Chapter Text
Patrick trudged through the snow toward the bookstore, pulling up the collar to his jacket, and readjusting his scarf around his face. His backpack began to slide down his back, weighted by the falling snow and the wind, so he hiked it back up and pulled his toque farther down his head. He probably looked like just a pair of eyes surrounded by miles of fabric—kind-of like that kid in A Christmas Story, which made him giggle.
The image was about the only thing worth giggling over, though.
It was fucking cold.
It was cold and he was over it. He might be a Canadian boy, through and through, but he’d spent so long in California that he’d apparently forgotten how to handle the the cold. Anything below 70 degrees and he started to whine, and this was well, well below 70 degrees.
Crap, he needed to stop thinking in terms of Fahrenheit and go back to Celsius. He wasn’t in LA anymore. He was back home, who knew for how long? He’d better work on blending in.
Realizing that he had basically turned into an American and needed to reacquaint himself with being Canadian made him furious. All it did was make him feel like an imposter in his hometown, which was dumb. This was where he was born. Where he’d gone to school and spent his formative years. Where most of his friends still lived.
Four years in LA had turned him into a stranger in the land that shaped him, and if that wasn’t an apt metaphor for his life, he didn’t know what was. He definitely was a stranger in his own skin, so he may as well also be one in the place he used to call home.
His mood plunged even further into the pits of despair.
All he wanted was a warm tea from Rita’s little coffee bar and one of her gorgeous muffins. Then he’d be able to sink down onto one of her plush, ratty couches and just… relax.
He hadn’t been able to relax since he got back.
There were a lot of reasons for that. Reasons he didn’t want to think about. Reasons that made his head start to spin. He was tired of feeling anxious and scared. He just wanted a tea, a comfortable couch, and a quiet space to work.
Pushing through the weathered door, already dreaming about how good the muffin was going to taste, he stopped dead, his mouth dropping open.
Everything was different.
Gone were the worn, comfortable couches and the haphazard bookshelves scattered here and there—instead they’d been replaced by a sleek monochrome of black and white, with silver bookcases stacked in precise patterns. It was cold and sterile, and not at all inviting.
The air still smelled like sugar, at least, but it wasn’t the sweet scent he was used to—this was spicier, sharper. Not bad, just… different.
A sharp voice to his left interrupted, cutting through his whirling thoughts.
“If you’re going to just hang out by the door, can you at least make sure you shut it behind you? You’re letting out all my warmth.”
“What warmth? This place is like a mausoleum in Paris,” Patrick answered without thinking, reaching behind him to shut the door.
The voice gasped. “Excuse you! This is nothing like a mausoleum! I should know, I’ve toured the Paris Catacombs a handful of times.”
Patrick turned toward the voice and found a tall, dark-haired man standing behind the register. He was really glad his scarf was still wrapped around his face because he wasn’t able to keep his mouth from dropping open further.
The guy was drop-dead, annoyingly gorgeous. It was a level of gorgeous Patrick knew he’d never reach himself—the kind of gorgeous surrounding him in LA on a daily basis. The kind of gorgeous he’d honestly grown to despise.
Patrick should have hated the guy immediately.
He probably would have hated him if he wasn’t already so turned on.
Which… wow. That sensation was still going to take some getting used to.
“Um, hi,” he finally managed.
The guy looked him up and down. “Hi. Are you here to shop, or are you just going to stand there?”
His voice was soft and light—sweet, but with a sarcastic, biting edge.
Patrick was very into it. He cleared his throat and tried to focus on not making an idiot of himself.
“Um, where’s Rita?”
The guy’s gorgeous face scrunched in on itself, like it was made of putty. “Rita? Rita hasn’t owned this place for over two years. Where have you been?”
“What?! Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. Florida, I think. She was tired of the cold.”
“Well, I don’t blame her,” Patrick muttered.
“Tourist, huh?” the guy asked, smirking.
“No, I was born here.” Patrick looked him up and down. “I don’t recognize you, though.”
“So, you were born here, but you didn’t know that Rita moved ages ago? You not get out of your house much?”
“I lived in LA until last week.”
The guy’s thick eyebrows raised, almost reaching his hairline. “You left LA to come back here?!”
