s phone rang. Grunting, Jared answered it quickly, and, drifting in and out of wakefulness, he only caught snatches of the hushed conversation.

When he felt Jared sit up and get out of bed, he forced one eye open. Fumbling, he grabbed his own phone. He squinted as the display lit up; it was three-thirty in the morning. In the dark room, he heard Jared pull on his pants. Groaning, Jensen asked,

“What are you doing?”

Coming over and caressing his cheek, Jared said, “Don’t worry about it; go back to sleep.”

He frowned and pushed himself into a seated position, switching on the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jared, it’s the middle of the night, what’s wrong?”

Jared stood half undressed, with a sweater in his hands. He said, “Jen, you’ve had a rough day, let it go; we’ll handle it.”

“Now I’m really worried.” Jensen threw the covers off and stood up. “What’s going on; who was on the phone?”

Jared looked at him, hesitated, then said, “It was Nat. Dad called her; I’m not sure how bad it is but, apparently, mom’s having a meltdown in her office.”

Pulling on his shirt, he ran a hand through his hair. Walking up to Jensen, he said,

“You’ve already dealt with one mother today; you don’t have to deal with this one too—we’ll handle it. Please go back to bed.”

“Jared”—Jensen pulled out of Jared’s arms and walked to the closet—“if your mother is having a meltdown now, it was probably triggered by what happened today; I’m coming, end of discussion.”

Walking into the hotel twenty minutes later, the night receptionist quickly directed them upstairs. Kent and Barbara had been in their offices for decades; cleaning out their rooms was a slow job, and they had plenty left to do.

As they stepped onto the landing, they hurried down the corridor and saw Nat and Kent hovering in the doorway to Barbara’s office. When she saw him, Nat gave Jared a piercing look.

Defensively, he said, “He woke up when you called; he insisted.”

Pushing past them both, Jensen said, “Would the two of you stop, I’m—” Jared raised an eyebrow, “—coping. I’m dealing with it; and now, could you please stop fussing so we can deal with that.” He pointed towards the mayhem that lay beyond the threshold.

The room was wrecked; papers lay strewn all over the floor, chairs were smashed to pieces, delicate side tables had been toppled, and decorations and paintings lay shattered in piles all over the room.

Barbara stood in the center, her hair loose and wild, eyes wide, breast heaving, and skin dewy with sweat. She held a broken chair leg and was hammering on the large, mahogany desk, uttering nonsensical sounds of rage.

Looking at Kent, Jensen asked, “How long has this been going on?”

Kents expression was desperate, his eyes worried. “I’m not sure. She never really calmed down after the confrontation with your mother. She’s been on edge and agitated all day, kept to herself, and then, two hours ago, she threw herself out of bed and came here. I had to take a second car because she drove away so fast I didn’t catch her in time.”

“Has she said anything?”

Kent shook his head. “No. Nothing that makes sense.”

On his other side, voice shaky, Nat said, “She won’t listen; she won’t calm down.”

Jensen grabbed the door frame and carefully stepped over the remnants of what had been a dainty, wooden side table; it had ended its long life as a pile of splinters.

Walking into the room, he said softly, “Barbara, it’s Jensen.”

Turning swiftly, she looked at him, gray eyes so wild they harbored a hurricane.

“You shouldn’t be here; you should be home, resting.”

In a sympathetic tone of voice, he replied, “It’s four o’clock in the morning, Barbara; so should you.”

Turning on the spot, observing the room, she drew a hand across her forehead, chair leg still clasped in her other hand.

“I’m—” she faltered, words slow and unfocused.

“Redecorating?”

That earned him a small, brief smile before the turmoil and confusion took over again.

“I’m—I’m very angry.”

He nodded. “I noticed.” Jensen let his eyes roam over the ruined room once more, finally coming to rest on the only item still untouched. Nodding towards the portrait on the wall, Jensen asked, “At him?”

The question seemed to reignite her fury, and, eyes swiveling towards the painting, she yelled, “Yes. At him. I’m very angry with him.”

Inching closer, Jensen asked, “Why?”

Hurling the leg towards the picture, her voice broke as she screamed so loud her body folded in on itself, “Because he was a shit, father.”

The words seemed to move her into action again as she began picking up broken items from the floor, throwing them at the image. Jensen didn’t stop her. As she pelted the canvas with debris, he asked,

“Why was he a shit father?”

Halting, she turned to look at him. “How long do you have?”

“How long do you need?”

His simple statement made her stop, but only momentarily. When she spoke, it was without context or sense of time. She threw herself into a sentence that seemed part of a larger, internal rant.

“Do you know what he said when he found out he’d had a girl? I know because he told me.”

Jensen kept his face open, trying to wordlessly convey that she had his full attention.

“I don’t know, Barbara. What did he say?”

She looked at him, eyes enlarged by fury. “What am I supposed to do with that?” She launched another piece of debris. “What am I supposed to do with that? Not even her, that.”

Turning in tight little circles, she shook her hands, then clenched and unclenched them in a steady rhythm. Eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, her tone turned flat.

“That. He never forgave me, or my mother, for not being a son. That he had no other children made it worse; he had to make do with me, and it was all our fault—not his, obviously.”

Coming to stand beside her, hands in his pockets, Jensen asked, “So he was mean?”

She laughed, a high-pitched, painful sound. “No. My father was a wonderful man; ask anyone old enough to still remember him. For decades, I had to endure bumping into old acquaintances, employees, guests who told me how wonderful he was: how classy, how gracious, how hospitable—the man was a monster.”

Clasping her hands together, wringing them, she turned to the large window and looked out onto the dark ocean below. Voice fading, turning weak and monotone, she said, “My mother had the most beautiful, milky white skin; that’s why she wore long-sleeved cardigans all-year-round, even in the summer—that’s what they all said.”

She turned to face him, eyes brimming over. She whispered, the words brittle and childlike, like she was telling him a secret she’s been forbidden to reveal. “That’s not why. His hands were so big, and his fingers long and fat.”

Walking up to Jensen, she grabbed his upper arms, gripping them tight. Jensen didn’t flinch or try to move. He stood calm, facing her and her turmoil. This was, after all, what he’d been waiting for. For months he’d been challenging her, doing exactly what, only a few hours ago, he had begged Jared not to.

He’d prodded and pinched the parts of her that hurt, and now, observing the confrontation with his own mother, had pushed her over the edge, and all the pus in her unhealed wounds was seeping out.

“He used to grab her like this, shaking her when he was angry—he was always angry. He was so big, and she was petite; she’d lift right off the floor, her head snapping back and forth so roughly, I was afraid it would fall off. He held her so tight, and his fingers were so long and wide she had purple welts on her arms that never went away.”

She laughed again, a harsh, contemptuous sound. “But he didn’t hit her; that’s what he always said—how grateful she should be that he was a man who didn’t hit women; pushing, shoving, shaking, grabbing, dragging her across the floor by her hair, that wasn’t hitting. No, that was just him being upset, agitated because she was useless and never got things right.”

Breath shaking, she frowned and exhaled. Running her palms slowly up her face and through her hair, she turned again, aimlessly moving in circles on the spot. Voice subdued, she said, “She died young. She knew she’d abandon me, leaving me alone with him.” Stopping and facing him, she asked, “Do you know what she did?”

Head slightly tilted as he listened, Jensen said, “No. What did she do?”

Brow creasing, as her anger intensified again, she said, “She should have told me to leave. To run. She should have encouraged me to break free. Escape him. Escape this house of horrors. She didn’t. Do you know what she asked of me when she lay dying?”

Jensen shook his head. “No, what did she ask?”

“Forgive him.” The words seemed to throw her into hysterics as she curled in on herself, laughing. She stopped abruptly and straightened up. Walking up to him once more, eyes large and tormented, she leaned in and said, “Forgive him.” Clasping her hands over her mouth, she folded in on herself once more, Then, having to resurface for air and tears spilling heavily once more, she whispered, “How could she ask me to promise that on her deathbed?” How could she? That wasn’t fair.”

Standing motionless, voice even and soothing, Jensen said, “No. That wasn’t fair. It was too much to ask.”

She looked at him with pleading in her eyes, begging him to understand. “I tried to fight back; tried to break free. But, he was too strong.” Frowning, she looked at him, eyes searching his face as if looking for hidden answers. “How did you do it; how did you get away?”

Jensen shook his head, smiling sadly. “I don’t think I did, Barbara. Not really. I can provoke her to unmask herself, to reveal what she is. Through the years, I’ve learned to avoid her, to keep her at arm’s length, but I’ve never truly escaped; you saw that today.”

Nodding, she pulled at the ends of her hair. Voice weak and young, she said, “I tried. Once, when I was sixteen, I tried to run. I got to the bus station and bought a ticket for the first bus out of town. But, the bus driver knew my father—everyone knew him—and when the bus passed here, it stopped, and he came and dragged me off the bus. No one helped me. No one saw what he was; they always took his side.”

She frowned as the intensity of her anger rose once more. In a deep, harsh tone of voice, she mimicked, “Stay in the background. Be quiet. No one cares what you think: girls should be seen, not heard.”

She looked down, stomped her foot. “I told him. I told him this carpet was ugly, that it wouldn’t age well. Did he listen? No. Even when a failing heart made him decrepit, he refused to listen.”

Turning her head towards the ceiling, she laughed again, a tired, wounded laugh. Facing Jensen, she said, “Do you know what he said when we brought Jared home from the hospital?”

Head tilted, expression soft, Jensen said, “No. Tell me; what did he say?”

She came up to him, stood so close their noses were almost touching. Voice weak and filled with tears, she said, “Finally, you’ve done something useful.”

Pressing her hands over her mouth, she screamed out a painful laugh. Inhaling, she held her breath until Jensen was sure he’d have to intervene, or she’d faint. But she released it and said,

“My first child. I brought him home, and I was so happy; he was perfect. Perfect. And then he ruined it. It wasn’t enough that I’d made something perfect. I’d made a boy. Finally, I’d done something worthwhile. He said it like it was a compliment; he actually believed he was being kind.”

Jensen stroked a few stray curls out of her eyes and used the sleeve of his cashmere sweater to wipe her eyes and nose.

“How cruel.”

She nodded. With a voice so frail it was almost childish, she asked, “Do I have to?”

“Do you have to, what?”

“Forgive him?”

Stroking her cheek, Jensen said, “No. You don’t have to; she had no right to ask.”

She nodded, then wrenched herself away from Jensen, rushed to the wall, and ripped the portrait from it’s fasting, smashing it against the dark mahogany desk. Splinters flew across the room as the frame cracked and broke. Her scream was piercing as she hit it over and over.

“I do not forgive you. I do not forgive you. I do not forgive you.”

When there was nothing left except ripped canvas clinging to pieces of broken wood, the remnants of the portrait fell from her fingers, and she collapsed against the wall, legs slowly folding as she sank down on the floor, sobbing.

Jensen walked over, slid down beside her, his back to the wall; reaching out, he grabbed her, pulling her close. Collapsing, boneless, in a heap in his lap, Jensen stroked her back and hair as he listened to six decades of swallowed suffering finally spilling out in painful, wracking sobs.

As the sobs began to subside, he asked,

“How long have you protected his memory, hidden who he really was? How long have you carried this choking black smoke of darkness inside of you?”

Voice hoarse and crackling, she whispered, “A long time, Jensen. A very long time.”

Pushing herself into an upright, seated position and leaning her head against the wall, she closed her eyes. “I’m so tired, Jensen. How do I move on; how do you let go without forgiveness?”

Jensen sighed and said, “Forgiveness is a myth, Barbara. It was invented by people needing forgiveness, not the ones asked to give it. The key to moving on is not forgiveness, it’s acceptance. You have to accept that parts of your life were shit, that he was a shit, and then let it go.”

“Have you?”

Jensen looked across the room. Kent was hugging Nat, who stood red-eyed, one hand gripping his shirt; Jared stood beside her, his hand grasping hers.

Jensen contemplated the question. “Most of the time. These wounds, the ones you and I carry, they don’t heal. But, over time, we build fresh memories and new lives that we can use as padding around the pain. It’s like wrapping your trauma in bubble wrap and storing it in a box in the attic; it’s only painful if you open it.”

Sighing, he fixed his gaze on the spot in the ceiling. With more honesty than he’d initially intended, he said,

“I have hang-ups, behaviors, and emotional scars that affect how I think, act, the choices I make in life; I can’t fix that—those wounds are too deep. But I can work around them, build bridges across the pain, and find alternate routes that will take me away from all that and to a place where I want to be.”

She nodded slowly. Jensen turned his head and met her tired, hurt gaze. “Barbara, he’s controlled you long enough. Let go. He’s dead and buried; stop giving him power over your choices and actions. His memory hovers around you like a poltergeist; you don’t have to forgive him, but you have to let him go.”

Running a hand over her face, she exhaled. Voice pained but calm, she said, “God, I hate him.”

She inhaled deeply, holding the air in her expanded lungs, then allowed it to escape in a slow, extended breath. She turned her head forward and looked at her family.

“Kent, it’s been a long night; it’s been a long week. Could you make us some breakfast? I need to wash my face, and then we can go down to the dining room.”

Jensen watched as Kent’s shoulders sank, his lips softening. “I’ll go down and start right away. You come when you’re ready.” Letting go of Nat, he untangled himself from his children. Putting a hand on Jared’s back, he said,

“Go help your mom up from the floor.”

As if finally given permission to move, both Nat and Jared quickly walked into the room, reaching out and pulling their mother to her feet, steadying her. Before turning and walking away, Kent looked at Jensen. He said,

“It wasn’t my story to tell.”

Nodding, Jensen replied, “No. It wasn’t.”

Watching Kent walk away, Jensen rose to his feet as Barbara, Nat’s arm around her waist, took in the surrounding devastation. In control of her emotions again, she said,

“What a mess.”

Jared said, “It doesn’t matter. The plan was to rip everything out; you just started demolition earlier than planned.”

Running a hand over her swollen face, Barbara groaned, saying, “What are the guests going to say? We’ll have to give everyone a refund.”

Nat reassured her. “It’s a slow week, mom; we don’t have any guests on the third or fourth floor. No one heard you. No one was disturbed.”

Smoothing back her unruly hair, Nat said, “Come on, Mom. Let’s go to the bathroom, wash your face, and brush your hair, then we’ll go down to dad.”

Jensen watched as they disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. Soon the sound of running water could be heard behind the closed door. Jensen looked at Jareds grayish complexion, and his redshot eyes. When he noticed Jensen looking, he leaned against the wall, exhaling. Shaking his head in small, slow movements, he said,

“How did we not know? I’ve watched that portrait for thirty-eight years; I even have vague, fleeting memories of the man from when I was little. How could I not know?”

“She didn’t want you to.” Jensen walked up to him, stood close, fingers reaching out, playing with the hem of his sweater. “Jared, don’t start brooding about what you should have known or what you think you should have been told. This was a story that could only be told by Barbara, and she couldn’t tell it before she was ready.”

Jared’s only reply was a brief nod.

The breakfast was a quiet affair. They sat in silence, no one in the mood for small talk.

As the early morning staff began drifting in, they all tried to hide their look of surprise to find the five of them sitting almost apathetically around a table in the dining room. When Chris walked in a little before seven, he took one look at them and then ushered everyone away.

“God, I’m tired.” Running a hand over her puffy, bloodshot eyes, Barbara sagged even further down in her chair. She looked smaller, deflated.

“We all are.” Kent absently began stacking plates and empty cups into neat piles. “I think it’s time we all go home, sleep, rest, and recover.”

They all gave slight, tired nods of agreement. As they prepared to rise, Nat said,

“What a week.”

Jensen grunted. He said, “Can we try to go easy on the emotional catastrophes for a while? Three in one week is kind of overdoing it. Jared. Kent. You two are the only ones left; anything you want to get out of your system before we leave?”

Snorting, Kent said, “Let’s deal with the fallout from the three we’ve had this week, and Jared and I can do ours in a year or so.”

Barbara’s voice was genuine but exhausted as she huffed out a tiny laugh and said, “Sound like a plan; let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

YEAR 2

JANUARY

On the second week of the new year, Jensen walked through the entrance of The Oceanview Hotel. He stopped in the open doorway and shook the water from his umbrella. Outside, the wind howled, causing the windows to rattle as the ocean raged.

Stepping into the reception, the front desk staff greeted him with discreet smiles and nods before turning their attention back to the guests at the counter.

Allowing his gaze to travel over the lobby, Jensen smiled in satisfaction. Even with gray, depressing light spilling in through the windows, the room looked warm, comfortable, and welcoming.

Gone was the rugged, ugly carpet. In its place—sanded, treated, and waxed to perfection—the light, original hardwood floor shone. The dark walls had been stripped of their busy wallpaper and were now a light, golden cream; perhaps not the most exciting choice, but an excellent neutral base for the more colorful accents in the room.

The heavy curtains had been torn down, and the room was flooded in light, or—at least—awash in gray, rainy gloom; this was Oregon.

In the lounge area, plush sofas shared the space with comfortable tables and chairs in light wood and natural fabrics. In a nook, two high-backed chairs—upholstered in raspberry-pink velvet—drew people’s eye. One of Jared’s unique chandeliers hung in the ceiling’s center, swirling its way down towards the floor.

The room that had once been dark, heavy, and outdated now signaled air and light, with a few touches of color and style that showed the owners’ whimsical natures and artistic talents. The room was a victory; it looked good. It also represented a harmonious merging of the Padalecki families’ respective personalities.

Three months after an emotionally devastating week that had shaken them all to the core, they’d emerged stronger and more tight-knit than ever.

It had not been an easy transition. There had been difficult conversations, painful revelations, introspective soul searching, and individual journeys towards healing.

They still had conflicting ideas about how the business should be run. But, now they tried to understand one another, heard what the other person was saying—most of the time. It wasn’t easy, and they never approached a difficult conversation without Jensen present. Still, they were cooperating, compromising, creating a shared vision that might not be exactly what any of them wanted, but close enough for them all to feel content.

The result was an inviting, modern, and impeccably designed lobby and lounge area, one that hinted at more than showed their individual styles. It was a compromise; the new style was a testament that they were, at last, thinking not about getting their own way, but about what their guests wanted.

With its completion, the second stage of their plan was now finished. The first one had been to renovate their old offices to suites, they’d done that. Jared had designed five unique suites, rooms that were already drawing interest and bookings. The payoff had been almost instantaneous; even though most rooms were still in the old design, people’s first impressions were of the new look, and they could see what the hotel would eventually become. That insight was reflected in reviews and feedback.

As he walked towards the door leading to the back office, he nodded at the two painters preparing to lug a ladder up the stairs; that was one of the downsides with beautiful old wood buildings—no elevator. After completing the lobby, the entire first floor had been closed. Its rooms were given a much-needed facelift; carpets were being ripped out, unsightly wallpaper removed, and outdated furniture replaced.

They were now working their way up, going floor by floor, to stay open as renovations were underway. Jensen hoped the contractors would stick to the designated timeframe and have the refurbishment done in time for summer. They couldn’t afford delays. Refurbishing the entire hotel was a large investment and a stretch well-beyond the limit of their now meager savings, but they’d all agreed that it was worth the risk—new rooms equated to higher rates.

As he came into the back office, Jensen waved hello to the people there. He’d almost reached his office door when a warm, feminine voice called out,

“Jensen, sorry to catch you walking in the door. Can I borrow you for a minute?”

He turned and greeted the classy, thirty-ish woman who’d spoken. “Monica, good morning.”

She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I know you haven’t even taken off your coat yet. I have a situation, and I need to talk it over with you as soon as you can fit me in.”

Jensen stepped to the side, inviting her into his office with a welcoming gesture. “Come on in.”

As she walked past him, Jensen admired her plaid suit; its warm shade of blue was a lovely compliment to her golden-brown skin, and its impeccable tailoring enhanced her athletic figure.

He closed the door, set down his umbrella, and hung his coat and scarf on the hanger behind his door. Monica was already seated at the chair on the opposite side when he sat down behind his desk.

Without ceremony, he said, “Tell me.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry for jumping you like this.”

Jensen waved her words away. “Don’t think about it. If I didn’t have the time, I’d say so.”

She smiled and sank back in her chair with a huff. “It’s James, again. I understand he’s been here for ages, and I realize there hasn’t been,”—she stopped, obviously searching for a diplomatic way to express her views—“opportunity for hands-on leadership. But, this is becoming a real problem. I’ve been here six weeks, and this morning he reeked of alcohol, again; this is the fourth time since I started here.”

Jensen ran a hand over his eyes and joined in as she sighed. “Fuck.”

She nodded. “Jensen, I can’t have visibly hung-over receptionists. I’m not even sure he was sober. It’s unbelievably unprofessional, and I’m almost certain the guests noticed.”

Jensen exhaled in frustration and looked at the woman again; watched her tight, black curls bounce as she leaned back in the chair again, her movements stiff and frustrated. She was one of his triumphs, the first employee of a rival business who had jumped ship and come to work for them instead.

Monica was professional, passionate about the hospitality industry, a born leader, competent, and ambitious. Three months ago, the front office manager at The Agate Beach Hotel had retired, and Monica had been looked over for promotion, again.

With all the renovations being done, the restaurant’s success, and their improved reputation, The Oceanview Hotels’ attractiveness as an employer was on the rise. Jensen no longer had to scrape the bottom of the barrel or convince people to give them a chance; now, people came to him looking for work. This change of circumstances had seeped into Monica’s consciousness; she’d done some digging and found out who Jensen was. Being denied an earned advancement, again, was the final straw, and a few weeks later, she’d approached him.

He’d been casually interested; after thirty minutes on his laptop, he’d been excited but slightly apprehensive about broaching the subject with Barbara. Employing a front office manager meant that person would be taking on much of the work she did; it was a clear territorial challenge. The older woman was, Jensen hesitated to use the word frail—Barbara wasn’t a frail person—but the past year had taken its toll.

After her late-night breakdown, she’d become mellow, less colorful, and vivacious; she would never be a beige person, but her colors were more muted. Her personality had gone from hot pink to a more mellow rose. Nat had worried. She felt guilty, as if her accusations during her meltdown were the reason for her mother’s toned-down personality. When the subject had been broached, Barara had smiled a soft, sad smile and said,

“It’s got nothing to do with that argument, Natalie. I’ve finally realized that it doesn’t matter what I wear or how loud I scream; he didn’t notice or appreciate me when he was alive, and he certainly won’t do it now. I’m not holding back, Honey. I simply don’t need to take up as much room as I used to.”

Jensen’s concern had been unfounded; when he told her about the opportunity to hire Monica, Barbara had looked relieved; she’d been even more excited about the idea than Jensen. It had struck him then how trapped she must have felt, first by her father, then by his memory, and the weight of four previous generations’ expectations. Now, free at last, she could take a step back. And she did, with visible contentment.

Three weeks later, The Agate Beach hotel had lost one of its most promising employees, and The Oceanview hotel had a new front office manager, one who was driven and extremely good at her job. Much to the dismay of some old receptionists who’d enjoyed the low standards and slack pace.

As Jensen sighed again, there was a quick knock, and his door opened. Nat’s head peeked in; when she saw Monica, she said,

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt; it wasn’t important. I’ll come back.”

Jensen shook his head and waved her in, saying, “No, come in. We could use another person on this.”

Eyebrows raised, she stepped in and perched herself elegantly on the edge of his desk. After Jensen had filled her in, she looked at him, then Monica, and joined in the collective sigh. She said,

“Damn it. How do we deal with this, Jensen?”

He said, “I can handle an employee with a drinking problem. Your mother and I have already had one disciplinary meeting with him. The problem is that he’s worked here for twenty-five years and plays poker with your dad every other week.”

Nat groaned. Monica nodded and said, “Exactly. This place has so much potential, and with all the work being done, it looks fantastic. But, a few of the old guard aren’t holding up. They could get away with it when this place was dark, drab, and mostly empty. Now it’s not, and they’re not stepping up to the new standard. With the new image and reputation we’re building, we can’t afford bad employees. Unfortunately, that same old guard is, mostly, personal friends of your parents.”

Nat ran a hand over her eyes. She said, “I feel like this is going to spiral into a long, unpleasant discussion. Does anyone else want an eclair?”

Monica asked, “For breakfast?”

Already on his feet, Jensen said, “If it makes you feel better, you can have a croissant instead.”

She snorted. “No way. If you’re eating cake for breakfast, so am I.”

Stepping away from his desk, Jensen draped his coat over his arm, picked up his umbrella, and, pointing it in front of him, he declared, “To the patisserie.”

Ten minutes later, they had finished ordering and sat down at a secluded corner table. Nat said,

“It’s probably best if Jensen and I talk to my parents.” She paused, then, reassuringly, said, “They like you, Monica, it’s just—”

Monica cut her off with a wave of her hand. “You don’t need to explain. This discussion will be challenging enough as it is, and I’m new; it’s better if the two of you handle it.”

Jensen hummed, then smiled as their order was brought to their table. Jensen said,

“Thank you, Katie.”

The young woman, no older than twenty-one, smiled. She turned to walk away, then seemed to change her mind and, voice trembling with nerves, asked,

“I was wondering. . . ” She trailed off, clearly too uncomfortable to continue. Jensen took pity on her.

“It’s fine, Katie. Ask away.”

Glancing at the door leading to the back rooms, she said, “I was wondering if there’s going to be any openings at The Oceanview, maybe as a waitress or something?”

Jensen frowned. “I thought you liked it here.”

She shrugged. “I did. But”—she glanced towards the door again—“there’s been a lot of arguments. The owner’s daughter took over the business three months ago, and she isn’t into the French patisserie vibe. She wants us to offer things like cupcakes, cookies, and donuts, but our pastry chef refuses. They’re at each other’s throats all the time.”

Jensen’s face had gone steely. “Cupcakes, are you fucking kidding me?”

She shook her head. Jensen said, “Come see me tomorrow at nine. I’ll meet you out by the reception, and we’ll find you something.” As her face lit up, Jensen added, “If you get the chance, maybe drop my name to the pastry chef?” Katie nodded and then hurried off.

Falling back against the backrest, Jensen turned his face to the ceiling and said through a groan, “This is a disaster.”

Snorting, Nat said, “I’m guessing you’re not talking about James.”

Jensen grunted and waved her question away, dismissively, “Forget James. We can handle a receptionist with a drinking problem. But, what are we going to do about pastries if this place closes?”

Nat, voice devoid of sympathy, said, “Jensen, focus. We need a plan.”

He sighed and pushed the disturbing possibility of a severe pastry shortage away. With his attention back on solving their original problem, Jensen said,

“Look, the legalities aren’t the problem; I know what we have to do and in which order we need to do it for this to be handled correctly. The issue is Barbara and Kent. It’s probably best if Nat and I handle one each.”

As both Nat and Monica nodded, Jensen paused and took a drink from his coffee. He turned to Nat.

“You and Barbara are in a good place, let’s not open up for a potential conflict if we can avoid it; I’ll talk to Barbara, and you can deal with your dad.”

Nat nodded. “Yeah, I agree.” She sighed. “He’s not going to like it.”

Monica, voice dry and ruthless, said, “Ask him which he prefers: to keep his old friend on even though he’s useless, or a bad review saying our staff is drunk on the job.”

Closing the door behind him, Jensen grumbled and shivered as he shrugged out of his wet coat. He asked, irritably,

“When will this rain stop?”

Jared looked on sympathetically from his spot behind the kitchen counter. Placing a wine glass on the smooth surface and uncorking a bottle, he said, “If we’re lucky, April.”

Jensen shivered and groaned, pulling his shoulders to his ears as he sat down and immediately grabbed the wine glass. He said,

“It’s not even that cold, it’s the damp; it seeps into your marrow.”

Jared asked, “How was your day, rough?”

Jensen shrugged and drank deep. “It wasn’t pretty; a lot of unfounded accusations flying around.”

As he listened, Jared seasoned the filet of salmon in front of him. He asked, “How did dad take it?”

Tilting his head in a noncommittal sideways nod, Jensen said, “I’m not sure. I imagine it was rougher than he let on, even if it was the right decision.”

Jared nodded. “And mom?”

“It was fine. Your mom’s different now, easier to reason with. I think she’s known about the problem for a long time; it was just one of those things she didn’t know how to handle, so she ignored it. I believe she was relieved and content to let Monica and me handle the situation.”

“So the meeting went, ok?”

Jensen took another drink, then said, “It’s always rough letting someone go, especially when they’ve been at the company for a long time, even worse when you have a personal relationship with them. But James is an alcoholic in denial. I offered to arrange counseling, allow him a leave of absence, and help him find a good rehab program, he declined. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, and we can’t have a receptionist with a drinking problem.”

Jared nodded. “I don’t envy you.”

Jensen shrugged. “You win some, and you lose some, that’s just how it is. We lost James, but we got Monica, and she’s turning out to be incredible. She’s going to train Katie, the girl from the patisserie, to take James’ place.”

The smoking pan sizzled as Jared placed the fish on its scalding surface. He said, tentatively,

“Speaking of taking someone’s place.”

The slight hesitation in Jared’s voice made Jensen lookup and search his face.

Jared cleared his throat. “You know how I’m working on that installation, that collaboration the San Francisco hotel commissioned?”

Jensen nodded. “The one where you and several other well-known gay glass artists collaborate. Yes, I know.”

Jared’s eyes briefly left the pan as he glanced up at Jensen. “So, you know I’m hosting this get together; the other artists are coming here so we can discuss each other’s ideas, what we’re working on, and how it will all fit together.”

Again, Jensen nodded. “Yes. I remember; the first weekend in February.”

Jared rubbed the back of his neck. “So, I got a call today. One of the artists had a heart attack.”

“What?”

Jared nodded as he met Jensen’s shocked expression. “Did they make it?”

“Yes. They say he’s going to make a full recovery, but he won’t work on this project. So, they’ve brought in another artist last minute.”

Jensen felt the reluctance in the air, how much Jared didn’t want to say what he had to say.

“Remember, I told you I was in a relationship with another artist?”

Jensen nodded, keeping his features smooth as he said, “The one who was too old for you.” It wasn’t a question.

Jared nodded. “The one who was too old for me.” He stopped, letting the words hang in the air; there was no need to explain it further—it was clear who the last-minute artist was.

Nibbling the inside of his cheek, Jensen said, “Well, it was bound to happen. We had lives before each other; it would be weird if we never ran into a person either of us had been involved with.”

Jared shrugged and said, “True. But, having an awkward run-in at the grocery store, or bumping into an old ex at the movies, isn’t the same as him turning-up in my home and me spending a week in San Francisco with him.”

Jensen inclined his head as he let out an amused little huff. “True.” Running a hand through his hair, he said, “Look, Jared. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react. I”—he paused and moistened his lips to gain a few seconds’ reprieve—“I’ve always been a disaster with relationships, I’ve told you that. I just—jealousy isn’t my thing. Will it feel weird having him here? Yes, obviously. But, besides the awkward factor, is it an issue; should I be jealous?”

Jared snorted. “I haven’t seen the man in what, sixteen years? I made a clean cut when I left, and I never looked back; I was still a kid when we broke up.”

“Ok. Then it’s not a problem. The whole thing will probably be a lot more uncomfortable for you than it will be for me.”

Removing the skillet from the heat and plating their dinner, Jared said, “Good. So, apart from possibly awkward situations, it’s not an issue.”

Jensen smiled in confirmation. “It’s not.”

They were half-way through their dinner when Jared asked, “Would it bother you if I slept with someone else?”

