Page 21 of Concerted Chaos

“It’ll be fine if I can just roll it into the correct shape.” I don’t need his advice. I know I can do this.

“No. Stop. Cassidy, I mean it, leave that alone. You’re done.” Without permission, he goes straight to the pantry and brings out the flour, and then opens the fridge for butter. “What is all this?” he asks, when he discovers our efficiently organized shelves stacked with neatly labeled glass containers.

“Food,” I reply as sarcastically as possible. Then I relent. There is no reason to be rude to this random pap who wandered into my kitchen and insulted my baking skills. Well, there are several reasons, in fact. “Those are the meals Joel prepared for us. He didn’t know Powell would be ...” I slam my mouth shut, but it’s too late, damnit! He got me to admit something. Obviously Tanner doesn’t know Powell isn’t here, or he wouldn’t be sniffing around.

“And Joel is your ... boyfriend?”

I snort. That’s a stupid question. Once, in college, I had a three-month long relationship with a cute boy from my dorm. But I dropped out to go on tour with the Last Barons and never had a boyfriend again. “Ha! No, he’s Powell’s personal chef slash nutritionist. And he’s single if you’re interested.”

“Rich people,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay, Cassidy, get out of the way, I’m fixing this mess.” He puts down the butter, rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands.

“Don’t you need a recipe?” I ask, though his actions indicate he knows what he is doing. He finds Joel’s food scale and starts weighing flour. Interesting methodology. I just scooped it into a cup.

“No. What kind of pie is this supposed to be?”

“Cherry. What difference does it make?”

“I was guessing sweet, but wanted to make sure. For a savory pie, there’s a secret ingredient I like to use—though you probably don’t have any shiitake mushroom powder.”

“We might. Joel leaves all kinds of stuff over here.” Our pantry boasts a rather impressive spice rack. On the rare occasions when I cook, I sometimes sniff a bunch of the powders from it and add whatever smells good. Unfortunately for my tastebuds, I’m often not successful at creating palatable spice combinations. My childhood food insecurity means I can’t bring myself to waste food, so I force down my concoctions, no matter how awful they taste. That’s why I prefer to eat Joel’s delicious and properly spiced meals.

“Doesn’t matter for cherry pie. Where’s your vodka?”

“It’s not even noon, and I’m not offering you a drink.”

“Very funny. It’s for the pie. Why don’t you start the filling while I make an edible crust?”

“The filling is done.” I point to the large can of cherries on the counter. Tanner’s blood pressure rises so high I can feel it myself.

“Your plan is to dump canned cherries on my beautiful crust? Why? What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you just buy a dessert to share?”

“Everybody cooks,” I say, a bit defensively. “That’s what a potluck is. Do they not have those where you come from?”

“St. Louis? Yeah, we have potlucks. But people who can’t cook bring the drinks or napkins or a bag of chips. They don’t show up with inedible pies.”

“I didn’t know you were from Missouri. I assumed you were from LA. Is Tanner your real name, or did you start calling yourself that when you moved to California?” He doesn’t have much of an accent, but then again, I have no ideawhat a Missourian should sound like.

“I don’t live in California.” He gives me a strange look.

Ha, a wannabe journalist uncomfortable with being asked questions. This could be fun.

“You aren’t a Cali pap out here to harass celebrities?”

“No. Is that really what you think of me?” He seems hurt by the insinuation. But it’s not an unreasonable assumption to make about the guy I only met because he was camped out by my gate trying to take a picture of my brother’s possible lover to sell to the highest bidder. “I have some connections with a few LA based gossip magazines, but I live here. And what’s wrong with my name?”

“Tanner Smythe-with-a-y? Seriously? It sounds like you’re trying to be a soap opera character. Everybody changes their name and reinvents themselves when they move to LA. It’s a normal thing to do.”

“Did you?” he asks pointedly.

“No, but I’ve never tried to be a celebrity. Jace did. His real name was Stuart. And do you know Devon? He was born a Norbert. For real.” Alright, I made that second one up. I’m testing Tanner’s Last Barons knowledge to see if he calls me on it. He doesn’t.

“And Powell?”

“Do you not do your boyband research? Powell has always been Powell. It was his mother’s maiden name. He’s been interviewed about it.”

“I’m not a paparazzi by trade,” Tanner says. “I don’t follow that crap. I just show up where I’m told and take pictures.” As we talk, he is combining the butter and flour and working them together with his hands. I’m trying not to stare, but ... wow. His forearms are strong. Not going to lie, if he were anyone other than a nosy photographer, then watching those arms work would be quite a turn on.

I watch in rapt silence as he separates the dough into two meticulously formed spheres and flattens them into disks exactly matching the ones created by the professionals in the tutorial videos. “I’m wrapping these in plastic and putting them in the fridge. They have to rest for about forty-five minutes. Don’t touch them,” he warns me sternly, shaking the rolling pin at me in a mock threatening manner. “Now I’m going to see what I can do with your cherries.”

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