Episode 8

Lucas

Seven-thirty.

I checked the stove clock, then my phone to be sure. Still seven-thirty.

I yawned. I was still on LA time, but it had gone dark almost three hours ago, and my eyes felt like I'd rubbed sand in them.

I opened the fridge. Veal cutlets on the middle shelf, wine on the door.

The prosciutto was on the counter next to the sage plant I’d found in the vegetable section. I pinched a leaf. Smelled right. Veal, prosciutto, sage, butter, wine—everything for saltimbocca.

Wait. Was Jasper vegetarian?

My hand stopped over the butter. We’d talked about houses, repairs, old movies. But food? Had I actually asked? I stared at the fridge. Great. An entirely meat-based dinner for someone who might not eat meat.

Too late now.

I groaned and rubbed my face. I could have just asked for his number yesterday. Apparently, that was too obvious.

Seven-forty. Rain tapped against the kitchen window.

I walked over and pressed my palm to the glass—cold. Wind bent the trees outside. It hadn’t been raining earlier, and it had been freezing all day. Probably black ice everywhere. Great.

A shape moved at the end of the path. I leaned closer—a figure, hurrying up toward the house.

The doorbell rang.

Finally.

Cold air rushed in as I opened the door. Jasper stood on the doorstep, breathing hard, cheeks pink from the cold.

“I am so sorry—” He stepped inside, and the words kept coming. “The committee meeting ran late, and then Margot cornered me in the parking lot, and I couldn’t get away—”

“Hey.” I closed the door behind him. “It’s fine. Really. You’re here.”

He stopped. Took a breath.

“What committee?” I asked.

“Christmas market.” He unwound his scarf, still a little breathless. “We coordinate the stalls, decorations—Margot just kept adding things, and I couldn’t leave without being rude.”

“I should have asked for your number yesterday.” He pulled off his jacket. “I couldn’t even text you I was running late.”

“Yeah.” I took his jacket, hung it by the door. “That makes two of us.”

He grinned. “We should probably fix that.”

“But first—food. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I'm starving.”

“Good.” I headed toward the kitchen. “Follow me.”

I opened the fridge and looked at the veal. "So I was actually going for saltimbocca tonight." I glanced at the clock on the wall. "But I guess it's a bit late for that now. Plus, I don't even know if you eat meat."

"Meat's fine. I wouldn't survive in Oma's kitchen otherwise."

"So… how about pasta instead? Garlic, olive oil, tomatoes, basil."

He looked at his feet, then back at me. “I’m sorry you—”

“Don’t.” I waved him off. “This is better anyway. And faster.” I grabbed olive oil from the shelf. “Fair warning, though, I mostly order in back home. This is basically a special occasion.”

“Awww. I’m honored.” Jasper grinned and moved to the cutting board. “Although I did save you from a ladder yesterday, so I probably deserve it.”

“You’re milking that ladder thing, aren’t you?”

“For as long as I can.” He found a knife. “We could make the saltimbocca together next time. More fun anyway.” His mouth twitched. “And I’d rather not have you destroy the kitchen trying to surprise me.”

I shook my head, grinning.

I filled a pot with water, set it on the back burner, and put a pan on the front one. I added a glug of olive oil and left it to heat.

“So how much work is this Christmas committee thing?” I asked. “Sounds like it’s more than just showing up to meetings.”

Jasper started on the garlic without looking down at the cutting board. "That's what I thought when I joined." He shook his head. "Organizing the market takes over your life from October onward. I've got to repair the sleigh before it opens—thing's almost a hundred years old—" The knife paused. "I'm rambling."

“Wait, there’s a sleigh?”

“For Saint Nikolaus. It’s been part of the market forever.” He scraped garlic into a small bowl. “Needs some work, but it’ll be ready.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure. Just come over when you have time.” He glanced at me. “You’ll probably hear me working on it.”

He grabbed a handful of basil from the plants on the windowsill, gave it a rough chop, and set it aside. Then he started on the tomatoes.

“What about you—have you been to a Christmas market before?”

“Never. Just the Hollywood versions.”

Jasper stopped chopping. “Never?”

“Never.”

He pointed the knife at me. “You’re coming to ours. It runs the whole month—last week of November through Christmas.”

“I want to,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking. What should I expect?”

He put down the knife. “Opening night,” he said, talking faster now. “That’s when you have to go. Everything’s fresh, everyone’s excited—” He went back to chopping. “There’s this moment when they light everything up for the first time. You’ll see.”

“Sounds amazing,” I said.

I turned back to the stove. The water was heating up, small bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot. I watched it, waiting. The bubbles blurred out of focus.