Fork stopping half-way to his mouth, Jensen felt momentarily caught in a giant spotlight. Watching his reaction, Jared said,

“I’m asking because it’s never come up. You and me, we instantly melded into this, what we are, and we never had the big talks you usually do when you’re in a relationship. So, would it bother you?”

As he placed his fork carefully against the plate, Jensen heard the blood whooshing in his ears and a sledgehammer beating out the rhythm of his heart. A million different answers whirled though his mind; casual, open-minded, carefree responses. He tried to imagine Jared slipping into bed, smelling like someone else—his stomach cramped. Inhaling, he settled for honesty.

“Yes. It would bother me.”

“Good.” Jared smiled a tiny satisfied smile. “So, it’s decided.”

Jensen laughed. “Yes, it’s decided; you won’t sleep with anyone else.”

Jared guffawed, but there was a glimmer in his eyes when he said, “Neither will you, Darlin'.”

Keeping his tone aloof, Jensen said, “Oh? So, it would bother you if I slept with someone else.”

Eyes narrowing, Jared replied, “Bothered, isn’t the word I’d choose.”

Jensen felt a tightening below his navel; a pleasant sensation that flowed around his hips, down his thighs, and up along his side, spreading out in a sprawling pattern along his ribcage, all the way up until it ended with a tingle and a shudder at the base of his skull.

In a voice that seemed sprung from a whiskey bottle, Jared asked, “Finish dinner later?”

Jensen deigned to answer. He stood and headed towards the staircase, Jared’s breath hot on his neck as he ascended the stairs two steps at a time.

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY

Jensen wasn’t sure what the established custom was for meeting the ex of your. . . special someone? Boyfriend? Partner? How was he supposed to know how to deal with Jared’s ex turning up when he couldn’t even say what he and Jared were?

He wasn’t deluded, and his commitment issues weren’t that deeply rooted; he understood he and Jared were a—thing? Couple? Twosome? But, he’d never put it into words; he’d never needed to. Jared was just Jared. Jensen spent time with Jared. Had sex with Jared. He stayed at Jared’s.

It was never: I’m meeting my partner for lunch; it was always Jared and I. That was enough. They were Jared and Jensen; this thing didn’t require further elaboration.

Now, someone from the outside, someone with whom Jared had years of shared memories and experiences, was coming, and things didn’t feel as effortless.

Jensen moved restlessly from side to side, casually making his office chair swing back and forth. Uncharacteristically unfocused, he drummed one finger on his desk, the slight edge on his nail creating a satisfying tapping sound.

It wasn’t that he felt jealous or even insecure. This wasn’t a reunion with a long-lost love. The guy hadn’t broken Jared’s heart; this was someone he’d left behind without ever looking back.

Jensen felt secure; he was certain he wouldn’t come home and find his things by the door. Home. That was the problem; when had he begun thinking of Jared’s place as home?

But it was home. Jensen lived there. He still rented the cottage, but the only things of his in it were a few changes of clothes, some extra toiletries, and his map. That was it. Everything else had, inconspicuously, made its way into the closets, shelves, and cupboards in Jared’s house.

It hadn't even been a conscious decision. There'd been no discussion. Jensen hadn’t been given a key to Jared’s place in a grand, romantic gesture. They’d only been sleeping together for a few days when Jared had thrown him a spare key one morning, saying,

“I need to leave; I probably won’t make it back before you’re finished at work. Use that to let yourself out and in again. See you tonight.”

Jared hadn’t asked for it back, and Jensen had kept it; it was. . . convenient.

Convenience, that’s what had tricked him. It had all been so practical. Jared didn’t ask him to move in. No, he was sneakier than that. They did laundry, and Jensen’s things found their way into three sets of drawers. Jared offered to pick up his dry cleaning, and without discussion, his suits appeared on the left side of Jared’s closet.

And, it had all been done so casually; Jensen wasn’t sure if Jared really was that laid-back about the whole thing or deceptively devious. If you didn’t know him, Jared seemed to be a relaxed, fairly carefree person, but Jensen had seen him work; knew how focused and determined he was, how strong-willed he could be when he wanted something.

Thinking it through, it wouldn’t be a surprise—or out of character—if Jared, understanding a direct approach would scare Jensen off, had subtly made sure things ended up how he wanted them to be.

Either way, Jensen had his own cup for his toothbrush and two shelves in the medicine cabinet. Somewhere along the line, he’d stopped buying the brand of shampoo he’d used for twenty years—now he used the one Jared bought. He had a favorite coffee mug; it was identical to all the others, but his coffee tasted better from that particular cup. It just did.

Jensen gradually became aware of a soft ticking sound. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and thought: eleven months. He’d been in Newport for eleven, nearly twelve months now; if he followed his plan, he had thirteen months left in this town.

Closing his eyes, he put a hand over his mouth, inhaling through his nose. He swallowed once, twice, three times, until the nausea subsided. Two years, that’s what he’d decided. But, somewhere, between trying to resurrect the restaurant, saving the hotel, and Jared, he’d shoved his timeline to the back of his mind.

Now, he was waking up to a reality where he was in a relationship—a real one. With every day that went by, he was digging himself deeper and deeper into the lives of these people.

He’d been to Sunday dinners, Thanksgiving for christ’s sake. Not that he’d had a choice; he’d been brutally ambushed by Barbara. On a Thursday in November, she’d barged into his office and said,

“I’ve had enough of this. I know you want to keep your private and professional roles separate, but you’ve been sleeping with my son for seven months. You’re a couple, and you will come to Sunday dinner. Kent’s making veal; you and Jared bring the wine.”

Without another word or waiting for Jensen to reply, she’d turned and walked out. That Sunday, Jensen had obediently appeared at their house, standing beside Jared with two bottles of Bordeaux tightly grasped, trying to stave off the panic.

Things spiraled completely out of control after that. Jensen glanced to his left. He’d awoken on Christmas morning in Jared’s old room at his parent’s house. They had this tradition. Every year, Kent bought the tackiest Christmas sweaters he could find; on Christmas morning, they put them on and took a family photo. Jensen had laughed and laughed when they unpacked their sweaters that morning, hiccuping with giggles as Jared had put his on.

He didn’t remember what he’d said, but it was acidic and teasing. Jared’s only reply had been a spiteful little smile and a nod towards a bulky, unopened package. He couldn’t say no. It would have been rude. Awkward.

Now, Jensen had a framed photo on his desk. He hadn’t put it there; Barbara had. It would have been an insult to remove it. Jensen reached out and adjusted the angle of the frame. He frowned, opened a drawer, and pulled out a kleenex from the box he always kept available for difficult meetings. He carefully wiped the glass free of the tiny specks of dust that had gathered over the past three weeks.

Satisfied, he adjusted the angle again. Kleenex still in hand, he picked up the glass turtle, polished it, and placed it down carefully in its place.

Jensen glanced at the photo again. He’d said two years. He’d walked into this building so confident, so arrogant. This was nothing like what he’d done before; how did you prepare yourself for this? This family, the mayhem of emotion; how could he ever have foreseen Jared?

Two years. That had been the plan. Now, there was a photo on his desk where he stood smiling between Jared and his mom; it looked like he belonged; like he was part of the fa—Jensen’s alarm system slammed the emergency doors shut so hard and so fast he almost rocked in his chair. No. That—No.

That was enough introspection for one day. He was going to finish up his work. Go ho—back to Jared’s and meet this mystery man. He would be calm and polite and not in any way jealous or insecure.

This was temporary. It was not what he’d expected it to be. It was more; felt more, meant more. But thirteen months was a long time, and Jared would grow tired of him. It would be hard to leave, but this thing would run its course. It would.

Jensen inhaled and looked down at the application he’d been reading. A few seconds went by, then he glanced towards the image again. Quickly, he reached out and flipped the photo front down on the desk. He inhaled, glanced at his papers, exhaled, and then stood the frame back up.

Inspecting it for damage, he wiped the glass with his shirt sleeve and carefully put it down, angling it towards him.

He was as tall as Jared. Jensen wasn’t sure what he’d expected; he never had a clear mental image of Jared’s ex. But, whatever he might have imagined, this wasn’t it. The older man gripping his hand loomed over Jensen the way Jared did.

He had wide shoulders and large hands littered with calluses and small burn scars. He was in good shape, but bulky in that way older men who had once been very fit eventually became. It was a body that had settled into a form that signaled size and strength, but without the defined six-pack.

His round, alert blue eyes and the full gray hair and beard softened the angular face. The instant Jensen’s hand was engulfed by his, something inside relaxed, stood down, and canceled the state of emergency.

Without having uttered a single word, Jensen knew this man wasn’t a threat. It was obvious why Jared had left all those years ago. Jensen had inspected the pictures in Jared’s childhood home, seen the gangly boy he once had been. That was the person this man had met back then.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Jared growing, developing, and putting on bulk those years they’d spent together. Eventually, he’d grown into himself; just by looking at them existing in the same space, Jensen could imagine the conflicts.

He’d worked with people long enough never to trust labels, and he didn’t like clichés. Nevertheless, there were two alphas in this room, and Jensen wasn’t one of them.

“Jesse.” The grip was firm, a little too tight, but Jensen didn’t enter the competition; he kept his own grip firm but void of challenge. He smiled.

“Jensen. It’s nice to meet you.”

He held on a little too long, not so long that it could be interpreted as an outright challenge, but long enough to scan Jensen from top to bottom before he let go.

As his hand was released, Jesse looked at Jared and said, “Fuck, Jared. Who’d you have to sell your soul to for this one?”

Jensen kept his face neutral but sighed inwardly and felt acidity coat his tongue. Glancing at Jared, the way his eyes met Jesse’s, he contained it. There were already two people fighting for dominance in the room; there was no point in adding a third.

Anyway, Jensen didn’t have anything to win in joining the competition. Instead, before Jared could answer, Jensen asked,

“How was your day? It must have been a scramble for you, Jesse, being thrown into the mix so suddenly.”

Eyes leaving Jared, Jesse turned his attention back to Jensen. “Yes. It was stressful, mostly because the artist that had to drop out has a very different style than my own. But, meeting everyone today, and looking through all the concepts, I feel I can make my contribution fit seamlessly.”

Jensen sat down on a barstool by the kitchen island as Jared pulled out a glass for him. It was strange how, in this large, comfortable space, they always ended up there. But, somehow, it was the heart of the house. Like most other nights, Jared had taken his place by the stove.

Jensen smiled at the satisfying glugging sound of wine being poured as it filled his glass. Jesse made himself comfortable on the second barstool, wiggling it around until he was satisfied. As he sat down, Jensen noticed Jesse's knees were only inches from grazing his own; glancing to the side, he caught sight of Jared, eyes hard and mouth tight and thin, noticing the same thing.

Scooting a little higher on his own chair, Jensen said, “So, it must be what, fifteen, sixteen years since you last met? I bet Jared’s grown up a bit since then.”

Jesse laughed. “That he has.” Eye’s fixed on Jared, he said, “He’s not a gangly kid anymore. You were always tall, but damn, you grew up big, Boy.”

Jared smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Studying him, Jensen noted the tightness around the corners of his mouth, as he said,

“I did.” His gaze was direct as he said, “I’m not a boy anymore. I haven’t been one for a long time.”

For a moment, Jensen felt himself fade out of existence as the room turned silent, and they locked eyes; it was as if reality paused for a second while they stared each other down.

Jensen watched the corner of Jesse’s mouth twitch in a tiny smile. “Apparently not.” It wasn’t a defeat or a capitulation, only a cease-fire. He said, “I think I liked the boy better.”

Jared’s smile was feral as he answered, “I’m sure you did; he was far more easily impressed.”

Jesse’s bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose, and Jensen thought he glanced a canine as he grinned. Fed-up, Jensen said,

“Is this going to take all night?” The spell was broken, and they tore away from each other’s glare to look at him. “Look, you want to spend your evening staring challengingly at each other, that’s fine by me. But, I’m starving; is this cockfight going to take much longer? If so, could you let me know so I can order takeout?”

Jensen watched Jared’s face soften, his smile becoming genuine as he looked at Jensen. Deep inside of him, something fluttered and fizzed as Jared laughed. Leaning on his elbows across the counter, he said,

“The potatoes are in the oven, and I have beautiful lamb chops waiting in an herb marinade; the potatoes need another fifteen minutes before I heat the pan.”

To his left, Jensen heard Jesse’s deep baritone ask, “Is he always this forthright?”

Jared said, “Yes. Especially when he’s hungry.”

“Does it bother you that I’m here? It took Jensen a second to realize Jesse’s question had been aimed at him. Frowning slightly, he said,

“No. Why would it?”

Jesse’s eyes were calculating as he observed him. “Well, Jared and I were involved for over four years.”

Inclining his head, Jensen said, “Yes. But it’s been what, sixteen years? Jared’s not the type of person who sits around waiting for things to happen; if he was still carrying a torch for you, he would have done something about it by now.”

Jesse nodded, chuckling slightly. “So you’re not worried I’m going to cause trouble?

Jensen kept his expression neutral and his voice only mildly curious. “No. Why, do you intend to?”

Smile wide, Jesse let out a short, open laugh. “Of course not. I’m only teasing.”

Jensen returned his smile but saw through the lie the instant it was uttered. This was a man who enjoyed pulling strings, winding people up and watching what happened when he let them go.

As he examined his face, Jensen concluded that it wasn’t maliciousness—he just liked to win; he wanted to win now. Jensen wished he knew what game they were playing.

Jesse said, “It’s nice to see you being so relaxed; some people are so irrationally jealous. It’s good that you don’t feel intimidated; that you trust I have good intentions.”

He couldn’t help himself. Like so many times in his life, the acid spilled from his tongue before he could stop it.

“I don’t. I don’t trust you at all, Jesse. I think you’re the type of person who stirs up shit out of curiosity just to see what happens.”

A sharp laugh escaped between Jared’s lips. Jesse’s face was glowing, and Jensen realized he was delighted at the resistance. Jensen said, “But, I do trust Jared; I trust that when he wants to end this, he’ll let me know before he moves on.”

“Do you now?” Jesse’s voice was deep, probing.

Hungry and not in the mood to play, Jensen said, “Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not going to bite. I make a living out of reading people, understanding how they tick, and I’m great at it. So, relax, drink your wine, and stop trying to provoke me because I’m not interested in sparring with you.”

There was a bang as Jared placed the pan on the stove, a little more forcefully than necessary. Jesse looked at him. Nodding in Jensen’s direction, he said,

“This one’s fun. I might try to steal him.”

Snorting, Jensen said from the sidelines, “That’s a lost cause. Turn your attention to an achievable goal.”

Jesse’s laugh was loud, drowning out the sizzle as the meat hit the pan; eyes still fixed on Jared, he said, “You used to be quite a generous person; do you still share?”

His tone made it clear what, or who, he was talking about. Patience clearly run dry, Jared replied, tone steady and firm,

“No. I do not.”

“I see.” Jesse ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it. “I don’t recall you being the jealous, possessive type.”

Jared shrugged. “Things change. As do memories”—he paused to take a deep drink of wine—“I’ve remembered you being bossy, but also someone who pushed me to reach my full potential. I don’t recall you being this much of a prick. I’m not sure if my memories are wrong or if age has turned you into a dick.”

Jesse wiped the wine out of his mustache. His voice was amused but sincere as he said, “I’m who I’ve always been, Jared; my hair is gray, my skin’s looser, and I can’t do three-day orgies anymore. But, I am who I am; jagged, crude, and untamed. When you were twenty, you thought I was edgy and anti-authoritarian—I represented something you longed for. Then you outgrew me; became as edgy and unbending as me. That’s when you needed to set out on your own.”

Jesse leaned on the counter, body angling towards Jared. “When I met you, you were a rebellious boy, desperate to escape the town he grew up in. You hated conformity. You were wild; fuck, I was in my prime, and I had trouble reigning you in. Look at you now; you’re a proper adult settled into a stable life; you have this house, a flourishing career, and to my great sadness and astonished surprise, you appear to be monogamous.”

Eyes intense and provoking, he asked, “Who tamed you, Boy?”

As he listened, Jared lost his edge; something about him seemed to relax. When he spoke, it was with a calm self-assuredness.

“No one tamed me, Jesse. I was wild. But, when I was with you, you could steer me to the right kind of trouble and keep me away from the bad. While I was still in school, I had some boundaries I had to stick to. Once I got to New York, I had no one reining me in; I worked, fucked, and partied. That was my life for years.”

Jared paused, took another drink of wine, and put another dollop of butter in the pan.

“I remember the exact moment I’d had enough; when I grew tired of being the young, hot, edgy artist. One morning, I woke up, and the guy next to me smiled and said how glad he was, I’d invited him home, again. I was screwing around and partying so hard, I didn’t even realize I’d fucked the guy once before. It was a wake-up call. I was talented, I’d made a pile of money, there was a buzz around my art, I got invited to all the right places and still felt dissatisfied.”

Removing the pan from heat, he said, “I’m not tamed, Jesse. I took stock of my life and decided to take away the things that didn’t give me anything. I kept my art, style, and the fundamental parts of who I am, and I let go of the surface bullshit. I don’t compromise who I am; that includes staying in a lifestyle that no longer suits me.”

Without waiting for Jesse to comment, Jared turned to take the potatoes out of the oven. As he watched him plate the food, Jensen wondered what would have happened if they’d met ten years ago, what kind of person Jared would have been. Would they even have been attracted to each other when they’d both been so jagged and rough?

Jensen thought of the heat and passion that always simmered between them. They probably would have been attracted to one another; fucked like crazy, but then what? Would the two of them have ended up in this place? Jensen doubted it. He only had vague descriptions of the type of person Jared was back then, but he knew that at ten-years younger, he would never have stayed this long; he wouldn’t have stayed the night.

As they sat down for dinner, Jesse said, “You’ve really grown into yourself, Jared. You’re not the person I thought you’d become, but you’re true to yourself.”

Inclining his head, Jared said, “All we can be is ourselves; you taught me that.”

Jesse nodded a silent thanks, then his grin widened. He said, “I taught you a lot of things.” Laughing, he turned to Jensen. “You should be thanking me, you know.”

Snorting and rolling his eyes, Jensen said, “Thank you, Jesse.”

The rest of the dinner was a calm affair. Realizing neither would play his games, Jesse kept his agitator personality in check, but Jensen was still relieved when he heard the gate rattle shut behind him.

Jensen was loading the dishwasher when Jared came back in and shut the front door behind him. Sinking down on a barstool, he pulled his half-empty wine glass towards him, took a deep drink, and then let his upper body relax as he let out a long sigh. In a tired voice, he said,

“Finally. What a fucking dick.”

With a small, breathy laugh, Jensen said, “But fairly harmless. The only people falling for his bullshit are impressionable, rebellious twenty-year-olds.”

Jared groaned. “Fuck being twenty-something. Thank God that’s over.”

Jensen chuckled as he pressed the start button, and the dishwasher came to life with a low hum. He gave the bench a final wipe and then dried his hands. Jared was leaning his head in the open palm of one bent arm resting on the island counter. When Jensen made a move to round him, he straightened, reached out with one arm, and in seconds, Jensen was seated on the counter, Jared’s large body standing between his spread thighs.

With a put-on sigh, Jensen said, “You know I hate it when you do that.”

Jared’s answering smile was cocky. “No, you don’t. You think you should, but you don’t.”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen leaned over and clasped his wine glass. He straightened up and took a long drink. As he put the glass down beside him, he found Jared watching him intently. The gaze felt penetrating, and a wave of uncertainty washed over him. Through a nervous laugh, he asked,

“What?”

One long arm had wound itself around Jensen’s waist, the hand making itself comfortable underneath the curve of Jensen’s body. Jared’s other hand reached up and he ran his fingers through Jensen’s hair. He said,

“You said when.”

Confused, Jensen asked, “What?”

“When Jared decides to end it, that’s what you said. Not, if Jared, or if we. When Jared decides.”

In the silence, Jensen thought he heard the scraping, metallic sound of a trap snapping shut, the brutal, jagged ends biting into his flesh, immobilizing him. He’d let his guard down, revealed too much, and now Jared had seen through him.

Jensen blinked as black spots began clouding his vision. His heart began to race, and his breath hitched in his throat. As he licked his lips, trying to make them form words, he heard Jared say,

“I don’t understand people the way you do, but I’m not stupid. I’ve seen your map, and I’ve glimpsed enough of the shit you’ve been through to understand that this, being settled in one place and allowing me into your life, is challenging for you. I understand that it must scare you.”

Jared’s hand, now settled at the back of his neck, felt heavy, the heat emitting from his palm scalding. The black spots flickered in and out of his field of vision as Jared said,

“That’s why I haven’t asked you to give up your cottage, even though you’re never there. I understand you want a back-up plan. I know you never stay long in one place, and I’m sure you’ve already set some sort of time frame for when you think you’ll be leaving. I’m ok with that. If having an escape plan helps you cope with how scared you are, then go ahead and make your plans.”

Jensen felt his hands trembling and knotted them into tight fists to make it stop. He swallowed, trying to calm himself, but Jared wouldn’t stop talking. He felt two large palms grasp the sides of his face and tilt it, so he was forced to meet Jared’s eyes.

He said, “I understand you’re terrified, so I don’t confront you. But, I need to make something clear, I’m not ending this; not tomorrow, not a year from now, not ten years down the line. If you leave, it will be because you choose to. You plan one, two years ahead; in my mind, you and I don’t come with an expiration date. I’ve planned out decades. I can see us together in this house forty years from now.”

It was too much, too much to deal with. Jensen’s inner alarm system responded the only way it knew how; he placed his palms on the counter, preparing to try to jump down and push past Jared. But the hands-on his face let go, one sneaking around his waist again, the other gripping his thigh, pulling Jensen flush against him. Jared’s expression was compassionate, but his voice determined as he said,

“Not a chance, Jen. You’re not running away from this. I know this is hard for you. I know you’re scared. I do my best not to put you in situations where you feel uncomfortable; we don’t have any talks, I haven’t asked you to move in, and I don’t do any grand romantic gestures because I know you can’t handle it. You need this, what we are, to be low-key and undefined. That’s ok. I’m fine with that. It doesn’t bother me. But, we’re going to have this talk because you need to hear it.”

Breath rapid and emotionally overwhelmed, Jensen’s security protocol malfunctioned, and he capitulated silently, without a fight. He leaned his forehead against Jared’s chest, who softened his arms and wound them around him. Jared said,

“Life happens, and I can’t make guarantees, but I’m not planning on ending this. I don’t believe in soulmates, but I’m old enough to know what I’m looking for, and I don’t think I’ll ever find someone who fits me better than you.”

Jensen felt hands gripping his face again as it was tilted upward. He kept his gaze on the ceiling, his breath stuttering out in short bursts.

“Jensen.” Jared’s voice was soft, coaxing. On an exhale, he lowered his eyes to meet Jareds. Jensen's words were trapped behind the lump in his throat; swallowing hard to dislodge it, he said,

“Why do you put up with me? I’m a mess, and you always say and do the right things.”

Jared’s exhale escaped on a loud and sudden laugh. “Not even close.” Voice becoming softer, more sincere, he said,

“Honestly, Jensen, I don’t. I do and say plenty of things that have caused conflicts in my previous relationships—should cause conflict in this one. I’m always late. I’m a messy cook, and I never clean up after myself; you do. I leave my wet towels on the bathroom floor, I talk during movies, and I never replace the toilet roll. I have plenty of bad or annoying habits that should drive you crazy, but they don’t.”

In a more serious tone, Jared said, “I’m selfish, and I always have to have things my way.”

When Jensen opened his mouth to object, Jared shook his head interrupting him.

“No. I am. Nat was right when she accused me of not thinking about her when I left; I didn’t—not once during all those years. I told myself she was happy with how things were because that’s what I wanted to be true, not because I’d actually thought things through from her perspective.”

Arms winding tight around him again, Jensen listened as Jared said,

“Remember our first real conversation, your first visit here? I don’t remember exactly how I phrased it, but I told you I gave up on the hotel because I tried everything and couldn’t make it work. That was a gross oversimplification; I tried everything to get mom to do things my way; I didn’t do everything in my power to make the hotel a success.”

Jared caressed the side of his face with one hand. “I’m a flawed person, Jen; you just don’t seem to notice. I’m not putting myself down, I know my worth, but I’m not perfect. It’s like you don’t even register all my annoying habits or the unattractive sides of my personality, things that would drive most people crazy.

“I’m not sure why, but I think you’ve been through so much shit in your life that, if it’s not a catastrophe, you don’t register it. It’s like it doesn’t occur to you, that you have the right to be upset over things that aren’t a matter of life or death; that you’re entitled to be annoyed when you trip over my soggy towels in the morning.”

Jensen opened his mouth, but no words came out. He sighed. Jared said,

“I’m not looking for conflicts. And I’m not trying to make you feel even more flawed than you do right now. I just need you to understand that when it comes to comparing yourself to me, your perception is skewed in my favor. You’re unbelievably hard on yourself and blind to my flaws.”

The weight of Jared’s hand on his neck felt heavy and reassuring at the same time. Jared said, “‘I’m not putting up with you, Jensen; this relationship is not a selfless act from my side. You’re here because everything in my life is better with you in it, and I want it to stay that way.

“So, keep your cottage and plan your escape if that’s what you need to keep your fears in check. But, the reality is this: you live here, and you are not leaving. I won’t let you.”

Body shaking and breath trembling, Jensen met Jared’s intense gaze; the steely determination was so palpable his breath caught, and the air lodged itself like a lump at his breastbone. Caressing his face, Jared said, “Breathe, Jensen.”

The air dislodged, forcing its way out in short, stuttering pants. Hand still on his jaw, thumb caressing his cheekbone, Jared said,

“I have a lot of flaws, Jensen, and I can be a selfish bastard, but I would never intentionally hurt you. I would never ask you to put yourself through something so difficult if I planned to end this relationship. I’m not ending this.”

Eyes downcast, he exhaled as thousands of possible futures swirled through his mind; images of everything that could go wrong, ways Jared, intentional or not, could hurt him, wound him beyond repair. He should run, now. Jump down from this bench, push past Jared and flee as far away as he could. Jensen inhaled and raised his eyes, locking them with Jared’s and their ruthless determination. He held his breath, exhaled, and surrendered.

In the middle of the night, Jensen’s fingers danced lightly over Jared’s bare chest. He leaned his cheek against it, listened to his heartbeat, and felt it rise and fall steadily. Licking his lips, he whispered into the dark void, “One day, I’ll get too scared, and I’ll run.”

His heart was startled out of beat, and his stomach flipped as the arm casually draped over his body tightened, and Jared’s rough, steady voice said,

“That’s ok. I’ll find you and bring you back.”

Chapter Text

MARCH

A Thursday in mid-march, Jensen and Nat were sitting outside enjoying the first sunny day in weeks. They sighed in contentment as the strong rays hit their faces, igniting a tiny, flickering hope that winter was giving way to spring.

Taking a deep drink from his cappuccino, Jensen closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Nat said,

“God. I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in months.”

Jensen grunted. “We haven’t. It’s rained—constantly.”

She hummed. Jensen heard the clicking sound as her bracelet—delicate, silver links set with genuine oval garnets—grazed against the porcelain of the plate when she reached out for her eclair. Sighing, she said, “I blame you for my addiction to these things.”

“Blame the hot pastry chef I slept with when I was twenty. We were both broke, but he could take home what they didn’t sell, so he always brought pastry: sex and sugar, that’s where my addiction began.”

Even through his closed lids, he felt Nat’s questioning gaze. “Were you together long?”

Opening his eyes, Jensen reached out for his own pastry and took a bite. After swallowing and clearing his mouth with some more cappuccino, he answered,

“A few months. I’d started my bachelors degree in Human Resource Management at San Diego State, but I used to travel up to San Francisco during my holidays and work in bars.”

“Was it easier there?”

Jensen shrugged. “Not really. San Diego had a decent gay scene. But, it was less messy. I spent the summers working and playing, and then I left it behind and focused on my degree. I’d scraped together enough grants and small scholarships to put myself through school, but it was still tough, and I didn’t have time for distractions or drama.”

Nat said, “So, you spent a summer working, eating pastry, having sex, and then you left.”

He nodded. “Pretty much. It’s been a rule of mine, don’t play where you work.”

She laughed. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Jensen snorted. “It worked perfectly well for over twenty years. Then, I met your brother.”

Nat snickered. Jensen rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so smug; I saw you stumbling out of number twelve at the Christmas party, smoothing down your dress; and, I saw who snuck out five minutes later.”

She went still, eyes large as she looked at him. In a hushed voice, she asked, “Who else knows?”

“Relax. I was alone; no one else knows you slept with Chris.”

“Oh, my God.” She stuffed the remaining two-thirds of the eclair into her mouth. Cheeks bulging as she chewed, and voice muffled, she said, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Doing?” He frowned. “Hold on. I thought it was a drunken hook-up. It’s happened more than once; is this a thing?”

Nat cupped her hands over her full mouth. She mumbled, “It’s happened more than once. Many more times. Like, a lot.”

At Jensen’s arched eyebrow, voice acidic despite the barrier of pastry, she said,

“First of all, you’re sleeping with my brother, so you don’t get to do the eyebrow thing. Not with me. Secondly”—she stopped and exhaled on a long sigh—” the sex is mind-numbingly good. Like, I didn’t know my vagina could do that, good.”

Snorting into his cappuccino, Jensen wiped the froth from his mouth. “That was a mental image I didn’t need but, good for you.”

She made a face, whining softly. “I don’t know. It’s messy.”

Jensen shrugged. “I’m not the right person to give advice. But, as I’m grudgingly having to come to terms with, not everything can be planned. Chris is a good guy; a little rough, but loyal, and passionate.”

Mouth clear, Nat said, “Chris isn’t the problem. Can you imagine my parents if it came out I was involved with the chef of our hotel? I mean, dad worships the ground Chris walks on; can you imagine his reaction if it turned out Chris was a potential son-in-law?”

She whined again. Leaning her forehead in her palm, she said, “And the smugness. I’ve said all my life I’d never date a chef or someone who worked at the hotel, ever. If it came out, oh my God, I wouldn’t be able to be in the same building as my parents; their heads would be so big. Two days after the reveal, they’d be planning our wedding. We are not there yet.”

Jensen frowned. “Yet? How long has this been going on?”

She glanced in his direction. “Nat?”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “Fine. Since last summer.”

“What?” Jensen heard the shock in his voice, then the awe as he said, “Oh, you’re good. You’re really good. I didn’t suspect a thing.”

A self-satisfied smirk graced her lips. “Thank you.”

“How does Chris feel about keeping this thing a secret for this long; it’s been what, seven months?”

Tilting her head and making a noncommittal sound, Nat said, “More like, nine and a half; remember that first barbeque at your cottage?”

Jensen was stunned into silence, then exclaimed, “The one at the end of May?”

Nat shrugged. “I like men who are a bit rough around the edges, ok? Besides, it was very casual and sporadic the first five months or so. Not like you and Jared, who went from nothing to living together in a week. Then, I had my meltdown, and the whole mess with mom’s breakdown happened, and, I don’t know, he’s just stepped up, you know?”

Jensen nodded; he did know. With a tiny, flickering smile, he said, “Lady, you’re in trouble, you understand that, right? If Chris has stayed interested this long and is investing time and energy making you feel better, he’s committed. And when he wants something, he doesn’t stop until he gets it.”

She groaned, and to vocal protests, shamelessly stole what remained of Jensen's eclair. “I know. He understands my point of view, that it’ll be a big deal when it comes out, but I can tell he’s getting annoyed and fed up with the secrecy.” She ran a hand through her loose hair.

