Wyatt was confused. Especially when he saw the furtive look Shy gave to the ice creams in his hands, which, almost forgotten, were dripping onto the front stoop.
He was reminded of a game he’d played as a kid, with some of his friends, the object of which was to figure out what someone was looking at. “I spy with my little eye,” the familiar chant went, followed by a guess of some sort. Wyatt thought he spied naked fear in Shylor’s eyes. And he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
Wyatt was too startled to make an immediate reply, and Shy made no move to leave, so they remained frozen in an odd tableau, their gazes locked upon one another, as if each was mesmerized by the other. Wyatt could almost feel the indecision that pulsed between them. Surely he wasn’t mistaken in thinking Shy wanted to talk to him as badly as he wanted to talk to Shy. If he didn’t, wouldn’t he have closed the door by now?
At least, that’s what his intuition told him, although he was woefully ignorant of how to handle a situation like this, having never found himself in one before. What in the world could make someone look so scared? Wyatt wasn’t sure he wanted to know. And yet he wanted to help Shy in any way he could. Clear his beautiful blue eyes, make him smile… free him from whatever held him in such a tight grip of panic.
“It’s just ice cream. I thought you might like to share some with me. You like ice cream, don’t you?” Wyatt was babbling. He wanted to get Shy to relax, but it didn’t look like that was happening any time soon.
Um, think, think… do something.
He blindly thrust one of the cones forward. Did Shy’s hand twitch, just for a moment? Did he start to reach for it and then hold himself back?
But why? Why in the name of all that was holy was he so damn afraid? And of what?
At the sound of an engine, Wyatt thought Shy was going to faint. His eyes grew bigger, and he looked about as bloodless as a vampire on a day pass. Wyatt turned toward the street. It was just the backfire of the mail truck, making its appointed rounds. Nothing there to be alarmed about. But as he pivoted back to tell Shylor so, the door slammed shut, leaving a stunned Wyatt gaping at it.
SHY LEANED against the door, his heart beating erratically, his hands clenched into fists. Despite his best efforts, he felt warm tears prickle in his eyes. No, dammit, no. It was better this way. What if… what if that had been Randy? The thought didn’t bear contemplation. Shy had gotten lucky, no sense in tempting fate. No matter what his traitorous body was telling him to do. Open the door. Invite Wyatt in. Take the ice cream and feast on it. Oh damn, when was the last time he’d eaten ice cream? He no longer remembered. Months, at least. A punishment so longstanding he no longer recalled the crime he’d committed. And it didn’t matter anyway.
It wasn’t just the ice cream that was so dangerous, it was the way Shy found himself reacting to Wyatt. He’d never had this happen before, and he found himself shaken to the core with the strong desire threatening to topple his very existence. He didn’t even understand why he wanted Wyatt so badly, he just did. Maybe because he seemed kind. And kindness was definitely lacking in Shy’s diet.
Wyatt seemed sweet, and thoughtful, and he was good-looking.
The tears were closer to spilling now. Shy began to panic. If he gave in to this stupid emotional shit, his eyes would show it, and Randy would want to know why. And Shy wasn’t a good enough liar to pull that off.
He was startled from his reverie, effectively halting his tears, by the reverberation of the door through his body. It took Shy a few seconds to realize Wyatt was knocking, followed by the sound of the doorbell as it echoed throughout the house.
Shy was torn. He could stand there and do nothing, wait for Wyatt to get the message and leave. He could run to his room, hide his head beneath the pillows and pretend he didn’t hear. But what if Wyatt didn’t leave? What if he stood there until Randy came home? Shy’s stomach knotted at the very thought.
He forced himself to calm down, digging his nails into his palms to distract himself, so hard that small red crescents formed. He had to do this. He had to discourage Wyatt from ever coming over here, even if it turned out to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. And he’d done a lot of hard things in his short life.
But it was a matter of self-preservation. Even more, he didn’t want Wyatt to be hurt, and there was no doubt in Shy’s mind that Randy would hurt him.
