CHAPTER TWO

It was not ideal, but Wyatt went to his interview on a handful of hours of sleep and a melancholy edge to his mood. He was generally pretty easy-going, with a sunny, optimistic disposition. Becoming the leader of the family and being forced to put his beloved Nana in a memory care facility he couldn’t really afford had changed him. He knew he’d gotten quieter and more withdrawn, a heap of serious problems he couldn’t solve weighing him down.

Miles, his best friend, had told him last week that he was growing up. But Wyatt didn’t think so. He was the same as always, he just needed something to take the edge off. Last night, Ryan had provided a much-needed distraction, a temporary lessening of the pressure he was living with, but it hadn’t been enough.

In fact, coming to terms with the fact that Ryan was so temporary was part of what caused his latest bad mood. Even the thought that he could be making more money after today wasn’t much of a consolation. “It’s for a private chef position,” was all Reed Ryan, the connection that had gotten Wyatt his interview, had said. Reed’s description didn’t exactly excite Wyatt. He didn’t really want to stay at Terroir, and continue to get verbally abused by his boss, Bastian Aquino, for shitty pay, but he also didn’t want to get paid to babysit and make peanut butter sandwiches with no crusts for a spoiled Beverly Hills family.

The fact that he badly needed the money was the only reason he showed up at all.

He was shown into the conference room in the trendy LA office building, and was just about to sit down at one end of the shining expanse of glass when a man entered the room, proving to Wyatt everything he’d assumed about this client.

The suit alone probably cost more than a year at Nana’s facility, and Wyatt couldn’t even begin to price out the watch. It was clearly expensive, real diamonds shining on the face, and the man wore it carelessly, like he had a dozen more. He probably did, Wyatt thought darkly. His face was scrunched tight and there was something untrustworthy about it, a slyness in the eyes that Wyatt couldn’t miss. Wyatt didn’t know if he could work for this man, even if the money was good.

“Hi, I’m Eric Talbot,” the man said, extending a hand, which Wyatt shook firmly. He looked him in the eye, and tried to do everything else he remembered from that long-ago high school class in interview skills. Of course he’d had interviews after culinary school—for the jobs he’d gotten at other restaurants, and then at Terroir, but they were never like normal interviews. Nobody cared if you could communicate worth a damn in a restaurant; they only cared if you could cook.

“Wyatt Blake.”

Eric settled down on one of the ultra-modern sculpted chairs, metal and clear acrylic married together in a tortured formation. Wyatt followed suit and waited a long, expectant moment for the interview to start.

“I’m sorry, we’re waiting for the client,” Eric said. “He’s usually really punctual, but he texted me to say that traffic was brutal today.”

This guy who looked like he could buy and sell Wyatt’s whole family wasn’t even the client? The client was even richer? Wyatt briefly considered telling him to just forget the whole thing, because this had been a huge mistake. He was meant to be in a restaurant kitchen. He was meant to wow patrons with his dazzling culinary skills. He wasn’t meant to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grilled chicken breasts with steamed vegetables on the side. Yet, he couldn’t help but be relieved Eric Talbot wouldn’t be his boss.

In the end, the only thing that kept Wyatt’s butt in his seat were the bills that kept piling up. This job would be worth it, if Wyatt could keep them paid and at bay. The stress alone felt like it was slowly crushing him. Even making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would be a decent exchange for a loosening of the noose around his neck.

“The client?” Wyatt asked. Reed had given him next to no information about this interview, other than date and time, and even Wyatt thought that was odd. Weren’t you supposed to do research and go prepared to these sorts of things? How could he research someone he didn’t know?

“My client, actually,” Eric Talbot said with a friendly grin that made him look marginally less like a bloodthirsty piranha. “I manage . . .”

Eric didn’t get the rest of the sentence out before the door opened and Wyatt damned everything to hell and back.

