Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  Opening the garage door with the fob inside the Rover, Ryan realized belatedly he’d forgotten a towel and his wetsuit. Detouring back into the house, he grabbed the missing items and then stepped back into the garage with just enough time to see Wyatt coming around the corner, fresh from a run.

  He was only wearing shorts, leaving his chest bare, and even though Ryan had already spent an entire evening exploring it, awareness and memory simmered in his gut, reminding him of what he couldn’t have.

  What he shouldn’t have.

  “Hey,” Wyatt said, pulling a t-shirt from the back of his shorts and wiping his face. Ryan knew what he looked like after runs, and he never looked that god damned excellent. “Heading out?”

  Ryan didn’t think. That was typically his problem, and he usually knew enough about his flaws to combat them, or at least temper them with good judgement. The problem was he’d been daydreaming about Wyatt all morning, annoyed and caught in the memory of a few nights ago. And here Wyatt was, all glorious invitation.

  “Yeah, I’m heading to the beach.” Ryan didn’t even hesitate. Just went for it. “You said you like to surf, you should come with me.”

  Wyatt looked regretful. “No board.”

  Ryan decided his brain-to-mouth filter must have died during his angsting this morning. Or maybe during the last time Wyatt had taken him apart with his mouth and those calloused fingers “I’ve got a spare.”

  Wyatt’s expression moved from regret to confusion. Ryan wasn’t sure he could blame him. “Are you sure?”

  He was not sure at all. In fact, Ryan had no idea what the hell he thought he was doing. But he nodded anyway. “Yeah, come with me.”

  By the time they had gathered a second set of equipment, and were headed down the freeway towards Huntington Beach, Ryan had mentally justified that his offer fell under his agreement to be “friends.” Friends totally went surfing together, right?

  “I always went to Venice,” Wyatt said when he saw the direction Ryan had taken the Range Rover. “It’ll be fun to try somewhere new.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “At least a few years,” Wyatt admitted. “I’m sure I’ll be total shit now. Last time I was in the water, I was three inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter. Before culinary school,” he added as an explanation.

  “I didn’t realize culinary school was the same as boot camp,” Ryan teased.

  Yeah, they were supposed to be friends, but just Wyatt’s voice was a hot lick of awareness right up his spine. When he felt that way, it was impossible not to flirt a little, and hope that Wyatt would flirt back.

  “You wouldn’t,” Wyatt said, leaning back in his seat, the wind from the open window fluffing his blond hair.

  “Professional cooking can be tough, and you need to be prepared,” he continued. “There’s often twelve- to fourteen-hour days. Long hours bending and lifting, all in a brutally hot kitchen. Not everyone can hack it. Culinary school isn’t just about teaching techniques and flavors; it’s about weeding out the ones without the stamina or the drive.”

  “So, culinary school is the educational equivalent of the Hunger Games.”

  Wyatt laughed. “You could say that.”

  Ryan glanced over and while he could imagine Wyatt a little shorter, it was hard to imagine him without his solid build or all that firm muscle.

  “If it’s so tough, why did you stick it out?” Ryan asked.

  “It was what I wanted to do,” Wyatt admitted. “I didn’t care how hard it was. I sort of enjoyed how hard it was. I felt like I went in one person and came out another.”

  Ryan had a pretty good idea of what fifty pounds of muscle might look like on a frame the size of Wyatt’s. “You did.”

  Wyatt shifted in his seat. Closer to Ryan, who didn’t miss the movement. His hands clenched tighter on the steering wheel. “I don’t think important things should be easy. I’m sure you worked your ass off.”

  “Yes, and no.” Wyatt made surviving culinary school and his subsequent years in important kitchens sound like something noble. Ryan didn’t want to talk about five-tool players, or how scouts evaluated them. He’d never been ashamed at how easily baseball had come to him. It was tough to imagine taking advantage of a situation when he’d had so much handed to him because of a set of natural skills, but he felt oddly shamed admitting it to Wyatt.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. It wasn’t shameful. It was okay to want more, and okay to take it. It wasn’t like he’d wrested it from more-deserving hands. He’d wrested it with his own. “I’ve wanted to travel my entire life,” Ryan admitted. “I never could see myself staying in LA.”