“I—I need more time. Dad’s in a good place with the restaurant. Mom’s taken a step back; she seemed content—relieved—not being involved. Jared’s in a good place with you. For the first time in longer than I can remember, my family seems to be happy, and I’ve got some breathing room, you know? I’m not constantly putting out fires or trying to keep things afloat while they bicker and throw tantrums. The second I reveal that Chris and I are an item, they’re going to be breathing down my neck.”

She signed and fell back against the backrest. “I know it’ll be positive attention, but—”

She stopped. Jensen continued the sentence, “But, it’s nice having something that’s just yours.”

She looked at him.“Yes. Plus, if I make it official, I have to face the fact that I’m basically my mother. I run the hotel, and I’m probably going to end up marrying the chef. Fuck.”

Jensen said, “Nat, you’re not Barbara, and Chris is not Kent. You four are completely different people. So, you’ll end up doing the same work your parents did—that means nothing.”

He paused. “You really think you’ll end up marrying him?”

Nat groaned again. “Well, not now, obviously. But, yes. He seems fixated on the idea.”

Jensen’s voice was a mixture between surprise and amusement. “Really?”

Nat shrugged. “His lease is up in May, and I know he’s getting impatient for me to ask him to move in. It makes sense; I have more space than I need, and I really like him. But—I don’t know.”

She huffed and sighed audibly. “Nine months ago, I fell into bed with a foul mouth bad boy, and it turns out he’s a marriage and family kind of guy. What happened?”

Thinking back on the conversation he’d had with Chris on the day of Jared’s exhibit opening, Jensen was less surprised than he thought he’d be. Tentatively, he asked,

“Have you and Chris talked anything about his life before he came here; before he became a chef?”

Meeting his gaze, Nat said, “You mean how, up until around twenty, his whole life was one big pile of flaming shit? The abuse, the neglect; running away at thirteen and living his teenage years on the street? Yes. He’s told me. In a competition between you and him, I’m not sure who’d win the award for crappiest childhood.”

Jensen's voice was dry and unsentimental. “It’s probably a draw.” Carefully, he said, “I’m glad he’s told you. I know it’s not my business—especially since you’ve been so mellow about Jared and me—but Nat, if he’s opening up to you, don’t fuck around with him.”

He paused. “Maybe, he’s a marriage and family guy with you. If he’s trying to settle down, it’s a first for him. And believe me, coming from our background, it’s scary. Don’t mess with him; he’s never been this close to real commitment before.”

Voice softening, Nat said, “I know. It’s not that I can’t see it in the future. I’m just scared that this place will eat us up, and we’ll turn into my parents.”

Head tilted and voice reassuring, Jensen said, “I don’t think that will happen. Many of the issues between your parents, and their relationship with this place, stemmed from your grandfather and your mother’s unresolved issues with him. If there’s one member of this family, who really needed to escape this place, it was her. Your situation is different; you’re not lugging around all that baggage.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I know. I need to sit down with him, talk this through. We need a plan for when mom and dad find out and try to spin things out of control.” She paused, looked at him, and said,

“Jensen, don’t tell anyone, not even Jared. Please. Let me and Chris get this sorted out between us before we have to deal with everyone else.”

He nodded. “I promise. It’s a good plan; the more you’ve talked things through, the less wiggle room they’ll have.” Smiling and shaking his head, Jensen said,

“I can’t believe you fooled me.”

Nat laughed, a delighted, triumphant sound. She was about to continue when they saw a car peel into the parking lot and grind to a sudden stop. Seconds later, a woman stepped out. She slammed the door shut and looked around.

They watched as she turned, took in the building, and, when she spotted them, strode purposefully in their direction, her walk brisk and aggressive.

As she approached, Jensen observed her. She was about his age, maybe a few years older, and appeared well put together, or would have if she hadn’t been so visibly angry. Strands of auburn hair had escaped the long, thick braid that hung over one shoulder and flew around her face as she walked.

She had a short, pear-shaped body and a classic, French look, but the fit of her navy coat was crooked, and her scarf hung haphazardly around her neck like she’d dressed in a hurry.

As she reached their table, she stopped. Without introduction, and in a voice filled with suppressed agitation, she asked,

“Are you Jensen?”

“I am.”

The wrought iron chair screeched against the concrete as it was forcefully pulled out from under the table, and she sat down opposite the two of them. Jensen felt one eyebrow rise at the intrusion. Beside him, he noticed Nat’s confusion as the stranger crossed one leg over the other and said,

“Katie gave me your name. I’m the pa—” She stopped abruptly, took a deep breath, and said, “Up until about”—she glanced at her wristwatch—“eight minutes ago, I was the pastry chef at Patisserie C’est si Bon.”

Stopping and inhaling deeply once more, she said, “I just quit.”

Exhaling forcefully through her nose, she said, “When Katie spoke to me, she implied you might have a position for me.”

She paused, looking at Jensen, who remained silent. “I have three girls, and I’m the only breadwinner.” Jensen watched her face pale as if she only now understood what she’d done. Her voice weakened as she said, “I can’t afford to be unemployed, but I’m too proud to ask for my job back.”

Nat asked, “You’re a single mother?”

“Widow.” It was said in a way that implied the wound was there, but old enough that the sorrow was on a deeper level, a grief that was settled and not so close to the surface. At their looks, she added, “Car accident; it’ll be five years in August.”

Nat replied, “I’m sorry.” She got a brief smile and a silent nod in return.

Deciding it was time to join the conversation, Jensen asked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

She closed her eyes briefly as she clasped her forehead and sighed audibly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself, did I?”She held out her hand, and Jensen grasped it as she said, “Amelia Boulanger, nice to meet you.” Without prompting, as if used to the question, she added, “My father’s French.”

Beside him, Nat said, “Well then, you’ll feel right at home. Our maître d’s mother’s French and our chef spent fourteen years working in France.”

As he shook her hand, he said, “Jensen Ackles, human resource manager, I’m a huge fan of your work.” Nodding to his right, he said,

“This is Natalie Padalecki, daughter and heir apparent to the owners; she functions as the general manager of this hotel.”

As the two women shook hands, he asked, “Why did you quit, Amelia?”

Ire reignited at his question, Amelia tossed her head. “I’m a sixth-generation pastry chef; I trained as a Maître Pâtissier under some of the best pastry chefs in France, including my grandfather and my uncle who still runs the family Boulangerie and Patisserie in Marseille.

“I’m not a soccer mom who bakes cupcakes as a hobby; I’m a master at my craft. I don’t care if this makes me sound arrogant; what I do, takes just as much skill and talent as any other top chef.”

She paused and inhaled to collect herself. “Before I came here, I worked as the executive pastry chef at the Four Seasons Hotel in New York. When my husband passed, I realized I couldn’t keep the hours I did and raise my girls simultaneously, especially after going through the trauma of losing their father so young. My husband was from Newport, and we still owned his childhood home. So, I moved us all down here and began working at the Patisserie.”

Calming, she exhaled again. “Things were fine; I enjoyed my job. It wasn’t exhilarating or challenging the way my previous jobs had been, but it was a compromise I could live with. Then, a few months ago, the owner passed away, and her daughter took over. She’s a—”

She paused again. Jensen watched as she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, nibbling on it. Her fingers tensed and flexed as she seemed to search for the right words. Inhaling once more, she said, diplomatically,

“We have conflicting ideas about how the business should be run. I can compromise to the point of giving up a high-profile career while my children are young, but I will not compromise the craft. I will not buy ready-made puff pastry or bake-off croissants to cheapen or quicken the process.”

Jensen blanched. “No. She did not ask you to do that?”

Lips tightly pressed together, Amelia nodded. “She did. Unbelievable. I might as well work at McDonald’s.”

Irate on her behalf, Jensen shook his head. “What an insult.” He inhaled and was about to speak when Nat caught him off.

She said, “Why here?” She continued before Amelia could begin to answer, “Jensen is an unashamed glutton and pastry addict. If he could, he’d probably hire you just to fuel his own addiction. I understand that this is a hastily developed situation, but we can’t hire you just because Jensen loves eclairs and you need a job. What do you know about us as a company? Why The Oceanview?”

Jensen sighed internally; it was the right thing to ask; it was what he should have asked. Despite being put on the spot, he hoped Amelia gave an answer she could get away with.

To Jensen’s relief, she appeared calm as she answered, “Yes, this is a sudden development. That doesn’t mean my interest in your hotel is a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’ve been unhappy in my position for months, and I’ve followed your comeback closely. It’s quite remarkable.”

Amelia changed her position on the chair. “I still have friends and contacts in the business. My intention was never to step away from the high-profile kitchens forever. I have another ten years before I can send my youngest off to college, but it was always my intention to go back when my personal life wasn’t so demanding. So, I try to keep myself up to date on trends, which restaurants and chefs people are talking about.”

A cool gust of wind reminded them all that the winter cold was still lurking in the shade, ready to envelop them as the sun disappeared. Amelia wrapped her scarf more tightly around herself.

“I’ve heard rumors. There was quite a buzz in the industry after you snuck into Vegas and pinched one of the most interesting chefs in the country from underneath the noses of his employers.”

Jensen pursed his lips and said, “I didn’t sneak. I rode into town in the prettiest nineteen-sixty-seven, Chevy Impala you’ve ever seen.”

A mischievous little smile graced her lips and made her chestnut eyes twinkle. She said,

“After that, people got curious, especially in this town. Everyone thought this place was as good as dead; I know at least two investors were planning to come in and offer to buy the land. Now, there’s a buzz; people ask questions, how you’ve managed to attract a chef of Chris’ caliber, an award-winning sommelier, and one of the best maître d's in the country to this little hotel. Plus, your PR and social media presence are amazing; and now you pinched The Agate’s assistant front office manager.”

Jensen corrected her. “I didn’t pinch Monica; she came to me. If they were so set on keeping her, they shouldn’t have passed her up for promotion. Twice.”

Amelia said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I think the future of this hotel and its restaurant is very interesting, and I want to be a part of it. I miss working in a high-end kitchen; I miss being creative.”

Jensen took a sip from his lukewarm cappuccino and grudgingly allowed his professionalism to repress his sweet tooth. He said,

“That’s great. But, as you’ve noticed, we’ve made several high-end, high-cost recruitments in the past year. No matter how much I’d love an in house pastry chef, I don’t know how I’m going to justify the cost. A year ago, this business was on its knees. We’re on our way back up now, but there are many holes to put our profits in; a pastry chef is not at the top of our list. Not yet.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Amelia said, “Fair enough, but you have to consider the value I’d add. Not only through the restaurant, but I’d be able to train your chefs. With me on board, you could increase your revenue; we could utilize the dining room during hours otherwise empty, arrange afternoon teas. Instead of your guests going to the local Starbucks, we could have a coffee and pastry bar in the lounge or offer picnic baskets they could buy and take with them on the beach. Think of the events and wedding receptions you hold; we could offer to make wedding cakes in-house.”

Voice determined, she finished by saying, “I’m an expense, I understand that. But, I promise you, I will make you a lot more money than I’ll cost you.”

Jensen looked at Nat, one eyebrow raised. She pursed her lips, and after a few seconds thought, said, “Do you know our Head Chef, Christian Kane?”

Amelia said, “Only by reputation.”

Gaze calculating, she asked, “Have you had lunch yet?”

A tiny smile flickered in the corner of Amelia’s mouth as she said, “No. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“Are you hungry?”

The flicker spread into a wide smile. “Starving.”

Chapter Text

MAY

There was a canvas bag dropped right by the front door. A little further in, a chair was standing at an odd angle. In a diagonal pattern from the chair, a painting hung crooked, and a lamp on the sideboard beneath it had toppled over. A few steps away, a fine cashmere sweater lay in a heap on the floor; another few steps and a jacket had casually been dropped. The trail of discarded clothing continued through the room, up the steel staircase, and ended, abruptly, at the foot of the bed. 

Jensen groaned as he stretched his body, his breathing calm, and his heartbeat, at last, back to its normal, steady rhythm. At his side, Jared’s large hand was idly caressing his inner thigh. In a lazy voice, he said, 

“Well done. You’re so good at this.”

Jensen hummed and moistened his lips. He said, “Just don’t ask me to move for a few hours. Jesus Christ.”

At times like these, spent and basking in the afterglow, Jensen tried to put into words why sex with Jared felt so good. He always came to the same conclusion; it wasn’t about size, technique, or even chemistry—it was the sensation of being engulfed. When Jared took him to bed, he did so with his entire being, and somewhere amid it all, he’d lose track of where Jared’s body began and his own ended.  

He’d experienced some truly outstanding sex in his life but, before Jared, he’d never been completely enveloped by another person; Jared fucked like he wanted to consume him.  

Stretching once more, he said, 

“Let’s try this again. Hi, how was San Francisco?” 

Smiling, Jared turned on his side, leaning his head on one bent arm, the other hand tracing patterns on Jensen’s chest. He said, 

“It was fine.”

One eyebrow raised, Jensen asked, “Fine?”

Jared made a small grimace. “I don’t know. Every time I get offered one of these collaborations, it sounds really cool to be part of a big creative process, connecting with other artists. Then we all get into a room together, and I’m reminded why most artists work alone. There’s too much ego and too little space.”

Jensen snorted out a laugh. He said, “It sounds messy.” 

Jared nodded. “I knew I should have brought you with me; you would have straightened things out in an instant.”

Jensen hummed. “To be fair, you did ask if I wanted to come, and I said no.”

“Remind me to insist you come next time.” 

Jensen smiled. “Or, I can just remind you that you hate collaborations.”

Jared nodded. He asked, “How was your week?”

“It was good.” Jensen’s voice was sleepy but pleased. “We’ve booked three weddings; with Chris’ food and Amelia’s cakes, people are starting to see us as a great beach wedding venue.” 

“How’s Amelia settling in?”

Jensen stretched again, voice slightly strained as he tried to unknot tight muscles, “Well, I think. She’s incredibly talented, and everyone can tell. Your dad and Chris appreciate her skill, and the younger chefs are happy for the opportunity to get another teacher. 

“She and Ella have already bonded; they have so much in common. They’re both single moms, New Yorkers, half-French, and they’ve both left high-profile careers in the restaurant industry for their children. Cho’s ecstatic; having pictures of beautiful pastry to post is an Instagram jackpot.” 

Jared hummed, he said, “And yet, I’m guessing no one is quite as content as you; all that sugary goodness.” 

Jensen didn’t deny it. He replied, “True. It’s exciting; we’re building a really good team. I mean, put the resumes and accolades of all of these people together, and they shouldn’t be here. We’re a small town hotel. Sure, Newport is a popular vacation and day-trip destination, but putting together this kind of team in a hotel this size, in a small town location—we’re pulling off something really special.”  

Jared’s voice was sincere when he said, “No. You are pulling off something special. We’re all contributing in our own ways, but none of this would work if it wasn’t for you. These talented people would never have agreed to work for us without you here. They came for you, not for us; even Cho, who grumbles and provokes you at every opportunity, knows exactly where your line is, and she never crosses it.”

Jensen shrugged. He wasn’t sure why, but he always felt flustered when Jared gave him praise. He changed the subject.

“Remember not to make any plans this weekend.”

“I remember.” Running a hand through his hair, Jared said, “I still can’t believe they’re moving in together; I only just found out they’re dating.”

Jensen hummed. “Yes. But, you’ve got to remember, your sister and Chris have been seeing each other for a year; we just didn’t know about it.”

Jared stretched then, encircled his waist, and pulled Jensen closer. He said, “Yes. I’d feel bad for not noticing, but”—he leaned down and pressed his nose into Jensen’s neck, mumbling into the sensitive skin—“I’ve been preoccupied.”

Dragging his face up along Jensen’s neck and placing a kiss behind his ear, he continued, 

“I’m impressed that mom and dad have been so laid-back. Nat being in a serious relationship with the chef of our hotel? I thought the tops of their heads would blow right off when they found out, but they’ve been so relaxed about the whole thing.”

Jensen made a small sound of agreement while not mentioning the long, private discussion he’d had with Barbara and Kent about such things as respecting Nat’s boundaries, not overstepping those boundaries, and the difference between being happy and supportive and overbearingly intrusive. 

“Oh.” Jensen inhaled sharply as Jared’s fingers, slowly sliding down his body, made a surprise turn and found their way into hidden crevices. Exhaling a shaky breath, he mumbled, 

“You can not be serious.”

Jared’s only reply was the moist, wet sound of opening mouth kisses against his skin. Pausing briefly, he mumbled, 

“I had to go without a whole week; I’ve been deprived.”

Tensing and lower body lifting slightly from the mattress, Jensen felt his toes curl. 

Voice strained and uneven, he said, “Poor you. A whole week.”

“Mm.” Jared’s sultry voice reverberated in the room. Jensen gasped, and his head arched against his pillow as clever fingers found their target. 

Jensen’s own fingers flexed in time with his body tensing and relaxing in a languid rhythm. “Ah.” Jensen let out a short, cut off moan, drowning out the snick of a lid flicking open. 

In a strangled voice, he said, “You’re almost forty; how do you have the recuperation time of a fourteen-year-old?”

Above him, Jared smiled. Eyes sultry, he said, “Don’t blame me. It’s not my fault nature made you so hot I get hard just by looking at you.”

Moaning as Jared increased the pressure, his body tensed; in a strained voice, Jensen said, “You’re a beast.” 

Jared moved and came to rest between his spread legs; he loomed over him, one large palm planted beside Jensen’s head, carrying the weight of his upper body. On his other side, Jensen’s knee was bent over one long, muscled arm, spreading him open. Grinning down at him, Jared leaned down, placing sloppy kisses on his cheeks, neck, and lips, and said,

“You love it.”

“Jensen, Honey, take the last slice.”

Jensen sat in a half-slouched position with his feet propped up on a moving box in Nat’s chaotic living room. He looked at the piece of pizza Barbara was holding out in front of him, waved his hand and said lethargically, 

“No. Thank you. If I eat one more crumb, I’ll burst. Give it to Jared.”

A hand shot out in her direction from the opposite end of the couch and took the slice. Nat, one leg dangling over the armrest of the chair she was occupying, shook her head and said, 

“You’re a freak of nature, Jared. No one should be allowed to eat that much fat and salt and still have abs.” 

Mouth full and words muffled, Jared replied, “Be fair. It’s not like I eat pizza every day. It’s been months since I had it last. Besides, I’ve been lugging moving boxes for hours, I’ve earned this pizza.”

Nat groaned. “Men and your low body fat; it’s so unfair.” 

Beside him, he heard Jared say, “Mom, what are you plotting?”

Jensen looked at Barbara and saw her scoff, amused and slightly taken aback. 

“Plotting? I’m just sitting here, resting and too full, like the rest of you. Why do you think I’m plotting something?”

Jared said, “Because you’re staring into space, smiling smugly. You look like Jensen when he’s plotting world domination.”

Jensen snorted. “No thanks. This hotel is work enough; the world will have to straighten itself out.”

Hands fanned out in front of her, eyes wide and innocent, Barbara said,

“I’m happy, Jared. A year ago, I was miserable, desperately unhappy. I could barely hold a conversation with either of my children without arguing, our hotel was going under, and my husband was bitter and detached. Now, our business isn’t simply surviving, it’s beginning to thrive, my husband is happy and passionate about life again, and my children are healthy, successful, and are both in committed relationships with two wonderful men who I care deeply about. I’m not plotting, I’m enjoying the moment.”

Beside her, Kent patted her hand and said, “As well you should. We all should; we’ve worked incredibly hard this year, we’ve earned the right to be happy and a little smug.”

Humming, Nat raised her beer bottle, took a long drink, and said, “Yes, we have.”

The conversation halted for a moment, then Barbara, voice aloof, said, “By the way, Natalie. When I was going through the attic, looking for your grandmother’s quilt that you wanted, I found the box with your’s and Jared’s old baby clothes. Did you want me to bring it here?”

Jensen winced, she’d been so close. Barbara was harmless, and it came from a place of love, but Jensen couldn’t help but sigh as he watched Nat, mouth around her beer bottle, freeze, and cough as she drooled beer over herself. Beside him, Jared broke out into gleeful, loud laughter, hands clapping together in amusement.

As she wiped her chin, Nat said, irritably, “I don’t know why you’re laughing; adoption, surrogacy, you have options. You take the box.”

Eyes going wide, Jensen felt himself tense, mouth forming words of protest that wouldn’t come out. He relaxed as Jared said, “Right. Because Jensen and I are so paternal; our lifestyle just screams child-friendly. No way. This is on you and Chris. We’re fun uncles, not responsible dads.”

Jensen didn’t pay attention as Nat quipped back a retort. Instead, his eyes drifted to Chris, who appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. With a look and a small nod, he motioned for Jensen to come. 

In the background, he heard Barbara laugh as Kent joined in the banter. Getting up and stepping around a few moving boxes, placed haphazardly in the middle of the room, he joined Chris. 

Chris was already halfway out of the window that led to the fire escape. In a quiet, rough voice, he said, 

“Follow me.”

Nat, and now Chris, lived in one of the newer condo complexes in the town. It was sleek, modern, and exactly the type of apartment you’d picture someone like Nat living in, but built to blend in to the area’s eclectic, old-fashioned vibe. 

The fire escape didn’t only lead you to safety; it took you up to a rooftop terrace with breathtaking views of the town and the beach not far away. As he stepped onto the roof, Jensen found Chris already seated in one of two folding chairs, a small table between them.

Jensen sat down in the empty chair, and they sat together in silence, watching the sun begin to set. Eventually, Chris said, 

“Do you ever wake up and think: how the hell did I end up here?”

Jensen huffed out a laugh. He said, “Every morning.” He shook his head. “What the fuck are we doing here, Chris; playing house?”

Running a hand through his hair, for once hanging thick and loose down to his shoulders, Chris said, softly, 

“We’re not playing, Jen. We might be faking it, pretending we know what the hell we’re doing, but I don’t believe either of us is playing this time; I think we’re just trying to figure out how to do this.”

Jensen nodded. “Yeah.” Keeping his eyes on the horizon, he said, “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right choice. From the outside, you and Nat might seem an odd couple; but, when you look a little closer, it’s obvious you work, you really do; you fit each other.”

Chris hummed, a melodic, comforting sound as his twang broke through. “So have you. You know that, right? You and Jared have something good going on, and what we’re doing at the hotel, what we’re building, it’s special, you know it is; you know this is a place you could stay.” 

Keeping his eyes averted, Jensen said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah.” Chris’ boots scraped on the ground as he stretched out his legs. “But you haven’t decided to stay yet. You want to; I can see you do. But, you’re not ready to make that choice, not yet.”

Jensen moistened his lips and remained silent; there was no point in talking. If he lied, Chris would see through it; if he didn’t, he’d be forced into a conversation he didn’t want to have.”

Chris said, “Look, I’m no Dr. Phil, and I’m not pushing you into a conversation we both know you’re not ready for. But, Jen, you can run a thousand laps around this fucking planet, and she’ll always come back. All I’m saying is if she’s going to keep growing heads—forcing you to face her over and over—it’s better to dig in and stand your ground than to keep running.”  

Without waiting for a reaction or a reply, Chris changed subjects. He said, “Remember leopard thong guy?”

A sharp, unexpected laugh tore from his throat. Looking at Chris, Jensen asked, “What? Leopard thong guy? What made you think of that sleazy piece of shit?”

Chris reached under his chair into a bag Jensen only now noticed, pulling out two items. When they came into view, Jensen bent forward in silent, wheezing laughter.

Chuckling, Chris said, “Kahlua, and menthol cigarettes.”

Shaking his head, Jensen said, laughing, “What the fuck, Chris. Why?”  

Jensen watched as Chris unscrewed the cork and took a large swing from the bottle, then handed it over. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, coughing slightly. Exhaling, he said, 

“I don’t know why. I’ve been thinking about him, about that night, a lot recently. That fucking motel and that creepy fucktard. I remember his white shirt and ugly beige pants, always creeping around you, offering you a safe place in his special shelter. Fuck, all he needed was a van, and he’d be the poster boy for sex offenders everywhere.”

He paused, taking another drag from his cigarette and frowning at the taste.

“Those six months we spent together, it such a brief part of my life but, fuck, you were my best friend—my only friend. Going to sleep at night, knowing someone else was in the room, someone I knew had my back, I’d never felt that before. I guess that’s why it’s all been coming back to me these past few weeks. It’s taken me twenty years but, coming here, meeting Nat, I’ve found that feeling again. That woman is steel all the way through; if she had to, if the people she cares about were in danger, she could stop a runaway bus with her bare hands.”

Jensen hummed and took a long drink from the bottle. He said, “Yeah. She could. And yes, those were intense months. It was such a short time; who could have guessed that, twenty years later, I’d be sitting on a rooftop, sharing a drink with a guy I knew briefly at eighteen. Most days, I can’t believe we made it out—both of us.”  

“I can. I remember the exact moment I knew you’d make it. It was that night.” Chris looked at him, his intense eyes softening. “I’d received my acceptance letter, knew I was leaving, and I felt like the biggest fucking traitor; like, me getting out meant I’d leave you behind to drown. That people like him would catch you, use you up, and dump you in the gutter like all those other street kids we saw every day.”

Listening, Jensen took another long drink from the bottle and winced at the sugary taste. Chris tossed him the package of cigarettes and a lighter. Jensen hadn’t smoked in fifteen years. On the other hand, he’d never been a full-time smoker, so indulging now wasn’t going to rekindle an old addiction. Taking one out and lighting it, he coughed, then inhaled deeply, the minty smoke flowing into his lungs.  

Chris said, “That night, I was coming back from my shift, and I was beating myself up because I knew I had to tell you I was leaving, and I couldn’t do it. I was walking down the corridor, and that fucking sleaze came limping out of our room, his pants around his ankles, wearing that disgusting leopard print thong; his face all messed up, and blood spurting from his nose.”

Chris let out a husky laugh. He said, “My stomach dropped. I was terrified he’d hurt you. I let him go and ran into our room; you were just sitting there, on the bed, totally calm. You had the baseball bat by your side and this badass mother fucker look on your face. I realized you weren’t in danger; you’d just had enough of his shit and decided to make that point clear. And, right there, I knew you’d be ok; that you’d make it out and I could go.”  

Smiling wryly, Jensen said, “That dick; he really thought I was going to let him fuck me. He’d brought Kahlua and menthol cigarettes as a present, and you and I spent that evening getting drunk on cheap liquor and smoking. You told me you were leaving that night, and I said I was happy for you.”  

Taking another swig, Chris looked at him. He asked, “Were you?”

Inhaling deeply, allowing the smoke to swirl around in his mouth before letting it out again, Jensen looked up at the sky.

“Yes. I was. I didn’t want to be alone again, and you were the only real friend I’d ever had, but I was happy for you. I wanted you to go. That way, at least one of us would make it out.” 

Chris passed the bottle back to Jensen and lit another cigarette. “We both did. Somehow, we both got to this place and managed to convince two completely normal, healthy people we’re worth the effort.”

Exhaling, Chris looked at him. “It’s a good place, Jen. Let’s not fuck it up because we’re too scared to be happy.”

Jensen drank deep, then lit a new cigarette with the glowing bud of the old one. Blowing out smoke through his nose, he said,  

“I’m trying, Chris.”

Nodding, Chris replied, “Me too.”

The roof turned silent. It was a comfortable silence, one only possible between old friends. Passing the bottle between them, they drank and smoked, their gaze fixed on the horizon. Suddenly, Chris, eyes twinkling, turned to look at him and asked, 

“Did you ever think back on our time together and wonder, what if?”

“What if, what?”

Eyes intent, Chris arched one eyebrow.

Jensen looked at him, laughed, and let a fond smile settle on his lips. Looking back upon the sky and taking a long drag from his cigarette, Jensen said, 

“Sure. Plenty of times. But I always came to the same conclusion.”

“Which is?” Chris’ voice was whiskey rough beside him. 

“That, if you’d been gay, or even bi, we might have had something, and it would have been a disaster. We could have been good together, and that would have held us both back.”

Scooting further down in his chair, he said, “I think, if we’d had each other like that, life might have become bearable enough for us not to fight so hard to get out.” 

Beside him, Chris hummed and let the smoke exit from between his lips in white, swirling rivulets. He took another long drag, let the smoke flow out of his nostrils, then smiled and said, 

“Tell you what. If this doesn’t work out for us, feed me a bottle of Tennessee Rye, and then we’ll see if I can’t find some lurking curiosity buried deep down.”

Jensen chuckled. “Yeah, because our lives aren’t messy enough already. Let’s not mess up one of the few good relationships we have in our fucked-up lives by having bad sex.” 

Laughing, Chris lowered his voice and said in a husky drawl, “Bad? Boy, I know what I’m doing.”

Dryly, Jensen replied, “With vaginas, Chris; you know what you’re doing with vaginas.” 

Holding the smoke in his lungs, Chris coughed out a laugh and said, “Fair enough.” 

The roof turned silent once more. At one point, Jensen noticed Jared’s head peeking up at them but, whatever he saw, must have told him to leave them be; even as the sun set below the horizon, they were left in peace. The bottle was close to empty when Chris said,

“Jen, I really love her; don’t let me fuck it up.”

Face turned towards a darkening sky, Jensen watched the blue-tinted smoke twirl and disintegrate in the air. Solemnly, he said, “I won’t. I promise.”

Chapter Text

JUNE

Whatever Jensen thought about Cho, he had unshakable respect for her as a professional, the professional side of her who didn’t fuck receptionists on her desk.

The realization that she was out in the cold—that this was her last chance—had brought forth a primitive survival instinct that seemed to have staged a mental coup, one that appeared to have quelled her more dysfunctional inclinations.

As far as he could tell, those urges now only surfaced on weekends and could never be traced back to the hotel or attract Jensen’s attention. He knew she made regular trips to Portland when she needed to let her dysfunctional hair down. But, she was always back on time for work, and whatever unsavory things she did there never followed her back to Newport.

The fact was that—and this had to be a record—during the year she’d been at The Oceanview, she hadn’t been part of a single scandal. Not one. Well, she probably had, only not during work hours, and that wasn’t Jensen’s problem.

She still annoyed him daily and could get under his skin in ways few others could, causing him to lose his otherwise steely composure; but, in her defense, she got shit done.

Give her a phone, a computer, and ten minutes to spin a story, and she could turn muck into money. What she’d achieved in a year was impressive. In little over twelve months, she’d taken The Oceanview’s tarnished reputation and spun a comeback story for the ages.

Their website was sleek, professional, and easy to navigate. Their Pinterest, Facebook, and Twitter accounts were professional and inspiring, and their Instagram followers had skyrocketed in the past few months.

Everything was gathered under a branding that was stylish in its simplicity but easily recognized. Jensen had been impressed when Cho, tactfully—ish, but nonetheless firmly, had insisted that, if they were unwilling to rename the hotel, they had to create a new, modern, and cohesive logo to brand all their online presence and their merchandise with.

Cho’s conversation with the Padalecki family had been forthright; she was sympathetic, but her message was clear—if they wanted the hotel to have a future, they had to let go of the past.

It had been a slow, gradual process, not out of choice. Cho would have done the rebranding in one sweep and aggressively if given an option, but they simply couldn’t. It wasn’t until now, with the finished renovation of the hotel, that the process was finally complete.

It looked fantastic. They all knew it looked fantastic. So did the flood of people currently being herded along as Cho pulled her invisible leash and led them through the hotel. They were industry peers, local business owners, media, wedding planners, food critics, influencers, travel bloggers, representatives from travel agents, and online travel and booking websites.