He slowly opened the door, catching Wyatt in midknock, startling the other man.
“You can’t be here,” he whispered in as fierce a voice as he could muster. “He can’t see you.”
Wyatt processed the words.
Why didn’t the fool leave, while he still could? He seemed ready to go, so go….
“Meet me somewhere” came Wyatt’s unbelievable reply. “Tomorrow morning. Meet me somewhere else. Anywhere.”
Shy felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed quickly.
I can’t… I can’t… I….
“Where?” he almost sighed.
WHY DID Wyatt feel as if he’d just gained a major concession of some sort? As though the words came with a price? But that was silly, wasn’t it? He pushed the thought aside, focused on Shy’s question instead.
Where to meet? He hadn’t honestly thought that far ahead. He’d blurted out the words as a reaction to Shy’s attempt to push him away, which he didn’t understand. But he wanted to understand. Very badly. There was a story there, one he wished to learn. He already suspected the answer involved Randy. His dislike for the pompous older man was only growing stronger.
“Where’s good for you?” Maybe if he let Shy choose the venue, he’d feel more comfortable about meeting him.
Shy considered his answer. He seemed calm, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest belied his outward demeanor, as if he kept a tight rein on himself.
What in God’s name was he so afraid of? And why did he keep peering behind Wyatt, as if he expected the devil himself to appear at any moment?
Maybe because he was afraid he might.
Just as Wyatt was beginning to think Shy had no intention of making a reply, he ran his tongue over his lips, took a deep breath, and murmured, “Shop for Less. Ten o’clock.”
A grocery store? Confusion, tempered by disappointment, cascaded through Wyatt. Not exactly what he’d had in mind. Certainly not the place for intimate conversation of the getting-to-know-you variety. He looked into Shy’s eyes, opening his mouth to protest, but something in those big blue eyes stopped him cold. “Shop for Less. Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”
The next moment he was staring at the closed door once more. He could take a hint.
Well, now that he’d gotten his way he could.
No sense in pushing his luck. As spooked as Shy seemed, Wyatt didn’t think it would take much to push him over the edge. As he turned away from the house, a small smile of satisfaction crept over his lips. He would have fist pumped in triumph but both of his hands were full. So much for his offer of ice cream. He could see Shy wanted it. So why didn’t he take one?
“The game is afoot!” he announced in his best imitation of the inestimable Sherlock Holmes. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough to suit Wyatt.
SHY PEEKED through the front curtains until Wyatt’s retreating figure disappeared into the house across the street. Then he counted to ten quickly and rushed to remove any trace of the ice cream from the front step. Once he’d scrubbed it to his satisfaction, he hurried back inside and released a long breath of relief.
Okay, back to reality. What had he just agreed to, and why? Did he really say he’d meet Wyatt tomorrow morning at the grocery store? What had he been thinking?
He hadn’t, that was the problem. At least not with his mind. He hadn’t thought with his dick in so long, it had taken him by surprise. Not since those long-ago days when he’d been young and innocent, and thought Randy Grant was the answer to everything.
A violent tremor crashed through his body. He reached out, clutching the arm of a wingback chair for support. He
forced himself to breathe through the panic until he felt secure enough to stand on his own.
What was done was done. He could hardly undo it—and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to. The most important thing was to make sure Randy never found out. He had to put on the most convincing act ever. The best way to do that would be to remove thoughts of Wyatt from his mind, focus on the house and his chores.
Tomorrow had to remain his dirty little secret.
Chapter Three
SHY’S LIFE was a regulated one. Randy had written a schedule for him that Shy copied onto the dry-erase board that hung in the kitchen. Every day had been assigned both general chores and specific ones. On Thursdays, Shy did the shopping. The dietician emailed Randy the menus for the following week the night before. Then Randy made up the actual list and printed it out. Shy was forbidden to deviate from it even one iota. No spontaneous purchases, nothing special for himself. He had to account for every penny spent. Randy scrutinized each receipt with an eagle eye. Even though he made good money, he was as tightfisted as they came, especially when it came to Shy.
