Clicking the intercom, Timothée gave an address to the driver. Within a few minutes, the car pulled into the parking lot of one of Mandeville’s most renowned and exclusive restaurants that, from the exterior, appeared to be a throwback to a period of excessive wealth. The Douglas fir french doors looked as if they would swing open at any second, and an entourage of servants uniformed in black morning coats, matching waistcoats, linen trousers, and white gloves would descend the mound of steps to greet customers. It had been years since he’d frequented the establishment, but he gambled his last name still held weight in the town. And his gamble was correct. After a brief conversation with the maître d’, a waiter seated Timothée and Ryker at one of the restaurant’s premier tables.
“Timothée,” Ryker said after the waiter left, “I’m not sure your being out in a restaurant at this time is a good thing.”
“You said earlier that I should be visible to the public.”
“Yes, doing charity work. You don’t want people to get the wrong idea and misconstrue that you’re out celebrating.”
Timothée’s lips turned downward. “I’ll order a broth with bitter herbs and forego the champagne. Will that appease the piranhas?”
“Don’t be facetious, although, I must admit the level of pettiness you’re willing to go is astonishing.”
“You have to eat.”
“Yes, but this place is ritzy.”
Timothée scanned the room as if seeing it for the first time. The restaurant made an exemplar backdrop for Instagram photos with Rubberwood chairs upholstered in taupe leather, hand-planed acacia, wood tables, pearl walls that melded with the walnut floors, and abstract but not overly ostentatious paintings in cool colors scattered throughout to break up the monotony of the mellow tones. Some may call it fancy. Timothée called it tranquility. “So, I should have taken you to a grungy grease pit on our first date?”
“Date? Excuse me?” Ryker yelped an octave higher than his normal tone.
Timothée retrieved his menu and snickered. “Well, I am paying. What would you call it?”
“A meeting.” Ryker’s eyes blazed with offense, but his voice lacked conviction. “You shouldn’t say things like that. People could get the wrong impression.”
“People or you?”
“I’m going to be honest. I don’t get you. You seem….” He exhaled and shook his head.
“What? I seem unhinged?”
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of responsively labile, but unhinged works, too. Maybe not every day of the week but a good five out of seven, I’m guessing.” Ryker swiped his hand across his face. “One minute you’re angry and yelling and the next you’re almost pleasant.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah, it could still use some working on.”
Timothée chuckled again. “I’ll give you that.”
“You need to give me more than that.” Ryker placed both arms on the table and leaned forward. “I need you not to fight me on every single thing.”
“I haven’t been.” Timothée knew he was lying before he finished the sentence. Therefore, he quickly added, “Not on everything.”
“Look at me.” Ryker pulled the menu from in front of Timothée’s face. “So, what would you call that at the funeral parlor?”
“A charlatan in a bad suit preying on the grief of others to swindle every penny he could.”
“Then you admit you’re grieving?”
“I admit nothing.”
“Of course not, because that’s Timothée, le chasseur alexithymique. Well, maybe you were the emotionless hunter with the Owls, but I need you to be Timothée, the human.”
Timothée held the menu up again, blocking his view of Ryker. “Humanity is a fancy term to make walking, breathing, and eating more complicated than it needs to be. We’re hunters and gatherers and occasionally hockey players.”
Ryker growled. “Let me unpack this for you.” He snatched the menu from Timothée’s hands and slapped it on the table. The color in his irises intensified. “I know you don’t play for the money. You have plenty of that. You play because you love the game. It’s evident due to the passion you display on the ice. But don’t get it twisted and think for one minute that the Mutineers won’t bench you or dump your contract if it gets too hot in the kitchen. You may be used to heat, but you’re nowhere near prepared for the smoke that’s headed your way. And if you don’t extinguish it now, no team will touch you. This isn’t the kitchen anymore, Dorothy. This is the boiler room, and clicking your heels three times isn’t teleporting you to a media Homeland Security safe hut. And that’s the true tea. If it scalded your lips, you need to quiet your horses and listen to me.”
And there she blows. As Ryker spoke, Timothée listened without a word or movement. He couldn’t deny that everything Ryker said had been on point. In the past, he’d seen small scandals explode into large ones to destroy great athletes. His situation had already reached the size of a canyon. Hockey was all Timothée had, and he didn’t want to risk it.
“Okay,” he agreed softly.
“Okay?” Ryker skeptically raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” He leveled his eyes to meet Ryker’s. “You have my word.”
“Good.” Breathing a sigh of relief, Ryker smiled. “So you’ll do the eulogy?”
Silently swearing, Timothée acquiesced.
“And the Pre-K Puppet Parade?”
Fuck! Timothée balled his fists against the table but nodded again.
Relief washed over him when the waiter returned for his order before Ryker could add anything else to the list. Timothée’s appetite still hadn’t returned, but he appreciated any diversion. Smacking his lips, he took his own sweet time selecting duck liver terrine as his appetizer.
“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked, turning to Ryker.
Ryker read the menu for the first time since being seated, and bewilderment glazed his eyes. “Uh, do you have anything like a jalapeño popper?”