  “But you’re actively trying to stay in LA,” Wyatt asked with a perplexed expression on his face.

  “I’m trying to stay playing for the Dodgers because my family is here,” Ryan corrected. “I like baseball because the game can be great, and also because it gets me out of here on a regular basis.”

  Wyatt looked surprised.

  “What, did you expect some paean to baseball the sport? How I love the smell of the grass and the dirt under my fingernails, and the brightness of the sun during a day game and the lights during a night game?”

  “Maybe?” Wyatt said meekly.

  “I do enjoy that stuff,” Ryan said. “But someone said, you’re a great baseball player, you could make a lot of money doing it, and travel at the same time, mostly on someone else’s dime. So I said yes.”

  Ryan cut a quick slanted look towards Wyatt, who merely looked thoughtful and not judgmental. He hadn’t really expected otherwise, but Ryan also didn’t go out of his way to make this particular confession.

  “You took a risk when you came out, then.”

  “Not really,” Ryan admitted wryly. “I made sure any risk I had was mitigated. Well, technically, Eric made sure any risk I had was mitigated. He’s good for that.”

  Bringing Eric up was the thing that hardened the look in Wyatt’s eyes. Ryan told himself he shouldn’t be shocked, because Eric Talbot was undoubtedly a garbage dumpster, but he also didn’t think Eric had done anything to Wyatt to deserve that sort of reaction.

  “And he also thinks you need to make yourself into some paragon of stability to keep your job?” Wyatt questioned. Ah, that was it. Like Tabitha, Wyatt had obviously decided that the fake-boyfriend idea was total shit. And frankly, Ryan himself had thought this same thing on and off over the last few months, so it wasn’t like he blamed Wyatt.

  “Sort of. And I’d get signed by someone else, probably for more money, if I wanted. So it’s not exactly about keeping my job. It’s about keeping LA my home base.”

  “For your family.”

  “Partly, yeah. And because I like it here. I like leaving it, but I also like coming back. If I was in Minnesota or Illinois or somewhere else, I might not feel that way.”

  “Minnesota would suck for sure, especially if you like surfing,” Wyatt said, the corner of his lips quirking into a grin. “But you’d like Chicago.”

  “Not in the middle of winter,” Ryan pointed out.

  “Point. I was only there from March to September.”

  “You lived in Chicago?” Ryan asked.

  “For a few months. Restaurant folded right after I got an interview at a great restaurant in Portland, so the timing was good.”

  “Shame you never got to experience one of those fabled Chicago winters,” Ryan said.

  Wyatt mock-shuddered. “I’ll take California, thank you very much.”

  * * *

  And he was the epitome of the California boy, Ryan thought as he watched Wyatt carrying his board towards the sand. Blond hair bright under the sun, the tall lanky build, all that tanned skin rippling with muscle.

  Ryan hadn’t thought there was a place he could look better than naked in his bed, but he was surprised to discover that he’d been wrong.

  There was something in the quicksilver of Wyatt’s smile as he turned to make sure Ryan was still follo
wing him. It made Ryan want more from him than just the admittedly mind-blowing sex they had had, which was something he’d thought he’d left behind years ago.

  He thought about texting Tabitha and telling her she might be right, but she was already insufferable enough. Besides, if he didn’t tell her, he didn’t put it into words and the truth, while eye-opening, was also fucking terrifying.

  “You coming?” Wyatt turned back fully this time, gracing Ryan not only with a quick glimpse of his bright smile, but his entire self. He looked worried, and Ryan wondered how long he’d been spacing out. Not something he usually did—and he’d already spent the morning doing it.

  “Sorry,” Ryan apologized. “I was distracted by such a fantastic view.”

  “I’ve always loved Huntington Beach,” Wyatt replied.

  Ryan snorted. “Not the view I was talking about.”

  Wyatt didn’t say anything but the look on his face was enough for Ryan to know that comment wouldn’t always go un-remarked upon. Eventually they would have to address the sexual tension simmering away between them. Eventually they would have to do something about it. And that day was one Ryan eagerly awaited and dreaded in equal parts.

