Chapter Nine
PAULperched on a stool next to the small prep counter and watched while Devin puttered around the kitchen. They were in the chef’s kitchen, which was a private space available to the kitchen and bar staff by request, because Devin insisted on preparing a meal for Paul so he could demonstrate his culinary chops before the cruise ended.
In the two days since they’d left Jamaica, Paul had to force himself to get work done when all he wanted to do was spend time with Devin. When Devin was working a shift at one of the bars, Paul used the time to tour other areas of the ship and talk to employees and guests alike, and he spent an hour or two working on his report each day so he wouldn’t get behind. But he was always waiting to whisk Devin away as soon as Devin’s shift was over, even if they didn’t have any plans other than returning to Paul’s cabin to tear each other’s clothes off.
Paul’s inhibitions about his appearance had faded more swiftly than he expected, but Devin had shown nothing but acceptance and desire that encompassedallof him, and Paul was feeling more comfortable in his own skin as a result. He’d bought more casual clothes—including some shorts—from thePearl’s clothing shops, and he looked far more like a man on vacation instead of a buttoned-up executive. In fact, he was wearing Devin’s infamous Buffalo Lick Bisons T-shirt at the moment. Wearing Devin’s clothes in public might be a little dangerous, but the satisfaction he got from wearing his lover’s shirt was worth the risk. Besides, he could always play it off as a necessary loan from his “guide” if he needed to.
“What are you making for me?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the counter.
“A Walker family specialty,” Devin replied as he stirred a pot on the stove. “This is our secret barbecue sauce recipe, made from scratch every day back home at the Barbecue Shack. I’ve got a rack of baby back ribs in the oven. I put it in a couple of hours ago when I had a break on my shift. They won’t be quite as good as if I’d had access to a real grill, but they should do. Fresh corn on the cob, which I’ll fire-roast over one of the burners, and fried green tomatoes in beer batter. I think you’ll like them. If I had more time, I would have made you my potato salad—sweet and tangy and soft and crunchy. It’s a wonder, but it takes a couple of days to do right. Oh, and an appetizer, which I’ll grab in just a minute.”
Paul sat up straight as he stared at Devin, taken aback by the menu. “That’s definitely not what I expected you to make here.”
The kitchen was equipped with the same quality appliances and tools as the main kitchen, albeit on a smaller scale, but Paul never imagined Devin could whip up ribs and corn on the cob in it.
Devin turned down the heat on the sauce, then crossed to the big refrigerator. He took out several prep bowls and carried them to the counter. “I hope you like ceviche, because you’re about to get my favorite version.” He winked playfully as he reached under the counter and pulled out a pair of tall, clear glasses, juggling them for a moment before setting them in front of Paul.
The juggling made Paul smile, as it always did. He wasn’t sure why the sight of Devin juggling glasses or bottles—or whatever—gave him such pleasure. Maybe because the act revealed Devin’s playfulness so well, and Paul found himself drawn to that side of Devin more and more.
“I do like ceviche,” he said, leaning on the counter again. “What’s special about your version?”
“Well, as you may know, ceviche is known all over Asia and the Americas, but varies by region and culture,” Devin explained as he set to work. He took a tomato from one of the bowls and sliced it before retrieving a piece of cheesecloth from a drawer. He placed the tomato in the cheesecloth, bundling it with deft motions and then holding it over one of the glasses. As he squeezed, tomato juice dripped into the glass. “It used to require several hours of marinating, but that changed in the seventies, when certain Japanese influences married up with the traditional Central and South American traditions.” After he had about an inch of juice in the glass, Devin moved the bundle over the other glass and repeated the process.
After throwing away the tomato, Devin juiced half a lime into the glasses. “The main similarity of all versions is the acidic base, which serves to process the proteins of raw seafood, sort of a chemical form of cooking without the heat. So the main commonalities of all forms are acid, seasonings, and seafood.”
As Devin continued his explanation, he added some diced cilantro and bell pepper to the glasses, then peeled plastic wrap off several other small dishes. Into the glasses went chunks of pale fish, cooked shrimp, cubes of lobster, and diced crab. Grabbing a bottle of vodka, Devin topped off the glasses, then added a dash of pepper to the mix. His final touches were a celery stick and a seafood fork.