Timothée waved his hand. “Bring him the shrimp quenelles.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter agreed.
“We’ll need a few more minutes for the entrée,” Timothée continued, though he already knew what he would order. However, pretending to study the menu meant avoiding talking… maybe. Ryker had a knack for pulling words out of him.
“What did you order me?” Ryker asked once the waiter was out of earshot.
“You’ll like it.”
Ryker strummed his fingers on the table. “Sounds fancy.”
“Only because you’re not from around these parts. It’s comfort food.” Well, kinda. “By the way, where are you from?”
“Michigan, but I’ve lived in New York for the past fourteen years.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
Ryker shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“You don’t mind?”
Momentarily distracted by a meal being delivered to another table, Ryker licked his lips. “It’s part of the job. How about you? Do you dislike traveling?”
“Only when it’s by bus and I get stuck next to Benoit the entire trip. He makes a thirty-minute road trip feel like two weeks.”
“Now, how about that? We agree on something.” Ryker’s eyes remained on the food being set on an adjacent table.
“We’ve agreed before.” He admired the glaze in Ryker’s eyes. “Boudin stuffed quail.”
Ryker whipped his head around. “Huh?”
“What you’re drooling over.” He tilted his head toward the food. “You should order it.”
“Nah, that’s not for me.”
“Why? You vegan?
“No. It looks… fussy.”
“But delicious, right?” Timothée folded his hands in his lap. “Let me guess. You’re one of those who holds a secret prejudice against opulence.”
“No.”
“You might think not.” A pang of discontent unfurled in Timothée. “Earlier you called me an elitist.”
“And is that how you perceive me?” Because he could sometimes sense the emotions others obscured behind the daily masks they brandished for the world, Timothée scrutinized every small movement of Ryker’s face in an attempt to gauge if his response would truly be forthcoming.
“My job isn’t to judge. It’s to make the world your bitch.”
Ryker’s response was quick—too quick for Timothée’s liking. “That’s not what I asked.”
Swallowing hard, Ryker steadied his voice. “I think you’re intriguing.”
Interesting choice of words and even more interesting body language. Timothée mentally flipped a coin as to how he wanted to proceed. He could press and add another complication to his shitstorm of a life, or he could drop it and agonize about the answer for the rest of his life. Why his knowing the answer was important perplexed him. However, as he deliberated his choice, his stomach knotted.
“That’s a carefully neutral answer.”
“What do you want me to say?” Ryker wet his lips again, his countenance warring between reservation and sanguinity. A gentle timbre crept into his voice. However, his face held something uncertain, questioning. “Hot?”
“Only if it’s the truth.”
“Okay, then.” Like a schoolboy, a faint blush colored Ryker’s feature. “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Does that make you uneasy?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if it did. I’m used to lots of unpopular opinions.”
“I’m sure the spokesmodel for Phanthyon Designs gets told how gorgeous he is often.”
“Maybe.” Timothée’s voice was blasé with no arrogance. “But not from anyone whose opinion matters.”
“Well, that being said, I intend to keep it professional.”
Timothée smirked more to himself than outward.
Maybe you do, but I don’t.
11
Ryker
Ryker rubbed his stomach as he shifted to find a comfortable position. The problem with eating after going most of the day without eating was that he often overate. He’d ordered not one but two desserts—bananas foster and bouillie cake. Delicious but definitely not the wisest choice. Timothée encouraging the gluttonous behavior didn’t help, either. Now Ryker was miserable—the way he felt every Thanksgiving after eating his grandmother’s dressing and vowing to never do it again. His left brain told him not to do it, but his prefrontal cortex was having no part in it.
“There’s a reason gluttony’s a sin,” he moaned.
“Stop whining.” Timothée adjusted the car seat heater. “When you make a choice, you stick with it. Wasting time regretting doesn’t undo the choice.”
“Is that hockey rationale?”
“Sure, if you want to call it that, but it’s common sense. On the ice, you have fractions of a second to make a decision while trying to read everyone else. It either works or it doesn’t, but the next play is still going to happen. Forty-five seconds is all you get, so everything counts. Regretting will get your ass handed to you. While you’re flipping through the mental Rolodex of would’ve, could’ve, and should’ve, some mofo will have kamikazed your ass face-first into the glass so hard that you’ll see tomorrow today. Then you can regret watching Tweety Birds flapping around your head as you’re being hauled off on a stretcher.”
Ryker nodded. “I see your point. Shifts don’t seem that short when you’re watching.”
“They don’t feel like it when you’re playing—at least, not if it’s a worthy opponent. Sometimes you just have to pray you make it to the bench.” He held up his index finger. “This one game, I was on the ice for three minutes without a whistle and worn slap out. My lungs felt like they’d been ripped out through my esophagus and crammed back sideways. When I finally got a break, it was for fifteen seconds before I was back in. We only had nine guys on the bench halfway through the third, and one of those was the backup goalie.”
“I saw that game. Players kept getting ejected.”
Timothée frowned and nestled into the seat. “That was no game. It was a massacre—fourteen to zilch.”
“It has to be the highest blowout in hockey history.”
