Page 3 of Strawberry Kisses

Chapter Two

Connor

Patrick’s house was empty when I got there, so I assumed he was stuck at the restaurant. Probably trying to stop Aaron and Josh from murdering each other. Again. One day, I was going to suggest he let them duke it out with pugil sticks like in that nineties show, Gladiators. If nothing else, it would be highly entertaining.

I stepped out of my car, grabbed my bag and the supermarket bag for life beside it, and headed for the back door, locking my little car behind me. Since Patrick had always been a little unreliable about getting back to his house on time, he’d given me a key for the back door, insisting it was easier for me to just go in rather than waiting in the car.

Patrick had handed me the key after a memorable evening when he’d been nearly an hour late and had arrived to find me loudly singing along to Beyonce on his front doorstep. He’d been utterly distraught at leaving me so long, but I hadn’t minded. I never minded when it was Patrick. His neighbours had given me slightly funny looks though.

I flicked on the lights, set the bags on the kitchen side, and waited for the customary yowling to greet me. It took all of twenty seconds for Patrick’s monster of a cat, President Whiskers, aka Whiskey or sometimes The President, to stalk around the kitchen door and meow pitifully at my feet as if trying to convince me he’d never been fed in his entire life. I knew this was an obvious lie because I’d known Whiskey since Patrick had brought him home as a tiny, straggly kitten. The President had been pulling this shit since day one.

Neither of us had quite expected him to get so big though. I was convinced there was definitely Maine Coon somewhere in his parentage, but since Patrick had rescued him from the local Cats Protection who’d found him and his litter mates dumped in a box, nobody was quite sure of his breed.

The President yowled at my feet again, stretching his enormous paws up and resting them on my hips.

“I can’t pick you up, Whisks. You’re almost as big as me,” I said, affectionately scratching his ears and listening to him purr. It was pretty much the same noise as a jet engine. “Come on. I’ll feed you.” Mostly so I could make dinner without fear of tripping over Whiskey.

I tipped some biscuits and a pouch of wet food into his bowls, watching with a warm feeling in my chest as he began eating. Technically, The President was Patrick’s cat, but since I spent so much time here, I couldn’t help thinking he was a little bit mine as well. He was the one I came and cuddled when I was having a shitty day and needed a little bit of non-human comfort. Patrick always said I was his friend for his cat more than anything else, and while that wasn’t really the case, there was a grain of truth to it. I’d always loved animals, but my landlord was strictly anti-pet no matter how much money I offered or how nicely I asked. I had claimed Whiskey as my step-pet so I could spoil him rotten.

With the cat distracted, I unpacked the shopping bag and flicked the oven on. I wasn’t on par with Patrick when it came to cooking, but I could knock up a mean baked mac and cheese, which was exactly what I needed today. And since it was a Sunday and Patrick wasn’t back yet, I assumed he’d need it too.

I’d spent most of my day at the dance studio where I taught, supervising an open-practice pole session and doing some training of my own. Pole competition season was upon us, and this year I’d set my goals higher than ever before. Not only did I want to win—that was a given—but there were several competitions I wanted to enter at the highest level, and for that I needed the best routines I could put together. Especially because only the top five to ten entries were invited to compete in the live final. I usually did very well when I competed, not to brag or anything, but I couldn’t afford to get complacent. That wouldn’t earn me any prizes.

I’d been dancing for as long as I could remember. Mostly ballet with some jazz, tap, ballroom, and modern thrown in for good measure. My mum had thought it would be good for me, so I’d started baby ballet as soon as I could walk. I’d grown up doing nothing but dancing, and I’d wanted to join a ballet corps. But considering the ideal height for a male ballet dancer was six foot, and I’d barely cracked five-three, I’d quickly put that dream aside.

I’d discovered pole dancing while browsing YouTube at seventeen and had been immediately transfixed. The tiny Essex town I’d grown up in didn’t have a pole studio, but the nearest city, an hour away, did. So every week, I’d gotten on the train and taken myself to a class, then gotten the train back home afterwards. As soon as I’d passed my driver’s test and could borrow my mum’s battered little car, I’d started taking myself up to the city two or three times a week. I’d done my degree in ballet education at the Royal Academy of Dance in London because I hadn’t been quite ready to give it up, but I’d kept taking pole classes around my other coursework. They were actually very complementary, which sounded strange when you said it out loud, but the strength, grace, and flexibility flowed easily from one to the other.

Pole just allowed me to embrace my sexuality and queerness in a way ballet never had.

I flicked on Patrick’s Bluetooth sound system and connected my phone, throwing on Lady Gaga’s Chromatica and dancing my way around the kitchen as I put the pasta on to boil and began making a roux for the white sauce. Baked mac and cheese deserved more than just packet mix. I also put some little bits of pancetta on a tray to crisp up because I felt like being a fancy bitch. Patrick and I deserved it.

I wiggled my hips and swayed to the music, humming lyrics to myself while half wondering if any of the songs had the perfect tempo for the routine of my dreams. I’d already picked my music for this year’s routines, but I was always on the hunt for the perfect pole song. So far, it had alluded me, but my insane pickiness might also have had something to do with it.

I was so distracted I didn’t hear Patrick’s keys in the door or him coming into the kitchen until I looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his customary soft half-smile on his face. My chest twinged because he always looked gorgeous. Even like this when he looked like he was about to drop dead from exhaustion.

“God, you look knackered, babe. Rough day?”

Patrick chuckled. “No. Well, not until the end. The service went fine. How was your day?”

I gave him a little smile and shook my head. That was the thing about Patrick, he always thought about everyone except himself. He was the sort of person who’d give you anything you asked for and never complain. He was utterly sweet and selfless, and I loved that about him.

“Mine was fine. Just open practice to supervise, and nobody managed to injure themselves, which is always a bonus.” I drained the pasta, mixing it into the thick, rich cheese sauce I’d made, throwing the pancetta in alongside it. “What happened at the end of the day? I’m guessing something major since it’s already half seven and you were supposed to be done at six.”

Patrick perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs looking simultaneously distracted and dead on his feet. He was wearing black jogging bottoms and a dark hoodie over a white T-shirt. The restaurant laundered his chef’s uniforms, and while I adored the way he looked in them, there was something extra soft about Patrick dressed like this. His honey-blond curls sticking out slightly, his cheek smeared with something he clearly hadn’t realised was there, his grey eyes warm and tired.

“Well, I’d have been done quicker if Aaron and Josh hadn’t kept trying to kill each other.” He let out a small laugh and shook his head. “I swear, one day I’m going to end up breaking up a fistfight.”

“Just let them fuck it out.” I fished in the drawer for the grater so I could add more cheese to the top of the mac and cheese. I knew my way around Patrick’s kitchen almost better than I knew my own. I looked over my shoulder at Patrick’s stunned face. It was like he’d never considered the possibility before. Knowing Patrick, he hadn’t. He was so adorably naive sometimes.

“Fuck it out?”

“Yep. Hate sex is a great stress reliever, and they’d probably feel better afterwards.” I picked up the nearby block of cheese, which was about two-thirds of the size it had been twenty minutes ago. “Orgasms make everything better.”

“Well,” Patrick said with a dry chuckle, “as long as they don’t do it in the kitchen, I don’t mind what they do.” He gave a little sigh, and I could see something lingering on his face. There was something else bothering him, but knowing Patrick, he didn’t want to worry me.

He’d been exactly the same for the three years I’d known him. Of course, by this point, he should also know that I wasn’t going to let it go until I got an answer. He couldn’t hide anything from me.

“What’s up, babe? Something wrong?”

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