by RC Boldt
Still confused, I shake my head. “I’m not doing anything with her.”
“Bullshit.”
“Whatever.” I don’t need this shit. Turning away, he stops me in my tracks with his next words.
“She’s in love with you.”
I can only manage to stare at him dumbfounded. “What?”
“You heard me.” He gestures in the direction of the kitchen. “You think I’m stupid because I don’t have a fancy piece of paper saying I’m smart, but I know enough that you’re up to something.”
Throwing up a hand, I protest, “She doesn’t think of me as more than a friend!”
Fuck. Just admitting aloud that Maggie doesn’t love me in that way cuts deep.
Shaking my head, I feel my blood pressure rise, getting more pissed off at his words. “And you know very well I’ve never once said or implied you were stupid, Dad. I don’t care that you didn’t go to college. But you, apparently, have a huge issue with the fact that I did!”
“I just want what’s best for you!”
“Well, it’s not building shit with my bare hands!” I explode. “It’s never been what I wanted to do with my life! But you refuse to see that!” Attempting to calm myself, I inhale deeply. “I loved working with you when I was younger because we actually did things together. That’s what I enjoyed, Dad. I didn’t actually enjoy the act itself—I enjoyed being with you.”
My words appear to deflate him, his shoulders sinking, his entire expression wiped clean. But I’m not finished.
“I’m good at what I do, Dad. And it’s sure as hell not sitting in front of a monitor playing damn video games all day. I am the director of my department, and I love what I do; I love the technology I work with each day. I solve problems and refine procedures to make them even better. I use my”—I tap my index finger against my temple—“brain. Every. Single. Day.”
Feeling as though I’m running out of steam, I shake my head, glancing away. “All I want is for you to be proud of me. I’m not in jail, not addicted to drugs, and not on the streets. I’m Ry, a good guy—a good son—who has worked hard to make something of himself. Someone you should be proud to call your son.”
When he still says nothing, I run a hand wearily over my face. “Never mind,” I mutter, turning to head toward the kitchen, in the direction of the two people I know actually like me.
“Wait.”
I freeze at his quiet command. Not because he told me to wait but because of the way he just said it. There’s something underlying there in his tone. Remorse?
Inwardly, I snort at that, instantly dismissing it. There’s no way in hell my father—
“Ryland, I’m …” He trails off, and it’s only then that I turn to face him. “I’m sorry.”
They always say that it takes a big man—or woman, for that matter—to admit fault. And it’s true. My father’s a proud man and this? This is huge. Which means I have to look around in fear for lightning to strike.
“Don’t be a smartass.” He glares at me, knowing what I’m doing, but I see the gleam in his eyes.
Nodding slowly, I’m almost afraid to break the moment. “Thanks.”
We stare at one another for a beat, and just when it gets to the point of being uncomfortable, my father tosses his hands up. “Well, don’t just stand there making googly eyes at me. Get two beers and join me on the deck so we can talk about which buyout of my business I should accept.”
Stunned, it takes me a split second to realize what’s going on. My father actually wants to … talk with me.
Holy shit. Has something happened to my father that’s somehow made him soften?
“Don’t make me change my mind,” he grunts, turning on his heel and heading for the deck.
Nope. Nix that last thought. No fear of this guy softening.
He pauses with his handle on the door leading to the deck. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the other thing.” There’s a beat of silence. “With Maggie.” He exits, closing the door behind him.
Blowing out a long breath, it whooshes out. Of course, he wouldn’t forget about that little detail. Shit.
This means I’m going to have to come clean to my father. About my lies, which have snowballed. To the point where I don’t know how to get out from under any of it.
And about being gay, yet not being gay.
Fuck. I’ve managed to confuse even myself with that one.
Doesn’t mean that I don’t have a much lighter step as I approach the kitchen to get the beers. Because something’s happened, and I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I might just get something out of this Easter weekend.
I might just get my dad back in my life—as the father I’ve always wished for.
A supporter.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maggie
“You’re awfully quiet over there.” I peer curiously over at Ry as he concentrates on driving along the winding roads on our way back to Saratoga. He has that crease between his brows, lips pressed thin as if he’s lost in thought.
And it doesn’t appear as though they’re happy thoughts.
“Just thinking about some things my dad said when we talked.”
I wait, gazing at him, and wait some more. Until, finally, I realize that he doesn’t plan to elaborate.
“Aaaaand?”
Ry glances toward me briefly. “And nothing. I’m just mulling things over right now.” I allow my eyes to take in the deeper tan he got from when he took me kayaking and our many walks through downtown Lake Placid. The bridge of his nose is ever so slightly pink, and I have the strangest urge to press a light kiss to it.
Okay, so now I’m channeling my inner nursemaid? Oooookay, Maggie. Next, I’ll be imagining myself in a sexy nurse’s outfit with Ry bending me over an examination table and—
Whoa. Whoooaaa. Maybe it’s this upper elevation making me have these dirty thoughts about starring in my own cheesy porno or something.
Or maybe it’s the hot guy sitting beside you in the car? Maybe that’s it? Maybe he’d like it if my hand slid over to his lap and—
And, there she is, ladies and gentlemen. My inner dirty whore making a guest appearance.