Jasper said something behind me, but the words didn’t land—just sound.

“—in mind?”

I blinked. “Sorry. Say that again?”

He studied me for a moment. “We can do this another night if you need to crash.”

"No, I'm good. Just need food." I rubbed my eyes. "Jet lag keeps sneaking up on me."

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Jasper glanced over. “You should get that.”

“It’s probably just Marcus.” I checked the screen. “Yeah. I’ll call him back tomorrow.”

“Might be important.” He nodded at the stove. “Water’s not even simmering yet. Go ahead.”

I picked up the phone and put Marcus on speaker. “Hey, I’m here, I’m alive—”

“LUCAS!” Marcus’s voice filled the kitchen. “I was starting to think you’d tried to fix something else in that house.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious. I had visions of you electrocuting yourself.”

“The wiring’s fine.”

“Sure it is.”

Jasper laughed quietly, still chopping.

“Who’s that?” Marcus asked immediately.

“That’s Jasper. He’s—”

“Riiiight, today’s dinner night.” Marcus’s voice shifted, warming. “Time zones always mess with my head. Jasper! Hi! I’ve heard so much about you!”

Jasper leaned toward the phone, amused. “Hi, Marcus. All good things, I hope.”

“The best. Lucas won’t shut up about the guy who fixed his deathtrap and caught him falling off the roof.”

Jasper’s eyebrows lifted. He glanced at me.

“It was a ladder,” I said. “And I wasn’t—”

“It was nothing.” Jasper shrugged. “Just some problems with rust, missing tools, the plumbing—”

A snort crackled through the speaker.

“His plumbing.” Marcus was barely holding it together. “You’re handling his plumbing.”

“Marcus.”

“I’m just saying!” He laughed. “Oh, have you seen the latest Backstage Pa—”

“K. Thanks. Bye!” I ended the call.

Jasper blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your plumbing.” Jasper tilted his head. “What do you tell people we do here?”

“Ha ha.” I turned back to the stove.

Behind me, Jasper was still laughing.

“Okay, okay.” He took a breath, shook his head. “I’m done.” He scraped the tomatoes into a bowl next to the garlic.

The water had started to bubble. I salted it and dropped in the pasta.

Jasper moved to the stove and checked the oil in the pan—it shimmered when he tilted it. He added the garlic. It sizzled immediately, the smell filling the kitchen.

“Now that the house isn’t actively trying to kill me,” I said, “I should probably see more of the area. Get out a bit.”

He stirred the garlic, keeping it moving. “There are some good trails around here. Depends what you’re looking for.”

“Something where I won’t get lost and die?”

He laughed. “I can work with that.” He studied me for a moment. “There’s a nice loop near the lake. Good views, not too steep. I can show you if you want.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s easier than giving directions. Plus, you’ll probably take a wrong turn and end up in Switzerland.”

“Is that… possible?”

“It’s not not possible.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”

He grinned. “The lake trail’s pretty straightforward. We can do something harder after that. If you want.”

“Define harder.”

“Elevation. Some scrambling.”

“Scrambling.” I nodded slowly. “That’s a word that fills me with confidence.”

“City boy.” He shook his head and added the tomatoes to the pan. They hissed and popped in the hot oil. He stirred everything together and let it simmer.

I put a hand to my chest. “Rude.”

Jasper chuckled and tasted the sauce, adding a pinch of salt.

I checked the pasta. City boy. Sure. Because Yellowstone had been such a good time—heat, sweat, weird bugs, and possible bear attacks lurking around every corner. At least here it wasn’t hot. Were there even bears in the Alps? Probably worth checking.

I fished out a strand of pasta and tested it. Done. I grabbed the colander from the dish rack and drained the pasta over the sink.

Jasper tasted the sauce off a wooden spoon, considered it, then gave me a thumbs-up. He slid the pan off the heat.

I divided the pasta onto two plates. Jasper spooned sauce over each one and scattered the basil on top.

"Want to eat in the living room?" I asked, glancing at the kitchen table—cutting board, prep bowls, garlic skins scattered across it. "Probably more comfortable than here."

Jasper followed my gaze. "Yeah, that sounds good."

We carried our plates through. The fire I'd started earlier had warmed the room, and the couch was soft when we sank into it.

I picked up the remote. "Want to watch that movie you mentioned yesterday?"

"Singin' in the Rain? Absolutely!" Jasper tucked one leg under himself and balanced his plate on his knee.

I hit play, and we started eating as the opening credits rolled.

The film opened on a Hollywood premiere—crowds pressed against barriers, spotlights sweeping across the studio backlot street.

