Chapter Text
“Scones!”
Francis looked up from his computer, irritated at the commotion outside his usually quiet corner office at the end of the hall. He stood, walking to the door and peering out.
“Look, Francis, James brought scones!” One of the new hires passed by and held one up, smiling. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”
Francis grumbled a response. Yes. Scones. Scones from James. Flouncy, prancy James, the sales rep. He glanced down towards the reception desk, hoping he could avoid him.
“And so, armed with only a Swiss army knife and a culinary torch-”
Fuck.
“I was able to free my car from the snowdrift. If I hadn’t, I surely would have frozen to death. See, I’ve still got a scar from the can opener, right there.” A tall, slender man in a white oxford and navy waistcoat had his back to Francis, leaning over the counter, the receptionist smiling up at him. He paused, looking over one shoulder, his dark hair, shiny and near shoulder-length falling across his eye. Very Veronica Lake, Francis thought sourly as James used one long finger to brush it back, Francis’ heart steadfastly ignoring his mood and beating faster.
“Francis! How good to see you. Would you like a scone? Made them this morning!” James smiled shyly, looking down and back up.
No, he did not want a scone. Well. He did want a scone. But not one from James. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right either. Francis glared at James.
“Keep it down, I’m trying to work,” he said, turning and shutting the door firmly.
James Fitzjames, what kind of laughable name was that? Francis had been very happy with their old sales rep, but then that bastard had gone and retired, and James, awful James, had been the replacement.
Why did he have to be so handsome? So charming? So funny and bright and interesting? It was miserable, not knowing when he would show up. The sales reps were supposed to come on Fridays, but James showed up whenever he damn well pleased, and always armed with some kind of pastry.
Laughter, muffled, could be heard from the other side of the door. Everyone else in the office was fully under James’ spell. Francis too, if he was being honest. He was not in the mood for brutal honesty, dwelling instead on his crabby mood, turning to the expense reports, concentrating very hard on not letting his mind wander to James and his long hair and long legs and-
God fucking awful James Fitzjames and his stupid fucking scones.
- - -
The whole office had gone a little mad for baking. First it was that show. What was it? Big English Baking Contest? Francis did not care for reality competitions, preferring documentaries and home improvement shows, the occasional foreign film for when he was feeling particularly morose.
Then it was James and his damned pastries.
And then there was the blog. The Naked British Baker. One of the administrative assistants had made something, a clafoutis, and she’d sent the recipe that she’d found online the office. Soon, everyone was talking about it, oohing and ahhing over the posts.
Francis pulled up the blog. The Naked British Baker, whoever they were, was both an excellent baker, and, in Francis’ opinion, a terrible writer. Most of the office was convinced it was a woman, but Francis wasn’t so sure. He’d never met a woman who would write such godawful poetry.
Biscuits on the Trail!
There was a photo of a tray with some kind of chocolate covered cookie taken somewhere on a hike by all appearances.
Who the hell would take biscuits and a bloody tray on a hike? Influencers, Francis thought, scrolling through the paragraphs of inane chatter, the blogger prattling on about the hike and how long it had been since their last trip outdoors and how nature, it truly was the cure for all life’s ills!
Five photosets later, Francis finally got to the recipe.
The instructions were thorough along with step-by-step photos. The blogger had even included some photos to show when the recipe went wrong and how to prevent it.
Francis sighed, rubbing his forehead. He wouldn’t be able to master biscuits. He could barely make brownies. Christ.
Fuck the Naked British Baker.
- - -
Francis again found himself cursing the Naked British Baker on Sunday night. He’d forgotten about the office potluck until he was well and fully settled into his sectional with his book on maritime disasters, his small orange cat biting gently on his ankles.
He swore, sitting up and remembering the email from his assistant, Thomas. Shit. Double shit. He really didn’t need to bring something. He was the boss, after all, and he could stop by the store on the way into work, but goddammit, he wanted to make something.
“You have to learn how to cook something, anything, Francis, if you want someone to stay. Well, I guess you don’t, but you’ll have to charm them enough that they’re willing to overlook stovetop mac and cheese,” Sophia had said over their monthly dinner date.
Francis had peered at her, taking a sip of diet Coke.
“You can be rather mean, Sophia. Remind me why I wanted to marry you?”
“I think you thought these incredible breasts would keep you fully closeted.” She shimmied a little, laughing and taking a drink. She wasn’t wrong. They were impressive tits.
“Tease.”
“Grouch. Say. Have you been watching the Great British Bakeoff?”
- - -
“Ok. Ingredients assembled.”
Francis pulled the recipe up on his phone. Bread. Bread would be easy. How difficult could bread be? He set to work, Cornelius having to be pushed off the counter repeatedly, yowling in protest.
It was 1am before Francis got to bed, but he had done it, with minimal swearing and maximum mess. He had made bread! Francis cheered to himself as he wrapped it up and tucked it away where Cornelius wouldn’t get it. He had done it. Maybe well enough to impress the Naked British Baker. It was their recipe, nestled within a blog entry about how much they loved autumn. How much? Francis had counted no less than ten photos of trees with their leaves turning.
He had done it. Take that, Sophia, Francis thought triumphantly.
- - -
“Erm…” Thomas Jopson looked at the bread. “First time?”
“Making bread? Well,” Francis faltered. “Yeah. It was. Why? I thought it was ok.”
“Tastes fine, it’s just kind of heavy. Bread should be,” Jopson paused, clearly weighting what to say, one finger scratching his sideburns. He looked up, seeing Francis’ face, Francis trying and failing to hide that familiar, slightly queasy feeling of failure.
“It’s fine! It’s more than fine!” Jopson stuffed the bread into his mouth. “Yummy,” he said through a mouthful of bread.
A hand reached over to take a slice, long elegant fingers.
“Let’s see here.”
Francis turned, feeling his blood pressure spike. James, that asshole, clad in a black turtleneck, slacks and wine-coloured monk strap shoes. He held the bread up, his brows furrowing, dark brown eyes taking in every one of Francis’ mistakes.
“Didn’t prove long enough,” James said matter-of-factly, tossing his head back so his hair was out of his eyes. “How long did you let it rise?”
Francis shrugged helplessly. “I was in a hurry. It was late. Can’t remember what the recipe said.” He looked away, his face turning red, his voice biting with anger.
“Which recipe?” James took a bite. “Tastes very good,” he said, chewing slowly. “Crust is nice, but it should be light and fluffy. This is heavy.”
“What does it matter what recipe I used? I fucked up bread. But please, James, tell me how else I may improve things? Please. I await your tutelage.” He turned on his heel and stomped off.
“Something I said?” James asked Jopson, bewilderment in his voice.
Stupid fucking James. Stupid fucking bread.