This morning Ryan Flores was dressed in jeans and a sky-blue polo shirt, looking as fucking cute as he had the night before. Wyatt would have picked him up a hundred times out of a hundred, and there was no way it was a coincidence that Ryan had picked him up first and then just happened to be interviewing him today. Ryan didn’t even look surprised that Wyatt was here, asking to join his staff. Wyatt tried to let that sink in. Ryan hadn’t just been out of his league, he was in a different universe. And he was a liar. Somehow the former felt worse than the latter.

“Hi, I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m Ryan.” Ryan extended his hand towards Wyatt, clearly having decided that he was going to play this like they had never met before, like they’d never hooked up, like he’d never pursued Wyatt at all. Like Wyatt hadn’t wasted three hours of his life and a hookup with the hot angel bartender, staring at Ryan like he was something important and worthwhile.

“Wyatt.” He stood, held out his hand to shake. He couldn’t help but think about the night before, when he’d deliberately not shared his last name. And now it felt stupid and foolish, because Ryan must have known it the whole time. “Wyatt Blake.”

It was impossible to avoid touching Ryan, but Wyatt kept the handshake brief, nothing like the intimate meeting of fingers and palms that they’d experienced the night before. Still, even the echo of it rocketed through Wyatt, and as he sat down, he slipped his hand under the table, clenching it painfully around his knee. He didn’t want to be affected by Ryan’s touch. Or the knowledge that Ryan had known they’d meet again this morning.

His words from the night before reverberated through Wyatt’s brain. Yeah, I’ll see you around.

The joke was definitely on Wyatt.

“Your resume is certainly impressive,” Eric said, kicking off the interview portion. There was nothing Wyatt wanted more than to stop him right in his tracks, and walk out. Because whatever this was, he wasn’t sure he wanted a part of it. But the starting salary kept him in the chair. Maybe it would be better to work for Ryan than to work for a spoiled family. It was theoretically possible, he surmised, and he should at least listen to the pitch.

“If I’m reading this correctly,” Ryan said, glancing down at the copy of the resume that Eric had slid across the table to him, “you took a position demotion and a pay cut to work at Terroir.”

“I did.” At the time, with Nana not yet feeling the effects of her Alzheimer’s, it had been a no-brainer. He’d saved on expenses by moving in with Miles and his other roommate, Xander, and it had been worth the demotion from sous chef to line cook, to work at Terroir, one of the most celebrated restaurants in the United States, and the only restaurant in California to have the difficult-to-obtain Michelin stars.

Ryan leaned back in his chair, so casual, like he hadn’t been on his knees less than twelve hours ago. “Can you explain your thought process behind that decision?”

“It does look like an odd choice,” Wyatt admitted. He wasn’t happy about defending his decisions, but he would do it. “Even with the demotion, working at Terroir transformed my resume. It’s one of the best restaurants in America. Working there proved that I could cook in one of the most demanding, exacting kitchens in the world.”

Ryan tapped a pen on the glass conference table. “But now, you’re leaving.”

“I’ve worked there almost two years. It’s time to move on.” Wyatt didn’t want to bring up the pressing financial situation that was forcing this change, but he had a feeling that Ryan and Eric had already dug up that information. Eric in particular didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would leave anything to chance—and he wouldn’t waste his time or his client’s.

So even if Ryan was choosing to grill him, Wyatt had a feeling the job was essentially his. If he wanted it.

The million-dollar question of the day.

“This job requires someone who can manage themselves successfully. You mentioned that Terroir was demanding and exacting. I’ve heard Bastian Aquino can be a tough boss. Do you think you can successfully transition to working without supervision?” Eric asked.

Wyatt almost laughed. “Oh, definitely. In fact, it would be pretty welcome,” he admitted wryly.

“You’ve never been head of a kitchen before,” Ryan inserted.

“Sure, I have,” Wyatt said. “My own kitchen. Is yours going to be so different?”

Ryan inclined his head, a hint of a smile on his face. “No. Actually, it shouldn’t be.”

“Can I ask why you even need a personal chef?” Wyatt asked. He figured it was fair that he interview Ryan—especially considering he’d obscured his motives last night—even as Ryan was interviewing him.