Isn’t that just splendid?
Shifting in my seat, I attempt to ease my arousal and the dampening of my panties but garner Ry’s attention.
“You okay?”
“Yep.” I turn my eyes to the window, away from the delicious temptation sitting beside me. Trees, so many trees. Deciduous and coniferous, deciduous and coniferous, I repeat silently, attempting to calm myself and my apparently raging hormones. It’s ridiculous since it’s not like I haven’t had action. I mean, heck, just the other night, we—
Crap. Deciduous, coniferous, deciduous, coniferous. Think trees, Maggie. Think tall trees. Some bear fruit, some seeds. Some are firm and thick, just like Ry’s—
“So my dad and I actually had a good talk.”
Ry surprises me—not only with what he says but jarring me from my inner porno-licious brain. His tone is what draws my attention, though, because there’s a softness to it that’s not been present ever before when he’s mentioned his father.
“What did you guys talk about?”
“About college, my job and then he … asked for my input on whose buyout he should consider accepting.”
“Wow.” I’m stunned because that’s huge news.
“I think you’re my lucky charm, Mags.” He flashes me a smile before turning his attention back to the road. “Never had a breakthrough before like this.” With a deprecating laugh, he adds, “Not for lack of trying. So … thanks.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”
As soon as the words spill from my lips, I feel it. The discomfort of the words. The unease that ripples through me.
The dishonesty in them.
Watching him closely, his eyes trained on the winding road ahead, I wonder why his jaw clenches tight. My eyes are draw
n to his hands on the steering wheel, the knuckles nearly white in color at the force of his grip.
“Friends.” His voice is a flat monotone, and my throat tightens at the way he utters that single word.
Turning to stare sightlessly out the passenger side window, I wonder why that word elicits such a visceral reaction. And not only from him. Because when I uttered that word—friends—it had felt like I was nine and had just been caught spouting off a curse word by my mother. Like I could practically taste the nastiness on my tongue. Back then, it left a bad taste in my mouth because I knew I had done wrong, knew that my mother was upset with me.
Now, however, that word—although assuredly not a curse word in any way—felt like one the moment it slipped from my lips.
Never before in my life had I been so torn, so disheartened to use that word.
Friends. It’s somehow become a bad word in my mind. Because it means I’m in a box, restricted to only one category.
Regardless of how freaking much I wanted to cross over to a different one.
* * *
August
“My first thought when I saw you across the bar was I’d tap that like a maple tree,” a deep, masculine voice drawls in my ear, causing me to choke on my sip of wine.
Managing to get myself under control with an eye roll, I turn as Ry slides onto the barstool I’ve been saving for him. His grin is infectious, and I feel my lips curve upward, mirroring it.
It’s Friday, and we decided to meet for a quick drink after work at Chianti. They have the best selections for their “wines of the week” during happy hour.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks as Ry peruses the leather-bound wine list.
“I got the Merlot.” I tap my finger next to the listing.
Ry shakes his head with a deadpan expression. “Can’t. Merlot makes me slutty.”
The bartender throws his head back in a laugh while I roll my eyes. Ry ends up ordering a red blend.
“So,” I lean in, “any reason you chose this place tonight?”
“Um, because we haven’t been here in a while?” He appears thrown off by my question.
“Do you not recall what I said the last time we came here for happy hour?”
“Nope.”
“That this is a place,” I lean in closer, with a hushed tone, “where sweater vests go to die.”
Ry’s lips press thin, eyes dancing with amusement as he glances around at many of the other male patrons of the restaurant before coming back to rest on me. “I had forgotten about that.”
Turning my attention back to my wine, I look in the mirror on the wall of the bar. It’s creepy, right? The fact that I like to watch people in that mirror? It’s voyeuristic, yes, but most people don’t notice, and I like creating stories in my head.
“Your smirk is creepy.”
Instantly, my eyes fly to my own reflection, and I wipe it from my face, attempting to school my expression. Meeting Ry’s eyes in the mirror, for a split second, I swear I see something—heat in his eyes—but it’s gone in a flash. So quickly that I find myself wondering if it was just my imagination.
Ever since we had that “moment” Easter weekend at his parents’ house four months ago, we both adopted the unspoken “we aren’t going to bring up what happened” agreement. I’m grateful it didn’t screw up our friendship. And even though a part of me assumes he’s bisexual, I can’t consider broaching the subject because I don’t want to risk us getting pushed five steps back and result in me losing one of my best friends. Because that’s far more important to me. Plus, I’m pretty certain he doesn’t have those more-than-friends feelings for me, so it’s safer this way.
But times like this, when I swear I catch his heated looks, I can’t help but recall how hot it was to be with him.
Watching as he leans in, his shoulder brushing mine, our eyes remain locked on our reflections. “Want to play?” His mischievous grin tells me everything I need to know.
Smiling wide, I nod. “Absolutely.”
Our “game” is where we pick people and make up a backstory for them and, sometimes, make up dialogue for them. The more ridiculous, the better.
“Okay, that couple down there at three o’clock.”