The place was packed, and Cho, Nat, and Barbara in their element. Cho spun the story, Nat made business connections, and Barbara played the gracious hostess.

Jensen sighed in contentment; everything was coming together the way he’d planned. They weren’t finished; this wasn’t a moment of triumph where they stood as victors in front of their vanquished foes. This was them finally being in good enough shape to approach the starting line and join the race; at last, they could compete with the best.

Jensen made his rounds and surveyed the rest of his team.

Max was in the lobby. Standing behind a makeshift counter, Matthew and two more bartenders served wine to their guests. Beside them, Max gave lectures on vintages and brands, talking passionately about the unconventional, but no less, exceptional wine collection they were building.

As he spoke passionately about the independent, small scale wineries they collaborated with, Max wobbled precariously on the line between pride and arrogance, but he didn’t cross it. Jensen watched in satisfaction as foodies, critiques, and wine snobs nodded while they listened and hummed as they drank.

He felt oddly proud. Max was still an arrogant little shit and a hipster, but he was growing up.

With the support of Matthew’s friendship, Cho’s protection, and Chris and Ella’s mentorship, he was coming into his own. A few more years of careful cultivation and Max would be one of the best.

Jensen turned and began walking towards the dining room but stopped as he saw Maggie hurrying down the stairs. He waved, and when she came over, he asked,

“How are you holding up? Everything working out on your end? Anything I need to know?”

She waved his concerns away.

Cheeks flushed and eyes bright, Maggie said, “Nothing you need to worry about, I’ve got my department under control. Everyone’s on their toes; I’ve got people checking the rooms on display, straightening them up as soon as it’s needed. Jenna, Anne, and Mandy are circulating the reception, lobby, and dining room; Tom and Javier are covering outside.”

She paused, taking a breath, then the words sped out of her mouth once more. She said,

“We’ve come too far for anything to be out-of-order today. I did my best with those dingy, disgusting old rooms for two decades, but they’ve finally gone, and no one,”—she paused for effect—“no one is messing up my new, shiny, perfect rooms. No one.”

Jensen felt a smile break out, and he couldn’t stop himself as he pitched his voice high and said,

“But, Jensen, I have no leadership training, no managerial experience; I can’t be a manager.”

Maggie’s laughter was like a string of pearls as it bubbled out, recollecting that first time, fifteen months ago, when they’d discussed Maggie’s promotion over coffee and macaroons.

Since then, there had been countless coffees and many, many macaroons. Maggie was who she’d always been, but also a completely different person. She had the same skill set, personality, values, and work ethic, but she didn’t hide her competence any longer.

Backed up by Jensen’s confidence and guidance, she’d stepped out of the shadows and revealed herself to be a capable, efficient, and inspiring leader. She’d come a long way, and it was a joy to watch her transformation.

She was about to reply when something behind Jensen caught her attention. He watched as her smile turned to a frown, and she made a casual wave in his direction as she hurried past him, muttering,

“Get those glasses off that side table; they’ll stain the carpet if they topple; that’s a genuine wool carpet.”

As she disappeared, he continued into the dining room, where people hurried to complete the final preparations. The guests were still being shown around the hotel, but soon they’d be treated to a three-course dinner before The Oceanview hotel’s reopening ended with drinks and mingle.

Ella was barking out orders, not aggressively but firmly, leaving no room for interpretation about who reigned supreme in this dining room. As he approached, he was greeted with a smile as she exhaled sharply, catching her breath. Placing a palm on her forehead as if to cool it, she said,

“This is insane; the place is packed. I knew the number, Cho told me how many people were coming, but it’s one thing to see it on paper or empty seats. Once they’re all here in person, it’s crazy. How did she get them all here?”

Jensen chuckled and shrugged. “I have no idea. I stopped trying to understand how Cho works a long time ago; I just get out of the way, deny everything, and let her work her magic. How are you holding up?”

Hands on her hips, Ella answered, “We’re on track. We’ve prepared as much as we can, I’ve drilled my waiters for weeks, and now all we can do is keep our fingers crossed and pray that no one trips or a chef gets careless and someone gets hair in their food.”

Jensen huffed out a laugh. “I doubt it; Chris would drown that chef in the nearest pot of soup for a mistake like that. No. You’ve all done wonders with the restaurant this past year, but if we pull this day off, it has the potential to be a game-changer. Chris has too much to lose, and Kent; tonight has the potential to be the crowning glory of his career—he’d never risk it. Never.”

She nodded. “We all made a huge gamble coming here. It’s been a crazy year, pulling this restaurant back on its feet, but it’s been fun and so rewarding. We’re a great team and deserve the attention and recognition.”

He nodded. “Yes. You do.” Glancing around the room, he asked, “How about you? Is everything stable, kids ok? If there’s something you need, something I can do to help you keep your focus, let me know.”

Ella waved his concerns away. “It’s fine, Jensen. Mac, Maggie’s Mac, took the boys camping; they’ll be gone for three nights. They’re safe and happy, and I can focus on what we’re doing here.”

Surprised, Jensen said, “Really? I wasn’t aware you were that close.”

Ella sighed. “Oh my God, Jensen. It’s amazing. They’re amazing. Even when my dad was alive, it was all about his restaurant; he never had time for his grandkids. After he passed and my cousin took over, it was still a struggle to get my mom to help out with anything, and she lived twenty minutes from us. I get that she has a life of her own, but my Nonna basically raised me; they always left me with their parents, and she complained if I asked her to babysit once every six months.”

She paused. “Maggie and Mac, they live for their family. Their kids are still in their early twenties and haven’t started families yet, so they’ve basically adopted my boys, and now, Amelia’s girls as their grandkids. I mean, their youngest girl is watching Amelia’s kids today. I just—”

She stopped, and Jensen saw her eyes become clear and moist. Voice wobbling, she said, “I thought coming here meant leaving my security net behind, and it’s the opposite. It used to take me an hour, one way, to get to work. Now, I take my youngest to school every morning; it’s a five-minute walk. Then I walk to work, in ten minutes. My oldest can ride his bike to his high school; it takes him three minutes to get there.”

She paused again, shaking her head as if she still hadn’t fully processed the changes in her daily schedule.

“In New York, I barely saw my kids. Now, they come here after school. I can help them with their homework before the dinner service, and they have all these amazing adults in their lives who care about them; Maggie and Mac, Kent, and Barbara.

“Once I had to take my youngest to work with me, and I almost got fired. Our first week here, he almost knocked Barbara over running down a corridor. When I apologized, all she did was pat my cheek and say that it wouldn’t be a real family-run hotel if there weren’t kids running in the corridors.”

Exhaling audibly, she fixed Jensens gaze with hers. “I need this restaurant, this hotel, to become a success; a long-lasting one. Convincing me to come here, you’ve given me, and my kids, a taste of what quality of life feels like. They have great friends, the schools are fantastic, and they have several sets of adopted grandparents. I have friends, Jensen. Maggie, Amelia, I can’t remember when I last had time to have friends.”

Ella paused, moistening her lips. She fixed her glazed eyes on his and said, “I can’t go back to New York, Jensen. Not after getting a taste of what this life has to offer.”

Jensen nodded solemnly, wordlessly conveying that he took her seriously, and understood what was at stake for her. He said,

“We will succeed. We’re already on track; this is the push that will get us to the level we’re supposed to be at. We’re not a dingy hotel with a crappy restaurant anymore; we’re an impeccably designed, four-star hotel, with a Michelin quality restaurant, and it’s time people knew.”

She smiled a dazzling smile. “Yes. On that note, I am running out of time, and I need to hustle.”

She gave him a quick wave as she hurried away, a sharp order bouncing off the walls as Jensen steered his steps to the kitchen. As he entered the busy room, he saw Chris and Kent raise their heads from a plate and look in his direction. Kent nodded. Chris scowled and said,

“Fuck off, Jensen. I don’t need you to hold my hand, and my team doesn’t have time for you; go be supportive someplace else.”

Hands raised in front of himself, Jensen nodded in concession and began backing out. He was interrupted as Amelia came up in front of him and, unceremoniously, shoved a cake in his mouth.

Something airy and ethereal landed softly on his tongue, then it burst in a fizzing explosion of lemony tartness and the sweetness of raspberry. In thirty seconds, Jensen experienced true bliss and the deepest despair; he groaned, closed his eyes, moaned, and, at last, sucked the inside of his cheeks and licked his lips to get one last taste, and then sighed.

Exhaling, he said, “What. Was.That?”

Amelia smirked. “That was a lemon mousse cake, with a raspberry and champagne mirror glazing.”

Jensen looked over to Amelia’s workstation and felt his eyes widen at the sight of the array of pastries in various sizes and colors. Licking his lips once more, he felt a hard finger in his chest and a firm voice say,

“No. I was unsure about that one, but you liked it, so I know it’ll be a hit. Now get out; we’re busy, and you’re not needed here.”

The swinging doors flapped close with a whoosh as Jensen backed out of the kitchen. Walking back out into the lobby, he felt a hand grasp his arm and Cho’s voice hissing,

“Smile, Jensen.”

He instantly located the lenses and phones focused on him, and smiled his best genuinely fake smile. He kept his face open and welcoming, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth,

“How are we doing?”

Smiling widely, Cho murmured back, “They’re all stupid sheep, and we’re fucking awesome. Now smile, you hot piece of ass.”

Through the large windows at the entrance, Jensen watched as Jared, seated in front of a pottery wheel they’d set up, explained the process of creating the dishes for the restaurant to the crowd gathered around him.

Jensen knew one of the first stops on Cho’s list had been to Jared’s studio, where he’d demonstrated the finishing touches on a chandelier in the same design as the one in the lobby.

“Eyes on the cattle, Bitch; you can ogle your paramour later.”

Jensen faked a laugh and discreetly hissed, “Tell me, Succubus, how do you fit your hooves into those immaculate Louboutin’s?”

“I grease it up, and slide it in, just like your boyfriend.”

Jensen grunted. “When are you leaving? One word, and I’ll have that recommendation written up in no time.”

He wasn’t sure, but Jensen thought he saw Cho’s blinding, fake smile take on a savage note.

She said, “Fuck you. I’m not leaving. I’m having way too much fun. You see the journalist over there?” She nodded towards a sleek-looking man in the crowd. “The magazine he works for was supposed to do a center spread on the CEO of a certain company. Guess who swooped in and stole the spot right in front of his new PR girl’s eyes? Me, Bitch.”

Her smile was feral as she said, “And that one.” She indicated a plump woman, sipping a glass of wine. “She was supposed to cover the launch of a Bel Air hotel’s restaurant; she’s here instead. They made me apply for the position. Me. Then they humiliated me and gave the job to a twenty-something little bitch, not even dry behind the ears. Well, fuck them. I just stole their fucking spotlight; I stole it because I’m the best. They thought they could humiliate me; they thought I was out of the game.”

Eyes narrowing, she said, “This will be my masterpiece, my Mona fucking Lisa. When I’m done, all those companies who turned me down will beg on their hands and knees for me to work for them; when they do, I’ll tell them to go fuck themselves, and then I’ll make this place even better.”

Blinking slowly, Jensen looked at Cho and licked his lips. “You know what, Cho. You’re a vicious, conniving bitch; smart as hell, and ruthless. It’s hot; if I was straight, I’d totally fuck you.”

A blinding, genuine smile broke out on her lips and she said, “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Jensen.” She slid closer, leaning her head on his shoulder, she said,

“Be honest, you like me; I’m fun. Imagine how bored you’d be without me here, nothing but mundane, ordinary HR stuff to deal with. I keep you on your toes; I’m good for you.”

Jensen snorted, but there was a smile playing in the corner of his mouth as he said, “Like a hole in the head. Now, go be brilliant and PR savvy, I’m going to find Monica.”

As he walked off, Cho winked and puckered her lips at him. He glanced around, making sure no one was looking at him, then used his index fingers to improvise a cross thrust out in front of him for protection. Cho’s sharp laugh was delighted, and Jensen couldn’t contain the small smile that graced his own lips.

It was a long, exhausting day. Jensen posed for pictures, answered questions, gave interviews, talked to the people Cho told him to talk to and laughed his genuine fake laugh all day long. But, as he mingled among the conversations at the end of the evening, he knew they’d pulled it off; the reopening of The Oceanview hotel was a success.

If Jensen’s gut feeling wasn’t enough proof, the articles, reviews, blog posts, and Instagram posts that emerged in the following weeks spoke volumes. So did the sharp spike in bookings; three weeks after the party, July, August, September, Christmas and New Years were fully booked. The restaurant had a two-week waiting list, and the occupancy rate for October and November looked promising.

Renovating the entire hotel had been a massive financial gamble for the Padalecki family. They hadn’t discussed it openly, but Jensen knew Barbara and Kent had dipped deep into their retirement funds to supplement their business’ insufficient savings and taken out a mortgage on their home, but it had paid off. If their bookings kept turning out numbers like these, they’d soon be debt-free with well-padded retirement funds again, Jensen would make sure of it.

Chapter Text

OCTOBER

Like the previous year, the summer whirled by; Jensen blinked in June, and when he opened his eyes again, it was October.

He sensed something was off as soon as he entered the lobby. Monica, standing behind the reception desk, looked up as he entered. Jensen watched her expression change from professional and welcoming to a tight, controlled demeanor; her posture tensing and the intensity of her gaze making the golden flakes in her dark eyes flicker.

Feeling eyes on him from every angle in the room, Jensen unconsciously rolled his shoulders as the tension slammed into him. As he walked towards the door leading to the back office, it opened, and Nat stepped through. When she saw him, she halted mid-step.

Deciding to tackle whatever the problem was head-on, Jensen said,

“Alright, what’s going on, Nat? What’s with the stony-faced attitude; I’m usually the one with the foul morning temper.”

Face grim and tone as warm and welcoming as an arctic summer, she said, “It’s not you; it’s your visitor.” For a gut-punching second, Jensen thought his mother had turned up again. He felt his eyebrows knit together. Nat, voice milder, almost pleading, said,

“He swaggered in twenty minutes ago, asking for you. He’s been very forthright about his business here, and everyone’s worried.”

“Well”—Jensen’s eyebrows rose—“who is it?”

Nat exhaled. “It’s your old boss; he’s here to convince you to return to your previous job.”

Jensen felt himself recoil in surprise. He asked, “Dave? Short, thinning hair, padded midsection?”

She nodded. Confused, he said, “Dave; here?” She nodded again, voice tight as she said, “He’s waiting for you in the lounge. He wanted to wait in your office, but I refused.”

Jensen shook himself out of his momentary shock and felt it give way to a sense of annoyance. Dave, here? His resignation had left no opening for him ever returning or even consulting for his old firm. Brusquely, he said, “Right. I guess I’ll better go meet him then.”

Nat gave a silent nod, but as Jensen turned to walk to the lobby, he heard her say, “We need you.” She didn’t expand or comment further; instead, she turned and left the room the same way she’d entered.

Jensen didn’t hurry. He walked to his office and removed his coat, scarf, and gloves. On his way to the lounge, he made a detour to the dining room, waving one of the early wait-staff over, asking him to please bring him a coffee and whatever treats Amelia had on offer that morning. He didn’t order anything for his unexpected and unwelcome visitor.

Five minutes later, Jensen sauntered into the lounge and sat down in the chair opposite Dave, placing his coffee and plate on the table between them. As their eyes met, Jensen asked,

“What are you doing here, Dave?”

The glossy pages of the magazine he was reading rustled as Dave placed it on the table. He ran a palm over the open pages to smooth out any wrinkles and turned it so Jensen could see the article he’d been perusing.

Jensen saw his own face look up at him from the double-page spread, along with Chris’ and Jared’s. The headline read: The holy trinity: exquisite design, innovative fine-dining, and first-class employees—how one small hotel is fighting back against generic hospitality.

The article was a few months old by now; it was one of several interviews Cho had insisted he take part in as she launched her aggressive promotion campaign in preparation for the reopening. Jensen hadn’t grumbled—much; the article was featured in one of the more high-end and well-known travel magazines, and Jensen had been impressed she’d been able to get them interested—she really was very good.

It had been a good article too, behind the double paged picture of them, was a several page long article with pictures of the new rooms, the restaurant, design details and of course, an in-depth interview with him, Jared, and Chris, discussing their respective roles in the relaunch of the hotel.

Dave tapped the picture with his index finger. He said, “I love the suit, but then, you always understood the importance of a professional image.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. Tone slightly sharper, he repeated his question, “Dave, why are you here?”

A small, involuntary twitch shook the older man as the sting in Jensen’s tone hit him right in the chest. He opened his mouth, then, realizing that small talk and casual flattery would get him nowhere, Dave sighed; the motion seemed to deflate his doughy body. Defeated, he looked at him and said,

“What do you want me to say; that the t-shirts were a bad idea? That yoga balls, sandals, and a PlayStation in the break room was the wrong look for our company? That clients found it immature; that they questioned our competence and professionalism?”

He paused, and when Jensen didn’t reply, he fell back against the backrest of his chair. “Fine. You were right, Jensen. That consultant had no idea what he was doing, and we’ve lost a ton of clients. Too many.”

When Jensen nodded but still didn’t say anything, Dave ran a hand through his sparse hair. He said,

“Look. I’ve been sent to convince you to come back; I have a mandate to give you anything you ask for, anything. Seven figures, you got it. Unlimited expense account, no problem. Whatever you want, Jensen; just come back.”

“No.”

Jensen watched Dave blanch and ready himself to object, but he halted as Jensen began to speak. He said,

“It’s not about money. It’s not about perks. It’s not even about me being petty or basking in your misfortune; I’m genuinely sorry you’re struggling. But, once I leave, I never go back. I did the consultant gig for a long time, and I’m bored with it; I’m not interested in returning. At the moment, I’m content where I am, and your figures or cars won’t convince me otherwise. When I decide it’s time for me to do something new, I’ll be moving forward, not backward.”

“Jensen, be reasonable, I—” Dave halted as Jensen put his hand up to silence him.

“You’re wasting your time. I’m sorry you came all this way only to be shut down in a five-minute conversation, but I’m not interested. Whatever I decide to do in the future, it won’t include moving back to Washington DC, or working for Capitolium HR Consultants.”

As Jensen spoke, something desperate had entered Dave’s eyes. Jensen saw the corner of his left eye twitch as his eyes flickered from side to side. After a moment’s silence, he said,

“Jensen, my ass is on the line here. The rebranding was a disaster, and the board is breathing down my neck. If I come back empty-handed, I’m out. I’m fifty-nine-years old; too young to retire, too old to be competitive in today’s job market. Please, for old times’ sake, give me something. Let’s make a deal, one beneficial to both of us.

“If you don’t want to come back permanently, you can come in on a case-by-case consultant gig, you can pick which clients you want to work with—no small fry bullshit, we’d only bring you in for our whale clients.”

It was pathetic, but Jensen couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Dave was the type of person who’d once, thirty years ago, been competent enough to climb into a middle-management position, and that’s where he’d stayed.

He was a fixture, a part of the inventory who stayed where he was, not by his own merits, but because of people like Jensen—employees ambitious and talented, making the whole department and Dave look good.

He sighed as his sense of professionalism battled against his empathy. Inhaling deeply, Jensen came to a decision. He picked up his phone and said,

“Write this number down.”

He watched as Dave hurriedly patted his pockets for a pen. Jensen, with only a hint of reproach in his patient tone, said,

“In your phone, Dave; add a new contact in your phone, or you’ll lose the number.”

Two minutes later, after much fumbling, Jensen was typing in the number on Dave’s phone. As he typed, he said,

“Her name is Antonella Trejo.” It was a name that had been circulating at the back of Jensen’s head for months—but not in this context. They’d met at an HR convention where they’d both been speakers. Jensen had been impressed and taken her number, monitoring her career and checking in once in a while. She was someone Jensen had always wanted to recruit once he found the right position.

She was currently one of five names on the mental list Jensen had built to possibly, when the time came, replace him. She was at the top of his list, one of few he deemed good enough to take his place. Now, he was giving her up out of pity for a man who didn’t deserve her.

But, it was a good move—for her. She’d whip that place into shape, and Dave would survive until retirement, an early one if the board was smart enough to realize she should be in charge, not him. Jensen said,

“She has a law degree from Georgetown University and is currently the HR manager at The George Washington University Hospital. She deals with world-class specialists with first-class egos all day; she can do what I did.”

Jensen made a move to give Dave the phone he was now eyeing like it held the road to salvation. As he reached for it, Jensen pulled back his hand and said,

“I’m giving you one of my best names, Dave. This is someone I would call if I need to hire an HR consultant. Do. Not. Waste.This. Number. You will offer her the same salary, benefits, and perks I had when I worked for you. I repeat, don’t waste this number. If you do, I will find out, and I’ll be upset; that won’t be to your advantage. Do you understand?”

He watched as Dave nodded vigorously, fingers clasping and unclasping in the air as they reached for the phone. With a final sigh, Jensen gave the phone back. He looked down at his cold, undrunk coffee and the pain au chocolat still waiting to be eaten. Standing up, he picked up the pastry and said,

“If you’re staying the night, give my name at the reception, and they’ll offer you a good rate and make a dinner reservation for you; the sea bass is excellent. Now, you and I are finished with each other. Goodbye, Dave.”

The heart palpitations didn’t begin until he reached his office. Once he closed the door, Jensen felt a pinching right below his breastbone as his pulse sped up. He covered his mouth with his hand as that nauseous feeling he’d felt before made itself known again.

He’d given away his best number; why had he done that? Those other four, the ones on his list, they were either long shots or wrong for this place. Out of all the people Jensen had met during his career, she was the one person who, maybe, could have handled this place.

He inhaled deeply, but nausea still kept a tight grip on his esophagus. With one hand pressed against his mouth, Jensen remembered the pastry in his other. He put it absently on the desk.

He only had six months left; how would he ever find someone good enough in six months? He had no back-up plan. The first half of his second year at the hotel had sped by so fast. There’d been the renovations and the reopening, which had been a lot of work.

Then there was his hand-picked team to manage—which, despite Jensen’s aloofness, was no picnic; keeping Ella from murdering Max when his arrogance went overboard, or Amelia and Chris from stepping on each other’s toes as they figured out their respective territories, and Cho, everything about Cho was hard work.

Maggie and Monica were competent and easy to deal with, but they were both finding their feet in their first managerial position; that was a challenge in any circumstances, doing it while the whole business was being rebuilt from the ground up was beyond difficult. Especially when they had to clean up old messes and deal with issues that had been allowed to fester for years. They needed his support.

That was six people. Then, there was the other staff; with their increased standards, the busy restaurant, their new four-star rating, and increased occupancy, the last time Jensen counted, The Oceanview Hotel now employed well-over ninety people during high-season.

Then, there was the Padalecki family. They’d come a long way in eighteen months, but they still needed him. Every important decision, or discussion, professional or personal, he was there. If Jensen didn’t find the right person, the family could easily fall back into their dysfunctional ways, and all the work they’d done would crumble.

He inhaled deeply. Jensen blinked rapidly as black spots jumped in front of his eyes and the walls of his small office began to close in on him. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he dressed while walking out the door. Nat was coming down the hallway as he walked out; her brow crease as she looked at him. She reached out, concerned, and said,

“Jensen?”

He waved her away with a weak smile and said in passing,

“It’s just a headache. I’m going for a walk to get some fresh air; I’ll be back later.”

Somehow, he made it out the front door. Walking through the lobby, the ground moved under his feet, swaying and undulating in a rhythm he couldn’t match.

As he found his way outside and walked down to the windy shoreline, the chilly October air hit him, and yet a thin veil of sweat covered his face; his hand trembled as he raised it to wipe it away. The air was high and cool. Despite its crispness, he gasped for breath, struggling to fill his lungs with enough air.

As he stumbled forward, it felt as though the world moved in flickering segments around him; one step and he was walking past the high sandy dunes right below the hotel, the next, he passed the yellow cottage a hundred yards ahead. At the third step, Jensen slotted the key into the door of his rented beach cottage.

He stumbled inside, slamming the door shut, and pulled at his coat and scarf, letting them fall to the floor. With one hand sliding along the wall to steady himself, he scaled the stairs while the other pulled at his clothes—he couldn’t breathe. His finely made garments, hugging his form, felt like a constricting prison of cloth; his blazer, vest, tie, and shirt fell on the steps as they came off.

Grasping the door frame for support as he entered the bedroom, he still felt short of breath. Now, only in a thin undershirt, there was no clothing hindering his movements, but his chest still felt clasped in an ever-tightening grip of steel.

Jensen swallowed thrice in rapid succession to force down the nausea.

Leaning against the wall, his shaking legs barely able to keep him upright, he tried to slow his breathing, but it felt as if everything he did to regain control of his body only made it worse. He tried to shut his eyes, but the darkness behind his closed lids felt so vast and threatening that he quickly opened them as the void began to spin.

He clenched his fists so tightly he felt his knuckles pop and his well-manicured nails dig into his palms. He pressed them tightly to his forehead to focus himself and tried to understand what was happening. All he’d done was give away a phone number; it wasn’t the end of the world.

But it would be. His insides constricted so violently he had to bend forward and rest his hands on his knees as he tried to force enough air into his lungs. If he couldn’t find the right person to replace him, it would be a disaster.

Who could handle Chris, allowing him to be brilliant, without getting insulted or having their feelings hurt by his brusque, rough attitude? What would Chris say if he left; would he feel betrayed, abandoned? Jensen had promised him, he’d promised Chris he would be there to make sure his relationship with Nat survived.

They, and their relationship, were instrumental to The Oceanview’s prosperity; if they failed—it could be the catalyst that toppled the entire business. Who could make sure that didn’t happen. Who’d care?

No one else, except maybe Nat, knew Chris the way Jensen did; no one else understood how he worked and why. Someone else might try to comfort him, challenge him, not understanding what that meant or how disastrous the outcome it might lead to.

You needed a special touch to steer Chris where you wanted him to go; who else besides Jensen knew when to push and when to take a step back.

And the rest.

Max was amazing, but what a little asshole, who was strong enough to control him and self-assured enough to know when to give him loose reins.

Cho; who in the world was tough enough to handle Cho?

Why hadn’t he dealt with this sooner? He’d pushed it to the back of his mind, ignored it, and now he had six months to find someone else, and he had no names, not a single one.

And Jared, who—

Jensen barely made it into the bathroom in time; he collapsed on his knees and bent over the toilet bowl as the scant contents of his stomach came back up. Tears streamed down his face as his throat convulsed, and bile forced its way up and out.

With his stomach empty, Jensen hung limply over the toilet, forehead leaning against one arm, dry heaving as his body convulsed and cramped. A light coating of cold sweat covered his exposed skin, and he shivered despite the comfortable temperature.

He’d waited too long, pushed away the difficult questions, and now he was going to leave everyone in an impossible situation. He’d given this family hope, and he was going to crush it; hand-picked these professionals, convinced them to leave everything, and they had because they trusted him—now he’d ruin their careers.

Jared, Jensen made a retching sound as his body cramped again; what would it do to him when Jensen left? Would he come after him, as he’d said he would? He’d given that speech, told Jensen that he’d seen through his insecurities and plans, but they hadn’t talked about it since that night.

Jensen had listened and seen the sincerity; he’d accepted that Jared believed his own words. But, he’d never abandoned his planned two-year time frame. . . not really. He’d pushed it aside, ignored it, but it had always been there, counting down the months, weeks, days, and hours.

Dry heaving under control, Jensen reached up and flushed the toilet. Then, weak limbs still trembling, he crawled out of the bathroom, across the bedroom floor to the foot of the bed, and leaned against it.

Running both hands over his face and up into his hair, Jensen raised his gaze and looked at his map. He traced the pins littering the surface with his eyes, trying to count them, starting over again and again but lost count every time.

How many were they; how many times had he packed-up his life and left? He remembered that winter when he was ten, they’d traveled along the gulf coast, changing motels, towns, and states every other week.

They’d spent November in Texas, a week in Corpus Christi, three in Houston then, was it Beaumont? In December, they’d passed the border to Louisiana, Lafayette, Baton Rouge; they’d celebrated Christmas in New Orleans.

In January, they stopped at Biloxi, Mississippi, and Pensacola, Alabama; Jensen remembered his mother’s foul temper and her complaining a lot. They’d passed the border to Florida in February, Tampa, Fort Myers, and her mood had brightened; there were a lot of rich retirees in Florida.

They’d continued along the Florida coast, rounding the tip, and ended up in Miami, she loved it there, and they’d stayed a whole month.

In March, there’d been Palm Beach, Jacksonville. In April, they crossed into Georgia and spent three weeks in Savannah, South Carolina, and Charleston. They’d gone on and on. How many stops had there been that winter? How many shithole towns, how many motels, thirty, forty? Jensen couldn’t remember.

That’s why he’d begun the map in the first place. He remembered stealing it from some gas station; how old had he been, eight, nine? He would circle each place they stayed with the remains of a packet of alcohol markers his mother had thrown at him once, telling him to draw something and shut up—she’d forgotten paper. He'd been much older, on his own, once he'd mounted it and marked each circle with a pin. But, what good was it?

Jensen stared at the cluttered surface—what did the pins really mean? He didn’t remember any better because of it, and why would it matter? What difference would it make if he remembered a shithole motel in a crappy town he’d spent two weeks in twenty-five years ago? It didn’t.

All it did, all it represented, was a life in constant motion. An existence where Jensen never contemplated stopping, not once—not even now.

He was happy.

He wasn’t sure when the feeling had snuck up on him, but for the first time in his life, Jensen felt part of something—included. He wasn’t a temporary presence in these people’s lives; they were counting on him to be there.

They trusted him, relied on him; they liked him. Jensen was happy; he was content. And yet, here he was, having a meltdown because he couldn’t think of someone to replace him when he left; because—because he didn’t know how to stop. Because he was so messed-up, the most logical solution felt unattainable.

Thinking back on their rooftop conversation, Jensen wondered if Chris had experienced a similar moment as this one. He’d seemed so grounded since he’d come here. Had he reached this point? Was this what he’d meant when he said that Jensen hadn’t made a choice yet?

Had he crawled over the floors in his upscale Las Vegas apartment, shivering as cold sweat forced its way out of his pores and panicked cramps wracked his body?

Was that it? Was that the moment Chris admitted that he was tired, fed-up; where he decided it was time to find a place where he could stop?

The simplest solution to Jensen’s problem was not to leave, scrapping his time frame and staying in Newport. Indefinitely. It shouldn’t be this difficult to do something that made so much sense. Rationally and emotionally, it was the obvious choice.

He didn’t have to leave. She wasn’t here. He wasn’t ten years old, being dragged out the door of a random motel room by his hair, kicking and screaming while his cheeks throbbed and burned.

Chris had been right about that too. She would come back; she always did.

Eventually, his mother would be standing at his threshold, and Jensen would have to fight her again. What was the point in trying to outrun her when she always caught up?

He could stop. If Jensen wanted to, if he could find the courage, he could stop.

Nothing was waiting ahead of him better than what he had here. It was one of those sobering, instant thoughts that were suddenly just there, one of those instinctual insights that hit you right when you needed it.

This was it; this was his one chance. In thirty-nine years, this was the one time Jensen had a shot at a normal life. If he left, he wouldn’t get a second one. He knew it, felt it in his bones.

No one would ever get under his skin the way Jared had done. No one. If Jensen left, it wouldn’t be in search of anything better; it would be because he was a coward, too afraid to be happy.