Gene Kelly worked the crowd on screen, all smiles and confidence. The music swelled underneath.

“Do you ever watch anything from this century?” I asked.

Jasper laughed. “Sometimes. But there’s too much to choose from.” He twirled pasta on his fork, eyes still on the screen. “These I know I like.”

“I could make you a list.”

He glanced at me. “Of films?”

“If you want.” I took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “What about Star Wars?”

“Not really into space stuff.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Indiana Jones?”

“Okay, those I’ve seen.” He grinned. “Raiders is great.”

I tilted my head. “Home Alone?”

On screen, the scene shifted—Los Angeles at night, neon and palm trees. Jasper set his fork down.

“Haven’t watched Christmas films in a while.”

“There are so many good ones, though. Would be a shame to skip all of them.” I reached for my water. “Maybe just one? Opening night of the market—get into the spirit.”

Jasper watched the dancers for a moment, tapping his finger against the armrest. Then he reached for his glass. "Okay. Add them to the list."

I turned toward him. “Yeah?”

"All right." He settled back into the couch, smiling. "You can pick one. But if it's terrible, I'm blaming you."

The movie rolled on. Someone flipping off walls, crashing through set pieces. Jasper laughed, and I laughed with him, and somewhere in there we both finished eating without noticing.

I yawned and sank a little deeper into the couch. The warmth of the room and the full stomach were catching up with me.

On screen, the backlot at MGM. Soundstages lined up like warehouses; crews hauled equipment between shots, the whole place humming with people. Jasper relaxed deeper into the couch beside me.

I glanced at him. “Have you ever been to LA?”

“No.” He watched the screen for a moment—studio lights, painted backdrops, the whole golden-age machine. “Only know it from films. Or the news, I guess.”

“It doesn’t look like that anymore.” I pulled out my phone, found a photo. “This is more like it.”

He leaned in to see, and his shoulder settled against mine. It was warm and solid, and close enough that I could smell his shampoo. I scrolled to the next photo.

Marcus and Becca on a rooftop, city lights behind them. “That’s Marcus and this is his girlfriend Becca. The blur in the corner—”

“Who’s the blur? They must be important, judging by the size of the crowd around them.”

“Ryan Gosling. Becca tried to get closer, but it was impossible. Too many fans.”

Jasper laughed. “So this is all she got?”

“She brings it up constantly.” I scrolled.

Griffith Observatory at sunset. A rooftop party in Malibu.

I kept scrolling. His arm had settled against mine at some point, warm through my sleeve.

“Wait.” He touched my wrist. “Go back.”

I scrolled back. Red carpet. Me in a suit next to one of the other actors from the film. I couldn’t remember his name if my life depended on it.

“What’s this?”

“Small role in something. Years ago.” I shrugged. “Craft services’ budget was bigger than my salary.”

“Didn’t know I was watching films with a Hollywood star.” He tilted his head at the screen. “Who’s the other guy? He looks like he’d follow you home.”

I snorted. “What?”

“Look at him.” Jasper tapped the screen. “That’s not a red carpet smile. That’s ‘please notice me.’”

I actually looked this time. The guy—Derek? Darren?—was leaning into my space, hand on my shoulder, eyes on me instead of the camera. He’d asked me out three times during production. I’d said no three times.

“Oh.” I swiped to the next photo. “Yeah. He was… persistent.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Wasn’t interested.”

“Happens often?”

Zach at the theatre. Several chapters of fanfiction about me and Marcus and still counting. Now a guy from a film I barely remembered.

"People see what they want to see."

Jasper looked at me. His shoulder warm against mine.

He didn't say anything, just looked. Then turned back to the screen.

I closed my eyes. "I'm not thinking straight," I said. "Just so you know."

"Noted."

I opened my eyes. He was watching me.

"You know what I see?"

I waited.

"Someone who should probably sleep."

"I'll miss the rain scene."

"I'll wake you."

I set my phone down.

Eyes closed. Movie sounds, light through my lids. Jasper beside me.

A nudge against my arm.

"Hey. You made it."

I opened my eyes. On screen, rain was falling on an empty street. Gene Kelly stepped off a curb into the wet and started singing.

"Told you." I shifted closer, still half-asleep.

Gene Kelly splashed through puddles, arms wide, face tilted up to the sky.

My head found his shoulder before I could think about it.

He went still for a moment. Then his shoulder softened under me, and he didn't move away.

I made some noise that was supposed to be words, my eyes already drifting shut.

"I'll tell you how it ends."

His breathing rose and fell under my cheek. The movie played on.

I let my eyes close.