  “We gonna surf?” Wyatt asked as they set up their little camp over by one of the piers.

  Ryan had tossed the wax over to Wyatt a few minutes before, and had been fidgeting with his tow strap since. He’d wanted to come out here and let the sun and the sand and the waves exorcise his bad mood, but now he wasn’t sure he even wanted to go in the water.

  He wanted to sit on the sand and look at the sunlight on Wyatt’s hair, and ask him to tell him more about culinary school and Chicago and Terroir. Even about that nutjob Aquino.

  Ryan was not used to wanting to pick social interaction over the adrenaline rush. It was weird, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

  “We’re here, aren’t we?” Ryan asked, shooting Wyatt a disbelieving look, even though all the hesitation had been on his end. He wasn’t ready to admit to anyone—never mind Wyatt—that he’d been contemplating something so out of character. “Last in the water buys burgers on the way home.”

  * * *

  Wyatt shouldn’t have been surprised but Ryan was an exceptional surfer. Great technique, perfect form, textbook pop-up, the sort of rock-steady balance that he’d always craved.

  It was hard not to watch him and to focus on the upcoming waves, bobbing in the surf, waiting for the one that he might not embarrass himself on too badly. There weren’t a lot of surfers here today—it was later in the day than the hardcore bunch liked—but there was a good variety of skill on display. Still, it had been a long time since Wyatt had been on a board, and it was fucking hard not to feel a little pressed when Ryan was putting on a show rare for an amateur.

  Ryan finished his run, coasting into the beach with the finesse of a seal sliding through the water, and immediately glanced back, like he wanted to make sure Wyatt was okay. Or maybe check him out again, it was hard to say.

  That speculative, hot look of Ryan’s took the decision right out of Wyatt’s hands. It was going to have to be the next wave. If he waited here for the perfect wave, he’d be waiting all day. One of his old friends from high school had once told him, “if you wait for the perfect wave to ride, you’ll never ride any.”

  He hopped on his board, fingers gripping the fiberglass and got ready. It wasn’t exactly like riding a bicycle, but his instincts, long unused, still took over. His pop-up was a little shaky but Wyatt swore under his breath, dug his toes into the board and willed himself to stay upright.

  He did a quick cut against the wave, gaining speed, and managed not to wipe out as he moved towards the beach.

  When he popped out of the water, Ryan was waiting for him, smirk on his face.

  “Not too shabby,” he said as Wyatt shook the water out of his hair.

  “Yeah,” Wyatt scoffed. “Compared to Mr. Amateur Pro.”

  He was pretty sure Ryan blushed, though it was impossible to tell under the heat of the sun. “I’m not good enough to be a pro.”

  Wyatt gave him a grin. “Not quite.”

  “I get out a lot,” Ryan admitted as Wyatt adjusted his tow strap, and they prepared to go out again. “It helps clear my head. I’m technically not supposed to be out here during the season—they’re always afraid I’ll get hurt or be too tired or strain something—but it helps. So I keep coming.”

  No, he wasn’t quite good enough to go pro, Wyatt thought, watching Ryan. He tried too many risky things; nearly falling off his board despite his iron balance and his great technique. He craved the challenge, Wyatt realized, as he watched him try the same trick three or four times despite no successful attempts. He craved the rush he’d get the first time he got it right.

  And when he did get it right, his smile was brilliant enough that even through the spray of the salt, it was unmistakable.

  When Wyatt came back in after that run, Ryan had retreated to the camp they’d set up, and was toweling his head off.

  “That was pretty sick,” Wyatt said and collapsed on the sand. Surfing for an hour after a lengthy jog probably hadn’t been his best idea ever, and he was definitely going to be feeling it tomorrow, but this afternoon had been worth it. Both the chance to get back into the ocean, and the chance to spend more time with Ryan—even if it ended up hurting more.

  “I’ve been trying to land that right for ages,” Ryan said, smile still sparkling. On anyone else, the look might have edged towards smug, but on Ryan it just looked like pure joy at finally accomplishing something he’d been working on for a long time. “Maybe you’re my lucky charm.”

