"Papa, non," Matthew groaned, shoulders sagging at the mention of another of his father's nosy plans.

"Oui, Mathieu," Francis replied, beseechingly, tying his apron strings around his hips. "I just want to know if the food is good."

Matthew leveled a look at him. What his papa really meant was that he wanted to know if the food was better than his.

"They've just opened, "Matthew reasoned. "Let them settle in."

"That is why I need to know!" Francis grinned despite his son's critical gaze. "A restaurant that can't deliver upon opening can't hope to beat us."

Matthew huffed and pushed his fingers through his hair. Francis continued to implore him with that charming smile Francis Bonnefoy was known this side of London for.

Because he was Francis's son, it didn't usually work on him. But because Francis was his papa, it didn't take long for Matthew to crack. "Fine," he said at last. "I'll go."

Francis, elated, grabbed Matthew's face and kissed both cheeks. "Merci, mon ange!"

"Yeah, yeah. But I'm going to thoroughly enjoy myself while I'm there," he countered.

Francis laughed. "I highly doubt it, Mathieu!"

Matthew untied his serving apron, leaving the floor to the two other wait staff, temporarily. He'd worn his bleach white button-up, black trousers, shiny black leather belt and shoes – his work uniform. He hoped the red pea coat he shrugged into on his way out made him look less like the rival spy he was reluctantly playing the part of.

The air was brisk out on the street and Matthew mentally grumbled about his father's half-paranoid, half-arrogant schemes.

His target: The Little Soldier, the newest British pub to open at the end of the block.

His mission: to test the food, to critique the interior, to get a feel for the ambience and report back to Francis. From there, Francis would decide whether this newcomer would threaten business for Le Petit Ange. Matthew was not proud to admit that this wasn't the first time he spied for his papa. Other restaurants do it all the time, Francis has said. It's a cutthroat business, Mathieu!

On the upside, Matthew always paid for these reconnaissance missions with his papa's credit card. A free meal was nothing to simply pass up.

The Little Soldier might have been new to the block, but it was old-school charm with modern taste. Matthew hadn't been to too many traditional pubs in London, but this one was homey, quaint, and buzzing.

In fact, it was almost childish, in the best possible way. This was evidenced by the photos hung in glossy wooden frames on the wall by the front door. Matthew paused to glance at them. Almost each one showed a blond boy in various stages of growth and age. The boy had a huge grin, with missing teeth in some, and was often dressed in costumes ranging from cowboy to astronaut. A man appeared in a few, most likely the boy's father – short, messy blond hair, thick eyebrows, and the occasional closed-lipped smile. Matthew proceeded to take a seat at the bar.

A waitress brought him a small menu, a single page front and back. He fell into critical mode while looking it over, instantly examining the dishes, making mental notes for his papa. Matthew was mildly surprised to see that the traditional pub fare, which could have seemed bland and unimportant amidst the numerous competition London had to offer, actually appeared well thought out and updated enough to stand out. He ordered and when the waitress took his menu Matthew allowed himself a look around the place.

He gauged the atmosphere of the lunch crowd. All tables were occupied, but it wasn't overly loud or unnervingly quiet. Everyone seemed in good cheer and the place resembled more of a lax country pub than one in the middle of a bustling city.

Matthew reverted his gaze to the shiny, dark wood bar top and he saw the bartender moving around in his peripherals.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender said in front of him.

Matthew did a double take at the man in front of him. Two things caught his attention about the man in an instant. The first was his accent, which was very much American and very much unexpected. The second was his face and his grin, which Matthew matched right away to the little boy's in the photos. Sure, the face was sharper and the missing teeth filled in, but it was certainly the same person.

"Uh," Matthew stammered, taken aback by this odd turn of events. "Surprise me."

What the hell, Matthew? he chided himself. He absolutely refused to admit that his momentary lack of brain function was due to the man's handsome face, albeit still child-like with those bright eyes behind half-frame glasses and huge grin. Instead, he told himself it was because he just wasn't expecting an American. Definitely.

The man laughed and said, "Alcohol, or no?"

Matthew raised his chin and leveled a gaze at him, much like he did with his papa. "Yes, please."

He grinned, and blond hair fell over his forehead. "Alright, just checking."

He set about making Matthew's drink and Matthew smirked. This guy thought he could smoothly get away with that?