The car that he allowed Shylor to drive was secondhand, an old Chevy compact, over fifteen years old. Nothing much to look at, but it was dependable, and it allowed Shy the freedom to run his errands. God forbid Randy allow him to use his car—that would never happen.
Shy could never park in the driveway, but was relegated to the back of the house, where the car couldn’t be seen from the street. Shy didn’t care. It was a mode of transportation, nothing more.
But today it was his ticket to paradise.
As he served breakfast, Shy was careful to maintain his carefully cultivated mask. He paid close attention to Randy’s instructions, along with the list. Nothing he’d not heard before. After five years, it was the same old litany. But he pretended to hang on his every word.
Randy took another sip of coffee and grunted his satisfaction. Not that he’d think to praise Shy for it, or anything else. To Shy’s dismay, he seemed to be in no hurry. Why today of all days?
Shy thought Randy would never leave. Usually quick out the door, today he lingered over his coffee, giving detailed instructions on his dry cleaning. Told a rambling story about his high school days that bore no relevance to anything. Finally he rose from the table with one last instruction—“Dinner at eight sharp”—and exited.
Once he’d gone, Shy checked his reflection in the mirror, retied his hair with a slender red ribbon, and stared into his own eyes.
Was he really going to do this?
If so, it was time to get dressed and go. Shy wasn’t sure what to wear on a first date. He’d never been on one. Why was he even thinking of their rendezvous in this way? This was no date. It was a first and last meeting, nothing more. He hoped at least he’d come away from it with some memories to hold on to. He deserved nothing more. Other guys had first dates and first kisses, hopes and dreams and a future to look forward to.
Shy wasn’t one of those.
He hadn’t intended to dress any differently, until he stared at himself in the mirror and noticed with some surprise that he had. Dark gray slacks, and a lightweight polo shirt in a blue that Randy uncharacteristically had said matched his eyes. One thing he could say for Randy, he dressed Shy up pretty on the rare occasions when he took him out.
Shy grabbed the list and the car keys, muttered, “Ready or not, here I come,” and locked the house behind him.
WYATT HAD been sorely tempted to suggest they ride together. Hell, they lived right across the street from one another. But common sense dictated if it was that easy, they wouldn’t be meeting in a grocery store, would they?
He rejected most of his wardrobe as too casual. He had to make a good impression the first time—he suspected he might not get a second chance. So he donned his best gallery outfit, the one he used to wow the patrons who showed up to view his art up close and personal, hopefully to purchase it. Tan slacks and a long-sleeved light blue button-down shirt. He knew he’d pay the price for wearing sleeves in this weather, but it looked good on him and darkened his blue eyes. If that meant suffering a little in the humid St. Louis heat, then so be it.
Shop for Less was a discount supermarket chain, with locations that dotted the Midwest and Northeast. In this economy, people needed to cut corners where they could. When Wyatt shopped for himself, he availed himself of their low prices, so he was very familiar with the nearest store.
As he pulled into the half-empty lot, Wyatt’s heart rose into his throat. There was no sign of the silver luxury sedan. Had Shy backed out on him? He checked his watch. Ten o’clock precisely. He parked Mr. Masterson’s car away from most of the others, near an older car, but not too close. Didn’t want to take a chance on being hit with the door. Then he gathered himself together, grabbed a cart from the corral, and ventured inside.
The secret of the store’s success was a limited selection of items at good prices. Wyatt also appreciated the small snack area where you could sit and enjoy a fountain soda and a sweet or salty snack. That would be a better place to talk than pushing carts about the store, chatting between pulling down cans of food.
Assuming Shy even showed up. Which at this point looked doubtful. Well, then, he’d just have to march across the street again and do something more drastic to gain Shy’s attention, although he wasn’t sure what. He didn’t even know why he wanted to get to know the blond so badly. Something in his eyes drew Wyatt, though. There was something there Wyatt could not forget. He sensed a soul in distress, and he ached to relieve Shy’s pain.
