TERMS OF ATTRACTION

CHAPTER 6: SAVORY DISASTER

The twilight sky had turned a deep indigo by the time Simon finally walked out of the Apex Tech lobby. He’d stayed late to finish mapping out the server restrictions for the upcoming developer alpha, and Britney, ever loyal, had stayed behind to help him cross-reference the data parameters.

As they walked out into the cool evening air toward the parking lot, Simon noticed Britney was carrying a massive, heavily padded bubble-wrap bag, navigating it with the kind of intense care usually reserved for live explosives.

Simon gestured toward the bundle. "What do you have in there? Did you raid the hardware supply closet?"

Britney grinned, a look of pure triumph on her face. "Better. Look." She carefully peeled back a layer of the plastic to reveal a glint of thick, beautifully sculpted glass. "It’s the Lalique 'Tourbillons' vase from the executive suite."

Simon stopped in his tracks, looking from the bag to Britney. "A Tourbillons? Britney, those are high-end French crystal antiques. Why on earth would you drop that kind of cash on office decor?"

"Because it’s not just any antique, Simon," Britney whispered excitedly, pulling the bubble wrap back over it. "And plus, I got it for an absolute steal."

Simon raised an eyebrow as they continued walking toward their cars. "Define 'a steal' in the antique world."

"Max sold it to me. For fifteen hundred bucks."

Simon halted dead in his tracks again, his jaw dropping slightly. "Fifteen hundred? For a certified Lalique?" He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Britney, that is way too cheap. He practically gave it away."

"Right?!" Britney laughed, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of a bargain hunter. "The original market price for a clear Tourbillons is easily four times that, and that’s assuming the collector value hasn't appreciated over the last few years. The guy honestly doesn't know a single thing about antiques. He thought it was just a piece of old, dusty glass."

Simon stared ahead, a sudden, hilarious realization clicking into place. Max did know what things were worth—when it came to sports cars and tailored suits. But when it came to anything historic or classical, the billionaire was a total i***t. He probably figured he was ripping her off by charging $1,500 for a heavy vase.

"He certainly has a unique approach to asset liquidation," Simon muttered, shaking his head with a faint smile.

They reached their vehicles, still laughing about the absurdity of their Wharton-educated CEO running a clueless garage sale right out of the corner office.

"See you tomorrow, Simon! Don't let him sell your desk out from under you!" Britney called out, unlocking her car.

"Have a good night, Britney," Simon replied.

They backed out of their spaces and drove out of the complex. Because they worked the exact same shift, their commute format was entirely identical for the first few miles—their cars driving in a synchronized, slightly comical tandem down the main boulevard until Britney finally signaled and split off toward the highway.

Simon made a quick, necessary detour to a local diner to pick up takeouts before heading home. He fully intended to eat his dinner in peace, assuming Max hadn't already sold off the apartment's crown molding under the impression that it was just scrap wood.

***************************************************************************************************************************

Simon pulled into the complex parking lot and let out a sigh of genuine relief. Miraculously, Max hadn't parked his monstrously wide sports car in Simon's designated space today. Simon killed the engine, grabbed his bag and the warm container of takeout, and headed inside. Too exhausted to even contemplate the minor physical exertion of the stairwell, he opted for the elevator to the second floor.

He reached his door, punched his personalized security code into the keypad, and stepped inside. Immediately, he was greeted by a rich, savory aroma drifting through the air—nothing overly dramatic, but incredibly pleasant.

Simon kicked off his shoes by the entryway before stepping into the wide, open-concept living room. His eyes instantly locked onto the kitchen area. Max was actively dancing by the stove, a spatula in one hand and a brand-new pair of sleek, oversized headphones clamped over his ears. On the living room coffee table, the glossy, discarded cardboard packaging for the premium audio gear lay wide open.

The billionaire was cooking. Or at least, attempting to.

Noticing the movement in the room, Max slid the headphones down around his neck and flashed a confident grin. "See? I kept my promise. I didn't park in your spot today."

Simon stopped by the edge of the sofa, unimpressed. "What do you want, Max? A gold star? A round of applause?"

Max completely ignored the sarcasm, tapping the matte-black headphones resting against his collarbone instead. "And check these out. High-fidelity active noise cancellation. Now my late-night playlists won't disturb your fragile sleep schedule or keep you awake. See? I'm adapting to the ecosystem."

Simon simply rolled his eyes, setting his takeout container down onto the coffee table right next to the empty headphone box. He walked past the kitchen zone toward his bedroom to shed his corporate uniform. Within a few minutes, he emerged in comfortable, loose nightwear, though he could still hear Max humming aggressively from the kitchen.

Simon grabbed his towel, headed into the bathroom for a quick, scalding shower, and steamed away the lingering stress of the corporate boardroom. Once he was changed and refreshed, he gathered his discarded work clothes and walked down the short hallway toward the laundry room, which sat tucked near the apartment's main exit.