"So," Matthew began innocently, crossing his arms over the bar. "The Little Soldier."

"Yup," the man said with a nod.

"I take it that's you." Matthew's lips spread into a triumphant grin when the man visibly colored.

His nervous laugh and the scratch behind his ear belied his attempt at being suave. "Ah, yeah," he admitted. "That's me. How'd you guess?"

Matthew inclined his head toward the wall of photos. "You're lucky those teeth grew in."

"They forced me into braces, but I think the result was worth it." He flashed another winning smile at Matthew and Matthew began to wonder if he were flirting with him. Well, two could play that game.

Matthew pushed his hair back, the picture of conniving casualness. "Matthew," he offered.

"Alfred," the man said, pushing Matthew's drink across the bar top.

"You're not a Brit," he stated, opening up the conversation.

Alfred's head dipped to the side in thought. "Not really. Not by birth anyway. New York, born and raised." Alfred pinned an inquisitive gaze on him. "I'd accuse you of the same."

"Montreal," Matthew replied, glancing at him over the rim of his glass. "So, little soldier-" Alfred feigned a wince, "Is that your father in those pictures?"

"Yeah," he said with a breathy laugh. "It's his place. Head chef, too. He's a born Brit," he explained. "Moved to New York, adopted me, and a few years ago we moved back here. Decided he didn't like desk jobs and opened a pub. Kind of a dream of his."

Matthew nodded, finding himself genuinely interested. "And you?"

"I found I didn't like desk jobs either," Alfred said with a wink. "Classic father-son duo, yeah?"

Matthew smiled; they had that in common. His food arrived and it looked and smelled like classic comfort food he found himself craving. Though, nothing could compare to the comfort food his papa made – extra cheesy quiche Lorraine and the fluffiest, full-to-bursting omelets were among his favorites.

Matthew dug in, not at all perturbed that Alfred had remained. "This is good," he said with gusto.

Alfred smiled. "I'll tell my dad of your high praise. Though between you and me," he leaned forward, conspiratorially, "He can't cook anything else. His burgers are an insult to my poor American forefathers, he burns fried rice, mutilates curry, and any Frenchman would have his head."

Matthew couldn't help his snicker, his own papa would most likely be that Frenchman. "You're secret is safe with me."

"Good."

Matthew swallowed and leaned away from Alfred's face, which he belatedly realized was only a foot from his. Alfred returned to making patrons' drinks with a sparkling side-glance sent Matthew's way, and Matthew continued eating with a barely concealed flush. Damn, that boy was handsome.

Matthew had entertained light conversation with Alfred once there was another lull in drink orders before leaving.

Back in his own restaurant Matthew hung his coat in the back and collapsed into a booth now that the lunch service was over. Francis was quick to slide in on the other side, a sly smile on his face.

"Well?" Francis prompted. "Mathieu, chouchou, what is it like?"

Matthew was about to say friendly, unexpected, attractive, but realized that those were words that better described the pub's charming bartender rather than the pub itself. His papa did not need to know that he was flirting on a mission. Lord knew he'd never hear the end of it. And not in an admonishing way, either.

"Tell me! Who is he, mon ange? What is he like? Are you seeing him? You should bring him for dinner! Papa knows just how to set the mood for love!" Matthew shuddered, he could practically hear him already.

Matthew shifted his thoughts from Alfred to what he remembered of the pub. "The inside was nice and the food was really good."

Francis's smile fell and he pouted. "That's not what I want to hear."

Matthew shrugged, smiling. "I told the truth. It looks like you've got some competition this time, Papa."

"These Brits wouldn't know good food even if it jumped into their mouths."

Matthew laughed and patted his papa on the shoulder as he stood. "That's why you're here to save the day."

Alfred was still thinking of Matthew a day later. It'd been a while since he'd successfully flirted with someone who flirted back. Matthew, with his wavy blond hair, big, light eyes, and slim frame, seemed like a delicate kind of guy on sight, but after talking with him Alfred learned that he indeed had some spine and a snarky tendency to boot. And Alfred found the combination something he was attracted to.

But it wasn't like his dad needed to know or he'd never hear the end of it. And not in a gushing, tell-me-everything way either.

"You've got to be wary of people, Alfred," Arthur would say. "Especially men," he'd spit. So a couple of his dad's boyfriends turned out to be assholes. Alfred held a considerably more positive view in that regard.

