Page 1 of Coffee and Tea

Chapter 1

“Hey,” Jason Kent-Mirelli said, picking up the envelope, waving it at his husband, “babe, cream puff, we need to send back an answer about your literary fundraiser gala. Like, by Monday. Do you want to go?”

“Oh.” Colby had just finished making coffee; his hand paused on the way to cinnamon cream. His fingers were long and elegant and expressive. The gold of his wedding ring caught and held the kitchen lights, here at home, along with Jason’s heart. “I…suppose we should. Showing support.”

Jason leaned a hip against the counter beside him. Watched Colby’s face, those wide blue eyes. They were nearly the same height; he might win by an inch or so, but Colby had that Hollywood leading-man height too, taller than average. Jason at the moment felt his own breadth, though: action-hero muscles, shoulders, chest, next to Colby’s slim strong grace.

He carefully didn’t push. Not getting into his husband’s space. Colby probably wouldn’t mind—comfortable, these days, with Jason, and they were looking at each other, so no sudden movement would be a surprise—but the phrasing, the hesitation, had said a lot.

He said, “I know you know, so I’m just saying it out loud, you didn’t technically answer, there. About what you want. You don’t have to, but I’d like to know.”

“Oh, I know. I’m thinking. Bring that invitation, if you would?” Colby put a hand on Jason’s arm, which was a message itself, warm as cinnamon coffee. “Come sit down with me?”

“Of course.” Jason collected the invitation—fancy, embossed, gilt-edged, expectant—and four rainbow-striped lemon-sugar cookies in case his husband needed sugar, and followed. The evening, late-summer velvet in shades of blue and indigo and California palm trees, exhaled. Beyond the open windows of the living room, their pool shimmered; along the hill, in the rolling neighborhoods and valleys, lights glittered, coming on. Further beyond that, the ocean unfolded in a deep wine-dark horizon.

Their home, their house, held all those soft sparkles too. Little glints of light: fantasy novels and steampunk lamps, the prettiest of Jason’s dice collection on display alongside Colby’s priceless copy of Burton Douglas’s memoir, signed, a gift from a friend. Oversized furniture and cozy rich colors, blues and bronzes and brass buttons on couch-arms. The life they’d built together, here.

Their wedding photo, the large one with all the laughter, made Jason smile every time. Himself and Colby Kent. Such a fairytale, every day.

He sat down next to Colby on their usual couch. The couch, used to Jason’s bulk, stepped up willingly.

Jason held out an arm, a hope; Colby promptly flowed over into being cuddled, right up against him, so that was good, that was promising, that meant whatever reactions lay under the surface were more thistles than daggers.

The day had been fun, but long. Himself and Colby running lines, practicing, that morning. Meetings over at Raven Studios. Production discussions about wardrobe and a couple of action sequences. That first table read.

The project in question was the sequel to their massively popular mystery film of a couple years ago, which hadn’t been intended to have a sequel, but everyone’d loved it. Colby had in fact had an idea for more, and had promptly written yet another genius screenplay late at night and between press events and producing a Shakespearean adaptation. Jason thought this sequel might be even better, funnier and even more clever, and he’d think so even if his husband wasn’t responsible for it. He’d said so.

The cast was fabulous, a dream assembly, a huge ensemble, friends like Leo Whyte and Finn Ransom, and newcomers like Dylan Li, who knew Finn and who’d had such fantastic chemistry with everyone on set. Colby liked everyone involved, Jason knew, in the way that Colby always wistfully liked people. Chattering, avoiding touch but talking away, building shields out of words and nerves and kindness. The table read had gone well. Of course it had.

That did not mean large groups, in over-full meeting rooms, would ever be easy. That did not mean Colby felt able to relax, behind the shields and deflection.

Jason brushed fingers against the nape of his husband’s neck, under chocolate waves of hair. Colby smiled, so he let his hand stay there, more weight, a presence.

“I’m okay.” Colby said it with a tiny smile, for an instant more American in phrasing and tone. “Just a bit tired. A lot of people. And I feel somewhat guilty about not having dinner with Jill and Andy, after…”

“Everybody understands.” He rubbed his thumb along Colby’s neck, slowly. In charge, assertive, but soothing. “No one expected you to. Maybe tomorrow, or Friday. We’re all in town for a while, so no rush.”

That was something he hadn’t understood before meeting Colby Kent. No one had, not well enough. Colby was a damn good actor, and wanted to please people, and genuinely liked seeing everyone happy; he smiled through every press conference, every interview, and balanced on tightropes over razor-wires, behind the persona of the whole world’s most charmingly flustered cookie-baking gay best friend.

Some of the razors were extremely specific, only a few years old, laced with memories of bruises and unwanted touch and an ex’s hands. Some of the rest had to do with very real social anxiety, properly diagnosed now and discussed with their therapist. Some of it was just that Colby honestly was an introvert who’d rather be at home in a book-nest of steampunk romance novels than attending any industry event or party or meeting. Jason adored him and was in awe of him and would leap in front of any peril for him. Or would take him home, and hold him, and feed him lemon sugar, plus maybe some brown-butter-and-sage tortellini in a few minutes: the Mirelli family recipe, indulgent but worth it after the day.

Colby cradled the coffee in both hands, had a sip, looked up. He was still mostly dressed—they both were, aside from having kicked off shoes at the door—and today’s cardigan hugged his slimness in deep teal, neatly buttoned over a lighter blue shirt. He’d pushed up the sleeves after getting home, not before. “I said somewhat guilty. I’m working on that. I like being home with you. About that invitation…when is it, again?”

“October. Early. Will we be filming?”

“Not yet. And we really ought to go…I do want to. I’ve been such a supporter for years; I was there for the Foundation’s establishment. One of the first things I did, when I realized how much money I, er, had.” Colby did a tiny nose-scrunch into the coffee-cup, added, “I gave them quite a lot of it…”

“Yep. So you don’t need to do more.” He knew Colby had been working with that youth literacy and library foundation, back in London, for at least a decade. Colby Kent had grown up with books as friends, and wanted everyone to share those friends, too.

“Yes, well…the point of a fundraiser gala is to have some big names, you know, that people can pay to meet…myself, for one…”

“Yeah, but you’ll hate it.”

“Oh, no, not entirely.” Colby shrugged without moving much, leaning into Jason’s petting of him. “I’ve done it before, when I can. I do love discussing books, and I know most of the Foundation directors, you know, Lakshmi and Violet and Daniel and Birdie…”

Jason, having been Colby’s other half for several years now, knew perfectly well that Birdie’s real name was Neville, and he was a younger son of the present Earl of Windes. In some ways Colby was very much a child of the British upper class.

But then again, in some ways, decidedly not. The Foundation directors came from eclectic backgrounds, teachers and social workers and librarians and writers and Colby himself, and, yes, one or two people with old money and connections, because that helped set wheels in motion.

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