“Yeah, though after the snow this morning, I’m rethinking that decision.”
“Well, if it’s only the snow that’s changed your opinion, I hate to tell you that you might have bigger problems.”
Patrick laughed and walked toward the register. “Oh, if you only knew.”
“Ah, existential crisis?”
Patrick paused. “Am I that obvious?”
The guy smiled and waved a hand nonchalantly. “Only because I’ve recently gone through one of those myself. I can spot a fellow sufferer a mile away.”
Patrick snorted and looked around. “This place has really changed. Do you still do coffee and baked goods?”
The guy nodded, smiling. “Yup, sure do! I didn’t much like Rita’s aesthetic, but I really like to eat, so that part of her kitsch stayed.”
“Wait. You’re the owner? You don’t just… work here?”
The guy’s eyes narrowed. “You thought I was a sales clerk?! Do I look like a sales clerk?”
“To be honest, you look like a model, but I guess you do match the… aesthetic around here. I should have guessed.”
The guy’s expression alternated from pleased to annoyed. After a minute, he waved his arms. “I’m going to choose to believe that’s a compliment.”
Patrick snorted and unwrapped his scarf from around his face. He grinned and held out his hand. “Patrick Brewer. And you are?”
The guy stared at him, taking a quick step backward before he shook his head slightly and moved forward. He gingerly took Patrick’s hand and shook it. “David. David Rose.”
“Hi, David Rose. Can I possibly get an Earl Grey tea and some kind of baked good? Preferably, whatever is causing that amazing smell in here.”
“Oh! Those are my cinnamon spice muffins!” David said, his face lighting up. “You’re in luck! I still have a few left.”
“Wait. Your cinnamon spice muffins? You made them?”
David nodded, tucking a smile into the side of his cheek. “I did, in fact, make them. I had a kitchen added in the back. It was probably indulgent of me. I should just use my kitchen at home, but the thought of walking through the snow, holding dozens of muffins… well, I try not to exert that kind of physical energy. Also, it makes this place smell amazing, which ultimately boosts sales.”
“Like realtors baking cookies in the homes they’re trying to sell?”
“Exactly! Though, I’ve never seen anyone do that outside of Hallmark movies. Have you?”
Patrick shook his head, laughing. He already thought David was adorable, which was frankly kind-of alarming. How had he gone from unattainably, annoyingly beautiful to adorable in only a couple minutes?
Maybe the cold outside had gotten to him. He shook his head and sighed, looking around again.
“Well, I’m impressed, David. They smell great. Though the important question is—do they actually taste as good as they smell?”
David narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think I like your tone.”
Patrick laughed. “One muffin and one tea please, David.” He glanced around. “Are there any areas I can sit and work in here? Where are all the couches?”
“Mmm, there’s a couch in the back corner. By the genre fiction.”
Patrick swiveled to look at David, his eyes wide. “You put fiction in the back corner?”
“Genre fiction. Regular literature is in the middle, right over there.” He pointed in the general direction of one of the sleek metal bookcases, then turned to make Patrick’s tea.
“What do you have against genre fiction that made you hide it all the way in the back?”
David chuckled. “Well, it’s hardly valid literature, is it? It’s campy and silly. No basis in reality.”
Patrick pushed down his quick rush of anger. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before, but it still wasn’t great to hear it coming from David. “Ah, so all this non-fiction and high-brow stuff here in the front of the store is more fit for human consumption?”
“Exactly!” David said, turning and grinning. He handed Patrick his tea and muffin and rang him up. “Glad you see it my way.”
“Ohhh, I didn’t say that, now did I?” Patrick asked. “In fact, I think I’m gonna go head to the corner to sit with the unwanted stepchildren.”
He turned and made his way to the back, groaning when he took in the sleek, black couch. It looked modern and uncomfortable, but it would have to do. Setting his food and drink down on the small table next to it, he shrugged off his backpack, pulled out his laptop, and fired it up.
David didn’t seem to have many customers. Looking around, that wasn’t much of a surprise. The place didn’t exactly scream welcoming.
At least it was quiet enough for Patrick to be able to write.
Shrugging, he opened up his manuscript and settled in.