by Beth Bolden
Ryan merged onto the freeway, driving far slower than he had on the way to Flor’s house. Wyatt wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want their bubble to end or if he was afraid of being alone with him.
Maybe a combination of both.
“Of course, I said I would.” Ryan’s voice was carefully neutral, and even though Wyatt knew he wasn’t alone in feeling this way, it hit him hard that Ryan felt equally helpless.
A minute of silence passed between them, but it didn’t seem to deflate the tension, only ratchet it higher.
Wyatt knew he had to do something to give them some space, before they made a mistake and did something they couldn’t take back. “I thought tomorrow I’d head up to Napa, see my nana.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Ryan said, still so painfully neutral. Wyatt didn’t know what he’d expected. Ryan to beg him to stay? To ask to go with him? Neither one was really an option, but sometimes, Wyatt realized, you wanted the impossible.
“I can make you breakfast before I leave . . .”
“No need,” Ryan interrupted, finally sounding impatient. “I have a breakfast meeting with Eric tomorrow.”
Wyatt knew without asking that the purpose was to discuss the faux relationship that Ryan should have already started.
Maybe when he got back from Napa, Ryan would have already found someone else. It would still be crushing, but at least it would be crushing without a single speck of hope to be found. It was the hope that was the worst; the tantalizing possibility if only Wyatt could decide the burden he’d been carrying forever suddenly weighed too much.
“I really hope you find what you need,” Wyatt said quietly. He didn’t say that he hoped Ryan would find what he wanted, because he was beginning to figure out that couldn’t happen.
Ryan didn’t respond, only gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and Wyatt knew the conversation was over, and maybe even their budding friendship.
He’d have to see when he came back from Napa and surveyed the damage. He sighed; he wasn’t looking forward to it.
When Ryan pulled the car into the garage, making an offhand comment about going for a jog, Wyatt did what he always did when life got too hard—he retreated to the kitchen.
It was still Ryan’s kitchen, in Ryan’s house, but Wyatt had a feeling that he wouldn’t be disturbed.
He put the pasteles, carefully wrapped, into the freezer, and went to his cottage to change. Since it was still warm, he opted just for a pair of shorts, and when he got back into the main house, he opened the windows in the kitchen and turned the music up.
Moving his hips to the upbeat guitar, he pulled out ingredients for a savory goat cheese torta with roasted red peppers and a lot of garlic. He wasn’t going to be kissing anyone, and if he got a perverse pleasure out of making sure that Ryan wouldn’t be either, who could blame him?
He carefully lined the springform pan with plastic wrap, and then got to beating the cream cheese with the goat cheese. Frankly, he realized as he worked the whisk through the cold bricks, he should have let the ingredients get to room temperature before tackling them—his pastry chef friend Miles would be appalled at him trying to get a smooth, incorporated mixture from cold cream cheese and goat cheese, but it also gave his arm a good workout and Wyatt was in a mood where he wanted it to burn a little.
It took a few long minutes, then he added the heavy cream and started thinking about the herbs he wanted to add. The garlic was roasting in the oven still, and would be for another ten minutes. He’d add that last, to give it a little chance to cool.
Dill, he thought, pulling the leafy herb from the produce drawer in the fridge. He also had some great basil, and he added some parsley for good measure, chopping everything up finely, and mixing it into the bowl.
While he was waiting for the garlic to finish, he roasted his peppers, charring them on the gas stove, and then wrapping them in plastic so he could easily peel the skins off.
Finally he was ready to assemble everything, layering in long, thin strips of roasted red pepper in the springform pan with alternating layers of the cream cheese mixture.
Finishing wrapping it up, he stuck it in the fridge to chill, even though he already knew he wasn’t ready to relax.
He whipped up a quick curry yogurt marinade and stuck it on the chicken breasts for dinner. With salad and rice, that would be a perfect dinner for him and Ryan—if he even decided to join him.
