happy anniversary

dine with me Bonus Content

Something’s burning.

That alarming thought yanked Miller out of the LA dreamscape where he was kissing his sexy, bespectacled husband on the beach and plunged him into the cold reality of a Cape Cod winter. He shot to seated in his bed, scanning the darkness around him for smoke or flames.

No sign of either. Not here in the bedroom, or outside the windows on the docks, or, as he stood and walked over to the door and poked his head out into the hallway, anywhere inside their third-floor flat.

Just the inky blue darkness of early morning, shadowed by the nightlights Clancy had scattered throughout their home, and that lingering hint of smoke and… chocolate?

“Doc?” he called out.

No response.

As he crossed the room to retrieve his flannel pajama pants off the floor, Miller noticed other signs of life in the room. Wrinkled scrubs on top of the corner hamper, a dresser drawer pulled out, Clancy's medical bag on the corner chair. Miller sat back down on the bed and slid a hand over the sheets on his husband’s usual side. Cold. So Clancy had gotten home from the hospital and changed clothes, but hadn’t slept?

Where was—

Crash. Bang. Clang.

The sounds, echoing up from the floor below, were a cacophony Miller was intimately familiar with. Stainless-steel bowls and wooden utensils raining down and scattering across the floor. He’d dropped the same a time or thousand. The curse that followed was in a voice he was intimately familiar with as well.

“Fucking hell,” Clancy muttered. “Why are there so many moving pieces? And how the fuck do you guys do this for a living?”

“Calm down,” drawled a smooth Bayou voice. “And just follow my instructions,” Greg coached. “You’re almost done.”

A smile stretched across Miller’s face as he pieced together what his husband and best friend were likely up to. His grin grew wider as a text lit up his phone and he read the message from Greg. I know you heard that. Give him five more minutes.

Thank you, Miller texted back, wincing a little as he noticed the time—five in the morning, a half hour before his internal kitchen-duty clock would wake him—and subtracted an hour for Greg, who was a time zone behind. I owe you.

If you get food poisoning, it’s not my fault. And happy anniversary.

Miller laughed. You’re off the hook. Thank you again. Now, go back to sleep so you’re not a total bear for your valentine in the morning.

That earned him the middle finger emoji. He replied with the kissy-face one, then tossed the phone onto the bedside table as he rose. He took care of business in the bathroom, and while brushing his teeth, bemoaned the Chia-Pet state of his re-growing hair. Time to buzz it again; he was never going to get past this stage of uneven prickly awfulness. Then again, three years ago he hadn't thought he’d get this far at all. He opened the bottom vanity drawer and eyed the collection of bandanas there. During the grueling rounds of chemo, his friends and family had stocked him with every possible plaid. Bright spots in the months of darkness. The colorful strips of fabric, of love—so many from Clancy, in particular—had helped carry Miller through the dark times to the bright future ahead, Chia-Pet hair and all.

He snagged the lavender one that was Clancy’s favorite, tied it around his head—he’d never get used to not wearing one now—then dug deeper into the drawer for the anniversary gift he’d hidden at the bottom. Envelope retrieved, he headed back into the bedroom, pulled on his flannel robe, and shoved his feet into his favorite fuzzy slippers. He checked the time on his phone. Four minutes had gone by. Good enough.

He shuffled down the hallway, then descended the stairs as quietly as the old building would allow. Though with all the work his mentor, Oscar, then he and Clancy had put into it, one wouldn’t guess, on first look, that the three-story New England colonial was going on a hundred. Miller was so proud of CHESS, of what he and Clancy had accomplished, and he couldn’t wait to show it off to the world in a few short months. He still had the final menu to dial in, the food and liquor to stock, and a few more positions to fill, but they were close, so close, to making this dream, this life he hadn’t thought possible, a reality.

But first… He patted his pocket where the envelope was stashed. He couldn’t wait to surprise Clancy, and he couldn’t wait any longer for whatever anniversary surprise Clancy had in store for him this Valentine’s Day.

***

“If I give you this robe, will you cover up that Dodgers shirt?”

Clancy bobbled the champagne bottle he was filling glasses from, saving it at the last second from crashing into the place settings he’d spent the last week planning. His ire, at the surprise and the T-shirt jab, faded, however, when he spied Miller approaching in his many shades of plaid, the fire casting its glow on him and making him the personification of warmth. “What’s under the robe?”

“Just the pants,” Miller said with a wink.

“Hmm, tempting.”

He sidled up in front of Clancy, his two big hands landing on Clancy’s hips and pulling him closer. “I’ll tell you what’s tempting. My rumpled, stain-covered husband. Happy anniversary, Doc.”

