by Beth Bolden
There was only a split second before Wyatt knew he couldn’t contain the building pressure anymore, and curled his hands possessively around Ryan’s face, feeling the shape of his dick against Ryan’s cheek, and it was all over.
The orgasm was like a roaring wave, overtaking him, emptying him out of everything—except this endless need to do it again, and again, and again.
“Sorry,” Wyatt breathed out after he was able to speak again. “I’m so sorry.” He’d been sort of rude, coming with almost no warning, assuming that Ryan would swallow.
But Ryan’s expression as he stood was anything but pissed off. In fact, he looked smug as hell as he reached for Wyatt’s hand, and placed it against his crotch. It was wet, and Wyatt stared at Ryan as he realized what had happened.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Ryan said. “Clearly I thought it was pretty damn hot.”
The only problem with that was that now Wyatt wasn’t going to get to take Ryan apart with his mouth, and his tongue and his fingers, or his cock. It didn’t feel fair, and it left him feeling sort of hollow, now that this otherworldly encounter was drawing to an end.
“Well, uh, I just . . .” Wyatt didn’t know what to say. His brain still felt sluggish after the orgasm of the millennium.
“It’s okay,” Ryan said, giving his thigh a reassuring squeeze. “I was staring at you too. And doing my own share of fantasizing. It was sort of inevitable.”
“If you say so.” Even though he’d had plenty of guys tell him how hot he was, Wyatt always had trouble accepting it. Especially now, from someone like Ryan. He could have had anyone he wanted, and he’d picked Wyatt.
“I do,” Ryan said, and leaned over, kissing him again. Wyatt tasted himself on Ryan’s tongue, and told himself that even if this was just a passing, quick thing to the other man, he wasn’t going to forget. He would remember the rippled smoothness of skin over muscle, the strangled gasp Ryan had made when he’d pinched his nipple, the taste of his come on Ryan’s tongue.
Finally, it was time for the inevitable. “I guess I’d better get you home,” Wyatt said. “I promised I would.”
“You strike me as the kind of guy who tries to keep his promises,” Ryan said casually.
Wyatt thought he was, unless you were counting the many lies he’d told his own family about who he was. He nodded.
“Then, I guess there’s nothing else for you to do,” Ryan said, shooting Wyatt another one of those dimpled grins. It hurt that he seemed so casual about it, like none of this really mattered. And, Wyatt reminded himself, it probably didn’t. Not to Ryan.
That was okay. Wyatt would have to be okay with it.
Ryan told Wyatt his address, and he punched it into his phone, quickly flicking through the map to make sure he knew the route. Wyatt only realized as they were near their destination, making their way up the coast, towards Santa Monica, that even though he’d had his phone out, Ryan hadn’t given him his phone number.
It was hard to enjoy that last five minutes of Ryan wrapped around him, the cool night air whistling past them, because that hurt. It shouldn’t have, because Ryan had never made him a single promise, or made a single assumption, but it still god damned ached.
But Wyatt didn’t want to be that guy, the one who overshared and overstayed and didn’t know when to quit, so he just smiled, and then smiled more, as Ryan got off the bike in front of the big double-gated entrance to his mansion.
“Thanks for the ride,” Ryan said, and leaned over, brushing a single kiss across Wyatt’s cheek. Somehow, that meant more than some torrid, heated kiss, but it still hurt more than Wyatt could have guessed when Ryan turned to go.
“See you around,” Wyatt said stupidly, because he didn’t know what else to say. He’d had hookups before, but none of them had ever felt like this.
It had never felt like someone had carved his heart out of his chest and had taken it with them when they left.
Ryan turned, and flashed Wyatt one last smile. “Yeah,” he said, clearly amused by Wyatt’s choice of parting remark, “I’ll see you around.”
Chapter Two
It was not ideal, but Wyatt went to his interview on a handful of hours of sleep and a melancholy edge to his mood. He was generally pretty easy-going, with a sunny, optimistic disposition. Becoming the leader of the family and being forced to put his beloved Nana in a memory care facility he couldn’t really afford had changed him. He knew he’d gotten quieter and more withdrawn, a heap of serious problems he couldn’t solve weighing him down.