It was hard to say if the driving beat of the music was keeping him going, or all the heat in Ryan’s eyes as he’d stared at him all afternoon. But the reason didn’t matter, Wyatt theorized. He was still hot and worked up and frankly about to go out of his skin with desire.
He was just whipping up a batch of parmesan crackers to eat the goat cheesecake with when Ryan walked into the kitchen.
He’d also opted not to wear anything other than shorts, riding low on his narrow hips, and Wyatt’s hand clenched on the handle of the cheese grater. He remembered exactly what Ryan’s skin had tasted like right there, at his obliques, where the skin went from tan to something paler. He wasn’t ever going to forget the salty-sweet tang of his sweat.
Here he was, driving himself up the wall with all this food they didn’t need, because he couldn’t forget.
Ryan hadn’t forgotten either. That much was obvious.
“You’re here,” he said stupidly. Like Wyatt would be anywhere else.
“I’m here,” Wyatt retorted testily. “I’m your private chef, remember?”
“You’re hard to forget,” Ryan said, a wry edge to his voice.
That was the damning part of all this. Neither of them could figure out how to get past their attraction—if that’s all it was. Wyatt had his doubts at this point.
“Yeah, well it’s no walk in the park for me either,” Wyatt said, attacking the Parmigiano-Reggiano like it had personally insulted him.
“Really?” Ryan sounded surprised and Wyatt looked up to find that he’d come around the kitchen island and was now seriously encroaching in his personal space bubble.
It was a mistake. They both knew it. But this thing had been bubbling away all afternoon like a good Sunday meat sauce, and Wyatt was running out of ways to tell his body no.
Besides, he thought with resignation, they hadn’t eaten the roasted garlic goat cheese yet.
Wyatt set the cheese grater down decisively. “Really,” he repeated.
The earthy scent of the cheese was still floating in the air as he reached out for Ryan at the same moment Ryan reached for him. His skin was damp under Wyatt’s hands, and he wanted to taste it still, to reacquaint himself with the flavor, but he was too desperate for Ryan’s mouth.
Later, he told himself. Even though they both knew there wasn’t going to be a later. There was just going to be this desperate, electric, sweaty kiss.
Ryan’s fingers dug past the waistband of his shorts and pulled him hard, until they were crowded up together. His mouth was devouring Wyatt’s, like he couldn’t stop, like he wouldn’t stop.
It sucked that Wyatt was going to have to be the reasonable one when the last thing he wanted was to push Ryan away.
Somehow, he did it.
“We can’t do this,” he gasped into the space between them. Just a moment before they’d been a moment away from taking this even further. His dick protested that it wasn’t going to be happening after all.
His heart was protesting too, but Wyatt was already in trouble enough, so he ignored both of them.
“I know.” Ryan sounded wrecked. Wyatt couldn’t see his expression because he couldn’t look at him right now. If he looked, he’d do more that he regretted.
“I’m going to Napa tomorrow,” Wyatt reminded him. Go find someone else.
Ryan didn’t say anything; he just turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Wyatt had a feeling that he wouldn’t see him back for dinner.
Chapter Nine
When Ryan heard the engine of
Wyatt’s motorcycle revving to take off, and the gate closing behind him, he sighed in relief and leaned against the dresser in his room.
He was supposed to be getting ready for his meeting with Eric this morning, but he’d been fighting the compulsion to exit the house, walk across the yard, and knock on Wyatt’s door. Tell him not to go. Tell him to bring Ryan with him.
Beg him to change his mind, even though that was the very last thing Ryan should ever ask him to do.
He should feel relief that he was on his own again—he’d always felt like he was the best version of himself free and unencumbered—but the house already felt empty because he knew if he walked into the kitchen, there wouldn’t be a familiar pair of blue eyes or that smile.
Ryan took the bike, hoping the speed and adrenaline would dispel the frustration bubbling away inside of him. By the time he made it to the café, he felt a little better but still edgy.
“You look like someone shot your dog,” Eric said when Ryan sat down at the table.