“I’m going to be doing more entertaining. It feels like I’m always sending out for food. It would be nice to not worry about it anymore. There would be nutrition guidelines provided by my trainer that you’d have to follow.”

“Not a problem. I can easily integrate those into meal plans,” Wyatt said.

“Do you have any more questions, Ryan?” Eric asked.

Ryan shook his head, and that basically ended the strangest interview of Wyatt’s career. He couldn’t imagine that Ryan wouldn’t want to taste his food if he was going to be cooking for him every day. But then, he’d never worked for someone who integrated blowjobs into his interview prep before.

Ryan’s behavior should be a turnoff—and it was—but it also left Wyatt curious. Even if Eric left, he didn’t know if he could ask Ryan what had been the goal last night. He didn’t know if he could bring up last night at all. Even before running into Ryan this morning, it had felt too raw to talk about.

“Here’s the compensation package.” Eric slid a single sheet of paper across the conference table. The starting salary listed had an extra digit than his current salary at Terroir. It was a no-brainer, even as his brain tried to talk him out of it.

He didn’t know Ryan’s intentions. His motives. Would he want to keep sleeping with Wyatt? Was this some sort of combined private chef/rent-boy position? Wyatt knew he should request to speak to Ryan in private and ask those questions, but instead he kept his mouth shut and nodded.

“When can you start?” Eric asked, like he had known if he threw money at Wyatt, he’d agree. And he, Wyatt thought bitterly, had been exactly right. He could totally be bought.

“I’ll give my two weeks tomorrow,” Wyatt said, clearing the bitterness out of his throat, “but I fully expect Aquino to kick me out immediately. He doesn’t like it when staff leaves. So I’ll be able to start in a few days.”

“The job includes free rent at the ADU on the back of Ryan’s house,” Eric said. “I don’t suppose you mind us running a background check. Standard procedure for anyone granted access to the property.” Another paper slid across the glass, along with a pen, and Wyatt scribbled his name without even reading the verbiage. He didn’t have anything to hide—unless the tryst he’d had with Ryan counted, and maybe it didn’t.

After all, Ryan was out of the closet. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted, including hook up with some random guy he met at Temple.

“Great,” Eric said. “I’ll also make sure to issue you a credit card for food purchases, and for any equipment purchases for the kitchen. Anything over $500 requires Ryan’s approval. But it’s pretty well-stocked already.”

Wyatt took that with a grain of salt. Well-stocked had different meanings to a professional chef than it did a sports agent who probably hadn’t been in a kitchen in years.

Ryan waved a hand, and gave Wyatt an intimate smile that made his stomach clench. “Don’t worry about it. You can get whatever you need.”

Eric shot his client a hard look. “We talked about this.”

“Yeah, we did,” Ryan retorted. “And I made my decision.” If Eric wondered why Ryan would trust someone he’d only met for five minutes, he didn’t question it.

Eric rolled his eyes but didn’t say another word, simply got to his feet, indicating the interview was over. If it had even been an interview at all. “Nicole at the front will have the paperwork for you to fill out,” he said. “I expect you’ll let us know when you can officially start.” He held out his hand, and Wyatt stood to shake it again, and before he realized what was about to happen, he was alone again with Ryan.

Wyatt tensed. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Could he escape still? Claim he had to get back to Napa? Claim he had a desperate need to fill out paperwork?

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Ryan shot Wyatt an endearing smile. He looked more nervous now than he had picking up Wyatt last night. How was that even possible?

“I hope this is all okay,” Ryan said.

Wyatt was annoyed by how endeared he was. You wanted to manipulate him? Fine, just don’t pretend like you hadn’t. “I wouldn’t have agreed if it wasn’t okay.”

Ryan’s smile brightened, and Wyatt was frustratingly reminded of his own expressed desire to get him to smile more. He would be in a serious position to do that, if he chose to, now. But he was feeling backed into a corner, and the thought didn’t fill him with any anticipation.

“I’m glad you did.”

