by Beth Bolden
“I’m making shrimp with a corn salsa,” Wyatt confirmed. “I hope that’s okay.”
“I told you. Anything you want to do is fine by me.”
“What about foods you don’t like?”
Ryan shot Wyatt a teasing, chastising look. “Starting the interrogation back up, I see.”
“It’s not an interrogation. And yeah, we got a little . . . derailed before.” Wyatt willed himself not to flush, but the reminder was all he needed to go hot and then cold all over. He didn’t know how they could still work together after the sex they’d had. Maybe that was the real question he should be asking, not what Ryan’s least-favorite foods were.
“It was all—okay, mostly—your fault. Though it wasn’t like I was complaining that you decided to get a little unprofessional.”
Wyatt stiffened. And not in the good way. “I wasn’t . . . I mean . . . I’m . . .”
Ryan held up a hand, and his smile was a little sad. Too much like he’d looked that first night at Temple. “If you apologize for having sex with me, great sex, mind you, I’m going to be offended.”
“I won’t, then,” Wyatt said, even attempting a smile of his own. But he wasn’t sure he’d been any more successful than Ryan.
Imagine being so torn up that you couldn’t be in a fake relationship with someone. Wyatt figured it was pretty damn clear that he was willing to take just about anything Ryan could offer him.
“Foods I don’t like . . . olives. This is an olive-free house.”
“Olive oil?” Wyatt asked.
“Does it taste like olives?” Ryan asked archly.
“It’d better not,” Wyatt said. He placed the cleaned cobs in a deep bowl and started slicing off corn kernels.
“I’m olive oil neutral then,” Ryan said.
“What else?” Wyatt asked.
“Beets. Pickles—except maybe in a Cuban sandwich.”
“Good call,” Wyatt said approvingly. “There’s nothing like a really good Cuban.”
“Can you make one?”
Wyatt pulled tomatoes out of the wire basket he’d bought today. At least Tabitha and Ryan had known where to put these. He’d searched for the garlic for five minutes, only to find it in the produce drawer of the fridge.
He guessed Tabitha wasn’t kidding that she and Ryan didn’t spend much time in the kitchen.
“A Cuban? Um, yes. Definitely.”
“Can I make requests? Is that allowed?”
Wyatt let his knife slice rhythmically through the tomato. It steadied him, even when he wanted to fly out of his own skin. Or fuck Ryan again. “You’re the boss. What’s allowed is up to you.”
“What would I have been if you’d said yes this afternoon?” Ryan asked, voice soft.
Wyatt’s knife hesitated. The ripe tomato, like his heart, bruised a little under the pressure of the knife. “The guy you were dating, I guess. Bonus: he cooks, too.”
It was hard not to hear the hurt edge to Ryan’s voice, and it was impossible to deny that he’d been eager before. Ryan had wanted this. Real or not real. And Wyatt could only assume it might have become real. Maybe.
“And now I’m your boss again,” Ryan said, and he sounded frustrated.
“You made it clear this fake boyfriend was something you needed. I’m assuming you’re planning on hooking up with him, whoever he is.”
“That was the plan.” Ryan wasn’t even hiding his regret.
“So you’re my boss, and hopefully, maybe we can figure out how to be friends.” Wyatt already knew it wasn’t going to be enough; but it was better than nothing.
“Is that what you want?” Ryan asked cautiously.
The chopped tomato got dumped unceremoniously into the bowl with the corn. Wyatt tackled a red onion next, chopping it a bit more forcefully than was entirely necessary. “It’s not what I want,” he said. “But it’s reality.”
“We can be friends,” Ryan said. There was an understandable lack of enthusiasm—which Wyatt totally got. There was a decided lack of getting naked in being “just friends.”
But the alternative was worse. It meant losing moments like this, and even though they’d only just met, Wyatt already knew Ryan was important. Truthfully, he’d known from the first moment, and every successive moment since convinced him he’d been right. Not for the first time, Wyatt thought that maybe even a fake relationship with Ryan might be worth jeopardizing what he’d spent so many years protecting.