Besides, this was just a passing flirtation. Matthew didn't say he'd return, and Alfred didn't suggest it. Though he hoped he'd been charming enough to get Matthew to come back on his own.

It was noon and the lunch crowd was moseying in. Alfred assumed his post behind the bar next to the second bartender, Liam.

"Alfred," his father called, coming out of the kitchen.

"Yeah, Dad?" he answered.

"I have a job for you."

"Besides the one I'm paid to do?"

Arthur shot him a dry glare. "Witty. I need you to do a little investigating."

"Investigating?"

"Yes, boy, I want you to… do some research about the other restaurants around here."

"Dad," Alfred whined like a child. "I wrote enough in university. There's a reason I didn't get great marks on my papers."

"Not that kind of research!" Arthur waved his hand impatiently, used to the way Alfred's brain worked. "I mean I want you to go to that French bistro-" these words he said as if it were a revolting brothel and not a refined eatery, "down the street and see how they stack up."

"Oh," Alfred said, perking up at the mention of eating. "Are you paying?"

"Yes," Arthur sighed, handing him his credit card.

"I'm going alone?"

"You're a big lad, you'll survive." He rolled his eyes before grumbling, "Though I can't say you'll survive whatever frog-food they serve."

His father's grumblings went unacknowledged, like always, and Alfred skipped around the bar to grab his jacket from the hook by the door.

"Thanks, Dad! Be back in a bit!"

With the thought of a free meal keeping a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, Alfred pushed open the door to Le Petit Ange. Somewhere in the back of his brain he knew it meant The Little Angel.

The interior was certainly angelic. The space was bright, uncluttered, and clean. The hostess led him to a pristine, white tableclothed two-top near the windows, the booths already filled.

He read the menu, a small bistro menu with an extensive wine list. Alfred didn't know very much about wine.

His gaze shifted to a movement at the kitchen door. A man, a waiter, opened the door with his back, balanced on his hand was a glass of sparkling water on a tray.

Alfred's mouth fell open. He'd been thinking about that wavy blond hair all day.

The fates confirmed his suspicion when the man turned around, and there was Matthew, handsomely dressed in a trim, white button up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and black slacks. Alfred swallowed and automatically wiped his hands on his jeans.

Matthew locked eyes with him and he stumbled a bit, righting himself quickly and proceeding straight-backed to Alfred's table.

"Matt," Alfred greeted with a grin.

"Alfred," Matthew replied, more shocked than Alfred was surprised. Matthew seemed to remember his duties and placed the glass in front of him before resuming his unmoving stance, eyes scaling Alfred up and down.

Then Matthew did something that took Alfred off guard. He cocked his head to the side, his hair swaying, his eyes slyly narrowing behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a knowing smile curled his lips. "Are you spying for your father?"

His handsome face and his playful accusation had Alfred dropping his jaw with nothing to say and a light blush betraying his effort to stay composed.

He uttered a few embarrassing sounds before it clicked in his head. "Wait a minute," he said. "Yesterday, were you spying?"

He succeeded in making Matthew stutter and the sly look in his eye was replaced with doe-eyed bewilderment.

"No, I…" Matthew tried. He sighed. "Fine, yes, I was."

"Well," Alfred snickered. "We've both been caught. No reason to keep up any pretenses. Did your boss send you to our place?"

"Ah, yeah." Matthew rubbed the back of his neck. "My boss would be my father. He's the owner and executive chef."

Another thought clicked in Alfred's mind and he smiled mischievously. "Let me guess, you're le petit ange?"

At this, Matthew visibly flushed and rolled his eyes. "Papa is fond of pet names. And your pronunciation is horrible."

Alfred laughed, glad he wasn't the only victim of embarrassing fatherly quirks. "Well French was never encouraged in my home, so my apologies."

Matthew's lips quirked up. "We'll just see what you think, then. What will you have?"

Alfred glanced dumbly at the menu once more. "I won't try to pronounce half the things on this menu, so surprise me," he said with a wink, mimicking Matthew's words from the previous day.

Their flirtation picked up where it left off at the bar and Alfred was relieved. Maybe this time he could get Matthew's number out of it. Matthew left his table with the promise of a worthy surprise.