“I’m sure you are,” Wyatt said, and some of his frustration leaked into his voice. He wasn’t nearly as good at fronting as Ryan was. And that just annoyed him even more.

“I want us to be friends,” Ryan said.

Wyatt stared at him blankly. Seriously, friends? “You just hired me. I’m your employee.”

Ryan shrugged, like this was hardly a barrier to friendship. “Then you’re going to be around all the time. It’ll be great.”

“Great,” Wyatt echoed. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“You can always text Eric when you’re going to be coming back to LA,” Ryan said, “or you can always just text me. That would probably be easier. Eric is terrible at passing on messages.”

It was impossible not to remember how fucking much Wyatt had wanted Ryan’s number last night. How disillusioned he’d been when Ryan had not even brought it up. And now he was offering it, willingly. Wyatt, who knew just how much he and his bank account needed this job, was still struck by a petty desire to shred the contract he’d just signed.

He did not need this bullshit in his life.

Of course that didn’t stop him from agreeing, and whipping out his phone to type Ryan’s number in it. It didn’t stop him from texting Ryan back, so that he’d have his number in his phone, and it didn’t stop him from smiling despite all the irritation swirling inside him when he left Ryan to finish signing the paperwork that would tie them together.

———

“You’re going to need to find a new roommate,” Wyatt said that night to Xander and Kian when he walked in the house, to watch them vegging out on the worn couch, watching re-runs of Iron Chef. The dubbed English originals. Not the execrable US remake.

He loved Alton Brown, but seriously he should have stuck to Good Eats.

“We already found one,” Kian said, barely even looking up from the TV. Someone was butchering an enormous swordfish, and he was staring intently at the process. Probably because Aquino had decided he was going to cut down all his own fish now, and Kian was desperately studying up.

“I didn’t even know when I left yesterday that I’d get the job,” Wyatt said, still annoyed. The six-hour drive back to Napa hadn’t helped clear his head. He’d spent the whole time trying to forget the feel of his hands on the leather seat as Ryan had taken him apart with his mouth. Or the feeling of Ryan’s mouth, period.

It hadn’t worked.

“Of course you were going to get the job,” Xander inserted with irritation. “Did you expect us to sit back and not try to find someone new when you were gonna bail?”

This was typical Xander. Usually Wyatt could brush off his abrasive comments, but he was a little tender today. “Who is it?”

“It’s uh . . . I think it’s going to be good. For us. I mean. Not for you. Probably.” Kian stuttered awkwardly every other word and couldn't look Wyatt in the eye. It made it very obvious who he was talking about.

“There’s not going to be enough room in the closet for all his shoes. Or his wine,” Wyatt said.

“How did you know it was Nate?” Xander demanded. “Did he text you to ask if it was okay?”

Wyatt had blocked Nate’s phone number the week after they’d broken up, so no, but there was a limited number of people who Xander would willingly live with, and the main thing they all had in common was that they brought something to the relationship. Nate was a sommelier who worked for one of Napa’s larger wineries, and so had connections as well as access to pretty decent wine on a regular basis.

“I thought he was living with that new guy of his . . . Rabe? Rake? Rage? I can’t remember.” Wyatt had known he was over Nate when he had heard about him moving in with the new guy and hadn’t even blinked twice.

“Rafe,” Kian said. “And they broke up. I guess Nate found him in bed with someone when he came home unexpectedly.”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”

“His boss,” Xander added. “Phillippa Winchester.”

“That must have been a shock,” Wyatt said. He was basically relieved that both Kian and Xander were more into the hot gossip that Nate’s new boyfriend was hooking up with his female boss, and that he didn’t have to discuss anything to do with his new job or his new boss.

Or that they had also hooked up.

“He was so angry, he stormed right out. Spent the afternoon drinking cosmos on the patio at Terroir. I had to practically pour him into the car and then drop his drunk ass off.” Xander did not sound pleased about this. “But the silver lining is that we have a third roommate again.”

“You’re going to hate living with him. You hated him when we were dating.” Wyatt was very happy he was not going to be around to witness any of the shit Nate and Xander were going to give each other.

