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Mason looked at him and smiled before nodding. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring it over.”

It was the only thing from home that Zeb still liked, which was down to his grandpa. He’d made the best Philly cheesesteak, and was the only member of his family who’d always had his back. It was only three months after he’d died that Zeb had been kicked out. It never would have happened if his grandpa had been alive. He didn’t remember his grandma, as she’d died when he was young, but Zeb loved how his grandpa had spoken of her. He longed to have someone who loved him as much as those two had each other. How his mom was such a hateful bitch when she’d had parents like that, Zeb didn’t understand.

Mason added fries to the table, which looked normal and not covered in truffle shavings. He did a lot of fancy things, but his friends said that Mason would always add truffles to something and increase the price by a third. He also added an arugula salad, which he hadn’t had in years, and the rolls for the cheesesteak were freshly baked. That was something Mason always did: make his own bread. It looked incredible, but certainly wasn’t the fine dining he usually did.

“Truffle on the fries?” asked Zeb, teasing.

“No. You don’t like it.”

“Where’s the glitter?”

“Glitter?”

“You always throw some flair into everything.”

“Only when I’m trying to impress people, and I can be myself with you.”

He walked back to the kitchen before Zeb could respond, because he felt himself choke up. Mason was right. He didn’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef with Zeb. Of course, he was in awe of the man’s talent, but to Zeb, he was just Mason, a lovable grump. He snorted at his description.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Mason with a smile.

“Oh . . . just intrusive thoughts.”

“I’d love to hear them.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Mason chuckled as he carried over two bottles of craft beer with glasses. Mason usually drank wine, but Zeb wasn’t as keen. He preferred a beer, not that he drank very often. It had never really appealed to him, and he’d gotten himself into a few situations when drunk. He was safe here, though, so a couple of beers wouldn’t hurt. Besides, he might need a little help sleeping tonight, as he was going to be in the same bed as Mason. He wasn’t sure what had made him put his foot down about it earlier. He just couldn’t have Mason sleeping on the sofa in his own cabin, even if it folded out into a bed. Zeb wouldn’t have been able to sleep from feeling bad.

“Well, now I definitely want to hear about these thoughts,” said Mason, sitting down.

“What made you decide to cook this?”

“That was subtle, Zeb.” Mason flashed a mischievous smile at him.

Zeb put his head on the table, feeling embarrassed. He wasn’t sure how to handle this flirty side of Mason. His shitty self-esteem kept telling him he was misreading things. If Mason wanted him that way, wouldn’t he make a move? He knew how Zeb felt about him. Nothing had changed. Even when he was with Kaden or John, he hadn’t been able to love either of them, as Mason already had his heart.

“I made it because it’s your favorite,” said Mason simply.

Zeb couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Hey, no crying until after you’ve tried it,” said Mason, squeezing his hand.

The contact made Zeb’s body thrum with desire. If he were bold enough, he’d jump the man right now, but he couldn’t bear the thought of making a move and being rejected. He’d feel so humiliated that he’d have to leave New York. His friends and Mason’s were so intertwined that there’d be no escaping him, and he’d need a new job. He had to let Mason make the first move. Zeb could still hear Hunter and the others in his head telling him to “go for it,” but he had too much to lose if it blew up in his face. Besides, he didn’t want to ruin the incredible meal Mason had made for them by coming across as someone needy and pathetic.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get upset. You’ve never made this for me before.”

“Well, hopefully it’ll be the second-best Philly cheesesteak you’ve ever had.”

“Second?”

“I will not try to compete with your grandpa.”

He smiled and tried not to get choked up again. That was the thing with Mason. He was always listening. It wasn’t just with Zeb, but everyone in his life. He showed he cared with food, rather than through an outpouring of emotion. Zeb couldn’t imagine Mason ever crying, although he had seen him get visibly upset a few times recently.

Zeb bit into his food and couldn’t help but let out a moan. He wouldn’t be saying this out loud, but Grandpa had been beaten. The steak was perfectly cooked; the bread had a crunch to it. There was a tartness and depth to the cheese—there was no way Mason would have used an American cheese—and the onions had sweetness to them. He loved onions on his. He looked up and Mason was staring at him, his mouth ajar.

“What?”