He carefully folded his dark suit jacket and placed it on top of a towering, remarkably structured column of garments. To anyone else, the stack looked pristine and perfectly organized, but it was actually Simon’s dirty pile—he just couldn't stand visual clutter, even when it came to laundry.

Staring at the towering mountain of hidden chores, Simon let out a weary breath. "Great. Better add laundry to the weekend to-do list."

Almost as soon as Simon walked out of the laundry room, Max ushered him over to the kitchen counter, gesturing wildly to a barstool. Reluctantly sitting down, Simon eyed the pristine, expensive-looking setup and decided to play along.

"Where exactly did you get the capital to acquire a brand-new headset and a massive haul of groceries, Max?" Simon asked, leaning his elbow on the counter. "Did your dad suddenly reinstate your allowance?"

"Please, I’m a corporate strategist, Simon. I pivot," Max replied honestly, looking entirely proud of himself. "I liquidated a piece of redundant, archaic inventory from the executive office. Sold a dusty glass vase to Britney for fifteen hundred bucks cold, hard cash."

Simon let out a low, mock-impressed laugh. Without saying a word, he pulled out his phone, pulled up a quick Google search, and slid the screen across the smooth countertop.

It was a live collector's listing for the exact clear Lalique Tourbillons vase he had sold. The current verified market price: $7,000.

Max froze, his jaw dropping slightly as he stared at the digital price tag. "Seven grand? For a piece of glass?" He blinked, then a slow, genuinely impressed smirk spread across his face. "Wow. Okay. When I pitched it to her, I told her the baseline valuation was three thousand, and she seamlessly negotiated me down to exactly half of that. Wow. Honestly? Respect. The girl is an absolute shark in a cardigan. I’ll have to remember that for her next performance review."

Simon rolled his eyes, picking his phone back up. "She fleeced you, Max. Plain and simple. Now, why exactly did you drag me over to this counter?"

"Ah, right. The piece de résistance," Max said, completely brushing off the fact that he’d just lost thousands of dollars.

With a flourish, Max presented a series of complex, high-end dishes. He had painstakingly attempted an upscale culinary spread: a plate of pan-seared Wagyu beef sliders topped with shaved black truffles, a side of organic saffron-infused risotto, and a delicate white-wine reduction drizzle over imported artisanal cheeses. Between the rare truffles, the saffron, the grade-A beef, and the high-end headset, Max’s hard-earned $1,500 was officially dead and buried.

Simon stared at the extravagant spread, then up at Max. "You realize these ingredients alone easily cost close to nine hundred bucks, right? Combined with your new headphones, your little 'vase fund' is entirely gone. You're broke again."

Max paused.

He looked around the kitchen.

Then at the headphones around his neck.

Then at the Wagyu sliders.

"...Huh."

He scratched the back of his neck before giving a careless shrug. "Consider it a grand gesture of corporate and domestic appeasement. It's an apology for the quiche incident."

Simon looked down at the Wagyu slider skeptically. "Is this food actually safe for human consumption, or are you trying to poison your landlord to break the lease?"

Max happily nodded, leaning over the counter with an eager, expectant grin, practically vibrating as he waited for Simon to take the first bite and shower him with compliments.

Simon took a deep, bracing breath, picked up a truffle-topped slider, and took a modest bite.

Instantly, his entire face locked up. The textures were completely wrong, and an overwhelming, violent wave of conflicting spices hit his tongue all at once. Simon’s throat constricted, and he had to forcefully, painfully swallow the bite, his eyes watering slightly behind his glasses.

"So?" Max asked, eyes gleaming. "Brilliant, right?"

Simon stared at him, horrified. "Max... I honestly did not know it was scientifically possible for food to look and smell this magnificent, yet taste so profoundly horrible."

"What? It's a gourmet recipe!"

The food wasn't spoiled, but the execution was a logistical disaster. Max had clearly watched a few viral t****k and YouTube cooking videos and assumed that multiplying the seasoning would multiply the flavor. The spices were wildly exaggerated, fighting a lethal war on Simon's taste buds.

Simon pushed the plate away, standing up from the barstool. "If you need me—which, to be entirely clear, I wouldn't bother helping you with whatever disaster you create next—I will be in the restroom throwing up."

"Wait, you're not even going to try the saffron risotto?" Max called out, genuinely offended. "I spent an hour stirring that!"

"Absolutely not," Simon declined harshly, rubbing his stomach as he walked away and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Max frowned, looking down at his beautiful, expensive creation. "It can't be that bad," he muttered to himself.

He grabbed a clean fork, scooped up a massive bite of the saffron risotto, and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed for exactly two seconds before his eyes widened in sheer terror. The rice was simultaneously chalky and drowning in salt. Desperate to wash the taste out, he grabbed a piece of the truffle beef, which turned out to have the rubbery consistency of a tire.

Max dropped the fork, coughing into a napkin. Every single dish was an absolute masterpiece of visual deception—and utterly, completely terrible in its own unique way.