Wyatt pushed the thought away, along with all the negative ones. They would make this work; they would figure something out. He hadn’t missed how Ryan looked at him, too. “I asked Tabitha how you met, and she told me that you were a snotty kid from Stanford.”
Ryan laughed, and like he’d hoped, the mood lightened. “I know it’s tough to believe.”
Wyatt finished with the onions and moved onto the bundle of cilantro by the cutting board. “Actually, not really.”
In the middle of stealing a tomato chunk from the bowl between them, Ryan made an outraged noise and instead of popping it in his mouth, tossed it with deadly accuracy at Wyatt’s face.
Ryan wasn’t a professional baseball player—a shortstop, even—for nothing. The tomato landed with a plop against its target: Wyatt’s cheek.
Wyatt had a vision of the walls of this kitchen spattered with red tomato juice and the floors peppered with corn kernels as Ryan pushed him up against the island, devouring him like he was all the food he needed.
“Shit. I think I promised you I wouldn’t throw anything.” Ryan sounded unsure, like he wasn’t sure if Wyatt was pissed or not.
“It’s not a plate. It’s not a knife or a pot full of hot water.” He looked up and shot him a quick grin. “I think I’ll live from a tiny tomato.” To illustrate his point, he flipped it into his open mouth.
“Imagine my relief you’re going to survive,” Ryan said with a laugh.
“So you were a snotty kid from Stanford and Tabitha wrote your coming out profile.” Wyatt kept coming back to his friendship with Tabitha because it not only seemed fascinating from the outside, she seemed to be one of the most important people in his life.
“Did she tell you that?” Ryan asked curiously.
“Yes, but she didn’t have to. I thought back to a few years ago and realized where I’d seen her before. On ESPN, giving an interview, right after the story broke.”
“She’s got a memorable face,” Ryan said.
Wyatt rolled his eyes.
“Okay, she’s generally pretty memorable,” Ryan admitted.
“And nice,” Wyatt added.
It was Ryan’s turn to roll his eyes. “Not even close. Tabitha is a lot of things; beautiful, smart . . . unsurprisingly deadly, but she’s not really nice.”
“I think the honesty is nice.” It had also been unexpected to find Ryan, a professional athlete, so close to someone who would unapologetically call him out on his own bullshit.
“She keeps me grounded. Keeps me honest. Keeps me real. Sometimes,” Ryan hesitated, “sometimes it’s easy to get lost. And she’s always found me.”
“That’s what my nana has always been for me,” Wyatt volunteered. He didn’t want to revisit their earlier conversation; he definitely did not want to discuss his reluctance to come out of the closet, but Ryan still needed to understand why the reluctance was there. How vital to his life his grandmother was. “My mom died when I was a teenager, and my dad was never really around much. So she’s really all I have.”
“My mom is great and all,” Ryan said, propping his elbows on the counter and leaning on them. His dark eyes were contemplative. “But it’s my aunt I’m closest to. She could probably go toe-to-toe with you in the kitchen and might even come out on top.”
“Not a professional?” Wyatt asked.
“Just a home cook, but the Puerto Rican food she makes is to die for. Better than any restaurant, here or back home.”
At Wyatt’s curious look, Ryan continued. “I go back. Work with some charit
ies. I was born here, but I can’t forget where I came from. I might be a good baseball player but I’d be a shitty person if I did that.”
“Is she in the area?” Wyatt asked, and Ryan nodded. “Maybe she’d be willing to teach me sometime. I’d love to learn to cook some Puerto Rican specialties.”
Ryan looked surprised, which Wyatt shouldn’t have let get to him, but it did anyway. “Really?”
“Of course. And not just for your benefit either. For my own.”
“Yeah, I’ll talk to her. Maybe arrange something next week.”
“Maybe she can even teach you something,” Wyatt added slyly.
“How do you know she hasn’t already?” Ryan asked with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe I’m fantastic.”
Wyatt couldn’t have denied it even if he wanted to; Ryan was fantastic. Just not in the kitchen. He held out the big chef’s knife he’d been using to clean and chop the cilantro. “Come here and show me then.”