  Wyatt doubted that. “The waves were just with you today.”

  “Naw,” Ryan said, leaning in just enough to nudge his elbow gently into Wyatt’s rib cage. If he came any closer, they’d be embracing. And Wyatt wanted it, he wanted it badly, but he also froze, because even though he typically didn’t worry while out in public, Ryan was famous. People watched him. People looked at him. People wrote about him. And while he certainly didn’t expect his nana to be reading Ryan Flores fan sites, you never knew.

  Ryan must have caught the panic on his face because he eased back. He must be confused, because hadn’t Wyatt made out with him in a public parking lot? And he had. Wyatt hadn’t been thinking though. He’d only been feeling, and it had been so sweet after so long being so careful.

  Look where that had gotten him.

  * * *

  Their burgers were sitting between them on the console, perfuming the air with grease and cheese, and Ryan was sucking away happily on his chocolate shake, when Wyatt glanced at his phone and realized the time.

  “Oh crap, I didn’t realize how late it was,” Wyatt said. “Would you mind if I called my nana? She goes to dinner early and I don’t want to miss her.”

  Wyatt thought he saw Ryan tense out of the corner of his eye. But that was silly, why would calling his nana upset Ryan?

  He was already dialing when the answer hit him abruptly. His nana was obstinately the reason why he couldn’t be with Ryan the way they both wanted; even if it wasn’t her fault, he could still blame her.

  “Hello?” Bea Blake’s voice was tiny and faraway even though Wyatt knew the connection at the memory care facility was excellent. It was one reason why he’d chosen the carrier he had.

  “Nana!” he said, trying to push away all the concern he was feeling over having the conversation in front of Ryan.

  “Nana?” Her voice was questioning everything, even though she’d only said two words.

  “You’re Nana,” Wyatt said fondly.

  But instead of her bright, clear laugh, there was a puzzled, drawn-out silence.

  “Who is Nana?” she repeated, clearly confused, and Wyatt’s stomach tumbled to his flip-flops.

  “You’re Nana. I’m Wyatt,” he said slowly, clearly. Maybe it was just the bad connection. Maybe she just couldn’t hear him properly, and had gotten confused as a result.
r />   “Wyatt?” she questioned. “Wyatt?”

  If it was possible, his stomach sunk even lower. He tried to contain his panic, because he didn’t want Ryan to hear, and he didn’t want her to worry even more. It was something he’d read in the research books he’d checked out of the library when she’d first been diagnosed.

  Don’t panic. They’ll hear the panic and panic themselves.

  But it was too late, he heard it in his voice, no matter how he tried to contain it. “Wyatt is me. I’m Wyatt. I’m your grandson.”

  “Wyatt . . .” There was still that thread of uncertainty in her voice. Uncertainty that he’d been dreading hearing forever.

  He remembered reading once that for patients suffering from memory lapses, just voices could sometimes be tougher than a voice and a face put together.

  The rationalization didn’t help extinguish his panic any.

  “Yes, Wyatt. Your grandson. Wyatt.”

  She took a deep, shaky sigh. “Wyatt.” And this time there was some semblance of normalcy in her voice as she said it. As she’d begun to place him. “You’re Wyatt.”

  He closed his eyes, tightening his jaw, desperate not to cry. Not over this. Not in front of Ryan.

  A hand reached over and lightly touched his bare knee. A reassuring touch. Even though he’d seen Ryan’s uneasiness with Wyatt checking in with Nana, he was still giving Wyatt what little support he could.

  It might have been small, only a light touch, but it meant everything.

  “Nana,” he repeated, voice breaking a little. The first time this had happened and he hadn’t even been in front of her. And once it happened, it would keep happening, an inexorable tide that nothing and nobody could stop. Not even Wyatt, not even if he pushed it back with both hands and all his strength.

  “I’m here, I’m here.” She sounded flustered. “I’m sorry, I just got a little confused.”

  “It’s fine,” he soothed, even though it was anything but. She didn’t need to know about that, or how his heart was breaking. “I just wanted to call and see how you were doing.”