Malcolm didn’t have a lot going for him. He wasn’t one of the blessed, or one of the beautiful. He didn’t have many talents. He was, however, a damn good chef. He worked hard and he insisted on perfection -- not just from himself but also from everyone else in his kitchen. And if that made others miserable, that was just too damn bad. If one couldn’t live up to expectations then one didn’t belong at Burgeon Manor.<br><br>Darien on the other hand, was everything Malcolm envied, hated, and secretly fantasized over. Lean, slim, with a smile that could melt ice and enough charm to woo demons, Darien surprised Malcolm by showing not only interest but also attraction. Which only meant one thing as far as Malcolm was concerned: Darien had to be playing some kind of game. There was no way that a rock god like Darien Flint could have honest feelings for someone like him.<br><br>Yet the more Darien tries to know him, the more Malcolm feels himself being drawn into the lie.

Rockabye

He let his eyelids drift shut and set the toe of his shoe against the counter to rock the chair. He didn’t go home much during the busy season. Summer months, Christmases and New Years’, long weekends, Malcolm would stay in his room on site. It made more sense when one got finished at two in the morning and had to start again at seven to stay where one was. Therefore, his plan was as simple as most nights: two glasses of white, followed by a sleeping pill and a stumble through the back hall to the unmarked, unnumbered doors of the servant’s quarters of the manor. Though politically incorrect, the term still stuck, fitting in both appropriateness and historical accuracy. Malcolm didn’t mind the cramped quarters of the eight-by-ten room, though. It was included as a perk of the job, there were no bugs, and while the mattress was in no way as comfortable as the one on his own queen-sized bed at home, it was comfortable enough for an exhausted body to give five or so hours to.


Chapter 3