“Mr. Bailey, may I present your Bloody Mare.” Devin grinned as he passed one glass to Paul, amused with his own play on the name of the cocktail and the Latin word for the sea.
Paul couldn’t help but chuckle even as he gave an exaggerated groan, but he didn’t waste any time picking up the fork and taking a bite of the ceviche. The sweetness of the seafood was brightened by the tart citrus, and Paul hummed with pleasure as he ate.
“This is one of the best ceviche recipes I’ve ever tasted,” he said, forking up another bite eagerly.
Devin’s smile widened in pleasure at the compliment. “Thanks. I wanted to show you I can do more than just good old Texas barbecue.” He tucked into his own appetizer, then frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve tried making it with tequila and even with a passionfruit liqueur, which was the closest thing I could find to what the ancient Peruvians used in their historic version of the dish. But I liked vodka the best. It was a better balance for the types of seafood I wanted to use.”
Listening to Devin talk about food made it easy to remember he was a culinary school graduate with aspirations beyond being a bartender on board thePearl.
“Granted, my palate isn’t as refined as a trained chef’s, but this tastes really good to me,” Paul said.
“I’m glad you like it.” Devin put his glass aside, leaning across the counter. “How about a kiss for the cook?”
Paul smiled as he pushed his empty glass aside and leaned across the counter to meet Devin in the middle. “I’d say the cook has earned one,” he said, and then he closed the remaining distance between them and captured Devin’s lips in a slow, lingering kiss.
Devin hummed in pleasure, returning the kiss for several long moments. “I feel like I got dessert before dinner, you kiss so sweetly,” he teased. “Have I whetted your appetite? The one for food, I mean.”
“You’ve whetted both appetites,” Paul said as he sat back on his stool. “But you need to sate one of mine before I can sate one of yours. Otherwise, I might run out of steam.”
“Perish the thought!” Devin winked, then turned back to the stove. As he prepared the rest of the meal, he told Paul amusing anecdotes about his home back in Texas, and Paul heard the love Devin had for his big, rowdy family underlying his words.
“Beau is my cousin who runs the Barbecue Shack. He’s a blue-eyed blond that all the girls were gaga over. He came out about the time I was a senior in high school, and I can tell you, it was a huge relief for me, because I’d been wondering how in the hell I was going to do it myself. The family accepted Beau’s announcement, though I know some of the cousins mumbled about how they weren’t sure it could be true, since Beau is a former quarterback and somanly.” Devin chuckled and shook his head. “At the next big family dinner, Aunt Lula Mae, who is in her nineties, thumped her cane on the floor and announced she’d been described as ‘mannish’ her whole long, spinsterish life, and if Beau decided to wear a dress and looked better in one thanshedid, she was going to disinherit the whole lot of us.”
Paul laughed, delighted by the story, although he envied Devin a little as well. Paul’s family was smaller and not demonstrative or close-knit. He wouldn’t go so far as to say his parents were cold, but they had been fine with turning Paul over to a nanny, and the only big dinners they’d ever hosted were for professional contacts.
“So your family is accepting of Beau and his husband?” he asked. “What about your boyfriends?”
“Yeah, Beau and Jake don’t have any problems. Of course, it helps, I think, that Jake’s family has been in Buffalo Lick for generations, just like the Walkers, and Jake had the whole town’s sympathy for giving up his life in California to take care of his sister-in-law and her children after his twin brother died.” Devin paused for a moment, then shrugged. “I had a couple of boyfriends in culinary school, but that was in Houston.” A flash of pain, striking for being unusual, showed in Devin’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly Paul wondered if he had imagined it. “Neither of them meant enough to me to take home and meet the folks. When I take someone home, I want it to be someone special, someone I can build a life with. Because heaven knows, anyone casual would probably run screaming from the combined matchmaking efforts of my kin.”
“How could they matchmake? It’s not like they’d have a reason to round everyone up for a shotgun wedding,” Paul said, trying not to wonder too much about whether Devin’s family would like him—or if Devin would even consider taking him home in the first place.