Miles, his best friend, had told him last week that he was growing up. But Wyatt didn’t think so. He was the same as always, he just needed something to take the edge off. Last night, Ryan had provided a much-needed distraction, a temporary lessening of the pressure he was living with, but it hadn’t been enough.
In fact, coming to terms with the fact that Ryan was so temporary was part of what caused his latest bad mood. Even the thought that he could be making more money after today wasn’t much of a consolation. “It’s for a private chef position,” was all Reed Ryan, the connection that had gotten Wyatt his interview, had said. Reed’s description didn’t exactly excite Wyatt. He didn’t really want to stay at Terroir, and continue to get verbally abused by his boss, Bastian Aquino, for shitty pay, but he also didn’t want to get paid to babysit and make peanut butter sandwiches with no crusts for a spoiled Beverly Hills family.
The fact that he badly needed the money was the only reason he showed up at all.
He was shown into the conference room in the trendy LA office building, and was just about to sit down at one end of the shining expanse of glass when a man entered the room, proving to Wyatt everything he’d assumed about this client.
The suit alone probably cost more than a year at Nana’s facility, and Wyatt couldn’t even begin to price out the watch. It was clearly expensive, real diamonds shining on the face, and the man wore it carelessly, like he had a dozen more. He probably did, Wyatt thought darkly. His face was scrunched tight and there was something untrustworthy about it, a slyness in the eyes that Wyatt couldn’t miss. Wyatt didn’t know if he could work for this man, even if the money was good.
“Hi, I’m Eric Talbot,” the man said, extending a hand, which Wyatt shook firmly. He looked him in the eye, and tried to do everything else he remembered from that long-ago high school class in interview skills. Of course he’d had interviews after culinary school—for the jobs he’d gotten at other restaurants, and then at Terroir, but they were never like normal interviews. Nobody cared if you could communicate worth a damn in a restaurant; they only cared if you could cook.
“Wyatt Blake.”
Eric settled down on one of the ultra-modern sculpted chairs, metal and clear acrylic married together in a tortured formation. Wyatt followed suit and waited a long, expectant moment for the interview to start.
“I’m sorry, we’re waiting for the client,” Eric said. “He’s usually really punctual, but he texted me to say that traffic was brutal today.”
This guy who looked like he could buy and sell Wyatt’s whole family wasn’t even the client? The client was even richer? Wyatt briefly considered telling him to just forget the whole thing, because this had been a huge mistake. He was meant to be in a restaurant kitchen. He was meant to wow patrons with his dazzling culinary skills. He wasn’t meant to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grilled chicken breasts with steamed vegetables on the side. Yet, he couldn’t help but be relieved Eric Talbot wouldn’t be his boss.
In the end, the only thing that kept Wyatt’s butt in his seat were the bills that kept piling up. This job would be worth it, if Wyatt could keep them paid and at bay. The stress alone felt like it was slowly crushing him. Even making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would be a decent exchange for a loosening of the noose around his neck.
“The client?” Wyatt asked. Reed had given him next to no information about this interview, other than date and time, and even Wyatt thought that was
odd. Weren’t you supposed to do research and go prepared to these sorts of things? How could he research someone he didn’t know?
“My client, actually,” Eric Talbot said with a friendly grin that made him look marginally less like a bloodthirsty piranha. “I manage . . .”
Eric didn’t get the rest of the sentence out before the door opened and Wyatt damned everything to hell and back.
This morning Ryan Flores was dressed in jeans and a sky-blue polo shirt, looking as fucking cute as he had the night before. Wyatt would have picked him up a hundred times out of a hundred, and there was no way it was a coincidence that Ryan had picked him up first and then just happened to be interviewing him today. Ryan didn’t even look surprised that Wyatt was here, asking to join his staff. Wyatt tried to let that sink in. Ryan hadn’t just been out of his league, he was in a different universe. And he was a liar. Somehow the former felt worse than the latter.