He looked at the map again and clenched his fists as his pulse began to speed up once more. Jensen knew it wasn’t real, that it was an illusion conjured up by his inner turmoil, but it felt like the image was throbbing; pulsating, sending out shock waves that hit him in the chest, piercing into every insecurity, every fear, urging him to get up and move.

That immobility meant vulnerability; that the only way to keep safe was a life of movement and no ties to anyone.

He gasped out loud. It felt like he was coming apart at the seams, the two warring sides of himself ruthless in their fight for dominance—stop or move? His inner security system said, move, his heart said, stay.

He closed his eyes, inhaled, and opened them again on a trembling exhale. The map was still throbbing, sending out its pulsating waves boring into him. This was it. This was the moment Chris had spoken about. He had to make it stop; he had to choose.

His arms shook as he put his hands on the floor, steadying himself as he got to his feet. He didn’t feel his body move. He inhaled, blinked, exhaled, and then the air around him exploded as colored pins rained down around him and hit the floor in a pattering sound when the corkboard smashed against the side of the wardrobe, the force splitting it in two.

Jensen stood, momentarily shocked into stillness by his own action. Then, the ruined pieces of the map fell from his hands onto the floor as he stumbled over to the bed, pins rolling and crushing beneath his shoes, and sank down on it. Feet still on the floor, he fell onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his body exhausted and mind empty and buzzing.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before he heard the door open below. The footsteps were heavy and steady, but he noticed them briefly halting and then a scraping, rolling sound. It took him a moment to understand what he was hearing; it was the sound of heavy boots scraping across the floor and small pins rolling across the hardwood. The force when the map broke must have propelled some of them out of the door and down the stairs.

Jared didn’t say anything as he came to a halt in the doorway; Jensen didn’t turn his face or greet him. The pins rolled across the floor as Jared, kicking them aside with a sweep of his foot, and entered the room. With care, he placed Jensens discarded clothing on the bed beside him. Then, he leaned down, picked up the pieces of the broken map, shaking them to remove any pins still hanging loose, and disappeared again.

Jensen heard the front door opening, the faint sound of the lid to the trashcan opening and closing, and then the front door shutting again. There was some more rustling, and then the sound of a vacuum and the tinkling sound as dozens, hundreds of pins were sucked into it.

Slowly and methodically, Jared vacuumed his way up the staircase, the landing, bathroom, and finally the bedroom. As he lay on the bed, listening to the markings of his childhood being sucked into a dust bag, Jensen felt it was an apt metaphor for that part of his life.

When the vacuum powered down, the buzzing, sucking sound giving room to silence, Jared put it to the side and came over to the bed. He laid down beside Jensen, reaching out and pulling him close; he didn’t object or fight the embrace. He pressed his ear against Jared’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

Jared’s hand was large, rough, and warm as it reached out and grasped his own, playing with the fingers, and tracing patterns across his palm. Jensen felt his dry lips stick together as he opened them, and he grimaced at the sensation and the acid taste in his mouth. Face turned into Jared’s chest, he said,

“I’m calling the landlord tomorrow. There’s no point in me renting this place, we’re never here.”

Jared’s fingers laced with his as he said, “So, you’re not going back to Washington then?”

Jensen wasn’t surprised; Nat would have called and filled Jared in as soon as Jensen left the hotel, if not sooner.

“I’m not going anywhere; I’m staying.”

Jared’s only reply was a soft kiss on his wrist. With Jared’s steady heartbeat whooshing in his ears and his calm breathing beneath his palm, Jensen said,

“I love you, you know.”

Jared’s free hand reached out and stroked his hair, tickled its way down his face, and caressed his jawline.

“I know. I love you too.”

Chapter Text

YEAR 3

JANUARY-FEBRUARY

Turning to look at himself in the full-length mirror, Jensen ran his palms down his midsection, grunting slightly at the constricting tightness of his vest. 

As the bathroom door opened, steam escaped into the room, blurring his reflection. A towel wrapped around his waist and head covered in a terry cloth turban, Jared came up behind him and grasped his waist with both hands. 

Voice smooth, and skin still hot from the shower, he said, “Nice.”

Jensen grunted and pulled at the ends of the fabric. “This is a disaster. Your dad and Chris both in charge of the holiday food; first Thanksgiving, then Christmas. I don’t have the metabolism for such a prolonged orgy of great food anymore.” 

Clearly amused, Jared contained his smile. “True. Dad and Chris are a lethal combo in the kitchen. But, don’t you think Amelia shares some blame? All those holiday-themed pastries, the plate of newly baked Pain au Chocolat always waiting in your office in the mornings. You think, maybe, they play a part in things feeling tighter than they used to?”

Affronted and sulking, Jensen said, “No. I do not; this is not the pastry’s fault. Clearly, it’s the excess of food; that’s the only explanation.”

Chest quaking and eyes sparkling, Jared leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Of course. The pastry is innocent. My mistake.”

Running his hands down his front again, Jensen whined as he leaned his head back against Jared’s chest.

Encircling his waist, Jared said, “Jensen, it’s not a disaster. So you gained five pounds over the holidays. Now that they’re over, and we’re back to our regular exercise routine and diet, you’ll shed those pounds in no time. Besides, you’re the only one to even notice.”  

Pouting, Jensen said, “Your little pep talk would be more effective if your razor cut abs weren’t poking me in the back.”

Jared leaned down and nibbled his earlobe. Voice sultry, he said, “You know that’s not my abs.”

Jensen glanced back over his shoulder, brows creased and expression determined. 

“No. I’m finally dressed, and you just came out of the shower.”

Face set in an earnest expression, Jared kissed him on the neck, humming against the sensitive skin. Jensen watched his own reflection and Jared’s nimble fingers popping open the first button in his vest.  

Breath shaky as Jared’s mouth kissed his way up behind the rim of his ear, Jensen said, 

“I said no, Jared.”  

A low rumble of agreement reverberated in Jared’s chest. As another button popped open, he raised his head, and their eyes locked in the mirror. He said, 

“Say it again.” 

The heat in Jared’s eyes was so intense, it might have melted the glass. As another button came open, Jensen licked his lips and groaned in defeat.

Walking into his office, Jensen removed his scarf and gloves and shrugged out of his coat, putting them all away. As he checked his hair in the mirror he’d hung on the back of his door, he shivered and made a sound of disgust at the lingering damp still clinging to the fabric in his clothes. 

Sitting down at his desk, Jensen reached out, straightening the small glass turtle and the framed photos by its side; there were more now. 

He’d never asked Barbara about them, and she never brought it up; they just appeared, on his desk, framed. He wasn’t sure if it was a simple kindness—a desire to make him feel included—or a passive-aggressive campaign to remind him he had responsibilities now, that they were counting on him. 

Either way, the frames kept appearing, and he never objected. 

He looked at the most recent one, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips. He could still recall the horror in Chris’ eyes as his hands clasped the shimmering sweater, glitter falling between his fingers as they wrung at the offending fabric. His eyes had searched out Jensen, their intensity piercing as they said: what the actual fuck!

He’d shrugged as if to say: apparently, this is what normal families do. 

For a fraction of a second, Chris seemed to consider suicide, then Nat came up, put her hand on his chest, and asked, 

“Aren’t you putting yours on?”

He’d watched, fascinated, as Chris’ features morphed into the most painful smile he’d ever seen. Face stretched in agony, he’d nodded, said, “of course,” and pulled the sweater over his head. 

Jensen chuckled again, then turned and pulled the tray that stood waiting towards him. In his defense, he hadn’t actually asked anyone to make sure there was always a tray with freshly brewed coffee, warm milk, and a plate of Amelia’s treats ready and waiting on his desk every morning. One day, it just appeared and kept appearing.

He liked to think it was a show of appreciation. When he was honest with himself, he knew the staff had learned that if Jensen started his day with great coffee and flaky pastry, he was easier to deal with—less of a sarcastic hardass.  

It was a lesson many new employees had learned the hard way. Those present for his first tussle with Barbara, and the later ones, knew who they were dealing with. The more recent employees didn’t. 

By now, in the last stretch of his second year, Jensen had no trouble finding people willing to work for them. Occasionally, he did have trouble with people who mistook his empathy for weakness. 

They quickly learned that, although Jensen would fight tooth and nail for them to all receive a fair wage, decent benefits, and two weeks paid vacation, in return, he expected them to earn it.

Dishwasher or top management, to him, it made no difference; Jensen didn’t deal with mediocrity, and he expected excellence from everyone. And what Jensen expected, you either lived up to, or you quit before you got fired.

Pouring himself some coffee, Jensen took a scalding sip before lifting the silver dome covering his plate. His excitement turned to confusion when his pain au chocolates were revealed, both with a gaping hole in the middle. Someone had walked in and bitten off a sizable chunk, right in the center where the chocolate pooled. 

Momentarily confused, Jensen stilled, then grunted as he remembered that Jared—going to a meeting with Chris—had walked on ahead of him as Jensen was held back at the reception desk.

He snorted and prepared to rise to fetch two new ones from the kitchen. As he placed his hands on the armrests, his vest pulled and pinched, and he squirmed at the uncomfortable, constricting sensation. Jensen sighed, sat down, and picked up what remained of the pastry. 

Breakfast eaten, he pushed the tray to the side and got lost in his work. He was startled back to reality as Jared unceremoniously entered his office without knocking and threw himself down in the chair on the other side of his desk.

“Lunch, Jen. Stop working.”

Eyes steely, Jensen snorted. “I haven’t forgiven you yet. Very funny, you asshole.”

Jared looked at him, eyebrows raised and hands fanned out. “Forgiven me? I wasn’t aware I’d done something wrong.”

Dryly, Jensen said, “Cute. Like anyone else at the hotel would dare to come into my office and take two large bites out my pain au chocolates.” 

Jared’s expression didn’t change. “Well, I hate to tell you, Jen, but someone needs a refresher in respecting your pastry because I didn’t do it.”  

Searching his face, Jensen saw nothing but honesty. Jared barked out a short laugh. “When you find the culprit, be sure to warn the rest of us so we can dive for cover before you unleash your displeasure.”

Jensen smiled a brief, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Inside, ice spread through his veins, and the nausea lodge itself firmly behind his breastbone. 

No one except Jared would dare. No one. Except her. 

Pausing the video, Jensen sighed and leaned back in the chair. Beside him, their head of security looked at him. He asked,

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do instead of just sitting here?”

Jensen shook his head, faking a comforting smile. “Really, Eric, there’s nothing you can do. I got a bad feeling, that’s all, but there’s nothing on these surveillance tapes. 

Please circulate that picture I gave you and keep an extra eye out for her when you go through the tapes.”

Nodding, the wide-shouldered, gray-haired man said, “I’ll do that, no problem.”

Rising from the chair, Jensen made to leave the room. Stopping in the doorway, he said, “She’s an expert grifter, Eric. Ignore things like hair color, style, walk, body type; look at bone structure; it’s the only thing she can’t change.” 

Eyes flicking to the picture of the majestic woman on the table in front of him, Jensen saw the slight hesitation in the other man’s nod, a tiny tell that he thought Jensen was overreacting. He wasn’t the only one.

Jared was leaning against the wall when he exited the room. Calmly, he asked, 

“Did you find anything?”

Jensen sighed and reluctantly replied, “No, she wasn’t on there.” Seeing Jared’s expression, he said, “And don’t tell me, I told you so.”

Jared raised his hands in front of himself in a sign of submission. “I wasn’t going to. It’s just, it’s been three weeks, Jensen, and your stress levels are through the roof. When we find whoever made that tasteless prank, I’m going to string them up myself for riling you up like this.”

Jensen rubbed his forehead and sighed. With his eyes pinched shut, he said, “I’m not riled up, Jared. Something is wrong; I can feel it. It’s not about the pastry. Someone is messing with my head; last week, my glass turtle was sitting in the middle of my desk, I didn’t put it there. The week before that, all my framed photos were standing at the wrong angle. 

“Three days ago, my keys disappeared; I searched my bag and my pockets over and over, and I couldn’t find them. Then, two hours later, when I came back from a meeting, they were on my desk. 

“Yesterday, I wore my brown and cream checkered cashmere scarf to work, the one I always wear with my camel coat. When I went to get dressed, the checkered one was gone, and my black scarf was on the hanger instead, the same one that I though I lost before Christmas.”

Jared ran his index finger along his bottom lip. He sighed, and his words were careful as he said, 

“Ok. But, Jensen, all of those things could have completely logical explanations. Other people clean your office; they probably moved the turtle to the middle of the desk not to risk it falling to the floor, and then forget to put it back, the same with your framed photos. 

“Your scarf, it’s as you said, you always wear the same one with your camel coat; you’ve been really stressed, it wouldn’t be strange if you, distractedly, forgot to wear one. I misplace things in this building all the time; someone probably found your black scarf, knew it was yours and put it in your office without telling you. 

“As for your keys, you probably dropped them on the floor, and someone picked them up, recognized them, and put them on your desk.”

Frustrated, Jensen said, “And if one of these things had happened, I’d agree with you. But, this isn’t one isolated incident; it’s one little thing after another. I haven’t even mentioned everything. I know they seem insignificant to you, but how do you explain all of these things happening in the space of three weeks?” 

Jared ran a large hand through his hair and scratched at his scalp. Jensen watched him hesitate, then he said, 

“Because you’re expecting them to. You’re on edge, stressed, and you’re looking for signs. You’re wound so tight every little thing is a confirmation of what you fear is true. Every tall woman we meet on the street is automatically your mother until you get close enough to see it’s not her.”

Jensen scoffed. “I’m not doing this to myself, Jared. Why would I do that?”

Jared pushed off the wall, walked up to him, and wound his arms around his waist, walking him backward in the narrow corridor until it was Jensen who stood leaning against the wall. 

He looked down on him, eyes compassionate. “Jensen, the past two years, you’ve gone fifteen rounds with yourself. Deciding to stay here, you’ve broken a lifelong pattern, it wouldn’t be strange if you’re experiencing some emotional backlash. No one is coming for you, Jensen; it’s your fear playing tricks on you.”

Jensen sighed and massaged his forehead. Everything sounded so logical when Jared explained it, but the discomfort that had lodged itself in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t budge. Above him, Jared said, 

“Look, this isn't the place for us to have this conversation. I’m going to buy us a nice dinner. Try to finish early, and we’ll have a quiet night; talk this through properly. I hate to see you like this.”

Eyes downcast, Jensen gave a silent nod and felt Jared kiss him on the head. As he walked away down the corridor, Jensen raised his head and, turning in the other direction, saw Chris stepping into a doorway.  

He didn’t need to ask if he’d heard their conversation. Walking up to him, Jensen looked at him and asked, “Am I as crazy as I sound?

With a sideways nod, Chris silently told him to follow. A few minutes later, he was sitting at a table in the empty dining room eating cake. Arms folded over his chest and legs stretched out in front of him, Chris said, 

“You know what really freaks me out? Calm. I think that’s why I yell and pretend to be angry all the time; if I do, I can trick myself into believing there’s always a problem that I have to solve. There isn’t. Not really. I could break my leg tomorrow, and the restaurant would be fine. Not as good as with me there, but they’d do a decent job. Kent would hold down the fort, and the brats would keep firm under pressure.

“But, I can’t be calm; I can’t tell myself everything is under control because, if I do, I get so fucking scared that I can’t hold myself together.

He paused. “People like you and I, Jen, we panic when things are good. Catastrophes we can handle; we’ve handled them our entire life. We know what to expect, how to make it through. Happiness. . .  happiness is terrifying. We don’t understand it; we feel blind—vulnerable.”

Smiling as he shook his head, Chris said, “People like Nat and Jared, their default state is contentment. They’ve lived such stable lives, they had to convince themselves they were discontent not to feel boring.  

He paused once more, took a long drink from his coffee, then said, 

“Our default state is martial law; that’s where we feel safe, in control. For us, happiness is a choice, a hard one, because it’s entirely in the hands of these wonderful but adorably naïve people. Nat thought the monster in her closet was real until she was ten; they believed in Santa Claus, like believed. When I was ten, fuck.” 

Chris scoffed. It was a short, hard sound, but it contained an infinity of complex emotions and memories, so difficult words couldn’t express them.

“Meeting someone they want to spend the rest of their lives with is something they’ve expected to happen; they’d feel robbed if it hadn’t. In their mind, their relationship with us, it’s the circle of life or some shit like that. It’s natural. You and I, we both know this is the one time we’re ever going to muster enough courage to even try this. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll leave so wounded, we’ll never get back up.”

The words were hard, stripped of sentimentality; it was a statement of fact, one they both knew to be true. 

“You and I who, at one point in our lives, slept with a baseball bat beside our beds and a steak knife under our pillows, have put our happiness, our safety, in the hands of two people who, at one point, actually belived in fucking Santa Claus.”

Jensen slid his dessert fork out between his lips and licked them free of cream. Dejected, he said, 

“You think I’m inventing a threat because I’m afraid of being happy.”  

Grunting around the rim of his cup, Chris swallowed then said, 

“I think you’ve lived a really fucked up life, and your gut reaction to normality is to freak out. You don’t understand what’s expected of you or how to protect yourself.”

Jensen leaned his head back and sighed. “I don’t know, Chris, something feels off.”

He nodded. “I get that; believe me, I understand the feeling. I’m not saying, let your guard down. Just be open to the possibility that this is an emotional reaction to an unfamiliar situation.”

Jensen lowered his head and gave Chris a sideways glance. “Emotional reaction? You sound like you’re in therapy.”

Chris grunted. “I am.” Without prompting, he said, “Nat hinted she thought it might be a good idea; I can’t say no to her.”

“Is it helping?” 

Chris sucked his teeth. “We’re still in the pulling all the shit out of the bag phase; we haven’t gotten to the healing part yet.” He paused. “I think the shit part is going to take a while.”

“Fuck.” Jensen slowly shook his head. “She got you into therapy. Where do they get their power; how are they able to convince us to put ourselves though all of this—voluntarily?”

Chris shrugged, then flicked a few loose strands of hair out of his face. He said, 

“Tooth fairy magic glitter?”

Lifting his fork and eating another piece of cake, Jensen said, thoughtfully, “I don’t think the tooth fairy has glitter; she’s the one who leaves money under your pillow when you lose a tooth.”

Chris scoffed. “Fuck that. My old man punched out most of my milk teeth, and I never saw a fucking penny.” 

Snorting around another mouthful of cake, Jensen mumbled, “Elitist bitch.”

Coming back to his office, Jensen sat down at his desk, took three deep breaths, and told himself to stop. That someone, at the least opportune time, made a tasteless joke and he spun things out of control, inventing a threat that wasn’t there. 

Breathing calm and deep, he efficiently worked through the day’s must-do list. At five o’clock, he turned off his computer, stood up, put on his black scarf, and pulled his charcoal gray wool coat off its hanger. As he finished buttoning it up, he raised his head and froze. 

On a hanger, behind the one that had held his coat, hung his brown and cream checkered scarf.  

“Jensen, please stop pacing and sit down. We can’t have a conversation if you’re walking in circles.”

Inhaling sharply, then exhaling, Jensen rubbed at his forehead and said, “It was right there, behind the coat; I didn’t put it there.”  

As if sensing the coming objection, he added, “And stop telling me it’s a coincidence. I’ve lived on my own since I was sixteen, Jared. Not once—not once—have I ever lost my keys. I spent the better part of fifteen years living out of a suitcase, and I never forgot a piece of clothing. I don’t misplace things, Jared; I’m too much of a control freak. She’s here. I know she is.” 

He watched Jared try to speak once more but cut him off, saying, “I’m calling a locksmith; we need to change the locks on the gate and our front door.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and, googling locksmiths, continued his pacing. He came to an abrupt stop as he walked straight into Jared’s solid form. A large hand pulled the phone from his grip, grabbed his shoulders, and steering him towards the leather sofa, said, 

“Stop. Enough, Jensen. You’ve been spinning like this for three hours. With every passing one, you’re working yourself up even more. Enough.”

The sharp tone made him stop; Jensen couldn’t remember Jared ever raising his voice or losing his temper. Pushing him down on the couch, Jared loomed over him, brows knit together and his features stony. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath, then exhaled slowly. Large palms still on Jensen’s shoulders, he said,  

“Jensen.” He exhaled again, released his grip, and sat down, knees spread wide, on the coffee table opposite him. “I’m trying really hard to be understanding, to see where you’re coming from. But, from my perspective, you sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

Snorting, Jensen said, “If you’re going for understanding, try not to be so fucking condescending.”

Recoiling slightly, Jared sighed harshly and rubbed at his brow. “I’m trying my best, Jen. But, this has been going on for three weeks. My well of understanding is not infinite. You have to stop.” 

Eyes slipping shut, Jensen shook his head. Opening them, he faced Jared and said, 

“She’s here.”

Grunting, Jared rested his bent elbows on his knees and leaned his face into his palms. He took three calming breaths, then straightened up and said, 

“Ok. Ok, your mother’s here, in town, and she’s, what? What’s the point of all of this? Why even bother? She knows she’s not welcome. And if she’s here, we’ll just make her leave like we did last time.”  

Jensen shook his head. “Last time, she was mellow and didn’t put up a fight. If you or Barbara hadn’t stepped in, that confrontation could have gone on for days. Instead, she was humiliated publicly; she’ll never forgive me for that. That’s why she’s here, that’s why she’s messing with my head; to get back at me.” 

“And how is she going to do that? By messing with your pastry, stealing a scarf? Jensen, that’s pathetic. So she’s pulling a few tasteless pranks; if it really is her, it’s silly.”  

Falling back against the backrest of the couch, he said, “I don’t know what her plan is, but this isn’t it; she’s just getting started. You don’t know her, Jared. You don’t understand what she’s capable of.” 

“Then tell me.” The frustration in Jared’s voice was so transparent, Jensen flinched. Getting to his feet, Jared turned on the spot, fingers spreading wide as they slid into his hair. 

Hands sliding back to grip each other on the back of his head, he said, “Stop telling me I don’t understand. We’ve had this conversation night after night for weeks now, and when we reach this point, you shoot me down by saying I don’t understand. When I ask you to explain why you’re so stressed by the thought of her coming here, you won’t tell me.”

One hand falling to his side, the other covering his mouth as he shook his head, Jared paused. After a beat of silence, he removed the hand from his face and said,

“You can’t keep escaping this discussion by throwing in my face that I don’t understand when you won’t tell me why you’re so upset.”

From his seated position, Jensen saw the frustration vibrating and sizzling through Jared’s tightly coiled muscles. In a moment of clarity amidst the emotional turmoil, he saw the same frustration he’d seen that night so many months ago when this thing between them began. From Jared’s perspective, his behavior had to appear completely irrational, but he couldn’t stop himself. At his silence, Jared tried once more. 

“Jensen, tell me. Tell me why you’re so worried.”

Behind closed eyelids, Jensen saw snatches of a life with her; images, conversations, and events that, maybe, could explain some of his behavior. But, revealing those would, unavoidably, lead to more questions, which, in turn, would lead to even more. 

Eventually, they’d lead into territory so painful, filled with memories so bleak, he’d wrapped them up and stored them in the darkest area of his mind, intending to never unpack them again. 

Jensen had reached a point where he could deal with them being there; he’d laid the monsters in his closet to rest. But, accepting that part of his past, and revealing it to Jared, were two different things; watching that knowledge become part of his perception of Jensen, seeing it reflected in Jared’s eyes—he couldn’t. 

Openings his eyes again, Jensen briefly met Jared’s, then he turned his head and revealed nothing. 

To his side, he heard Jared exhale, slowly. In the deafening silence of the room, Jared’s heavy breathing sounded like the deep rumble before the unleashing of a lightning storm. 

“I can’t do this. I want to help you. I want to understand, but you won’t let me. So, I’m walking away. I have to, because if I continue this conversation, I’m going to lose my temper and say things I don’t want to say.”

Exhaling, breath trembling, he said, “I’m going to bed. Remember that I’ll be in Portland all day tomorrow, helping Cory complete that sculpture. I’m leaving early, and I’ll be home late. While I’m gone, maybe you could decide what you expect from me. You can’t keep accusing me of not taking you seriously, or not understanding, when you won’t give me the information I need to do that.”  

Jensen kept his face and eyes averted as Jared walked away. Inside, the sensible part of him was raging, throwing itself desperately against the protective wall his self-perseverance had hastily thrown up. 

He beat at the barrier, screaming, telling himself that he was being stupid. That, in behaving this way, shutting Jared out, he wasn’t protecting himself; he was risking everything he had fought so hard for.

Jensen heard it all and, briefly, felt his body twitch as if preparing to rise and follow. But, his survival instinct fought back, firing off images of everything that had happened the past weeks, and threw memories at him that left his heart racing.

Jared didn’t know who he was dealing with. The fear froze his muscles, locking him in place, trapping him in his seated position. Somewhere deep inside, banging against the bars of the prison of terror it had been thrown into, the rational part of him said that he wasn’t thinking clearly. 

That he was behaving exactly like she wanted him to, alienating the very person who could protect him. He knew it was true, but fear controlled him.

Jensen’s breath hitched as Jared’s firm footsteps halted on the staircase, as if waiting for Jensen to call out or follow. He waited, one. . . two. . . three seconds, then winced as the footsteps sounded again. The heavy, nauseating feeling grew and expanded, but he remained silent and didn’t follow. 

Chapter Text

Jensen awoke with a stiff neck wearing yesterday’s clothes. He was lying on the same couch he’d been pushed down on the previous night. Rubbing the grit out of his eyes, he felt the dull ache of an approaching thundering headache pulsate behind the closed lid of his left eye.

Sighing, he licked his dry lips. Inhaling, his breath froze in his lungs as a calm voice said,

“Rough night, Darling? You look dreadful.”

There had been times when Jensen, despite his lack of spirituality, seriously considered that his mother really was some sort of demonic Hellspawn.

That there was a hidden, supernatural reality where she held some significant position; hellhound, perhaps. Soulsucker? Jensen wasn’t sure if that was an actual thing, but it felt apt. On second thought, that was probably too low class for her; she’d claw her way into a more prominent position like Prince of hell—or was it Princess?

Regardless, Jensen knew Veronica Ackles had an uncanny ability to know when her son was in a good place. It didn’t matter if they hadn’t talked for years or were on opposite sides of the country; the second Jensen felt remotely happy, she’d turn up—to ruin it.

It was like a hobby; out of all the shitty things she enjoyed doing, ruining Jensens happiness was her favorite.

He’d been right; despite the unwelcome intrusion, it was almost a cathartic moment, finally seeing with his eyes what his subconscious already knew. He’d been waiting for her—had been since their most recent confrontation.

That had ended with a humiliating defeat, and he’d known it was only a matter of time before she’d regrouped and was ready to retaliate. But he’d expected a public display or a damaging interview in some industry magazine, something grand with a large audience she could manipulate.

He had not expected her in his kitchen. Standing up, his first instinct was to call out for Jared, then he remembered that he was probably half-way to Portland by now.

He knew he should walk over and drag her out, but after feeling unbalanced and questioning his sense of reality, seeing her sitting at the counter threw him. Jared’s home had always felt like an impenetrable fortress; Jensen had felt at home and safe since the first time he had set foot inside the building.

He felt like he was being invaded; a surprise attack he hadn’t been prepared for.

Exhaling to calm himself, he said, “You stole my keys. You made a copy; that’s why they disappeared and reappeared again.”

“Well, obviously, Darling.”

She shrugged and said, calmly, “You really need to be more careful. That hotel’s security is a joke. I expect little from the rest of them, but you should know better. You’re losing your touch, letting your guard down.”

She took a sip from the coffee she’d served herself. Jensen glanced at the thermos on the counter; even when he was angry, Jared had made sure there was coffee waiting when Jensen woke up. She smiled. “Luckily for you, it was only me this time, but you need to be more careful. It could have been anyone. It would break your Mommy’s heart if something happened to you.”

He snorted. A tired, rough sound. He opened his mouth to send her away, but her stillness, the calmness in her face, unnerved him and raised his alarm system.

Her calm expression told him this confrontation would be nasty; she was too collected, too calculating. She inquired,

“So, how have you been?”

If she had been messing with him all this time, she was working a con; an intricate one. Just by looking at her, Jensen knew there was no point in trying to cut this short. Reading his mother’s moods was a survival trait he’d learned early on—she had a game planned, and the only way to reach the other side was to play it.

Walking over to the opposite side of the counter, Jensen poured himself a cup of coffee. After two, long, scalding mouthfuls, he replied,

“I’ve been well, Mommy. I had the flu last week, but I’m much better now. You?”

She carefully pulled back a few stray hairs from her face and said, “I’m terrific, Darling. I spent Christmas in Miami; do you like my tan?”

Exhaling on a sigh, he replied, “It’s lovely. Fake, but lovely. Did you want something, or is this just a social call?”

Ignoring his last sentence, she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You really should get some sun, Jensen. This horrible Oregon weather has you looking pasty; paleness is not a good look on you.

“Obviously, the sun doesn’t agree with your complexion the way it does with mine. But, when you’re careful, a little sun makes you all glowy; it’s lovely.”

Taking another sip, grimacing slightly at the scalding heat, Jensen said, “Thank you for the advice; I’ll make sure to schedule in a few days in the sun.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “It was only a suggestion; there’s no need for sarcasm. Besides, more pleasant weather might inspire you to increase the length of your morning runs. I hate to say it, Darling, but things are not as well-fitting as they used to be.”

“Veronica.” She scowled, and Jensen, twisting his lips into a mocking sneer, said,

“Mommy, why are you here? You’re early; we usually do these little dances every three-four years, and it’s only been, what, fourteen, fifteen months since your last visit?”

She smiled, and Jensen felt his muscles tighten.

“If you remember, Darling, that visit was cut short.”

He couldn’t contain the snorted out laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”

She didn’t bite. Instead, she drank another mouthful, then said,

“How is the oaf? He looked to be in a foul mood this morning, nothing serious, I hope?”

“You’re spying on us now? I’m torn. Should I be touched by your motherly concern or fear for my life? I can’t decide.”

She put her cup down, placing it carefully on its saucer. “I’ve never wanted anything but the best for you, Jensen.”

The laugh burst out of his throat. It was loud and untamed—he couldn’t stifle it.

Covering his mouth as the laugh made his chest vibrate, Jensen watched her brow twitch and knew she was angry, but she contained it. When he’d regained control, she said,

“So your childhood wasn’t fluffy fucking bunnies and sunshine; frankly, Darling, it’s time you get over it. I made you strong. I made you smart. I made you self-reliant; there’s nothing you can’t have if you want it bad enough.”

Jensen made no move to engage in her delusions; instead, he swallowed another mouthful of coffee and pretended to enjoy it. She wasn’t deterred.

“Every advantage you have in life is thanks to me: because of me, you had the looks, intelligence, charisma, and street-sense, to get to a place in life where people are handing you success on a silver platter. And now, you’re throwing everything away for this.”

She paused briefly when, with a bored expression, Jensen sighed audibly.

“Contrary to what you believe, I’ve never had an evil plan to screw-up your life. I’ve loved you, in my own way. Am I here out of self-interest? Yes, of course. But, to make sure you live a life that benefits me, I have to prevent you from repeating my mistakes.”

Swallowing another drink, Jensen said, “My goodness, you’re professing affection and sharing life-lessons all in one sitting. I have to say, Mommy, it would have been slightly more believable if you hadn’t just admitted to screwing with my head, spying on my partner, and stealing my keys to access my home without an invitation.”

Jensen was impressed by his mother’s composure as she, once again, resisted her instinct to bite back. She replied,

“After we lost everything, I spent a lot of time wondering where I went wrong. I blamed your father. I blamed you. But, eventually, I realized I should be blaming myself. I was dumb. I was so desperate to escape the life I was born into, the poverty, the filth, that I didn’t think clearly. I met your father, and we made our agreement.