My eyes flicker over, following Ry’s instructions, and I find the man and woman. She looks like her breasts might explode from her top, and is pressing them against the guy’s forearm—which he continues to shift away from to no avail—and the fact that the guy’s eyes aren’t permanently fixed on them says a lot. Plus, she looks way more into him while he continues to stir his drink even though it’s practically empty.
With both of our forearms braced on the bar top and our shoulders touching, I keep my eyes on the couple’s reflection while murmuring to Ry. “Their best friends—who are happily married or in a long-term relationship of some sort—set them up. She’s been bugging them for a while and, likely, the married guy’s friend bribed him somehow.”
“Tickets to a hockey game.”
“Or to the horse races. Maybe box seats or something?”
“Mmm, good one.”
“She’s saying something like”—I change my voice to sound ditzy and nasally—“‘Ooooh, Brantley. I’ve, like, been waiting to, like, press my boobs against your arm like this for yeeeaaaars. It’s like, all I’ve thought about.’”
Ry nudges me. “What about him? Eleven o’clock.”
My eyes flick over in the direction before my stomach promptly drops.
“Him?” I hear the faint weakness in my voice, coming out as a near whisper.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Mags.” He realizes who he’s inadvertently picked out. And I see why he didn’t initially recognize Shane, my ex, since he’s apparently dyed his hair—or, rather, had it highlighted. Which looks hideous.
That aside, he’s with the chick that I’d found him with. And they’re all cozy and snuggling together like one of those nauseating couples in love. The ones you gag over when you’re single and hating anyone or anything that represents a happy relationship and the ones who make you go, Awwww! when you’re happy and in love.
I guess I should be more grateful for the fact that I haven’t run into him before now. Thank goodness, we run in different circles.
Needless to say, it’s taking every ounce of my restraint not to start flinging every single one of the garnishes at them. And those garnishes are right here—so frigging close to me right now—that my fingertips are tingling with the urge to do it. Tingling, people! Those little maraschino cherries? Those would be so fun to fling over there. The olives? Even better if I managed to ping one of them in the eye. And then the juice would sting their eyes, and I’d toss my head back in one of those maniacal cackles like—
When strong fingers grasp my wrist tightly, my eyes jerk up in question, only to receive a stern look from Ry in return.
“I saw it, Mags.”
“Saw what?” I try to play off innocently. Why do I even bother? He knows me better than I know myself sometimes. Because he gives me one of those looks. The “Don’t try to bullshit me because I’ve got your number” look.
“They’re just fantasies,” I hiss.
“As long as they remain fantasies, Mags.” He eyes me sternly. “I know you’d regret it afterward and feel like an ass.”
Dang it. He’s so right. But, geez. Does he have to take the wind out of my sails like that?
Flagging the bartender’s attention, Ry pulls out his card to pay for our drinks as I sit dazed, attempting to discreetly watch the sight of my ex and his new love in the bar mirror. Finally, Ry guides me off the stool, and we stand, preparing to make our escape.
“Maggie.” I feel a jolt run through both Ry and myself at the sound of Shane’s voice. And the only response is a silent prayer.
Dear God, can you please stop hating on me? Sincerely, Maggie.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ry
There’s no way in hell I’m letting this asshole shit on
Maggie again. Tugging her close to my side, I smile down at her before turning an overly curious look at Shane.
“Hey, man.” I offer a hand. “Ryland James. And you are?”
He gives me the up-and-down perusal, as if I’m lacking in some way, before shaking my hand—weakly, I might add—and looks down his nose at me in the snootiest way. “Shane Douglas.”
Let me say this. As a guy—whether I’m pretending to be gay or not—there’s no chance in hell I’d put fucking highlights in my hair like this yahoo right here. Oh, and the best part is that he’s one of the guys Mags had been talking about earlier.
Because he’s wearing a sweater vest. A fucking sweater vest.
God, she dodged a damn bullet with this one.
“Great to meet you, Shawn.”
“It’s Sha—”
“My Mags and I were just heading home.” With a sly wink at the dickhead, I add, “My girl gets frisky after a glass of wine.”
Maggie makes a choked sound, and I press a kiss to her temple, whispering, “Smile. Look like you’re in love, not being tortured.”
“You two live together?” Shane’s eyes narrow, almost accusingly. Like he even has a right.
“Mags and I have been living together for, what?” I look over at her in question. “Almost a year now?”
Finally snapping out of it, she bats her eyes up at me. “Nearly a year of pure bliss,” she gushes. Reaching a hand to hook behind my head, she steers me closer, nuzzling our noses before pressing a light kiss to my lips.
“Ugh. Gross.” Both of us turn at the sound of disdain dripping from the words spoken by the woman standing beside Shane.
As if either of us gives two shits about the opinion of someone who slept with a guy while he was still in a relationship with another woman? Let me think on that real quick.
Nope.
With a dismissive wave of my hand, I flash a fake smile. “Well, blondie, we can’t all be home-wreckers with no morals, now can we?” Winking at Shane, I give him a slap on his shoulder.
Far harder than necessary.
“Thanks, man. Because of you, I managed to get the hottest, most gorgeous woman in Saratoga Springs.”