“What the hell, man,” Ryan said, now even more annoyed. “Why would you even say that?” He could usually handle Eric’s usual lack of tact and incredibly blunt delivery. He could even appreciate it at points.
He was not appreciating it now.
“Because you look pissed off,” Eric said.
Ryan sighed and leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs from the ride in, crossing his feet at the ankles. “You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole because I said it looks like someone shot your dog or I’m an asshole because I’m forcing you to give up on Dream Chef and find someone else to be your fake boyfriend?”
“Both.” Ryan scowled.
“But mostly the latter,” Eric deduced. He wouldn’t be as good of an agent if he wasn’t brilliant at reading people. Or probably as much of an asshole. The realization was a cold comfort, and Ryan realized that for the first time, the possibility of being traded or waived by the Dodgers didn’t fill him with the worst dread.
It was Wyatt getting on his bike and going back to Napa, never to be seen again.
Ryan pushed the thought away, rationalizing that the only reason that he felt this way was because Wyatt had left this morning. But he’s coming back, he told himself firmly.
“Fine. Whatever. Yes.”
“Dream Chef is no doubt very dreamy,” Eric said dryly. “I heard you took him surfing. I also heard you took him to Flor’s house.”
“You heard?” Ryan raised an eyebrow, feeling dangerously on the edge of getting very pissed. “I thought we talked about this. I don’t like being followed.”
Eric usually backed down when he heard that tone of voice, but this time he didn’t. “You should be happy it was me and not some random photographer.”
“I’m not important enough for the paparazzi to stake out,” Ryan argued.
“As soon as they scent the possibility that you’ve found someone, they’re going to want to know who it is. And those pictures will be very valuable.”
“I thought we were going to organize that so I didn’t have to worry about being stalked by the paps?” Ryan said.
“We are. But you have to have a significant other to take that romantic walk on the beach at Malibu. Or however we decide to do it. You have to have someone.”
Ryan’s stomach cramped at the idea that it wasn’t going to be Wyatt. He put it down to low blood sugar. Being hangry always made him crabby as hell.
“Can we order? I’m starving.”
“Sure, whatever, yes.” Eric raised his hand and the waitress came rushing over. She was blonde and pretty, and Ryan wondered vaguely if she was his latest affair.
They ordered. Ryan ordered too much food, everything on the menu that wasn’t something Wyatt had made him already. He didn’t want a direct comparison; he honestly wasn’t sure he could handle it. It was already fucking difficult to push the thought of Wyatt away just so he could keep it together. He didn’t need Eric watching him cry into his cereal bowl.
“I found a great guy for you,” Eric said as soon as the waitress left. “You’re gonna love him.”
Ryan knew he was pouting. He knew it was unattractive. He didn’t give a shit. “I don’t wanna love him. That’s not the point.”
“Okay, he’ll be easy to tolerate.” Eric pulled a picture out of his briefcase and slid it over. The guy was very cute, just as advertised. Blond twink material; bright green eyes and an infectious smile. Ryan tried to dredge up even a fraction of interest and failed.
“What’s his name?” Ryan said, because he needed to say something. Eric was clearly eager and they needed to get this done.
“Matt.”
Ryan tried to imagine dating, fake or otherwise, Matt. He failed. “He’s an actor?”
“He’ll do whatever. He’s very flexible.”
Ryan shot Eric a dirty, dark look.
“I meant for the role,” Eric clarified, but the look on his face told Ryan the whole story. He’d meant exactly what Ryan had thought he had. And maybe a few months ago, he might have wanted to hook up with Matt. The point of finding someone Ryan liked was to pave the way for that possibility, that eventuality.
But Ryan didn’t want to hook up with Matt, no matter how flexible he was.
“I’ve got nudes too,” Eric said, patting his briefcase. “Just in case you want to see.”
“Jesus,” Ryan exhaled. “You’re a fucking menace.”
“He offered them. He really wants the job.”