“I thought I had it all under control; I’d made sure we had a prenup that would benefit me, and when we had you, I made certain you’d be entitled to a lavish lifestyle even if we divorced. My one failure, the one thing I didn’t plan for, was for your father to be stupid enough to lose it all—I should have.

“I should have made sure I had my own bank accounts, my future secured in case something happened. I was young and dumb. When your father failed us, we lost everything because I owned nothing; nothing was mine. Now, you’re making the same mistake.”

Jensen scoffed. “Hardly. I’m not Jared’s trophy; I have my own bank accounts, I have a career—a successful one.”

His mother’s tone was biting as she replied, “Had a career, Darling. You had everything: a six-figure salary, a large corner office, you traveled in private jets to recruit top executives, drank expensive champagne for lunch, and had your clothes tailor-made.”

She sneered. “And now you’re here, in this shithole. Working for peanuts, sacrificing everything for a family who will drop you to the second they have what they need from you. Once the success of that hotel is secure, they, and that Oger you live with, will throw you out in the cold, and you’ll be left with nothing.”

Inhaling deeply, Jensen made a move to push his chair out and stand up, intending to escort her out by force.

“Well, thanks for the pep-talk. Let’s do it again some time.”

Her hand grasped his wrist before he could get up, her long, red nails digging into the skin right above his pulse point.

“You think I’m insincere, that I’m playing a game; I’m not. You live in his house. You work for their business. Nothing they have is yours; if they throw you out, you’ll have nothing. You’re too good for them; you should focus on doing what’s best for you; no else will, especially not them.”

Smile sharp, Jensen replied, “Don’t you mean what’s best for you? You want me to have a high-profile job with a six-figure salary, so you can benefit from it. You know you’re not welcome here, and that’s why you’re trying to make me leave.”

“Really, Darling. So, when I, your mother, want to share in your success; enjoy a few well-earned benefits, I’m manipulative and greedy? But, when they, this group of people you have no ties to, benefits from your hard work, it’s ok?”

Jensen opened his mouth to object, but she caught him off.

“They’re using you too, Jensen. In what reality would this hotel have survived without you, without your skill, contacts, and reputation. You raised that place from the dead, and they’re reaping all the benefits. What are they giving you in return? What are you getting out of this deal?”

Her tone turned into mocking concern. “Darling, do you believe you’re special to them, that they love you?”

Huffing out a tiny, indulgent little laugh, she said, “Sweetheart, do you think they’re your family?” She leaned forward, her grip around wrist tightening. “Darling, I’m the only family you have.”

He tore free from her crushing grip, the movement so swift and violent the nails digging into his skin left red welts on the inside of his wrist.

“Enough. You've had your fun. Now fuck off.”

She flexed the fingers on her newly freed hand as she said, “Do you think I’m enjoying this? How many times do I have to tell you? I’m trying to prevent you from making the same mistakes I did, from gambling your life on people who will ultimately disappoint you. I might not be a cuddly soccer mom, but I’ve always wanted you to succeed, and I want that success to benefit us, not everyone else.”

She leaned forward across the counter, invading his personal space.

“You were born in a private hospital suite, in a wing named after your father. You were born into wealth, class, and status; you should have had everything. Your father took that away from us. I’m here to make sure you get what you’re entitled to, that you don’t lose everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

Jensen felt his defenses shattering, his walls cracking, as her words pickaxed their way through them, hitting every exposed nerve, every insecurity, every sensitive spot.

Inhaling once more to strengthen his resolve, he said, “The only one you’ve ever been concerned about is yourself. If you really wanted what’s best for me, you’d leave and let me be happy. But you won’t, you can’t. You’re so petty, selfish, and entitled that you can’t allow me one ounce of happiness. Every time I come close to settling and being content, you come running in to ruin it. I won’t let you do it this time.”

She shook her head, drank a mouthful of coffee, then said, “Your problem, Jensen, your one flaw, is that you want to belong so desperately, you can’t see when you’re being used. You fight and fight, every day you fight for other people, and the truly sad part is, they’ll never fight for you.”

Jensen pulled his arms off the counter to conceal how hard his nails were digging into his palms. The muscles in his jaw jumped as she said,

“Like in Idaho, that redneck cesspool you keep throwing in my face every time we have an argument. How I forced you to leave. Your memories of that place are warped. You lived in a shack where you and seven other kids shared a room. You weren’t loved—you were free labor.”

“Shut-up. Just shut-up.”

Jensen winced at the triumphant gleam in her eyes. He’d lost his cool, bared his throat, and now she had her teeth on his jugular, waiting to pierce the skin.

“The truth hurts, my love. I know it does. But, we can fix this. We’ll leave, you and me. We’ll save your career and live the life we were always supposed to.”

She leaned forward, the sharp points of her nails dragging against his skin as she reached out and caressed his cheek. “You’re not your father; you’re my green-eyed prince, you won’t fail me.”

The words snapped him out of his momentary surrender.

“You’re unbelievable. It’s always about you. You’ll destroy every single ounce of my happiness, mess with my sanity, memories, and emotions, just to have it your way. You’re a leech. Get out of my life.”

Her composure was intact, and her blue eye steely as she observed him. Opening her purse, she pulled out a pad of paper and a pen and wrote something down. Tearing the paper, she folded it and pushed it towards him.

“This is the address to the place you stayed in Idaho. The town is called Gimlet. It’s an eleven, maybe twelve-hour, drive from here. Go to Idaho, Jensen. Go there and see for yourself; prove me wrong.

I’ll wait here. When you’re ready to face the truth, that I’m the only one who will always look out for you, you can come to me, and we’ll begin the life we’re entitled to, you and me.”

Shaking his head and huffing out a tired, sardonic laugh, Jensen said, “You haven’t looked out for me one single second in my entire life; everything you’ve ever done has been out of self-interest. I raised myself. Everything I have is because of me; I’m not falling for your games—not this time.”

She kept still, her face motionless and challenging as she repeated herself, “Prove me wrong, Jensen.”

To his surprise, she stood up and walked around the counter; coming up to him, she kissed him on the cheek. As he recoiled, she said,

“I’ll see you soon, Darling.”

Jensen’s hands started shaking as he heard the gate rattle shut behind her. He knew, he knew, she was playing him; despite that, her words spun in his head like a whirlpool, turning faster and faster until it transformed into a maelstrom, sucking him in and dragging him down.

Turning on the spot, Jensen pressed his palms against his temples, trying to make the noise in his head stop. He couldn’t win; he could never truly win. No matter how long they spent apart or how far he ran, she would always find him and warp his brain; spin stories, lies, and fabrications Jensen couldn’t counter. He’d spent too many miles on the road with her; she’d had too much time to put in levers, trapdoors, and hidden rooms in his mind.

Every time he thought he’d broken free, left her behind, she’d turn up and push a button Jensen didn’t even know existed. This time was even worse; this time, he had something to lose. He’d made choices that gave her an unlimited arsenal to fire at him.

Jensen had stayed on the move for over twenty years, never settling down, never stopping long enough to build lasting ties or relationships. He’d fooled himself into believing it was about impatience or a need to move forward. What he’d really been doing was running, moving once every two years to ensure he wouldn’t build something she could use against him.

This time, he’d made a choice to stop, to allow people in, to love, and in a heartbeat, there she was.

It was a split-second decision; one made in a state of emotional turmoil and tunnel vision devoid of thought of consequences or how his actions might be perceived by others.

He knew he shouldn’t; he knew it was the wrong choice. But the feeling, of her long fingers digging into his skull and rearranging things the way she wanted them to be, was excruciating. He needed to reclaim his own mind, expose her lies, retake his own memories.

Thirty-five minutes after ending the conversation with his mother, Jensen was pulling onto US-20 and headed to Gimlet, Idaho.

Chapter Text

It was a long drive, one that didn’t make him smarter, calmer, or offer him any significant revelations about himself.

It seemed to pass in an emotional bubble. He was vaguely aware of the traffic and followed the signs and directions spoken by his GPS, but it wasn’t a conscious process.

Some small part of him was functioning in the physical world, letting the body do the driving while the mind was busy spinning.

After weeks of questioning his own sanity, his suave, confidence, and self-belief had evaporated. The only thing that mattered was this mission; an urgent need to find the truth beneath a lifetime of lies, manipulation, and abuse.

He needed to find his own truth, or he’d never win. Never be free. He’d tried so hard. He wanted to stay; he wanted to be with Jared. He’d fought himself and won; that victory had tricked him into believing it would be enough. It wasn’t. It would never be enough. If he wanted to be with Jared, he had to slay the dragon. He had to win.

But first, he needed to find it. He’d programmed the address he'd been given into the GPS, but was it the right one? Had she given him the correct address, or had he been fooled by her manipulation and driven twelve hours to a fake location? Would he know the difference?

He couldn't even remember their names or what they had looked like. He could recall blossoming trees, the scent of apples, a porch swing, and a white, wooden house with gingerbread trimmings. That wasn’t much to go on.

It was after nine when his GPS told him he’d reached his destination. The sun had set hours ago, and the rural, barren, winter landscape around him lay dark.

The moon was up, not full, but large and strong enough to brighten the night, creating shadows that danced and swayed. Climbing out of the car, Jensen turned on the spot, trying to spark his memory, but nothing felt familiar.

All he saw were resting fields and, scattered in the distance, small dots of lights from windows at surrounding farms. Except, when he turned and looked across the road, he saw a smaller dirt road leading in among a group of tall trees and a high wild-grown hedge of thorny bushes.

That was the road he should take. It wasn’t a memory; it was a sensory reaction, something inside tightening and clenching in recognition. He felt his fist clench in trepidation. Every inch of his physical being rebelled against the thought of going up that road, but he knew he had to.

It was already late, and Jensen had no interest in disturbing anyone, especially when he didn’t know what to expect. He decided to walk up to the property and take a quick look. If it sparked any memories, he’d rest and come back in the morning.

He was halfway up the dirt road when the heart palpitations began; when he caught his first glimpse of the side of a building, the now-familiar sense of nausea began climbing up his throat.

Coming round a bend and walking into an open yard surrounded by several buildings, he quickly realized he could have driven up here.

The yard was filled with scrap metal, junk in various stages of decay, and the skeletal remains of four—possibly five—cars. The buildings were only in marginally better shape.

It was abandoned; it had been for years, decades. And yet, even in the gloom, Jensen felt he recognized it; that, despite its rundown state, it wasn’t that different from how it’d once been. He blinked rapidly, over and over, as moisture clouded his vision. Every time his eyes shut and opened again, his memories of this place began to change, the glossy veneer cracking to reveal the truth.

Blink. The gingerbread carving disappeared. Blink. The white paint turned a dirty gray. Blink. The porch swing fell off one hinge, swaying, creaking, and crooked in the wind. Blink. Green lawns and blooming rose bushes wilted into dust, dirt, and weeds.”

He inhaled, swallowed hard as acid tried to force its way up his throat, and exhaled.

Idiot. He was such an idiot; for believing his own delusions, coming here, and allowing himself to be manipulated when he knew what was happening. He was so desperate to win, for her to acknowledge what she’d done.

It didn’t matter how many times they had the same argument, or that he knew she would never understand—that she wasn’t capable of understanding—he still, decades later, always tried to win.

How could you win an argument against someone like his mother? You couldn’t. It was impossible. Yet, he tried, and he tried, and every time, he lost.

He wanted to run, walk away without a single backward glance, but he’d come all this way—he should confront the truth. At least then, she wouldn’t be able to blindside him with distorted memories or lies he couldn’t counter.

The orchard was still there; it stood unkempt and wild grown, but the trees remained. In the darkness, the shadows of their gnarly branches swayed in front of him, seeming to reach out to seize him.

Jensen jumped, gasped, then chastised himself and forced out a defiant laugh. Nonetheless, he backed out of their reach.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture it as it had been back then, not barren and cold, but blooming; rows and rows of trees, their branches drooping under the weight. Behind closed lids he saw them, felt the sun on the back of his neck, and the sweet scent of apples in his nose.

Opening his eyes, the golden shimmer that had always surrounded the edges of those images swirled and evaporated like a light morning fog. They weren't real; but, this was—this was the truth.

Fog lifted, his memories became solid and unsentimental; he remembered hot August days, his skin burning, face wet and itchy from sweat, arms aching, head spinning; the work too heavy, food and water too sparse.

He turned away. Closed his eyes. Inhaled and swallowed once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Opening his eyes, he focused his gaze on the junk-filled yard. The rundown property was littered with rusty old farming equipment and piles of debris. In the darkness and distorted by shadows, they looked like carcasses of long-forgotten monsters and beasts.

Shaking his head, Jensen wondered how he’d transformed this landfill into memories of a lush, well-kept property with rose bushes and clotheslines billowing with pristine white sheets.

But maybe it wasn’t such a mystery; those three months alone in Vegas were awful, one of the darkest times in his life, which, all things considered, was saying a lot.

It wouldn’t be strange if, during all those lonely, frightening months, just to survive, he’d repressed the truth and turned this place into a mental haven, a source of hope that a better life was possible.

Massaging his temples as he swallowed down another bout of nausea, Jensen turned on the spot and observed his surroundings. The main house didn’t spark any recollections; as distorted as his memories obviously were, he got the distinct feeling he’d never set foot in it.

On the other side of the yard, a short distance away, stood a smaller house—a shack. It wasn’t a barn or a maintenance building. It didn’t scream habitable either, yet, Jensen remembered it—looking upon it after all these years, he remembered it well.

He had to stop. He bent over and rested his palms against his knees as he inhaled deeply, repeatedly. The final exhale before he straightened up was long and trembling.

The front door was barely hanging on to its hinges, and flakes of peeling paint fell to the ground as he pushed it open. He had to duck in the doorway as his arrival disturbed a few birds who’d made their home inside the dilapidated building.

He would have liked to blame the smell of stale mold and urine on the years that had passed, on the broken window panes and leaking roof; on animals making their homes in the abandoned structure—he wanted to, but he couldn’t.

The sharp odor was oppressive and familiar. It was a stench that developed over time when four rickety bunk beds were forced into one small room in a building that, even back then, barely held together. It was a foulness that grew when you filled that tiny room and its damp, moldy mattresses with young boys—then didn’t replace them when they, through fear, grief, age, or simply bad luck, wet the bed.

The new kid always got the worst mattress. Jensen pressed his palm over his mouth as buried memories of that first night surfaced and made him gag.

It was a smell that came from cold winters when the chilly wind blew unhindered across flat fields and right through the uninsulated structure. The only way to keep warm was sharing a bed so you could double your thin blankets and use each others body heat.

You had to choose; the smaller boys were weak and safe but tiny and couldn’t warm up a bed. The older boys who were bigger than you gave off more heat, but were strong and frustrated.

When Jensen was twelve, he’d grown into his teeth and face, but his growth spurt didn’t hit until he turned fourteen—he was cute but small. He only spent a few nights on that first bed, then he moved to the best top bunk in the room. The one furthest away from the drafts and with the cleanest mattress.

The boy who owned it was seventeen. He was strong, warm, protective, and counting down the days until he turned eighteen and could get the hell out of that place. Jensen was never cold, and no one stole his food, but it had come with a price.

Jensen’s knuckles whitened from his tight grip on the door frame as he leaned out and emptied his stomach in the tangled mess of dead, wild-grown grass surrounding the building. He shivered as a gust of wind passed through the shack and swept over his damp skin, a thin layer of cold sweat seeping out through his pores.

Legs trembling, he loosened his grip on the doorframe, reaching out to grasp the rusty metal frame on the bed closest to him. Knees buckling and stomach cramping, he walked the two steps needed to reach the lower bunk and sank down onto it.

It felt like all his grit had left him, the last hidden reserve of perseverance that always kept him going, no matter what, leaving him depleted and bled dry. All energy drained, he fell onto his side on the mattress, the foul smell overpowering, but with no strength left to sit up and move.

Against his better judgment, he’d come here to win an unwinnable argument and prove he could have had a better childhood. Instead, he’d uncovered the monster hiding underneath his bed, a period in his life so dark he’d rewritten those memories to survive.

Unable to move, he lay there, legs pulled up against his chest, his insides cramping and aching. Through the broken window panes, he watched shadows move, and the sky slowly lighten.

Sometime around dawn, he heard footsteps disturb the grass outside the door. He knew he should push himself upright, his wounded survival instincts telling him to get up—to not show his weakness. He was too tired; this place and the memories it held sucking his life force from his marrow.

His eyes remained closed as the door creaked and the air in the room changed. He couldn’t get up. He waited for the other person to speak, whoever it was, to ask questions, threaten, call the police, or the nearest asylum. Were asylums still a thing?

The bed dipped, and Jensen’s breath was caught in a snare pulling his windpipe shut. For a second, it felt like the bulky frame of seventeen-year-old Ricky loomed over him in the darkness, there to remind him that warmth and full plates were a privilege—one he had to earn.

On an exhale, his panic lessened enough to realize the body next to him was too light and the hand that caressed his face too small. His brow creased when long nails scraped against his jawline, and his muscles tightened as a painful shudder traveled from the base of his skull down to the tips of his toes. Through his labored breathing, he said,

“Go away. You won. Just go away.”

Eyes still shut, he felt the body lay down next to him and pressed his head down on her chest. Long, slim fingers caressed his hair, as she said,

“I told you, this was never about winning, Darling. It’s about the truth. I know it hurts, but it’s ok now. Mommy’s here, and I’m going to save you, take you away from this place, just like I did all those years ago.”

He was surprised he could still laugh. It was raw and painful, yet it spilled out through his lips anyway.

“Save me? You didn’t save me; you’re the reason I was here. Then you took me away, used me in a grift before dumping me at a shitty motel in Vegas for another three months. You never saved me, you delusional bitch.”

She tutted. “Language, Jensen.” Softly, she said, “Do you think this is what I wanted for you? I left you with people who everyone said were pious and nurturing. Who ensured me you were safe while I had to leave for a while to support us. And I didn’t leave you at a motel; you were traumatized, I left you in the care of professionals.”

“No.” He pressed his eyelids tightly shut as his brow creased. His head hurt as memories, true and false, mixed with sensations and mental images over two decades old. He repeated himself.

“No. That’s not what happened. It was a motel; I know it was.”

Her next words sucker-punched him so hard he folded in on himself.

“Like you knew this place was a picturesque haven of beauty and love? How do you know you can trust your memories? You were young and confused; you don’t remember how it really was. I do remember, and I promise I didn’t leave you at a motel.

“I left you safe, in the care of professionals, but you were so distressed you ran away. That’s how you ended up on the streets and at that motel. It took me weeks to find you, but I never gave up.”

Moisture pressed its way through his pinched eyelids. “No. You’re lying; that’s not how it happened. I repressed what happened here, but I remember Vegas. Stop messing with my head to make yourself look better.”

Her nails scraped against his scalp as she continued running her fingers through his hair. Voice calm and hypnotic, she said,

“No, you’re the one who’s wrong. I never left you again after Vegas, did I? I learned my lesson, realized that I couldn’t trust anyone else with your well-being, that, as unstable as my life was, you were safest with me. That’s how it’s always been; from the moment you were born, you were my beautiful boy. Mine. It’s always been you and me against the world, Jensen.”

Breath trembling and voice unsteady, he said, “You’re using the same voice as you do on your marks; you’re trying to grift me, invent a false childhood, and manipulate me into thinking it’s the truth. I won’t let you. When I get up from this bed, I’m leaving you behind, forever.”

The moist, sticky sound of her wetting her lips sounded in the silent room. Her voice was still soft but sharper as she asked,

“And go where, Jensen?”

He hesitated. It was a second’s pause, but it was long enough.

“You do understand that you can’t go back to Newport?” His breath hitched.

“You left them. Drove away without a goodbye or explanation. Darling, they think you ran out on them. After that argument you two had the other night, he thinks you left.”

“You know nothing about us.”

She hummed. “I know he drove away in a foul mood, and you woke up on the couch in yesterday's clothes.”

He needed to get up. He was losing. He’d known, felt, that this was going to be a rough, ruthless fight, but this was worse than he’d expected. This wasn’t one of their intellectual sparrings, shouting matches, or verbal chicken races where they speed towards the ledge seeing who would yield first.

She was different this time. She’d always been selfish, petty, shrewd, callous, and even cruel; but, this was malevolence—a savagery that bordered on sadism. He’d always known that she wanted to use and control him; now, it felt like she wanted to destroy him. As the thought struck him, he knew it was true; she would push until he yielded or cracked, and then it all became so clear.

He didn’t know where he found enough strength to steady his cracked, raspy voice, fill it with such scorn, but as the words left his mouth, he knew it was his last reserve. The last pull on the chain that bound him to her. If it didn’t break, if the links held, he knew he would go under.

“You’re jealous. I’ve rejected you over and over, and now I’ve chosen them, and you hate it. It isn’t only about money and status this time; it’s not even about revenge—it’s your ego; you’re so jealous.

“You want me to be like you, to view people as things to be used, and I’m not. My entire life, I’ve avoided feeling anything for anyone; I’ve looked on from the outside, fixing people, but never allowing anyone close, until now. For the first time in my entire life, I love someone, and it’s not you. You can’t stand it; you’d rather destroy me than let me love someone who isn’t you.”

Beneath his cheek, her chest had stilled. Jensen grimaced but remained silent as the fingers in his hair tensed, bent, and shifted into claws. Eyes still closed, Jensen inhaled, held his breath, tensed, and waited for the moment she’d lash out; lose her temper so he could break free from her mental leash and run.

“Jealous? No. This isn’t jealousy, Jensen. This is a lioness protecting her cub. They’ve used you, mercilessly, and you can’t see it. You think if you’re perfect and useful, they’ll love you—they don’t. They don’t even care that you’re gone. You mean nothing to them. Not anymore; you’ve given them everything they need to succeed without you.”

All strength left him, his last reserve depleted. He’d yanked the chain as hard as he could, but the links held firm.

“You’ve moved heaven and earth for these people, and they won’t care that you’re gone. It breaks my heart to see you care so deeply, fight so hard for these people when I know that they don’t care about you. Do you think Chris will leave everything if you don’t come back?”

He tensed, inhaled sharply as she said his name. She scoffed.

“Darling, really; who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with? I’ve been walking in and out of that place for weeks at my leisure—I know everything about everyone. So, tell me, do you really think Chris will leave the restaurant he’s built, and the woman he loves, for you? You should know better; he’s left you behind before, sacrificed your friendship for success.”

He tried to protest. “That’s not what happened; I wanted him to go.”

“Yes it is. He saw a chance to become successful and didn’t think twice about leaving you behind. Do you think he cares if you go?”

Jensen's teeth were clenched so tight his jaw ached. He said, “Chris needs me.”

She scoffed. “Really, Jensen. He doesn't need you. Don’t you understand, you’ve been replaced. Why would he need you when he has Natalie; what could you possibly give him that she can’t? He’s one step away from having it all; he’s going to marry the owner's daughter, his father-in-law worships him, his mother-in-law adores him; his future children will inherit the hotel. He has nothing to gain, and everything to lose by walking out. Why would he give that up for you? His place is secure; Natalie loves him, and there is no restaurant without him. You, on the other hand, your place in their lives was always temporary.”

Her fingers had returned to idly run through his hair; he shuddered at the touch.

“And the rest of them, please, Cho would push you in front of a train the first chance she got. Max? He’s cute, talented, but he’ll never give up this opportunity; he has friends now. Ella, Amelia, they’ll never choose you over their children’s happiness? Thanks to you, they finally have a rewarding career that works with their family life; they’ll never give that up. Monica, Maggie, everyone will stay, and their lives will go on without you.”

Her voice wasn’t hard or cruel—it didn’t need to be; her words tore through him like emotional shrapnel.

“The truth you’re too blind to see is that they’re relieved you’re gone, and they don’t want you to come back. They needed you to save them, but now you’re in their way. They own the hotel, but everyone listens to you. Natalie has spent her entire life preparing to take over, and now she’s had to stand aside for you. She’ll never be fully in charge as long as you’re there, and she knows it, and so do her parents. Do you think this is what they wanted? For their children to stand aside while you take over their inheritance?”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re too good, and they resent you for it. They’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of you, and now you’ve given them one; you’ve been behaving erratically for weeks, and now you’ve suddenly up and left without a word. They don’t have to take you back; they’ll still be a success—you’ve made sure of that. Everyone you’ve convinced to work for them will stay; they got what they needed from you.”

She leaned her face into his hair, kissing the top of his head. Softly, she said,

I’m not jealous, Darling. I’m angry because you’ve been used; furious because they’ve exploited your empathy, professionalism, intelligence, and connections, only to abandon you when they no longer need you. I’m not jealous; I’m protecting you. I’m the queen of the fucking jungle, and someone is messing with my baby. I have to save you, and if that means I have to hurt you to break their hold on you, I will.”

Jensen panted as the air forced its way in and out of his lungs; his teeth chattered as painful tremors wracked his body. Somehow he managed to speak, but the words were hollow and childish.

“You don’t know anything; Jared loves me.”

She snorted. Her voice was deceptively soft but so vicious his legs involuntarily drew up to his stomach.

“Hardly. He liked you for the same reason every other man in your life liked you, the reason the boys here liked you. You’re stunning, and I’m sure you’ve been a fun distraction, but do you really believe he would have kept you around this long if it wasn’t for the hotel? Maybe he did feel some smidgen of genuine emotion, but it’s gone now. Men like him have fragile egos and they don’t respond well when someone suddenly ups and leaves them.”

Pressing his palm hard against his forehead, Jensen said, “No. I didn’t—I decided to stay.”

Her soft voice was deafening. Fangs bared, she went for the jugular. “But you didn’t. You left.”

She’d won. Breath forcing its way out in short, stuttering breaths, he realized that she’d won; not a fight, not the battle—she’d won the war. He’d packed a bag and hurried here to prove a point without ever considering how it might look to those he left behind. To everyone else, it would seem like Jensen had a fight with Jared, went to sleep, woke-up, and left.

Jared would have come home and seen a wardrobe in disarray and some of Jensen’s clothes gone. He would have called and called, but Jensen hadn’t looked at his phone since he'd driven away from Newport, seeing it to mute and tossing it on the passenger seat in his car; it was still there.

He hadn’t learned a thing. He’d walked out on her twenty-three years ago, and she could still manipulate him into ruining his own life. She’d tried before, turned up in his life every so often, and they’d gone their three rounds; sometimes she won, sometimes he won, but this time was different. This time, Jensen had dropped his guard and begun believing in a different life, one where he belonged.

In one crushing blow, she’d eviscerated him.

She’d been right about this place. Idaho was a fucking cesspool, and they hadn’t loved him; his memories were a fabrication, something he’d invented to survive. She’d let him. She’d known the truth and had kept it to herself for years and years until they got here, to a point in time where the truth would wield the most damage.

For fun or for-profit, she’d ripped open an old wound to reveal it only contained puss. And she’d ripped open a new one; hundreds of small, piercing lacerations that wounded him so deeply he couldn’t fight back. Somewhere, someplace deep, he knew her words were poison, they were lies meant to hurt and confuse. But they seeped into everything, coating the truth in a black, oily sludge that choked everything except what she wanted to get through.

He’d wanted so desperately to be rid of her, to live the life he’d found in peace, that he’d run away to fight her. How could he have known she was hiding weapons of mass destruction; that she was so patient, so cold-blooded that she could wait over twenty years to use them against him. She’d won, and there was no way back.

The sound that passed through his lips wasn’t a word; it was a soft keening cry. A hurt that came from someplace buried so deep he didn’t know it was there.

Some last remnants of the child he’d once been, a hidden part of himself he’d unconsciously kept secure, waiting for a time when it was safe to let him out. He’d foolishly opened a crack in that door, and now she’d ripped it open and yanked him out, destroying him.

It was hope. In his distress, he realized that was the thing leaving him now. It was over. She’d won. There was nothing to fight for. There might have been, but he’d let himself be manipulated into leaving it, and now it was lost. Forever.

Her arms wound around him as she leaned her face into his hair once more, making nonsensical shushing sounds. He would have thrown up again, but his stomach was empty. Kissing the top of his head and leaning her cheek against it, she said,

“Everything is going to be ok. Mommy’s here. We’re going to rest a little longer, then we’ll leave, you and me.”

She paused, when she spoke again, there was a triumph in her voice; she hid it well, but Jensen heard it.

“I know it’s presumptuous, Darling, but I contacted a well-renowned consulting firm in LA on your behalf; I told them I was your PA. You have an interview next Tuesday; it’s a formality, Darling. They’re so excited, Jensen; they know all about you. They understand what they’re getting and will treat you the way you deserve. No more slumming it in some backwater town. You’ll soon be back where you belong, flying private jets and working with the Hollywood elite.”

A calm nothingness settled over him. He didn’t have the energy left to feel anything. Jensen listened as she spoke, revealing her plans, what this had been all about, and felt nothing. It didn’t matter. Not any more.

“You’ll love the house I picked out. I won’t be like before when you were little; no more dingy fucking motels for us. Mommy’s golden boy will make so much money, and we’ll live so well. We’ll go to fabulous parties, and the sun will make you so pretty. It won’t matter that you’re getting older; after all, forty is the new twenty. All those filthy rich fags are going to slip in their own drool over you. You’ll marry so rich, Darling, and buy your Mommy a nice house in the sun for her well-earned retirement.”

His voice was cracked and brittle, almost a whisper when he said, “You’re the devil.”

She tightened her arms around him, nails digging into his skin through his clothes.

“No. I’m your Mommy, and you’re my beautiful boy. My son. Mine. I made you. I’m the one person you can trust, the only one who will ever love you. Your father abandoned you. That self-important, arrogant brute you lived with let you leave without a fight; that’s how much he cared about you. I love you. I will always love you. No one else will. Only me.”

At last, after a conversation that had gone on for a lifetime, Jensen opened his eyes and met hers. He watched her smile, caress his cheek, and whisper,

“There’s my pretty darling, my green-eyed boy. Everything is going to be ok now that you’re finally back with your Mommy.”

He could have killed her then. Wrapped his hands around her throat and throttled the life out of her. He could have, if he’d cared; if there had been something left worth trying to break free for—there wasn’t. Jensen closed his eyes again and fell asleep, hoping, against all probability, that he wouldn’t wake-up.

Chapter Text

Jensen awoke to the sound of screeching. Eyes closed, he frowned, the sound familiar; seagulls, his exhausted brain told him. Somewhere at the back of his consciousness, something itched, didn’t quite fit. Seagulls? At the hotel, yes, but here? No, the window panes in the roof and walls were thick and the bricks even sturdier; mornings were always tranquil.

His eyebrows knit together as the screeching escalated and pierced his eardrums; were there words among the noise? He inhaled, and the stench hit him; punched him in the gut, and it all came back.

Distantly, like being submerged under water, Jensen heard a command barked out.

“Move. Or I’ll move you.”

Air rushed out of his lungs on a sharp exhale. Jensen opened his eyes just in time to see Jared lift his mother out of the doorway and deposit her outside. Not looking back, he entered the cramped space, and in one stride, he was leaning over him.

“Jensen?”

There were a million questions in that single word; he couldn’t answer. He was so tired.

“Jensen?”

He wanted to say something: thank you, don’t leave, help me, but the words wouldn’t come out. His mouth was dry as ash, and his lips pulled and cracked as he tried to move them. His lashes fluttered in front of his eyes as he fought to keep his eyes open and fixed on Jared.