“Hi, I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m Ryan.” Ryan extended his hand towards Wyatt, clearly having decided that he was going to play this like they had never met before, like they’d never hooked up, like he’d never pursued Wyatt at all. Like Wyatt hadn’t wasted three hours of his life and a hookup with the hot angel bartender, staring at Ryan like he was something important and worthwhile.
“Wyatt.” He stood, held out his hand to shake. He couldn’t help but think about the night before, when he’d deliberately not shared his last name. And now it felt stupid and foolish, because Ryan must have known it the whole time. “Wyatt Blake.”
It was impossible to avoid touching Ryan, but Wyatt kept the handshake brief, nothing like the intimate meeting of fingers and palms that they’d experienced the night before. Still, even the echo of it rocketed through Wyatt, and as he sat down, he slipped his hand under the table, clenching it painfully around his knee. He didn’t want to be affected by Ryan’s touch. Or the knowledge that Ryan had known they’d meet again this morning.
His words from the night before reverberated through Wyatt’s brain. Yeah, I’ll see you around.
The joke was definitely on Wyatt.
“Your resume is certainly impressive,” Eric said, kicking off the interview portion. There was nothing Wyatt wanted more than to stop him right in his tracks, and walk out. Because whatever this was, he wasn’t sure he wanted a part of it. But the starting salary kept him in the chair. Maybe it would be better to work for Ryan than to work for a spoiled family. It was theoretically possible, he surmised, and he should at least listen to the pitch.
“If I’m reading this correctly,” Ryan said, glancing down at the copy of the resume that Eric had slid across the table to him, “you took a position demotion and a pay cut to work at Terroir.”
“I did.” At the time, with Nana not yet feeling the effects of her Alzheimer’s, it had been a no-brainer. He’d saved on expenses by moving in with Miles and his other roommate, Xander, and it had been worth the demotion from sous chef to line cook, to work at Terroir, one of the most celebrated restaurants in the United States, and the only restaurant in California to have the difficult-to-obtain Michelin stars.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, so casual, like he hadn’t been on his knees less than twelve hours ago. “Can you explain your thought process behind that decision?”
“It does look like an odd choice,” Wyatt admitted. He wasn’t happy about defending his decisions, but he would do it. “Even with the demotion, working at Terroir transformed my resume. It’s one of the best restaurants in America. Working there proved that I could cook in one of the most demanding, exacting kitchens in the world.”
Ryan tapped a pen on the glass conference table. “But now, you’re leaving.”
“I’ve worked there almost two years. It’s time to move on.” Wyatt didn’t want to bring up the pressing financial situation that was forcing this change, but he had a feeling that Ryan and Eric had already dug up that information. Eric in particular didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would leave anything to chance—and he wouldn’t waste his time or his client’s.
So even if Ryan was choosing to grill him, Wyatt had a feeling the job was essentially his. If he wanted it.
The million-dollar question of the day.
“This job requires someone who can manage themselves successfully. You mentioned that Terroir was demanding and exacting. I’ve heard Bastian Aquino can be a tough boss. Do you think you can successfully transition to working without supervision?” Eric asked.
Wyatt almost laughed. “Oh, definitely. In fact, it would be pretty welcome,” he admitted wryly.
“You’ve never been head of a kitchen before,” Ryan inserted.
“Sure, I have,” Wyatt said. “My own kitchen. Is yours going to be so different?”
Ryan inclined his head, a hint of a smile on his face. “No. Actually, it shouldn’t be.”
“Can I ask why you even need a personal chef?” Wyatt asked. He figured it was fair that he interview Ryan—especially considering he’d obscured his motives last night—even as Ryan was interviewing him.
“I’m going to be doing more entertaining. It feels like I’m always sending out for food. It would be nice to not worry about it anymore. There would be nutrition guidelines provided by my trainer that you’d have to follow.”
“Not a problem. I can easily integrate those into meal plans,” Wyatt said.
“Do you have any more questions, Ryan?” Eric asked.