The way Ryan eyed the knife was proof enough, but Wyatt was genuinely curious how much Ryan knew. He ignored the spark of electricity that pulsed through him when Ryan took the knife and their fingers brushed.
A micro-second, and he was stupidly breathless.
“What is this?” Ryan asked, frown creasing his brows. “Some sort of weed?”
Wyatt sighed. “It’s official, you are not fantastic. It’s cilantro.”
“Oh, that goes in guacamole, right?”
“And about a thousand other things.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Ryan played lost, hefting the knife up and posing like he was at the plate.
“Are you really going to pretend like you don’t know how to chop so I’ll conveniently come closer and show you?”
Ryan batted his eyelashes. “Would it work?”
Too well, Wyatt thought, but before he said it out loud, he remembered that they were supposed to be working on being friends.
Shoving his crotch against Ryan’s incredible ass was not a proposition that would ever lead to platonic friendship.
“Sorry,” Ryan said awkwardly into the silence that had descended between them. “It’s sort of my natural inclination to flirt outrageously with the hottest guy in the room.”
“Or the only guy in the room,” Wyatt pointed out wryly.
Ryan didn’t need to say that he’d gone after him that night at Temple, and he definitely hadn’t been the only guy in the room then. He only shot Wyatt a significant look that said it for him.
“I need to check in with Eric. How long until dinner?”
As much as Wyatt wanted Ryan to stay in the kitchen and keep flirting outrageously, it was definitely better for him to put some distance between them.
It was only the first day of them attempting friendship, and Wyatt had a feeling it wasn’t going to get easier—and it was already god damned hard.
“Half an hour or so?” Wyatt said, quickly calculating the remaining tasks he had to do.
“Perfect.” And then he disappeared, pulling his phone out of his pocket, and leaving Wyatt to dinner and his increasing dilemma. “And you’re going to eat with me. None of this upstairs, downstairs bullshit. We’re friends, remember?”
Despite how terrible this day had ended up becoming, Wyatt couldn’t help but smile.
* * *
“That was fucking incredible,” Ryan said, leaning back on the sofa, and rubbing his flat stomach. Wyatt remembered the flex of his abs as he’d nibbled his way down them just the night before.
The night before they’d been unabashedly making out on this couch. Now they were sitting a healthy distance apart, and Ryan had put on a nature documentary without even asking Wyatt what he wanted to watch.
Wyatt had gotten the memo though; they needed to put some metaphoric and actual space between them, before they both forgot that this couldn’t go anywhere.
He knew he should be relieved that Ryan had stopped trying to seduce him; he wasn’t.
“Thanks,” Wyatt said. “I was a little concerned that you wouldn’t like my food after you hired me.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “You’re one of the best chefs in the world. What is there to worry about?”
Wyatt might not have the stone-cold arrogance that some chefs had, but he’d always believed, deep down, that people should eat and enjoy what he served.
It was more complicated to address Ryan, because from the beginning he had never been just another diner to Wyatt. Not even just another boss.
It was probably a symptom of Ryan giving him a blowjob before Wyatt had ever imagined he could work for him. Or maybe it was because the first night they’d met, before they’d ever spoken, Wyatt hadn’t been able to look away from his face.
“Want to make sure you’re satisfied,” Wyatt pointed out. And then flushed when he belatedly realized how that sounded.
Ryan chuckled humorlessly. “My stomach certainly is.”
Wyatt didn’t know what to say, so he said the wrong thing. It was a lifelong habit; one he regularly cursed. This was absolutely no exception. “So what happens now? You find some other guy to pretend to date?”
Ryan’s face closed off instantly. “Basically, yeah,” he said.
“Is that what you were calling Eric about?” Wyatt knew he was pushing; it wasn’t fair to either of them, but despite all his best intentions and his resolve, he wanted to know if the offer was still open.
Could he still change his mind?
Could he still drive up to Napa and confess all to Nana?