He watched Jared’s hazel eyes flicker over him, searching his face and taking him in. Saw his large hands ball into fists and, if he’d had the energy to move, Jensen would have recoiled at the untamed fury in his voice when he spun on his heels and yelled,

“What did you do? What did you do!”

Jensen screwed his eyes shut as the screeching began again. It felt like he was out of sync. One moment things sped up so fast he couldn’t keep up, then it transitioned into slow-motion. He couldn’t follow the conversation, his mother’s voice shifting into a high-pitched tearing noise that ripped at his eardrums, and Jared’s a low growl.

The only time words broke through the haze was when Jared's furious aggression pushed its way through the bubble he’d encased himself in.

“Taking care of him? Fuck you. He’s catatonic. What the fuck did you do?”

Once again, he sank back down below the surface, the world and sound around him becoming muted and distorted. Jensen watched the two bodies through lowered, flickering lashes; they flowed and undulated like long stems of sea kelp.

He flinched as Jared’s voice broke through again.

“LA? Lady, you are fucking deranged; the only place he’s going is home. I underestimated you; I didn’t listen to him when he tried to warn me. Never again. This is the last time you pull this shit; you’ll never get this close to him again.”

He blinked, licked his lips, and realized he was thirsty. It was a strange sensation, remembering he was part of a body, not just a tangled mess of confusion and raw emotions—he’d forgotten.

“Not today, Satan. Do you hear me? It’s over. You’re done. Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

The screeching became so loud it penetrated his skin and muscles, piercing through his bones and into his marrow. Jensen raised his arms and pressed his palms against his ears. In the vacuum, he heard his own heartbeat and a rushing, whooshing sound, followed by Jared’s voice cutting through it all.

“Scream all you want; shriek until your vocal cords snap, I do not care. There is no scenario that ends with him leaving here with you. None. You’re finished.”

He wasn’t sure what she’d planned to do when she tried to bypass Jared and reach him. Whatever it was, she didn’t get far, and he pressed his palms even harder against his ears at her furious howl as Jared encircled her waist with one arm and lifted her up, carrying her out of the building. Even in his whooshing bubble, Jensen heard her yells long after they’d exited.

The world turned dark as his eyes closed. Keeping his hands pressed against his ears, he shut out the world and let himself slip into the void once more. Shrieks and curses still flew through the air outside, but they were losing strength, changing in tone from aggressive to desperate and woeful, like a banshee heralding her own demise.

Jensen increased the pressure on his ears and counted his heartbeats. He’d reached 967 when he felt Jared’s callused hands gently grasp his wrists and pull them away from his ears.

“Jensen.”

In the distance, he heard tires burning against the gravel and knew she’d left. The shivers began before he opened his eyes. Once he did, his body constricted in one painful inhale, like someone breaching the surface after being on the brink of drowning.

It felt like sprinting into a wall; like every nerve ending, every part of his body switched on after being on standby, and he felt cold, tired, hungry, thirsty, unclean, unshaven, nauseous, itchy, teary-eyed, and aching all at once.

Inhaling once more, his shivering increased as he gasped for breath and choked out sobs all at once. He felt himself being pulled up and into Jared’s embrace, his arms like two solid bands of steel holding him together.

With his forehead resting against Jared’s chest, voice dry, cracked, and brittle, Jensen said,

“You came after me.”

“I said I would, didn’t I? You said, one day you’d get scared and run, and I said I’d come after you.”

His tongue caught on the dry, cracked patches on his lips as he tried to moisten them.

“I didn’t mean to run. I—I don’t know—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Jared only tightened his grip, pushing his pointed nose into his hair and making comforting shushing sounds. He said,

“It’s not your fault; it’s mine. I didn’t listen. Fuck, Jensen. I’m sorry.”

“You tried.”

The self-accusatory tone in Jared’s voice was hard and unrelenting.

“Not hard enough.”

Tears spilled down over his cheeks; a few caught on his lips, and Jensen sucked them, greedy for the moisture. He asked,

“How did you know to come here?”

Caressing his neck and kissing the top of his head, Jared said,

“I have the password to your find my phone app, remember?”

“I—” He wasn’t sure what he’d wanted to say, but Jared interrupted him.

“Jen, listen. I need to get you out of here, ok? I don’t know what happened here, but this place is poison. You’re exhausted, freezing, and your clothes are damp; when did you eat or drink last?”

His brain felt sluggish as he tried to think. “I had some coffee before I left, and some in the car on the way, but I think I threw it up when I got here.”

Jared swore. “Ok. I saw a hotel in the next town over on the drive here, we’ll go there. Can you stand for me?”

He could, but not unaided. It was a slow walk; as the dirt path straightened and the main road came into view. Jensen looked straight ahead, voice calm and detached, he said

“She stole my car.”

Jared’s eyes had been fixed on Jensen, at his observation, his head snapped forward, and seeing one car parked on the side of the road instead of two, he swore a long, colorful, litany of profanities so foul Jensen would have blushed if he wasn’t so cold.

“How the fuck did she even get here?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Jensen's answer was automatic. “She stole a car in Newport, drove it here, parked it somewhere in town where people wouldn’t find it suspicious, and probably convinced a local to drive her the rest of the way.”

Still swearing, Jared unlocked his own car, steered Jensen to the passenger side, and helped him sit down, legs angled outside the car.

“Except for the car itself, is there anything important of yours inside, phone, wallet?”

Jensen nodded. “All the above. And my clothes. I really wanted clean clothes.”

Jared reached out and stroked the back of his neck. “I have a bag for you in the trunk, Jen. I don’t know what headspace you were in when you packed, but you took three blazers, a handful of ties, and a pair of summer shoes. No other drawers or hangers had been touched. You didn’t pack any toiletries, nothing.”

As Jared made to stand up, Jensen remembered. “She made copies of my keys, Jared. She was in the house.”

He nodded. “Yeah. We figured as much, Nat’s taking care of it; she won’t get in again.”

Standing up, Jared walked over to the trunk of the car. Jensen heard it open and shut, then Jared came back carrying a few pieces of clothing and a garbage bag. Looking around to make sure they were alone, he peeled Jensen out of his dirty clothes and helped him into clean ones. While pulling the hoodie over Jensen’s head, he said,

“As soon as we get to the hotel, we’ll get you in a shower. For now, clean clothes will have to be enough.”

If Jensen had been himself, he would have objected to being dressed in workout clothes when he wasn’t actually working out, but he wasn’t himself, and he didn’t have the energy. At this moment, all he cared about was wearing clothes that didn’t smell.

He watched detachedly as Jared pushed the filthy clothing into the garbage bag and tied it shut—tightly—while saying, “I’m sorry, Jen. But, I think these are beyond saving. I’m going to throw them away as soon as I find a trash can.”

He felt a little bad about the clothes, but the mix of mold, urine, and stale vomit that had permeated the fibers was never coming out.

Leaning in over Jensen, Jared reached into a bag in the backseat. Coming back out, he twisted the lid of a bottle of water and held it for Jensen to drink, keeping one hand on the bottle to slow Jensen’s greedy mouthfuls. He said,

“Careful, your stomachs empty; drink too fast, and it’ll all come back up again. Take it easy; there’s more.”

Letting the bottle sink from his lips, he heard the crinkly, tearing sound of one of Jared’s protein bars being opened. He wasn’t a fan, but acute hunger made him devour the gooey, sticky bar, and he didn’t object when Jared opened another one.

At last, Jared said, “That’s the best I can do for now. We need to get you someplace warm and comfortable.”

As Jared seated himself in the driver’s seat, Jensen asked,

“Why are you driving Baby?”

“Long story; I’ll tell you later.”

Jensen didn’t protest, and he didn’t have the energy for inquisitiveness. As the engine rumbled to life, he felt a curious sense of safety and belonging. It felt like home.

As the tires hit asphalt, Jensen felt himself begin drifting in and out of sleep.

In his half slumbering state, he caught glimpses of landscapes and then snatches of a one-sided conversation.

“Did you get the locks changed? Great. Yeah. It’s in the safe in my studio; the pin is your birthday. Love you too, sis. Listen, it’s the blue folder, it should have all you need, all passwords, pins, insurance papers, everything. Sorry to throw all of this in your lap, Nat. I just don’t want him to have to deal with this shit right now. And, I don’t want her to have access to his credit cards or his checking and savings accounts. What? Yeah. She’s too smart to keep the car for long, but file a report anyway, if nothing else then for the insurance, I don’t think we’ll get it back, or catch her. Thanks, Nat.”

The next time Jensen opened his eyes, the view was still the same barren fields. But the topic had changed.

“Yeah, he’s here. Yes, I found him; we’re in Baby now. What? No, Dad, don’t do that. I know he loves veal, but—Mom, listen, he’s in bad shape. No. Both of you, listen. He’s not himself; even when he’s awake, it’s like part of him is missing. He was catatonic when I found him, and he’s barely functioning now. I don’t know what she did, but I can’t do an eleven-hour drive with him today—he can’t handle it. I have to get him to a hotel as fast as possible; he needs a shower, food, and sleep.”

He wasn’t sure if he only blinked or if it was a new conversation when he heard Jared say,

“What? Chris, enough. For the last time, you can’t come up here. I know you feel like shit, I know you feel guilty as fuck—I feel like the biggest fucking asshole on the planet, and I’m terrified because I don’t know how to help him. But, our guilty conscience is not his problem. You know what he’s like, Chris; if we let him see how awful we feel, he’s going to swallow everything down to try to make us feel better.”

Jensen had no recollection of how he got from the car to the hotel room; one minute, he was in the passenger seat, and the next, he was leaning against a tiled wall while Jared undressed him.

“Lift your arms for me, Jen.”

Time continued to progress in brief moments of awareness in between large blocks of blankness. He remembered Jared behind him, his large hands massaging shampoo into his hair and washing away the grime and cold. Then a knock on the door and being hand-fed room service food in bed; he couldn’t recall what he’d eaten, only that he’d been ravenous.

Then, his head against Jared’s chest, his heartbeat mixing with Jensen’s own and the momentary stillness when Jensen mumbled,

“Why do you put up with me?”

Jared’s heartbeat was steady as he replied, “We’ve had this discussion, Jen; I don’t put up with you. My life is better with you in it; that hasn’t changed just because you’re going through a rough patch.”

Then sleep took him; real sleep, the deep slumber that came from total exhaustion where once you woke up, it felt like blinking back into existence.

Jared was drinking coffee in bed and watching a movie when Jensen drifted back into consciousness. Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he asked,

“What time is it?”

“About eleven.” He paused. “It’s Thursday; you’ve slept a solid fourteen hours.”

Jensen ran a hand through his messy hair. Through another yawn, he asked, “Don’t we have to check out?”

Jared shook his head. “We’re staying another night, maybe two. You needed the sleep, and I want us to have time away from everything while we work through what happened. As soon as we get home, well-meaning as they all are, mom and dad will be all over us, you especially, and then there’s the hotel. I wanted a few days alone for us before we go back.”

At the mention of Jared's parents, Jensen groaned and covered his eyes. “God, your parents; they’ll never forgive me.”

He heard the muted thump of Jared’s coffee cup being placed on the bedside table. His palm was gently pulled away, and Jareds frowning face came into view as he leaned over him, gaze intense and impossible to avoid.

“Jensen, no one is angry with you; least of all my parents. They’re worried. Frightened. By the time I found out you were missing, Mom was hysterical; she didn’t sleep until I called and told her I found you. I had to stop dad from driving up here to bring you home-cooked meals because he didn’t think the food here was good enough.”

Jensen nibbled the inside of his bottom lip, and tried to look away, but Jared placed a palm on the side of his face, keeping their eyes locked.

“No one is angry with you. If there’s any anger going around, it’s directed at ourselves. You told us something was wrong; you knew she was messing with you, and we just dismissed your fears. We should have listened, and we didn’t. I didn’t. If anyone’s to blame for this mess, it’s me.”

He shook his head, preparing to object, but Jared stopped him.

“No, Jensen; don’t make excuses for me. I’m a big boy. I can admit and take responsibility for fucking up. You warned me, and I didn’t listen. Like an arrogant ass, I thought I understood who and what she is, and I didn’t; I see that now.”

Shaking his head once more, Jensen said, “That’s not true. You tried; you listened to me for weeks, you wanted to understand, but I expected you to see who and what she was without having to reveal anything—without explaining.”

“No.” Jared’s expression was stony and unyielding. “I did what I always do. I demanded that you explain things on my terms, in the way I wanted things done. When you couldn’t, I decided I didn’t have to listen. I didn’t need any more information to take you seriously; the emotional turmoil you were experiencing, the signs of extreme stress you were showing, that should have been enough.”

“No. There’s no way you could have understood who you were dealing with, Jared. Until yesterday, all you’d seen was a narcissistic, older woman who was easily sent away. She’s my mother; I’ve seen her at her absolute worst, seen her play her tricks on others and on me. I’ve been fighting her all my life, and she can still do this to me. How could you possibly understand?”

Jensen ran his palms over his face. The bed moved as Jared laid down beside him. Hands still covering his face, he heard Jared say,

“Then, explain it to me now. Tell me what happened.”

His hot breath hit the back of his palms as he exhaled; words muffled, he said,

“I can’t.”

“Why?” The question was soft, but there was determination behind the tenderness.

Jensen was still raw, his emotions turned inside out, and his head too muddled to be suave or evasive.

“Because, if I try to explain, there’ll be follow-up questions, I’ll have to answer them, which will lead to even more questions—eventually you’ll get the whole ugly story, you’ll change your mind—you won’t think I’m worth it anymore.”

Jared’s voice was coaxing as he replied,

“Jensen, I already know it’s ugly. I admit I didn’t understand how bad, I still don’t. But, every time you’ve shown yourself vulnerable, I’ve understood more, it hasn’t changed how I feel about you. Instead, I admire you more; that you’re such an amazing person despite so much of your life being miserable, is proof of how incredible you are.”

The mattress undulated as Jared inched closer. “You can’t live like this. You can’t live in a state of fear, worrying that, one day, I’ll learn something about your past that will make me leave you. Tell me. I want to understand why she triggers you like this, how she’s able to turn you from healthy to barely functioning in a matter of hours. Jensen, I can’t protect you, I can’t stop something like this from happening again if I don’t understand.”

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, Jensen felt a tear run from the corner of his eyes and land on his pillow. After decades of running, he’d reached the end of the road. He was out of options, out of wiggling room, out of places to run.

He had two choices; he could jump off the ledge he was facing, lay it all out and hope Jared was standing below willing to catch him, or he could go back.

Turning back wasn’t an option. If he chose that path, the only place he was headed was LA; not voluntarily, but she’d know he was on his own again—she always knew. His mother would come back for him, and this time she’d spin her web of half-truths and lies so tightly round him he would never break free.

He felt it in his bones; knew that, by letting Jared in, by caring about the hotel and the people there, he’d made himself too vulnerable. His defenses were depleted, he couldn’t rebuild them. He’d learned what home felt like. Now that he had, he couldn’t survive without it.

Gentle fingers caught the next tear before it hit the pillow, a thumb tracing the wet trail in its wake.

“Tell me, Jensen.”

He was out of options. The only thing left to do was close his eyes, take a deep breath, and step off the ledge.

And so Jensen told him. He spoke about his earliest memories, of the tanned arms and soft chests of his nannies. How, since then, the scent of oranges and the melodic sound of Spanish had always been a comfort to him. How, when he was younger, he would leave Telenovelas running on the TV when he slept alone in whatever motel room they were at, just to feel safe.

He told Jared about how the world turned cold and confusing; he didn’t recall the details, of course, but he remembered suddenly being sad and Mommy being angry all the time.

He recounted hours, weeks, months on the road. The endless line of cheap motels mixed with periods of unbelievable luxury when his mother pulled off a successful con.

He told him about the first time she’d left him with strangers, how afraid he’d been, how hard he’d tried to be a good boy when she came back so she wouldn’t leave him again. It hadn’t worked, but he’d been a lot older when he finally stopped trying.

Eventually, they reached the point when Jensen had to tell him about Idaho. The actual story, not the one with blossoming apple trees and good times all around.

Jared was uncharacteristically still beside him as he talked about those fourteen months he spent as free labor, doing a grown man’s job with a twelve-year-old’s body. Living in a cold shack and staying safe, not because of caring adults, but because the strongest boy took an interest in him—the bad kind of interest.

Jensen watched as Jared sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He inhaled on a painful tremble and knew that this was it, this was too much, and Jared would stand up and leave.

Jared’s back straightened and expanded as he inhaled deeply. Jensen forced himself to keep his eyes open as he stood up in silence; told himself that he would watch him leave, not to torture himself, but to face reality; to not distort his own memories the way he had with Idaho.

He watched as Jared stood in momentary stillness. Jensen thought he should say something. Maybe: it’s ok, I understand, to make it easier on him. But the words never had a chance to form because Jared was grabbing the desk chair, and then it was shattering into kindling as Jared beat it time and time again against the desk.

When he had nothing in his hands but splinters, he exhaled audibly, smoothed back a few stray hairs, and inhaled. He wiped his hands clean of stray wood, rolled his shoulders, brushed stray splinters off the bed, and then it shifted again as he laid back down, pulling Jensen close, and said,

“Continue.”

So he did. He spoke about the conflicting feelings when she finally came for him and how she abandoned him again shortly after.

Then, Jensen talked about Vegas: about being stranded at a rundown motel, her leaning out of the window, telling him to be a good boy, and she’d be back to pick him up soon. About how the motel fees ate up the two-hundred dollars in a week. How the chain-smoking, elderly manager and the low-class hookers who lived there full time took pity on him.

How he’d earned his keep by cleaning rooms, doing laundry, and looking innocent; pretending to be the manager’s grandson as they stuffed heroin down his underwear when the police did their regular raids.

He spoke about the violence, long nights hearing the whimpers and screams of pain when the johns were too rough. How, after a few weeks, the regulars began recognizing him, and the soft knocks on his door. How he said no and learned to wiggle out through the small bathroom window so he could hide on the roof until dawn and business slowed down.

He talked about when she came for him again, unashamed and uncaring to the danger she’d subjected him to, to what he’d had to endure.

How, sometime after that, he’d noticed the change. How she’d sneer at her own reflection in the mirror and pull at the corner of her eyes, then watch him with a slitted, calculating gaze.

How she’d push him into crowds, make him play her games, and then observe how people reacted to him.

About that night when he was fourteen, and she’d slid into bed with him, caressed his cheek, and ran her thumb across his bottom lip. She’d smiled, and Jensen had shivered under the covers. That was the first night she’d called him her green-eyed prince. When she’d leaned in and pressed her lips against his own, whispering about places they’d go and conquests they’d make, he'd known he had to get away.

And, finally, Jensen spoke about turning sixteen and being strong enough to leave. About those first few years when he was so broke and always tired as he juggled minimum wage jobs and tried to earn his GED. How he’d felt when he’d earned his college diploma, about being twenty-four and thinking the world lay at his feet.

About turning twenty-five, landing the first well-paid job, and finding his mother on his doorstep, realizing that he’d never broken free—that she still had plans for him.

Jensen inhaled, licked his dry lips, and said, “And then, on a whim, I took a job in a small town hotel, met you, and now I’m here. You slid through all my defenses without effort and, right from the start, I didn’t stand a chance; I didn’t even put up a fight, I couldn’t.”

He exhaled, closed his eyes, and said, “Jared, she won’t stop. She’ll come back.”

Jared sat up, and in doing so, pulled Jensen into a seated position. Maneuvering himself on the bed so he could look at him. Jared said,

“I know. I understand that now. When she does, don’t engage with her, you can’t win. She’s a sociopath, and you’re not. You might hold your own against her in a fight, but eventually, you’ll reach a point where one of you has to go for the killing blow; that’s when your empathy and decency will always stay your hand, while she won’t hesitate. If she sneaks up on you, the only thing you’re going to do is pick up your phone and call me. If I don’t answer, you call Nat or Chris”—Jared paused, then said firmly—“Nat, call Nat; Chris would kill her. If Nat doesn’t answer, you’ll call my parents, and then you’ll wait for one of us to come, and we’ll handle it. You’re not facing her alone, not again.”

Jensen opened his mouth, an undeveloped objection forming on his tongue, but before he could utter it, Jared grasped the back of his neck, pulling their faces close.

“When she turns up again, what do you do.” It wasn’t a question; it was Jared urging him to repeat his order. “When she turns up again, you’ll—” Jared repeated the first part of the sentence once more, waiting for Jensen to finish it. He hesitated, then said,

“I’ll call you.” Jared raised one eyebrow, urging him to continue. “If you don’t answer, I’ll call Nat. If she doesn’t answer, I’ll call Kent and Barbara.”

“And then?”

Jared’s grip softened.

“And then I’ll wait until you come, and you’ll handle it.” Sighing, Jensen looked away.

“Jared, you didn’t sign up for this. She’s not your problem, I’m not your problem; you can walk away, I won’t blame you.”

“And you didn’t sign up for a broken family and a hotel on the edge of bankruptcy, but you stayed.”

Jensen felt Jared’s palm on his cheek; gently, his large hand grasped his chin and coaxed him into meeting his gaze once more. Jared’s eyes were intense, and his voice determined.

“You didn’t even know us, but you stayed and fought for our survival; healed our family and saved our hotel. Hell, you didn’t only save it; you made it a million times better than we could have without you. What we’ve built, what we’re continuing to grow every day, that would have been impossible without you.

“Jensen, if not for you, my family would have imploded. My mom would still be in denial, my dad depressed, Nat unhappy and overworked, and me, selfish and bitter.”

Jared ran a hand through his hair as he looked at Jensen.

“Don’t you understand? I didn’t follow you here out of some sense of obligation—I’m not putting up with you. You’ve become one of the most important people in our lives. You’re indispensable, irreplaceable; no one can fill your shoes. Not professionally, and certainly not personally. You might not believe you’re worth it, but we do; you’re part of this family now, and it’s a permanent position.”

Licking his lips, Jensen prepared to speak, to object, but Jared interceded.

“Your perception of yourself and what you mean to other people is warped, Jensen. That hydra who calls herself your mother has brutalized your sense of self-worth, made you believe people only want you around if you’re useful and not for who you are. That’s why she wants you around; to use you. We love you.

“Professionally, you’re incredible; there’s no denying how important you have been, and continue to be, to our business. But, Jensen, you can quit tomorrow, and you’ll still be family. Your position in our life is not dependent on your work—you are enough.

Jensen let out a long, shaky breath. Jared reached out and pulled him closer, so his legs rested on either side of his hips. Caressing his face and leaning their foreheads against one another, Jared murmured,

“You’re enough.”

It felt as if something slid into place. Not in a way that it fixed everything, but laying the foundation for healing to even be possible; a broken bone set right, a festering wound washed clean, a sprained ankle bandaged for support.

Somewhere deep inside of him, something exhaled and let go. His arms came up and wound themselves around Jared so tightly he heard him grunt. Jared’s movements mirrored his own, and then he moved, and Jensen was falling backward on the bed with Jared following.

Lying half-on-top of Jensen, Jared leaned over him on one arm, tracing the bridge of his nose with one finger and then down to his lips. His pulse briefly lost its rhythm as Jared leaned down, but the kiss was chaste. As Jared pulled himself up again, he said,

“I’m going to call room service, then we’ll spend the day eating and watching crappy TV; tomorrow, we go home.”

Chapter Text

Jensen smiled as Baby rumbled into life. “I love this car.”

Beside him, in the driver’s seat, Jared nodded. “I’ve told Nat that, when the time comes, she can have the house, as long as I get Baby.”

As the car turned out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, he glanced in Jensen’s direction and asked,

“How are you?” Before Jensen could answer, he added, “And don’t say, I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Scooting down in the seat and leaning his head against the window, Jensen said,

“Being with her, it’s like—” He sighed as he grappled to find the words. “It’s like my mind, my memories, are one giant jigsaw puzzle, and she rearranges the pieces according to her whims.”

He moistened his lips and let out a small, huffing sigh.

“Every time I get away, I have to find the pieces she messed with and put them back in the right place. But, the farther back we go, the harder it is because I don’t remember. Partly because it was a long time ago, partly because I don’t want to remember, and probably because she made sure I can’t remember.”

Jared kept silent as he paused, seeming to understand that he wasn’t finished.

“And she sets traps, you know? Like this time, with Idaho, she knew what happened; she knew I’d repressed things. She’s been sitting on that knowledge for decades, waiting for the perfect time to use it against me. I can’t protect myself because I don’t know what else there is.”

He ran a hand through his hair and pressed the palm of his hand against his head.

“How much crap is buried here? I don’t know, and that frightens me. I don’t know how much ammunition she has, and I can’t fight back because I can never be sure she’s lying.”

Beside him, eyes fixed on the road, Jared said, “And that’s why you’ll not fight her alone. That’s why you call us, so she can’t play these tricks on you.”

He was quiet as Jensen murmured out an agreement then, carefully, he said,

“Maybe, it would be a good idea if we found you a therapist. A professional to sort through all the lies and manipulation; someone who can help you find the truth and not have to live with this uncertainty and fear.”

Jared’s eyes were fixed on the road, but as he observed him, Jensen noticed the tension as if he expected him to lash out. He said,

“Maybe.” Seeing Jared glance at him, he said, “It’s not that I’m against it; I’ve considered it before. But, sorting through all of this will take time; it’s not going to be a ten-session fix. I always felt that it would be pointless to start such a grueling process when I wouldn’t stay long enough to complete it, you know?”

Jared nodded. “I get that. But, you leaving isn’t really an issue anymore, is it?”

Jensen listened to Baby purr as the speed limit changed, and Jared increased his pressure on the gas pedal. Watching the gloomy, gray landscape pass them by, Jensen felt something warm begin to bloom in his chest.

“No. It’s not.” He switched positions on the seat again. “I’ll talk to Nat; I heard she knows a good one.”

Jared nodded. Reaching out, he placed a hand on the back of Jensen’s neck, guiding the car forward with one hand on the wheel, leaving it there, warm and comforting.

They stopped for lunch as they passed through Burns, Oregon. Getting back in the car, Jensen said,

“You never answered my question.”

When Jared looked at him quizzically, he said, “Why are you driving Baby?”

“Right.” Running a hand through his hair, Jared said, “Well, I drove away to Portland Tuesday morning in a foul mood because of our argument. I got to the studio, and then we worked all day; intense, heavy, hot work, and I didn’t have time to check my phone until dinnertime. Once I did, and I’m not exaggerating, I had forty-seven missed calls.”

Jared stopped, reached out, and took a sip from the takeaway coffee they’d brought with them from the restaurant.

“I realized something had happened, so I skipped the dinner we’d planned, jumped in my car, and after calling you and not getting an answer, I called Nat.”

Taking another sip, Jared put the coffee back in the disposable cardboard holder on the seat between them and said,

“Everyone got worried when you didn’t show up for work. You’re never late, so when you hadn’t turned up by nine, and you weren’t answering your phone, people were freaking out.

“By ten, Nat worried something had happened, so she took her spare keys and drove to our place. But, once she got there, she saw your car was missing, so she didn’t go inside. They spent all day calling hospitals, checking the local news for car accidents, but nothing came up.

“I called Nat around five, got the story, and we decided to meet up at our place as soon as I got back. Once we got inside, we saw that your side of the wardrobe was all messed up, and we found two coffee cups on the counter—one with red lipstick marks—and I realized you’d been right; that she had been in town, messing with you, and that something must have happened. That’s when I logged into your find my phone app and saw you were in Idaho.

“I packed a bag for us, and when I prepared to leave, Dad gave me the keys to Baby and told me to take her as a good luck charm. So, that’s why I’m driving Baby.”

Jensen hummed. “Guess it worked then.” He paused, and as an afterthought, said, “Thank God she stole my car, and not Baby.”

Huffing out a laugh half-amused, half horrified, Jared said, “If she’d done that, there’d be no place in the country safe enough for her to run; Dad would hunt her down. Fuck, I’d hunt her down. Luckily she didn’t; now all we have to do is make sure she stays away.”

Jensen snorted. “She won’t.”

Taking his eye off the road for a few seconds, Jared looked at him and said, “Then we’ll just have to remind her she’s not welcome.”

Startling awake, Jensen looked around, disorientated; the last time his eyes had been open, they were nearing Springfield. Jensen looked at the empty driver’s seat and then at his surroundings. Through the windshield, he saw the familiar, comforting large blue silhouette of The Oceanview Hotel.

Stretching his arms out in front of him and rolling his neck, Jensen tried to work the tension out of his stiff muscles. He looked at the light coming from the entrance; it looked warm and inviting in the dusky light.

Flipping through past conversations, Jensen tried to think of a reason Jared had stopped here first. After barely allowing Jensen to go to the bathroom alone the past few days, never letting him out of his sight, he wouldn’t just have left him in the car if he’d planned to be gone long. Then it clicked; keys; Jared had tasked Nat with changing their locks and needed their new keys.

He stretched again and watched the front door as he waited for Jared. Jensen looked himself over in the rearview mirror; he looked drawn, pale, the past days’ experiences visible in his face and the angle of his shoulders.

He glanced at the door again but didn’t see anyone. He was tired, wrecked; all he wanted was to go home. He didn’t feel up to dealing with questions and the inquisitive stares from employees, but his body ached.

He opened the door, intent on just standing up and stretching, but then the front door opened as two guests walked out, and the scent hit him; pastry, hot, sweet, probably just out of the oven.

He groaned, glanced at the door, then at his own disheveled state in the side mirror. He wasn’t even wearing a suit; his travel clothes were wrinkled, his hair messy, and his eyes exhausted. His whole appearance screamed how out of sorts he was, that he was injured and, although recovering, he felt vulnerable.

He inhaled once more, tasted the air, and groaned. He looked at the door, debated with himself a few more seconds, then made a decision. Jensen looked like a bum and felt like shit, but he wanted Amelia’s pastry; if anyone saw him like this, they’d just have to deal with it.

Any thoughts of trying to enter the hotel inconspicuously evaporated as soon as he walked through the doors. The counter staff froze as soon as they saw him; Katie, the young girl he’d gotten to know at the Patisserie, was developing into a competent and driven receptionist and an elegant young woman. She smiled and gave him a brief wave; Jensen was about to wave back when he noticed the second, older receptionist, sending worried glances towards the closed dining-room door.

Jensen frowned and looked at the clock hanging on the wall behind the reception desk. It had been a long drive, and Jared had let him sleep in that morning. Why was the door to the dining room closed? The restaurant should be half-way through their dinner service by now.

When she saw Jensen looking, she tore her eyes away guiltily, smiled, and was about to say something when the rising sound of agitated voices traveled through the door.

Jensen watched as they both flinched as if preparing to stop him when he walked over to the door; one raised eyebrow compelled them to stop.

Jensen lowered the handle silently and opened a small crack in the door; the voice struck him straight in the chest. It was Jared, his voice annoyed, balancing on the edge of anger. He said,

“I don’t care; handle it. We’re going home. Jensen is taking the next week off work; when he comes back, this better be dealt with.”

“What had better be dealt with?”

Jensen watched eleven people freeze as their heads turned to look at him.

Chris was the first to snap out of the shock. Eye blazing, he crossed the room, wound his arms around Jensen, squeezing him so tight his ribs groaned. He said,

“Don’t do that. Don’t ever do that again.”

Barbara was the next person to break the spell; letting out a sharp exhale, she said,

“Jensen.” Once Chris had reluctantly let go, she came up to him and pulled him into a tight hug. As she released him, she clasped his face between her hands and looked at him, taking in the details of his face, asking,

“Are you ok?”

