Valen grinned. “You like the apron? I just bought it last week.”
He left the whisk in the pot, caught the edges of the apron, and straightened it.
“I-I, um. The apron.” Sam coughed. “That’s... That’s unusual.”
It hung low, covering half his pecs. Valen had tied it tight against his waist, too, so there was no mistaking the bulge of his cock behind the fabric.
“You mean you didn’t cook like this at your old place?” Valen raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“I... I don’t wear an apron at home.”
“You cooked naked?”
“No! I cook with all my clothes on!”
Sam’s face heated. Valen wriggled his eyebrows, then turned back to the stove. Sam’s attention dropped back to his ass. Hard to tear his eyes away.
“Nice ass,” Harris said behind Sam. Sam jumped. He turned, wondering if Harris meant Valen, or Sam.
Harris’ eyes slid between them both, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to ask.
Valen cocked his hip. “You mean Sam, right? Sam’s tasty.”
“I meant both of you,” Harris said, smiling wryly. “All you young thangs.”
Valen snorted. “Sure, Big H.”
Sam blushed, looking at the floor. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to behave around Harris. He liked Harris in the way he wanted to see Harris naked, wanted Harris’ mouth on him.
Harris was generous, kind, someone far too good for Sam.
But the longer Sam stayed with him and Valen, the more quirks he found. Harris wasn’t the untouchable, regal alpha that Sam had thought he was. In his free time, Harris watched comedies on TV, he drank milk out of the carton, and he had an inexplicable taste for chardonnay, which was probably the worst wine on the planet.
Harris was so very human.
And Harris had also smirked at Sam one day, grabbed Valen, and asked, What if I tied V up for you? Let you have your way with him.
Sam had stared at them both, his thoughts whirling.
“Don’t just stand there,” Harris murmured now, setting his hand on the small of Sam’s back. “Valen’s making soup for you. I think it’ll be good.”
Valen was making soup? Sam shuffled forward, his stomach growling. He’d wandered downstairs for a snack, and smelled the rich, savory scent of dill and pickles. Now that his morning sickness was fading, it was easier to keep food down.
Valen’s neck was red. “I don’t know if I made it right. Don’t talk it up, Big H.”
Sam paused by Valen at the stove, peering around his arm. Thick, creamy soup simmered in a medium saucepan, with chunks of potatoes riding up on Valen’s spatula. “Pickle soup?”
“Your mom’s recipe,” Valen mumbled, waving to the side. Perched on a can of New England clam chowder, the pickle soup recipe stared back at them, more crumpled than before. “You said you’ve been craving it, so I took the recipe to the store. Got some ingredients.”
“That’s what you were doing yesterday?” Sam asked, remembering the way Valen had grinned and blushed in the truck.
“Yeah... I mean, I haven’t tasted it yet, so I don’t know if it’s any good. Seems like adding pickle juice might be too much.”
Sam stared at Valen, his breath catching in his throat. All this time, Sam had harbored a lingering doubt, that maybe Valen might have taken Sam back into his life because of the baby. But looking at Valen now, with his pot of soup for Sam... Sam’s throat tightened. Valen had done this for him.
Sam took the spatula from Valen, blowing on the soup smeared over it. Then he licked the spatula, tasted the buttery notes of cream, the mellow hint of dill, and a faint bite of cayenne.
“Well?” Valen asked, trepidation in his eyes.
“It does need the pickle juice,” Sam said. “Do you have it?”
“Right here.” Harris brought the pickle jar forward. Sam uncapped it, read the recipe, and poured half the jar in.
Valen yelped. “Isn’t that too much?”
“It should mellow out after you let it simmer,” Sam said. “Give it a stir.”
Valen stirred the pot. Tasted the soup, his eyebrows climbing. “Huh. This is good. Try it, Sam.”
Sam sipped from the spatula, savoring the bite of the pickle juice, the creamy soup on his tongue. And now he wanted to finish the entire pot of soup on the stove.
Instead, he scooped some soup, and offered it to Harris. Harris lifted his eyebrow, leaning in to taste the soup. Then he smiled, his eyes crinkling. “That’s some tasty soup, Sam. Great job, Valen.”
Valen flushed. “It was Sam’s mom’s recipe.”
“That’s thanks to you, too,” Sam said, pride swelling in his chest. “You’ve been asking me how to mix the flour in... you did that yourself.”
“You both did it,” Harris said, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
“You were the one who brought Sam here, Big H. So that’s on you,” Valen said, moving the pot off the stove. He pulled Sam against himself, then Harris, too. And Sam didn’t mind, sharing Valen’s chest with Harris. This, too, felt right.
Harris nuzzled Sam’s ear. “That’s just a stroke of luck, V.”
Maybe it was. But as they stood in the kitchen smelling like pickle soup, Valen and Harris smiling down at him, Sam realized that this was the best thing that had happened to him in a while.
17
Harris
Harris watched as Sam eyed the stacked Parmesan wedges, then the box of cheese samples.
“Try some,” Harris said.
Sam glanced at the little chunks of hard cheese, breathing out. “I know what they taste like.”
“You like that cheese, don’t you?”
They were standing by a table in the grocery, rows upon rows of pale yellow triangles surrounding three uncut blocks. A few times, after Sam’s pregnancy fatigue had faded, Harris had taken him to the store, only to see Sam eyeing the cheese display. Parmigiano-Reggiano seemed to be his favorite.
“Here,” Harris said. With the plastic tongs, he picked up a decent-sized sample. Grabbed Sam’s wrist, turned his hand up, and dropped the cheese into his palm.
Sam squawked. “Harris!”
Harris grinned. “Can’t put it