Ryan shook his head, and that basically ended the strangest interview of Wyatt’s career. He couldn’t imagine that Ryan wouldn’t want to taste his food if he was going to be cooking for him every day. But then, he’d never worked for someone who integrated blowjobs into his interview prep before.
Ryan’s behavior should be a turnoff—and it was—but it also left Wyatt curious. Even if Eric left, he didn’t know if he could ask Ryan what had been the goal last night. He didn’t know if he could bring up last night at all. Even before running into Ryan this morning, it had felt too raw to talk about.
“Here’s the compensation package.” Eric slid a single sheet of paper across the conference table. The starting salary listed had an extra digit than his current salary at Terroir. It was a no-brainer, even as his brain tried to talk him out of it.
He didn’t know Ryan’s intentions. His motives. Would he want to keep sleeping with Wyatt? Was this some sort of combined private chef/rent-boy position? Wyatt knew he should request to speak to Ryan in private and ask those questions, but instead he kept his mouth shut and nodded.
“When can you start?” Eric asked, like he had known if he threw money at Wyatt, he’d agree. And he, Wyatt thought bitterly, had been exactly right. He could totally be bought.
“I’ll give my two weeks tomorrow,” Wyatt said, clearing the bitterness out of his throat, “but I fully expect Aquino to kick me out immediately. He doesn’t like it when staff leaves. So I’ll be able to start in a few days.”
“The job includes free rent at the ADU on the back of Ryan’s house,” Eric said. “I don’t suppose you mind us running a background check. Standard procedure for anyone granted access to the property.” Another paper slid across the glass, along with a pen, and Wyatt scribbled his name without even reading the verbiage. He didn’t have anything to hide—unless the tryst he’d had with Ryan counted, and maybe it didn’t.
After all, Ryan was out of the closet. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted, including hook up with some random guy he met at Temple.
“Great,” Eric said. “I’ll also make sure to issue you a credit card for food purchases, and for any equipment purchases for the kitchen. Anything over $500 requires Ryan’s approval. But it’s pretty well-stocked already.”
Wyatt took that with a grain of salt. Well-stocked had different meanings to a professional chef than it did a sports agent who probably hadn’t been in a kitchen in years.
Ryan waved a hand, and gave Wyatt an intimate smile that made his stomach clench. “Don’t worry about it. You can
get whatever you need.”
Eric shot his client a hard look. “We talked about this.”
“Yeah, we did,” Ryan retorted. “And I made my decision.” If Eric wondered why Ryan would trust someone he’d only met for five minutes, he didn’t question it.
Eric rolled his eyes but didn’t say another word, simply got to his feet, indicating the interview was over. If it had even been an interview at all. “Nicole at the front will have the paperwork for you to fill out,” he said. “I expect you’ll let us know when you can officially start.” He held out his hand, and Wyatt stood to shake it again, and before he realized what was about to happen, he was alone again with Ryan.
Wyatt tensed. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Could he escape still? Claim he had to get back to Napa? Claim he had a desperate need to fill out paperwork?
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Ryan shot Wyatt an endearing smile. He looked more nervous now than he had picking up Wyatt last night. How was that even possible?
“I hope this is all okay,” Ryan said.
Wyatt was annoyed by how endeared he was. You wanted to manipulate him? Fine, just don’t pretend like you hadn’t. “I wouldn’t have agreed if it wasn’t okay.”
Ryan’s smile brightened, and Wyatt was frustratingly reminded of his own expressed desire to get him to smile more. He would be in a serious position to do that, if he chose to, now. But he was feeling backed into a corner, and the thought didn’t fill him with any anticipation.
“I’m glad you did.”
“I’m sure you are,” Wyatt said, and some of his frustration leaked into his voice. He wasn’t nearly as good at fronting as Ryan was. And that just annoyed him even more.
“I want us to be friends,” Ryan said.
Wyatt stared at him blankly. Seriously, friends? “You just hired me. I’m your employee.”
Ryan shrugged, like this was hardly a barrier to friendship. “Then you’re going to be around all the time. It’ll be great.”