Miller captured his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. A brush of lips, a teasing touch of tongue, a gentle, welcome, comforting helloafter days apart. The kind of kiss Miller usually gave him when Clancy snuck into their bed in the wee hours of the morning after getting home from Boston where he’d been stuck on residency rounds and overnighting in their brownstone there. The kind of kiss that would slowly, deliciously escalate to places Clancy would very much like to go, if not for the food underneath the silver domes.

He drew back and twisted away before Miller could chase after another kiss. Grabbing the two champagne flutes, he handed one to Miller. “I hope you still think it’s a happy one after breakfast.”

“You cooked for me?”

“It’s not the first time. But this is our first anniversary where you can taste again. I wanted to do something special.”

Miller lifted his free hand and grasped his chin, faster than Clancy could dodge, and there was no escaping the deep, claiming kiss Miller laid on him. Clancy could feel, could taste, every ounce of love and gratitude Miller poured into it, and he gave as much of it back as he could, his own life irrevocably altered, irrevocably bettered, by the two weeks he’d spent touring the country with this man. A tour, an opportunity of a lifetime, that had become his life—three years, a battle with cancer, two homes, and a restaurant venture later.

A restaurant they would soon be opening to diners. But this morning, Clancy only had one diner to serve, and as much as he wanted to continue to make out with his husband, he needed to feed him first. “We need to eat,” he mumbled against Miller’s lips. “Before it gets cold.”

One more quick, hard kiss, and Miller relented. “I can’t wait. And I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.” He sipped from his glass. “As is this. Champagne, pineapple, and rum?”

Clancy righted his glasses, then pulled out the farm table bench for Miller. “Phoned a friend. A couple of them actually.”

“Let me guess, these friends live in The Big Easy?”

“Maybe.” He lifted the domes off the plates, then considered knocking one into a laughing Miller’s nose. “Hey, I tried!”

“And you succeeded, marvelously.” He lifted his blue eyes, and they were bright with happiness and love. “It’s a happy laugh, babe. It’s perfect.”

Relieved, Clancy set the domes aside, then claimed his spot on the bench next to Miller. “For you this morning,” he said with a flourish of his hands, “Southern-style grits, topped with a poached egg, pancetta lardons, and a swirl of Mornay sauce.” He gestured last at the graham cracker, marshmallow, and chocolate sandwich on the edge of the plate beneath the bowls. “And a s’more, of course.”

Miller nuzzled his neck. “All my favorites from home. And from our trip.”

“With a couple of chef-ly flourishes.”

“Thank you,” Miller whispered.

He dropped a hot, tender kiss behind Clancy’s ear, and Clancy shivered with want and need. For the third time in ten minutes, he seriously rethought his plan. But then Miller drew back and dug into his food with such gusto and wonder, with so manyoh gods and pleased hmms, that Clancy was happy he’d stuck with it. Giving these tastes back to Miller, being here with him as he experienced each one again, listening to him describe the buttery goodness of the grits, kicked up a notch with white pepper, the meaty flavor of the crispy pancetta, the subtle yet needed punch of Gruyère in the Mornay sauce, and the happy-making dessert that was the sweet and sticky s’more was like being back on tour with him.

When their bowls and plates were clean, Clancy swung a leg over the bench to stand. “Seconds?”

“And probably thirds.” Miller grasped his wrist and tugged him back down. “This was wonderful, Doc. Amazing.” He straddled the bench and leaned forward, drawing Clancy into another kiss that Clancy was much more inclined to let run its course now. He shifted closer, hitching a leg over Miller’s so his husband could see, could feel, just how much Clancy wanted him.

“We can’t fuck on this bench,” Miller mumbled between kisses. “We’ll break it.”

Clancy shifted fully onto his lap and snuck his hands under the lapels of the robe, ready to strip his husband right here, bench be damned, until he reached farther inside the robe and… “Oww!” he yelped. He yanked back his hand, examining the offending paper cut. “What’s in there?”

“Youranniversary gift.” Laughing, Miller leaned back and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his robe. “This doesn’t compare to the breakfast, to everything you’ve given me, Clancy Rhodes, but it’s something else I’d like to experience with you. Happy anniversary, babe.”

Clancy accepted the nondescript envelope, flicked open the unsealed flap, and gasped at what he found inside. His mother’s business card, two plane tickets booked on an Essley private jet, and a pair of Pearl Jam concert tickets.

“Figured we’d take a quick trip,” Miller said, “before the restaurant opens.”

A trip home, a chance to experience Miller’s favorite band with him, and an opportunity to do a little something-something on that private plane they hadn’t indulged in the last time they’d flown together. Thiswas amazing, and so was his husband. And there was really only one thing Clancy could do to show his appreciation.

“You figured right,” he said, as he laid the envelope and his glasses on the table. Then he lay back on the bench, his spine bowed, beckoning his husband to follow. “We can buy a new bench.”

The robe was shed, the Dodgers shirt shredded, and in the end, the bench, same as their love, held stronger than ever.