Ryan was disgusted and did nothing to hide it. “He needs the job, you mean.” He’d lived in LA almost his entire life, he knew exactly how many desperate, out-of-work actors there were, and what a lot of them would do for the money to stay, or even for a good word in the ear of the right people.
It wasn’t surprising to Ryan that Eric would use that particular disadvantage to his advantage. Which had been one of the reasons Ryan hadn’t wanted to use an actor for this.
Eric waved a hand. “They all do. It’s not really a surprise.”
Wyatt had needed a job, no matter what story his pride had told, and Ryan had given him one. He wanted to give Matt one for similar but very different reasons. Except even Ryan knew he couldn’t employ the whole world.
“Just meet him,” Eric cajoled. “One date.”
Ryan didn’t say a word. Just glared.
“Okay not a date. A meeting. A business meeting. Very straightforward, to the point.”
“And we’ll pay him for his time,” Ryan said with a sharp nod. “Generously.” It wasn’t much, but it was what Ryan could do.
Eric frowned. “Two days. Saturday night, I’ll send him to your house.”
Ryan didn’t really want Matt in his house. He was a stranger. Of course Wyatt had been a stranger too, though that had only felt true for a few short minutes. Maybe Ryan just needed to give Matt a chance.
“Fine.”
“You know,” Eric said, leaning back in his chair, looking smugly self-satisfied that he’d convinced Ryan to give Matt a chance, “you could always just fuck Wyatt on the down low if you want him so bad. Fake date Matt, and fuck Wyatt. It would work out okay.”
Ryan was disgusted but even more disgusted with himself because that thought had definitely crossed his mind more than once. Except that he didn’t want to only fuck Wyatt. They were friends. There were other undercurrents that Ryan couldn’t quite explain. But while he definitely wanted to fuck him, that wasn’t it.
“Thank you for the personal advice,” Ryan said stiffly. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
The food came then, which Ryan was infinitely grateful for. He could eat and ignore Eric for the rest of the meeting.
Eric droned on as Ryan shoveled eggs and sausage into his mouth. “What about Adidas?” was the only question he inserted.
“Adidas?” Eric questioned, having the nerve to look peeved that his soliloquy was interrupted.
“Yeah, what about their direction? Did you convince them to kee
p the focus more LGBT-friendly?”
Eric pulled out his phone and scrolled until he found what he was looking for, and slid it across the table.
It was a mockup, with another random person standing in for Ryan. He was staring right through the screen, eyes piercing, and he was naked except for a pair of low-slung black athletic shorts and a pair of black Adidas shoes with the details picked out in a rainbow of colors. The baseball bat he was holding was the only movement in an otherwise static ad, holding it diagonally across his body, like it was just about to spring into action.
It was eye-catching and arresting and Ryan loved it.
“I don’t know what you told them, but this is dynamite,” Ryan enthused, something other than annoyed for the first time since he’d sat down.
“It looks good,” Eric admitted. “They didn’t have the bat at first, and it lacked something. Even they liked the idea of adding it.”
“What about Sports Illustrated?” Ryan asked.
Eric chortled. “When they get a look at the preview for this ad, they’re going to be falling all over themselves to do a cover shoot for Opening Day. Trust me. You’re going to be the new Colin O’Connor.”
It was a comparison that Ryan had experienced from the moment he’d very publicly come out of the closet right before the draft. It was one he respected and appreciated, but frankly, he was done being the next version of O’Connor. He was ready to differentiate himself and be the best version of Ryan Flores. This Adidas ad might be the first step in that direction.
“We talked about this,” Ryan warned.
“I know, I know. We did. But this,” Eric said, voice growing harsher around the edges as he pushed Matt’s picture back in front of Ryan’s plate, “is how we get you to the place you want to be.”
“I already told you I’d meet with him,” Ryan said, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest. “You don’t have to convince me.”
“To meet with him? No. I don’t. But to give up your fantasy of Dream Chef, yes, I do.”
“Don’t call him that.” Ryan sighed. He ended up wanting to punch Eric in the face at some point during every meeting, but he was doing a great job of being infuriating today.