“Not quite, but it sure wasn’t for a lack of trying. The other team just ran out of time.”
“You know.” Ryker dug through his computer bag and retrieved a folder. “That might be a good story to share at the event in two weeks.”
Timothée’s brows shot up. “What event?”
“A youth hockey banquet. You’re booked as the keynote speaker.”
“I’d never agree to that.”
“I know.”
“So you’re just going to sign me up for shit without telling me?”
“I’m telling you now. No need to wig out… again.” Ryker allowed the folder to fall onto the seat beside him and leaned back against the headrest. “It’s a small thing, won’t take much time, and will look good.” He groaned again, pulling at the waistband of his pants. “My circulation is being cut off.”
“Stop bellyaching… literally. Loosen your belt.”
“Ha-ha.” Ryker flashed Timothée a mock smile at the play on words but did as suggested. He sighed in relief as the leather gave, and he unbuttoned his pants. No, it wasn’t professional, but it probably was the least unprofessional thing he’d done today. However, when his zipper sprang down—up and over the wood, so to speak—on its own and stuck, that was a wardrobe malfunction that skyrocketed the situation to another zone.
“Shit,” Ryker muttered, straightening and tugging the zipper pull.
“Need some help?”
“Oh, you’re going to help?” Ryker snorted and cast Timothée the stink eye. He wasn’t sure the type of game Timothée had been playing with him, but Ryker disliked being teased. Sure, maybe Timothée hadn’t wigged out at Ryker admitting his attraction, but there was no need for the man to mock him for it. “You’re part of the reason for this,” he added, mumbling and thinking Timothée hadn’t heard.
Then he froze.
The tips of Timothée’s fingers skimmed the sliver of skin peeking from between the tail of Ryker’s button-up and the waistband of his black briefs. The touch was so light, it barely registered to Ryker. But he did feel it, and his eyes were momentarily mesmerized watching.
Do something. Say something. You can’t do this.
Slowly, Ryker’s eyes traveled from Timothée’s long, stroking fingers to the Rolex on his wrist, up his muscled arm and biceps to his face. There, Ryker recognized the intensity in Timothée’s eyes as lust. He didn’t even possess the decency to be ashamed about his own wantonness. His gaze bore down on Ryker with intensity.
“Uh….” Ryker’s mouth opened and then shut, and a flush crept up his cheeks. “This isn’t helping.” He struggled to control his breathing.
“No?” Timothée’s hand slid between Ryker’s thighs and squeezed his erection before curling around the shaft.
Sweet griddle cakes!
Ryker remained speechless as the deftness of Timothée’s fingers brought him to new heights, causing his cock to strain against the cotton. “You’re for real, aren’t you?” he finally managed. “I thought you were joking.”
“I’ve never been accused of having a sense of humor.” Timothée rubbed down the shaft and squeezed Ryker’s balls, causing him to squirm.
Ryker, he warned himself, think about this. Think about your career. He shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to suppress the outrageous desires coiling within him. He’d worked hard to get where he was.
“Timothée, we can’t. I’ll be fired.” After Lesley skins me alive.
“All this talk about me trusting you, and you don’t trust me.”
“It isn’t that.” Damn, he smells good. What’s he taste like?
“Then what is it?”
“It’s… uh… uh….” Speak, stupid. Brain, function.
Timothée rolled Ryker’s balls in his han
ds like kombolói, and precum pearled at the crown. All thoughts drifted from Ryker’s mind as he writhed under Timothée’s grasp. His pulse fluttered at the base of his throat.
Omigod, I’m going to lose it. “The driver.”
“What about him? He can’t hear or see us through the partition window. And what would he care anyway? I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen a little action transpiring in the back seat. Drivers are like bartenders in that way—they keep the most secrets.”
“Is that your way of saying you do this often?”
“You talk too much.”
This isn’t smart. Don’t do it.
Oh, shut up and stop pretending you’re not about to fuck this man.
Clutching the nape of Timothée’s neck, Ryker hoisted him forward, angled his head to suit his pleasure, and kissed him hard. Although Timothée put up no resistance, his weight pushed Ryker into the seat with effortless strength, trapping Ryker’s left arm between them. With his free hand, Ryker forked his fingers through Timothée’s thick mane and cradled his scalp. He pushed his tongue into Timothée’s mouth, and he released a savage moan.
“You’re needy,” Timothée mewled into his mouth.
“It’s been a while.”
“How long?”
“Over a year. Sixteen months. I probably won’t last long.”
Stroking the pulse throbbing in Ryker’s neck with his other hand, Timothée said, “Then let’s make sure it’s been worth the wait.”
Ryker’s mouth traveled from Timothée’s lips to his chin and then nibbled a path to his earlobe. His hand rounded from the rear of Timothée’s neck to the opening of his collar. He fumbled to unbutton the shirt, kissing and lapping at each inch of skin he exposed. Drinking in more of Timothée’s intoxicating scent, Ryker surrendered the remainder of his willpower—not that he had much choice. His body had already betrayed him. He moaned again as Timothée’s fingers snaked under the band of his underwear and grazed the smooth skin. Ryker’s hips raised instinctively at the touch, urging more.
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