Jensen gave her a tiny half-smile and went for honesty. “Not really, but I will be; I need a few more days to bounce back, but I’ll be ok.”

As he wriggled free from Barbara’s grasp, he watched others prepare to speak but caught them off. He repeated his question.

“What had better be dealt with? Why is the restaurant closed?”

Amelia, standing next to Ella, said, “Nothing, Jensen. It’s a few minor managerial issues, nothing you have to worry about.”

Eyes narrowing, Jensen snorted. “You’re a terrible liar Amelia, you have no poker face; never gamble for money. Ella, what’s going on?”

The dark-haired woman shook her head. She was better at hiding her emotions, all those years dealing with a demanding clientele giving her the ability to shift her expression into a blank canvas that said nothing. She replied,

“Really, Jensen. It’s nothing. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Liar.” He prepared to confront someone else, but Jared said,

“Jen, it’s nothing. I just came in here to get our keys; we’re leaving now.”

“Nothing?” Jensen scoffed. “Which is why the entire management team and practically every key employee is standing in this room shouting at each other; because it’s nothing. I repeat my question, why is the restaurant closed?”

The sarcasm flowed off his tongue effortlessly, and it felt amazing. Like he was reclaiming a little piece of himself she’d tried to take away.

Scanning the room, Jensen searched for the weak link; eyes narrowing he found his target.

“Max. What’s going on?” He grinned as Max immediately began fingering his bowtie, a sure-fire sign he was nervous. He was impressed by how steady the younger man’s voice sounded, but the words were shaky.

“Nothing, Jensen. Nothing’s wrong. We’re”—he looked around the room desperately—“taking inventory.”

It wasn’t a bad lie; it was just that Max was a poor liar. He didn’t have the face or social skill to lie convincingly.

“You’re lying.” He watched as Max’s eyes quickly glanced at Jared’s face, then back at Jensen, and he moved unconsciously to his side as if trying to hide something out of view. Jensen frowned.

“Max, what’s behind your back?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Nothing.” He laughed, a skittish, uncomfortable sound. “There’s nothing behind my back.”

“Then move.” Jensen watched him glance in Jared’s direction once more while taking a step back, closer to the wall.

He repeated his command. “Move, Max.” The younger man shook his head as he heard Jared say, “Jensen.”

He ignored him, walked up to the sommelier, and gently but firmly shoved him to the side. He exhaled. Inhaled. Then, voice flat and composed, he asked,

“What happened to the wall?”

Max shrugged, made a non-committal sound, and said, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” The syllables rolled off his tongue sharp in their enunciation. “Nothing. The whole damn wall is covered in wine stains; how is that nothing?”

Jensen felt a little bad for the guy, but he kept his tone stinging and glare sharp. Exhaling and trying to appear aloof, Max shrugged.

“A guest dropped a glass, and some of it sprayed on the wall when it hit the floor.”

“I see. And was this, perchance, the world’s largest wine glass? Did we host a Guinness World Record attempt while I was away? Or, did someone trying to chug a gallon of wine drop their glass?”

He gestured at the ruined wall. “It looks like someone threw a bottle of wine at it.”

“Three bottles.”

Jensen felt his eyebrows shoot up and heard Chris’ hard voice bark out, “Cho.”

“What?” Jensen watched the tall, lean woman leaning against the bar shrug. She said,

“He’s sad and tired, not recently brain-damaged; stop insulting him by lying.”

Jensen said, “Thank you, Cho.” He turned to Chris. “What do you know about this? And don’t fucking lie to me, Chris. I’ve been messed around with, manipulated, and lied to for weeks; I’m sick of it. Try it, and I’ll rip your balls off and shove them in your fancy fucking meat grinder.”

Jensen watched as Chris inhaled, scratched his head, and with an apologetic look, shot over Jensen’s shoulder, shrugged as if to say: What can I do?

Exhaling, he said, “Look, Jen, Max and I had a slight”—he paused—“disagreement. A minor discussion about a new wine. Eh”—he scratched his head, and Jensen watched in fascination as Chris tried to be tactful—“we may have exchanged a few heated words, but we agreed it wasn’t the right wine for the dish, and we moved on.”

“We didn’t agree; you threw all the sample bottles I had at the wall, Chris.”

Jensen felt his eyebrow hit his hairline at Max’s frustrated exclamation.

Chris’s round face turned red, and his stance aggressive. Pointing a finger at the younger man, he said, “You shut the fuck up, you little shit. Not a goddamned word.”

As the two men faced each other, frustration visible in their stance, Jensen turned to where Cho was standing. Monica was standing next to her, watching the standoff with a fed-up expression. Jensen asked,

“What, and when, did this happen?”

Exchanging glances with Cho, who nodded silently, Monica faced him. She said,

“Tuesday, around ten-thirty. Chris presented a new dish on the menu to the waitstaff, and Max was supposed to introduce the wine to go with it. Then Chris tasted it again, made a face, and said the wine didn’t pair well. Max said it wasn’t the wine; that it had paired perfectly with how Chris had cooked it the first time. Things escalated quickly after that.”

Blinking, Jensen asked, “And it’s been like this since?”

Monica nodded and sighed. “Yes. One big cockfight, waiting to blow.”

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Jensen felt the air grow warmer. He opened his eyes to see Jared standing in front of him. He said,

“We’re going home. They can sort this out.”

Jensen shook his head and turned to face Chris and Max, still glaring at each other.

“Are you kidding me? I don’t show up for work, and two hours later, you’re at each other’s throat? Max, you’re getting too old to pull this shit, and Chris, throwing wine bottles at the wall? We’re going to need to repaint that entire section before we can open the restaurant again; what were you thinking?”

He shook his head and licked his dry lips. “I expected more from both of you. When I heard you arguing in here, I imagined many things; you two putting this restaurant’s reputation at risk wasn’t one of them. Unbelievable.”

Chris took the chiding without flinching, his years in the bottom of the kitchen hierarchy desensitizing him to critique and being yelled at.

Max wasn’t as stoic. Eyes flickering, he finally cracked when Jensen looked ready to fire off another round. In a move not flattering for someone his age, he pointed a finger at Amelia and said,

“Amelia and Ella got drunk on dessert wine and had one-night-stands with two guests.”

Jensen watched as Amelia paled, and Ella inhaled sharply, eyes blazing and her refined speech giving way to a thick Bronx accent. She responded, “I’m going to strangle you.”

To his left, Jensen heard a delighted cackling and watched as Cho, half-crouching in her spiky heels, laughed uproariously.

Voice icy, Ella snapped. “What are you laughing at?”

Standing up straight, Cho ran her hands down her body to straighten out creases in her silky, tailored blouse and said,

“I’m laughing because you two have been very bad girls and engaged in unprofessional sexual behavior at your place of work. From experience, I know how Jensen feels about that, and you’re going to get a very stern talking to; I find that hilarious.”

Hissing, Ella said, “Well, then he better get a bigger office because we’re not the only ones who screwed up. Nat got into an argument with two suppliers, and now we can’t get fresh oysters or strawberries for our special Valentine’s Day menu. All of our chefs have called in sick because of Chris and Kent, and Barbara got into a public argument in the lobby, yelling at a guest for making a valid complaint.

Jensen watched as Barbara turned crimson, and Nat blanched, saying, “Oh, you bitch.

In another two seconds, a myriad of voices had entered the heated discussion, everyone yelling and throwing out accusations. Jensen watched it all in silence; from behind, he heard Jared’s soft voice say,

“We can leave.”

Shaking his head, Jensen replied, “No, we can’t.” Inhaling, he shook his shoulders, tried to find his center, and yelled,

“Quiet! “The room turned silent as they all stopped to look at him. Exhaling, voice calm, he said,

“Four days. I have one minor run-in with my sociopath mother, have a tiny emotional breakdown, go away for four days, and you all lose your shit over trivialities. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?

“Max and Chris, maybe the seasoning was off. Maybe that bottle differed from the rest. I don’t care; deal with it like adults. Don’t ruin the interior because you have a disagreement. There’s a bucket of paint leftover from when the dining room was refurbished in storage; fix that wall. We open the restaurant tomorrow.

“Amelia and Ella, what were you thinking?” Inhaling and exhaling, Jensen softened his voice.

“I’m so glad you two have found each other, and you’re both incredibly brave for putting yourself out there again. Ella, I know it’s been hard since your divorce. Amelia, even though it’s been several years since your husband passed, I imagine it must still feel strange being with someone else.

“So, congratulations to both of you for getting some; I’m happy for you. You are entitled to a personal life; let your single mom hair down, drink your brains foggy, and screw your way through the entire state of Oregon; it’s none of my business.

“However.” Jensen paused and watched as both women, shamefaced and wide-eyed, flinched as his eyes narrowed and his tone sharpened. “Not, guests and not here. Never force me to have this conversation with either of you again. I adore both of you, but if I find out you put the reputation of this place at risk again, you’ll be out on your ass.”

Solemnly, both women nodded. To his side, he heard Cho snort. “You’ve gone soft, Jensen. You were never that mellow with me.”

Turning, one eyebrow arched, he said, “That’s because one, it’s their first time. And two, mellow doesn’t work with you.”

Turning back and exhaling sharply, he said, “Ella, take Max and find that paint. When you get back, make sure that wall gets a fresh coat.”

He watched them disappear, both of them clearly relieved at being given a reason to leave the room. As Jensen prepared to continue, he heard Cho say,

“I’d just like to point out that there have been several acts of inappropriate sexual conduct, and I’m not involved in any of them.”

Looking at her, Jensen blinked, then said, “Very good, Cho. I’m so proud of you.” She grinned, said, “thank you,” and gave him an elegant, mocking little curtsy.

Stretching his neck, Jensen moistened his lips and turned his attention to Kent and Chris.

“What happened with the chefs?”

Clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Kent said, “Well. . . What happened was. . . ”

“Yes?”

Kent looked at Chris, who shrugged and looked away. Sighing, Jensen looked around the room. “Amelia, what happened?”

He watched her glance in Chris and Kent’s direction, sending them a look that said: Guy’s, I’m sorry, but I’m already in so much trouble.

Inhaling, she said, “Chris and Kent have been slightly”—she paused, lips pursing as she searched for the right word—“on edge since you disappeared. They might have been a tad. . . unreasonable in their expectations and might have chosen a leadership style that was, perhaps, a little harsh.”

Blinking, Jensen sighed. He turned to Cho. “In English, please.”

Smoothing a few stray hairs back, Cho said, “They’ve been assholes—yelling and throwing things in the kitchen for days. Kent smacked a chef on the back of his head with a spatula, and Chris made all the chefs—even the big tough one who looks like a murderer—cry. Now, they’re refusing to come to work.”

Turning to look at the two chefs, Jensen opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head, and opened it again. In a voice so calm everyone in the room, even Cho, winced and took a step back, he said,

“Fix this. Today.” He inhaled deeply. “Call them. Go to their homes. I don’t care how you do it but, you will apologize; grovel if you have to. Explain that I’m coming back, and when I do, we will all sit down and have a long, thorough conversation about what happened.”

Pausing once more, Jensen narrowed his eyes. “Pull this shit one more time; treat your subordinates like this, ever again, and I’ll force both of you to attend sensitivity training and anger management classes. Don’t think I won’t. Seriously. A spatula? What the actual fuck.”

Turning swiftly, Jensen focused his attention on Nat and Barbara, who had moved and now stood close, holding hands. In the corner of his eyes, Jensen saw Ella and Max silently entering the room again, Max carrying a bucket of paint and a roller.

Not even bothering to find out the details, Jensen pointed at Nat and said, “Fix it.” Then at Barbara. “Call and apologize, offer a twenty percent refund.”

Inhaling deeply once more, he surveyed the room. In a calmer tone of voice, he said,

“Do I have to remind you all that less than two years ago, this hotel was on the verge of bankruptcy? We’re in a better place now, but we’re not out of the woods yet; one publicity scandal, and we’re fucked. You might have gotten away with this behavior when we were a two-star hotel with a 15 percent occupancy rate. Now, we’re a four-star hotel with an average 75 percent occupancy and a prolific social media presence. What if someone, guest or employees, filmed your behavior and put it on their Instagram or on YouTube?”

He looked at their awkward, guilt-ridden expressions, and thinking back on the past four days, he said,

“I’m sorry if I frightened you or if my sudden absence made you fear for your future here. You’re all wonderful people. But, fuck, I have worked too hard to save this place to have it crumble because I go away for a few days. I’m human like the rest of you; sometimes, my life gets messy. Sometimes I need a fucking break. Get your shit together.”

Turning to face Maggie, who’d observed the spectacle quietly from a corner, he asked,

“Any disasters on your end I need to know about?”

She shook her head. “No. We had a couple of rowdy guests last night; they damaged two rooms, nothing too serious. We know who they are, and we’ll get compensation for the damages.”

Frowning, Jensen said, “Do we have enough rooms?”

Waving his concerns away, Maggie said, “Jensen, I’ve got my department under control.” It was said with such a natural, calm authority, he immediately relaxed.

Nodding, he turned to Monica.

“How about you?”

She shrugged and shook her head. “Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve got things covered on my end.”

He believed her and let his eyes continue on their journey. On their way to Cho, he was interrupted as Kent asked,

“Have you eaten, Jensen?”

Jared said, “We stopped at a diner for lunch. Bought some snacks at a gas station.”

Chris’ sound of disgust and Kent’s distressed look made Jensen smile. Kent said,

“So, you’ve subsisted on food from a Best Western room service, a roadside diner, and gas stations for four days? What a disaster. Hold on, I made you dinner; I’m going to go get it in the kitchen.”

He heard Jared object beside him, but Kent put up a hand and said, “To take home with you. I’m coming over tomorrow to fill up your fridge and make you food for a few days.”

Nodding, Jared said, “He’ll need pastries, too.”

At the mention of pastries, Amelia’s head shot up, and she said, “I’ll go pack some immediately. I’ll make sure you’ll get fresh ones delivered every morning.”

Jensen opened his mouth to protest that he didn’t need special treatment, but Jared spoke before he could. “He wants two pain au chocolates for breakfast and at least two eclairs in the afternoon.”

Arching one eyebrow, Amelia said, “I know what pastry he needs.”

As Kent and Amelia hurried away, Jensen turned to Cho. “And you?” She snorted.

“What about me? I’m fucking responsible these days, Jensen. I’m all dependable and shit now.”

Frowning, he said, “Yes. I know. It’s freaking me out.”

She nodded. “You and me both. Everything is under control; I had you booked for an interview, but I’ve rescheduled it. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Jensen opened his mouth, but Nat interrupted him. She came up to him, took his hands, and said,

“Jensen, please go home. I’m sorry you had to walk into this after the days you’ve had; it’s unreasonable for you to have to deal with this, especially now. We all freaked out when you went missing, and we continued to freak out when we didn’t know if you were coming back. We’ve all behaved poorly and irrationally, and it’s unfair to you. You need to be able to take some time off without things turning sour. Go home, take a week off, and everything will be under control when you come back. I promise.”

Coming back home, Jensen noticed the gate had new double locks and a Wi-Fi camera, so did the front door.

The kitchen had been cleaned up, and as they came upstairs to change out of their travel clothes, he saw his wardrobe had been tidied. An hour later, Jensen was sitting at his usual spot by the counter, nursing his second glass of wine and scraping his plate clean of sauce with the edge of his knife. He said,

“It’s weird how fast you get used to crappy food; it’s like your taste buds decide to hibernate, and it’s not until you eat proper food again that they wake-up and you remember what it’s supposed to taste like.”

Licking his own lips clean, Jared nodded. He chuckled as Jensen, plate only just pushed away, reached over and snatched an eclair from the artfully arranged basket standing next to him. Teeth sinking into the airy pastry, he sighed.

“Wine and pastry; it’s like ambrosia, food of the Gods.”

Jared smiled at him fondly. “You’re gorgeous and adorable.”

The room turned silent. After a few moments, Jared said, “Four hours. Not a minute longer.”

Distractedly, Jensen blinked and, looking at him, said, “What?”

Jared’s smile was affectionate. “You’re staring into space wearing your problem-solving expression. You’re not taking a week off; your head is already spinning, finding solutions, and solving all of those problems they were arguing about. So, here’s my offer; you’ll work four-hour days, for two weeks, that’s how far I’m willing to go.”

Opening his mouth to protest, Jared cut him off. “Four hours, Jensen, for two weeks, or I’ll chain you to the bed for a month. I’ll drive you to work in the morning, and I’ll come to pick you up in time for lunch. You’ll leave all paperwork, your work phone, computer, and tablet, in your office. End of discussion.”

Bringing the wineglass to his mouth, Jensen smiled around the rim. After swallowing a mouthful of the burgundy liquid, he said, “Four hours, for two weeks, and I won’t work from home.”

Jared slowly shook his head. “Jensen, it’s not your responsibility to solve everyone’s problems all the time. You don’t have to fix this; we’ll all still love you, even if you don’t.”

Jensen looked down into his wine as he slowly turned it, causing the liquid to swirl in the glass.

“I know. I know you will.” He paused. “One of my mother’s skills, the reason she affects me like this, is that she makes me feel powerless. When she plays her games, and I can’t stop her, I feel damaged. Solving these issues makes me feel a little less defective. I know it’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, and I know I’m not solving any of my own issues, but it makes me feel competent; it helps me reclaim the parts of myself she made me doubt.”

He paused, hesitated, then said, “It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m actually happy things are messy. She had me convinced you all wanted me gone; that Nat resented me for my influence at the hotel, that your parents saw me as a threat, that you never loved me. That you didn’t need or want me, and everything would go on as normal without me here. That no one cared that I was gone.”

He watched Jared tense, hands gripping the edge of the countertop, eyes turning hard as he shook his head. Before he could voice his objection, Jensen continued,

“Not all of me, there was a piece of me who knew she was lying, that it wasn’t true. But, she knows exactly where to aim to make her blows lethal. I know it’s messed up, but seeing you all at each other’s throats, I was relieved because you still need me.”

Leaning forward across the counter, Jared reached out and grasped his hands. Eyes intent, he said, “We’ll never not need you, Jensen; you suddenly disappearing out of our lives would be a disaster.”

With downcast eyes, gaze fixed on the kitchen island’s polished surface, he heard Jared say,

“I understand if you can’t believe that right now. And, if I have to spend the next fifty years convincing you it’s true, that’s what I’ll do. But, you exiting our lives isn’t an option. She can try to take you away from here, scare you into running a million times over, and I’ll always find you and bring you back.”

In silence, Jensen chewed the inside of his cheek. Exhaling and daring to raise his eyes, he watched as Jared searched his face. In silence, his eyes roamed over his features and took in his expression. Seeming to reach a conclusion, he nodded and said, “Tomorrow, I’ll drive you to work, and we’ll both stay long enough to make sure the restaurant is up and running. Then, we come home.”

Jensen nodded. As the atmosphere in the room lost its edge, becoming airy and light, he reached for another eclair and took a large bite. “I can’t believe your dad hit someone with a spatula; he’s lucky he’s one of the owners, or I would have fired him.”

Jared laughed. Jensen watched his lips stretch, and his eyes twinkle, but the tension that had kept his shoulders square and his muscles coiled for weeks was still there.

“How are you holding up in all of this, Jared? You’re so focused on me, but this can’t have been easy for you either.”

He saw Jared inhale, preparing to wave his words away. With a half-smile, Jensen said, “And don’t say I’m fine.”

Jared let out a short, breathy laugh. Releasing Jensen’s hands, he stood up, leaned back against the kitchen counter, and folded his arms across his chest.

“How am I doing? It’s going to take a while to process all this. I have all these thick, messy emotions about what you’ve been through that I need to sort through, accept that I can’t change it; I can’t go back in time and save you. Then there’s the guilt; I know we’ve talked about it. I know you disagree. But, I’m always going to feel guilty for allowing her to get this close. For not listening.”

He must have noticed Jensen inhaling, preparing to object because he put his hand up, stopping him.

“Let me feel this; don’t try to soften the blow. It feels awful, but in the long run, it’s good for me; every now and then, I need to be taken down a notch or two. I’m so sure of everything, so convinced my way, my view of the world is the right one.

“Sometimes life needs to kick me in the nuts to get my attention and remind me I’m not always in control, that I don’t have everything figured out. I should have listened, both to what you said and the words you couldn’t say. I should have sat down, held you, protected you; instead, I dismissed your feelings and left you when you were so stressed and frightened. After everything you’ve put yourself through to be with me, you deserved better.”

Sighing, Jared shook his head. “Fuck, Jensen. When I saw all those missed calls, my stomach dropped; I knew something had happened. As soon as I opened the door, the sticky, sweet smell of that perfume she wears still lingered in the room; I saw the two cups, your wardrobe, and I went cold. I honestly don’t remember the drive to Idaho. I know I had to stop mid-way; I didn’t want to, but I almost fell asleep at the wheel, so I slept a few hours at a rest stop. I just clutched my phone, keeping it open on your position, hoping you wouldn’t move again, that I’d catch up.

“Then, I found your car at the side of the road; there was no other way you could have gone except up that dirt path, so I followed it and searched through the place until I found you. She was just sitting there at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from one hand, looking so damn pleased with herself. When you opened your eyes, I just. . . I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”

One hand still cradling his midsection, Jared ran a palm over his face, stopping, so it covered his mouth. Eyes closed, he inhaled through the nose and held it so long Jensen had already stood up when he exhaled. His eyes opened as Jensen’s hand grasped his, squeezing it.

“Jared, I’m going to be ok; I will.”

Scratching his creased forehead, Jared said, “Jen, you’ve just crawled out of hell; you don’t have to make me feel better.”

Stepping closer and winding his arms around Jared’s waist, he said,

“I’m not. I’m not pretending everything’s fine; it’s not. But, I will come back from this. She’s done this to me before, not quite as bad, but I always find a way back.”

Jensen paused. “Being here, being with you, is the healthiest, safest, and happiest I’ve ever been, and it just keeps getting better. I’m wounded, Jared, not broken—I’ll heal.”

Sipping his wine, Jensen sighed in contentment at the rich taste. Jared's arm was a comforting weight against his neck and shoulder, and the heavy blanket a warm barrier against the winter rain thudding in heavy drops against the roof and windows. In the background, a movie flickered on the large TV, but Jensen wasn't paying attention.

To his side, Jared asked, "How did the team-building exercise go? Do we still have enough chefs to staff the kitchen, or did Chris murder them all?"

Jensen chuckled. "They're alive, and tomorrow, all of them, including Chris and your dad, will communicate and cooperate without a hitch. They'll make sure of it, so they never have to do something like this again."

Jared looked at him. Eyebrows raised, he asked, "What did you make them do?"

He shrugged. "You know, trust falls, roleplay, handcuffing them to each other and forcing them to complete a floating obstacle course, things like that."

"A floating obstacle course? You mean, on water?"

Jensen nodded. "Yeah. There's one down by the marina."

Jared leaned back to look at him, laughed and said, "Jensen, it's March; they must have frozen their bits off."

Jensen cocked his head and said, unfazed, "They had wetsuits and life jackets, and with all those tempers flaring left and right, they obviously had enough heat to spare." He paused. "It was March the first time we met as well. If I remember correctly, you had just finished surfing and came sauntering into the lobby, still dripping and half-naked."

Jared nodded. Laughing, he replied, "Yes, and freezing my nuts off, trying to play it cool because this super hot guy was standing in our lobby looking like he just stepped off a runway."

Jensen hummed. With exaggerated aloofness, he said, "Well, I was unmoved; I wasn't affected by you're wet, glistening, underdressed body, at all."

Barking out a laugh, Jensen felt himself rock as Jared's chest reverberated. His sharp laugh trailing off in small, staccato puffs of air until the room turned silent.

The arm around his shoulders tightened as the palm of Jared's hand flattened against his chest. He heard Jared lick his lips, and there was a slight hesitation as he inhaled; Jensen blocked the movie out and waited.

"I have something for you—a gift. I've been waiting for the right moment."

From his half-slouched position, Jensen sat up, and the look on Jared's face said this was not the time for bashful modesty.

Jared stood up, straightening his tall frame, and held out his hand. "Come on; it's this way."

Surprised and curious, Jensen stood and, taking his hand, he allowed himself to be led across the room. Intrigued, he felt his brows knit together in confusion as Jared took him through the glass passage leading to the empty wing opposite his studio.

He'd only been in there once. There was a bathroom installed towards the back wall and light fixtures in the ceiling. Apart from that, it was a blank, empty slate. Coming to a standstill in the center of the open space and still holding his hand, Jared looked at him. He said,

"We haven't talked about Idaho since our first night back. I've insisted you take it easy, and this is your first week working full time. But apart from that, I haven't brought it up. After those first few days back home, you just picked yourself back up, and it was business as usual. I don't know how you did it, but I've tried to let you set the pace, decide how this plays out."

He paused. "I'm a selfish person; not unpleasantly, not uncaring about other people's needs and emotions. But I prefer things done my way.

Jensen thought of objecting, but Jared wasn't finished.

"Sometimes. . . I worry you think that I don't understand the struggle this relationship has put you through, that I don't recognize the battle you've fought. How, deciding to stay here, with me, was one of the hardest, most frightening decisions you've ever made. I don't understand what you've grappled with; I can't understand what it's like to have her in your head; but, I do know that you've fought a million times harder for me than I have for you."

Breath shallow, Jensen lowered his gaze, fastening it on one of the cotton strings hanging from Jared's hoodie. Exhaling, his breath trembled.

"You've fought a war, with yourself and with her, and coming out on the other side; you haven't even achieved freedom of choice. Everything about this relationship is on my terms—I know that."

Gaze still downcast, Jensen shook his head in objection, but Jared said,

"No. It's true. I'm not saying you're unhappy, that you'd wish it to be different. But, you entered my life when I'd already set the boundaries, and I'm just expecting you to be ok with them."

Callused fingers played with his own, as Jared continued,

"The hotel is an integral part of my identity; I could never leave it or this town behind. This house, my workshop, it's who I am, and I'd rather see it torn down than sold to someone else. But"—fingers lacing with his own, Jared raised his hand and placed a kiss on the pulse point on his wrist—"I don't want you to feel like a guest in my life. Or, that you exist in it solely on my terms."

He led Jensen further into the room.

"This wing has been empty since I had it built. At the time, all I wanted was a completely enclosed space. My own world. I had the bathroom installed and the lights put in because I thought, one day, I might do something with it. I never did. It never felt right; now, I know why."

Lowering his gaze again, Jensen looked at Jared through thick lashes. Unlacing their fingers, he let Jensen's hand fall as he reached up and stroked his cheek.

"I can't give this place up, Jensen. I can't offer you the experience of us buying a home together. But, I can give you this. You never had a home, a place that was your own. That I can give you, this space is yours. Do whatever you want with it; ignore it, keep it empty, paint it purple, or turn it into one big ball pit—I don't care, it's yours."

Breath hitching on an inhale, Jensen placed his palm on Jared's chest, his words trapped beneath the lump lodged in his throat.

Jared paused, raised his head, and angled Jensen's face with a gentle hand so their eyes could meet unobstructed. "You moved into my house but, this is our home, and I will never take it from you."

Jensen tore his eyes away, fixing them on a spot in the ceiling while his hand fell to his side, as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. Jared said,

"You don't have to say anything; I understand it's hard. There are no strings attached, no expectations that you have to live up to. You don't have to use this space; but, it's here, and it's yours."

Jensen's voice was thick and unsteady when he said," Jared." It was one word, just his name, but at that moment, they both heard the kaleidoscope of emotions behind it.

Jared ran his palm over his hair, stroking across his cheek and jawline on its way to settle warm and comforting on his neck.

He said, "I can never fight as hard for you, as you have for me; and, for a while, I felt guilty about it—like I didn't deserve you. But, I think my role in this relationship is to make sure you always know where you belong; that you have a home and it's here—with me.

“That, when you’re in doubt, when your mind plays tricks on you, and you worry that I—that we—don't need you, I'll always be there to remind you that you're wrong. My job is to make sure you know that you're loved; to feel so secure and grounded, in how much I love you, that there's no conceivable way she can't convince you that I don’t."

Inhaling, Jensen's eyes slipped shut; opening them once more, he watched Jared's blurry face, inches from his own. He opened his mouth, wished that he could say the words swirling, aching, bubbling, fizzing—expanding—inside of him, but they wouldn't pass his lips.

Jared's hand was still hot and heavy on the back of his neck, his head bent and almost level with his. Jensen took a step forward, raised his hand and placed it over his heart, and let the other caress his jaw as he leaned his forehead against Jared's.

He felt Jared's heartbeat underneath his palm and heard his own rushing blood as they stood, in silence, locked in their position.

At last, Jared raised his head, fixed Jensen's gaze with his, and, wiping the damp streaks on his cheeks with his thumbs, he asked, "Where are you?"

Eyes locked with Jared's, who refused to waver, Jensen inhaled, held the air in his lungs until they ached, then he exhaled; a long, slow, cleansing breath.

Voice steady, he said, "I'm home."

Chapter Text

 Picture an office. It’s on the small side with no source of natural light. It’s a room that screams back office, one made to be functional, not to impress.

The paint job isn’t new, but still fresh. The carpet. . .  not so much; the faded light gray might be its original color, but it’s unlikely. 

And yet, it’s homey. Comfortable. It’s a room that’s used. 

There’s a fine wool coat on a hanger behind the door; in the exact same size as the last one, thank you very much.

Frames cover most of the walls: awards, accolades, and front covers from influential, glossy magazines, sharing space with family photos, and drawings from when the artist in question was transitioning from Crayola to big-girl markers.

The desk is large but busy, not with work—the owner isn’t the type to let work pile up. But, a different person might not see the need to have glass figurines, photos, and a framed drawing that says: World’s Best Uncle, cluttering its surface.  

They would not—could not—understand the significance of the small, framed map of Newport and the pink birthday candle in the shape of the number five glued to it.  

The desk has three large drawers; they’re a little untidy, but it’s hard keeping everything in place when they’re open and shut several times a day. Inside, they hold everything from various paperwork, a carton of Kleenex, charger cables, crayons, spare change, three barbie dolls, and, hidden underneath it all, for those days when its owner just needs a fucking break, a packet of menthol cigarettes. 

The simple sign on the door says: Human Resource Manager. It might as well say: Commander-in-Chief—nothing happens that its owner doesn’t know about or approves of. 

Inside of its four paper-thin walls, everyone, from dishwasher to General Manager, has, at some point, laughed, cried, ranted, been scolded, or praised; it’s where people are hired, fired, or promoted. The room where people’s careers begin and where they end. 

Sitting in the comfortable chair on the opposite side of the desk, pregnancies have been revealed, proposals celebrated, and deaths mourned. It’s been the scene of innumerable coffee dates, countless arguments, and every important decision concerning the future of The Oceanview Hotel and the major life-choices of most of its employees.

The person sitting behind the desk isn’t officially in charge but, everyone knows he is. He’ll disagree, of course, then casually propose how something should be done. 

It’s not an order; it’s a suggestion, one he fully expects people to follow to the letter. 

And they do; it’s never occurred to most of them not to. Well, maybe once or twice, but not doing what he wants usually leads to some sort of disaster; one he has to clean up. No one wants to be on the other side of that desk after he’s been forced to do that. No one.  

Sometimes, people walk past the open door, see the owner behind his desk, and think that, if he only wanted to, he could run the country; he doesn’t want to. He’s content where he is.

Five years ago, Jensen decided to stay, and that’s what he intends to do. Always.