Ryan would probably even come with him, if he asked. All he would have to do was kneel in front of her chair, feel her blue-eyed benediction on his face, and tell her the truth.
It would be wonderful, but it might also be horrible.
She might never forgive him for lying. She might not ever forgive him for who he was.
Something of his indecision must have flashed across his face because Ryan stood abruptly. “We had a lot to talk about.” He barely paused as he walked out of the room, plate in hand. “That was great, thanks. I’ve got some . . . stuff to do.”
Wyatt was barely to the kitchen when he heard the garage door open and the throaty purr of the Tesla engine as it pulled out of the driveway.
It was only when he was elbow-deep in hot soapy water, washing the dishes from dinner, that he realized that Ryan had avoided the question, and then not answered it at all.
Chapter Seven
Ryan knew he should have told Eric during their phone call that he’d asked Wyatt and Wyatt had turned down everything that didn’t involve a kitchen, but Ryan was still aching over the whole conversation. Especially over the noticeable conflict and pain in Wyatt’s voice when he’d turned Ryan down.
He hadn’t wanted to say no, that much was obvious. But Ryan understood that sometimes coming out was difficult, and sometimes it was impossible.
That acknowledgement didn’t stop him from lying in bed the next morning, staring at the ceiling, wishing that Wyatt’s situation was different. Maybe it was a little selfish, because that might mean Ryan’s situation would be different, but he reminded himself that there was no harm in wishing for things that would benefit everyone.
Just like there was no harm in a little flirting, as long as he didn’t fall in too deep and hurt them both all over again.
It was also better, Ryan decided, for him to stay in his room and indulge in his melancholy mood than try to use Wyatt to improve it.
Wyatt also wanted to know when Ryan was going to start bringing around a cute boy to play his boyfriend, and probably play with other things, and he couldn’t blame him for that. It was probably going to hurt like hell.
What Ryan couldn’t acknowledge to him, was that it wasn’t just going to hurt Wyatt. Ryan didn’t want to play house with someone else. Not when who he really wanted was on the sidelines, watching.
And that was why he hadn’t told Eric. Eric would have had a backup there that afternoon, probably all trendy haircut
and tight pants and gym abs.
It was funny, Ryan thought as he shifted in his bed, realizing he was going to have to change his sheets because they still smelled like Wyatt and what they’d done the other night, because those things would have easily been enough to attract him only a few weeks ago.
He hadn’t been picky about his hookups, but those had usually been things he wanted. And if he was lucky, he might even find them all in the same guy. But then he’d met Wyatt and suddenly he wanted something else: muscular forearms from knife work and constantly lifting heavy pans; blond hair half-messy from the wind; the intriguing hints of vulnerability that Wyatt revealed because he wasn’t trying to be sexy or mysterious all the damn time.
Tabitha had been so right about what she’d whispered into his ear yesterday afternoon; he’d gotten in too deep and now he was fucked.
He could call up Eric today and tell him the whole thing was off. There had been no guarantees it would even change the GM’s mind about Ryan. But Eric had unbelievable instincts when it came to contract negotiation and there was a very good chance he was right.
Telling Eric it was off was as good as acknowledging that he was willing to leave this city, his friends and his family behind. And while it was shitty that his fake boyfriend couldn’t be Wyatt, this was his life. Even for someone who generally lived by the seat of his pants, there had to be weight to this decision.
“Fuck,” Ryan told the ceiling. “Fuck all of this.”
The ceiling didn’t reply, which was probably better in the end.
He thought about calling Tabby and whining to her but he’d already unloaded on her twice yesterday, and he couldn’t in good conscience do it again the next day. But he still couldn’t bring himself to call Eric and tell him the truth.
Glancing out the partly open window showed a beautiful blue sky beckoned and Ryan decided that if he wanted to keep pouting, then he might as well spend time with someone who wouldn’t get annoyed with him.
Or something.
He was in board shorts and a tank top, grabbing his phone and the keys to the Range Rover before he could change his mind. It was easy enough to pull his surfboard off the wall and maneuver it to the rack on top of the Range Rover.