He had to find out what it was, first.
He carelessly threw more items in his cart. He’d figure out something to do with them later, assuming he actually checked out. Rounding the corner from one aisle to the next, he collided with another cart moving in the opposite direction. As metal hit metal, the jolt sent shock waves running along his arms. Glancing at the other driver, Wyatt bit back his sharp retort, replacing his frown with a smile. He came!
Damn, but he looked good. Looked even better without that silver-haired Simon Legree–type creep standing behind him.
Wyatt’s smile blossomed across his face, growing broader by the second. To his gratification, he got a small smile in return.
That’s a good sign.
Shy peered curiously into Wyatt’s cart, perplexity creasing his blond brow. Then he began to chuckle. Wyatt followed his glance at the objects he’d tossed so mindlessly inside and had to smile himself. Black olives, anchovies, Italian dressing, canned frosting, and chickpeas sat side by side in discordant splendor.
“That’ll make an interesting dish,” Shy commented in bemusement.
“No doubt,” Wyatt muttered. “Here, let me put this stuff up and I’ll just walk with you. We can get a drink and something to eat. Maybe they have ice cream?”
Various expressions played across Shy’s face, and Wyatt held his breath, wondering which would win out. There was something so very uncertain about Shy, as if he were teetering on the brink between one state and another. As if his very soul was in imbalance.
Finally Shy nodded and Wyatt hastened to replace everything as quickly as he could, before the blond changed his mind. He couldn’t help feeling there was a victory in there somewhere, one he planned to hold on to for as long as he could. Once the errant items had been taken back to where they belonged, Wyatt returned to Shy.
“Here, let me push that,” he offered. “That way you can get what you need easier.” Since Shy didn’t object, they switched places and continued down the aisle. Wyatt wasn’t surprised that Shy had a list, one he kept checking.
A lot of low-fat items, he noticed. Maybe Randy was on a diet.
They didn’t speak. Wyatt pushed the cart while Shy located the items on his list, carefully marking off each one once he placed it with the others.
“Checking it twice?” Wyatt quipped.
Shy gave him a quizzical look.
“You know. Like Santa Claus?” Wyatt felt hi
s joke fall flat, but forged ahead anyway. “He’s making a list, checking it twice.” That produced a small smile and Wyatt felt emboldened. “Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice.”
The smile faded.
Damn, he felt stupid. Had he struck a nerve?
The next moment the mask was back in place, and Wyatt felt like the scum of the earth. Be more careful, he cautioned himself. You’re treading a fine line here….
“Um, do you cook?” He quickly changed the subject. They stood in the meat department. Shy critically examined two packages of beef, comparing them. He selected one, set the other back. “Yes, I do all the cooking.” He riffled through the chicken parts, eyeing the thighs and the drumsticks in particular.
“I love to eat, but I’m not much of a cook,” Wyatt confessed. “I practically live on ramen most of the time.”
“That’s not good for you. Too much sodium.”
“Yeah, well, it’s cheap.” Wyatt laughed. “Since I’ve been house-sitting, I’m eating better, I have to admit. Mr. Masterson isn’t stingy at all with the food budget.”
Did Shy wince, or did Wyatt imagine that? Damn, he seemed to be hitting every one of Shy’s nerves today, clumsy oaf that he was. But it was difficult to know what might or might not set him off. And Shy wasn’t exactly being forthcoming either.
Wyatt was determined to get through to him, no matter how long it took. He was a patient man. He had to be—art wasn’t created in a day.
He held his tongue until he noticed that every item on the list had been marked off, then turned the cart in the direction of the snack area, which was empty at the moment. “What kind of soda do you drink?”
“I can’t drink soda. Just water.”
Wyatt tamped down on the desire to raise an eyebrow. “Oh, okay. Water it is. Want some chips with that? Popcorn?” he hastily amended. He was finally catching on. Healthy only. For whatever reason. “No butter, no salt.”
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