Alfred liked what he saw in the bistro. It was warm, inviting, and customers were enjoying themselves with laughter and conversation. Alfred sipped at his glass, gazing out the window and watching people pass by. Inside, Matthew navigated gracefully from table to table, taking plates and glasses away.

When he returned with his food, Alfred's eyes lit with the voracious hunger he was known for.

"I'm sticking to classics with you, since I doubt you've had experience with French food," Matthew said playfully.

Alfred shook his head. "Dad is a Brit through and through."

Matthew set an aromatic soup in front of him, and his mouth watered. "French onion soup, first," he said. "As it should taste."

Alfred smiled in response to Matthew's genuine pride. Matthew left him once again and Alfred tasted the soup. And Alfred thought he might never leave. If this was only the first course, then Alfred was prepared to set up camp.

Matthew returned once he had finished, an expectant look shining behind his glasses. "Well?"

Alfred held his chin in his hand, faux dreaminess softening his gaze on Matthew. "Can your dad adopt me?"

Matthew chuckled and Alfred liked the way his eyes crinkled. "It's a little late for that. I'll be out with your main in a moment."

Matthew's choice of main course didn't disappoint either. "Beef Bourguignon," he said, placing it in front of Alfred. "Perfect for a chilly day like today."

Alfred's father made plenty of stews, and they were a favorite of Alfred's, but this one was something else. He loved it and showered more praise onto Matthew when he returned.

Dessert was what launched Alfred's opinion of the bistro into the stars.

"And last, you can't go wrong with crème brûlée." Matthew stayed this time, watching Alfred's higher brain function cease.

"I'm never going to leave," Alfred stated.

"I don't think your dad would appreciate that," Matthew replied.

Alfred waved a hand, "He'll get over it." He looked at the time and winced. "Though I am actually supposed to get back to work. Dad sent me over here before I could start."

"Then I'll be right back with the check."

Alfred wasn't too sure – he was still riding his high from dessert – but Matthew sounded extra flirty.

His suspicions were correct when Matthew gave him the small black folder and sent one last wink over his shoulder as he breezed by. On the customer receipt, Matthew had written his number and "I get off at 10."

Alfred grinned at the elegant script.

"What took you so long? Did you get lost?" Arthur teased as Alfred hung his coat at the door and skirted the bar.

He sighed, partly because of his undeniable crush on Matthew and partly because of the delicious food.

"So what's it like over there?" Arthur began apprehensively.

"Wonderful, elegant, fascinating," he replied dreamily. Arthur scoffed and Alfred realized those words described Matthew, not necessarily the restaurant. But his dad didn't seem to notice.

"The damn frog has the best reviews around here too. We're just going to have to show them."

Alfred would show him alright.

At 9:30, Matthew received a text from Alfred.

Clocked out. Pick u up for a drink at 10?

Matthew smiled. Love to.

"Oh, Mathieu," he heard his papa's sing-song voice. "Any plans for tonight?"

He glanced up and Francis wore the most cunning smile. "I don't know what you mean, Papa."

"You can't fool me," Francis said sweetly. "That is the smile of someone talking with their petit."

Sometimes, Matthew preferred outing it to Francis's often torturous inquisitions. "We're just going out for drinks. I only met him yesterday."

"And who might this be?"

"Um," Matthew wavered. "His name is Alfred." Francis didn't need to know he was the son of his rival.

Matthew was surprised. He expected twenty questions from his papa but Francis only smiled proudly and resumed closing the kitchen. Thankfully, he stayed out of sight when Matthew spotted Alfred waiting under the awning right at 10.

Matthew traded his serving apron for his red coat and called out a good-night to Francis before leaving.

"So," Alfred began as they walked to a bar a couple blocks away. "Did you tell your dad I was there today?"

Matthew glanced at him, noting that now that they were standing next to each other, they were practically the same height. He laughed a little. "No, I didn't. Did you tell your dad I was there?"

"Nope," Alfred smiled. "It's probably for the best. Dad would start World War III if he knew I were fraternizing with the enemy." At this he winked a blue eye and Matthew found he liked that shade of blue. Bright as the sky on a summer day.

He didn't think his papa would start World War III, per se, but he definitely didn't see the need for him to know their goings-on.

He dryly wondered how long that would last.

About 2 more chapters ahead. Thanks for reading!