“Probably.” Xander sounded resigned to this. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Just don't hook up with him," Wyatt warned, even when he knew his warning would be ignored.

Not that Xander would actually hook up with him. No. He would let Nate work for it, and then turn him down, because Xander was a dick that way and also didn't like to hook up with anyone too close to home.

At least that was what Xander had always claimed whenever Wyatt and Miles went out in Napa and tried to convince him to come with them. But then maybe he just liked being celibate. Who knew.

"Like I would ever stoop that low." Xander smirked. "So what are you moving to LA for? Chasing fame and ass like Miles?"

Wyatt scoffed. "Like I care about that." He really didn’t want to talk about his new job in LA—or who he was going to be working for. But Xander seemed determined to weasel it out of him.

"No," Xander said contemplatively. "But you're chasing something."

Stability, Wyatt thought, and Ryan Flores.

He'd gone to LA seeking the first, but never imagining he'd find the second.

“The interview was for a position as a private chef, for a high-profile athlete,” Wyatt finally admitted.

“Who?” Kian asked, finally tearing his attention away from the fish butchering on Iron Chef.

“He doesn’t want to tell us,” Xander said, voice sneering just the tiniest bit.

“It’s Ryan Flores, okay?” Wyatt snapped. He must really be torn up if Xander was managing to push his buttons. Usually he was able to steer clear of his friend and roommate’s bad moods. But today, he’d drove right into the middle of one, and masochistically, he hadn’t just walked away.

He did feel responsible for leaving them without a third roommate to split costs with, and forcing Xander to either accept a stranger or offer Wyatt’s room to Nate.

“Oh, he’s that cute baseball player,” Kian said.

Xander said nothing, just stared moodily at the screen.

“It’s a good job,” Wyatt said. “He’s going to be a good boss, I think.”

“A lot different than Chef Aquino, that’s for sure,” Kian said, that worshipfulness edge appearing in his voice on cue, like it did every single damn time he talked about their illustrious boss and the owner of Terroir.

“Sometimes I think you like it when the Bastard tortures you,” Xander said. And Wyatt was selfishly glad that Xander’s bad mood had transferred from him to Kian. And he loved Kian. Kian was the sweetest of puppy dogs, and definitely did not deserve Xander’s frustration.

Except that he totally enjoyed it when Bastian Aquino tortured him. And Wyatt knew that fact worried the hell out of both him and Xander.

“Don’t call him that,” Kian said automatically, and that was Wyatt’s cue to check out. Go back to his room, and throw his shit in a duffel bag, donate the furniture to Nate who had picked out most of it anyway, and call it a night. He didn’t have any doubts that he wouldn’t make it through the dinner service tomorrow.

He probably wouldn’t make it through giving his notice unscathed. Bastian Aquino’s nickname was the Bastard for a reason.

“I’m going to pack,” Wyatt announced to his friends, who were now glowering at each other. He didn’t need any problems to add to his teetering pile, but he felt personally responsible for the fact that Kian and Xander were going to bicker all the time without him to intervene or distract, and Nate sure as hell wouldn’t help out. He wasn’t completely self-centered, but he was pretty damn close to it.

“Do you think Chef Aquino will let you work the two weeks?” Kian asked, even though they all knew the answer. Chef Aquino never let anyone finish their two weeks, except Miles, who had gone to professionally film his video blog series, Pastry by Miles. And the only reason Miles had gotten an exemption was because Aquino never cut his nose off to spite his face.

If Miles made it onto the Cooking Channel or some shit, which he and his boyfriend and producer, Evan, were always chattering about, then Aquino was going to want a piece of that action, and he was going to want to say that he’d groomed Miles and then kindly wished him on his way.

Wyatt was abandoning Terroir for a private chef job. Basically, for money, and Aquino, who despite having plenty of money of his own, hated that.

It should have bothered him. It should have made him even a little sad. But Wyatt found he couldn’t wait to leave and head south.

To stability, and to Ryan.

———

Wyatt had known tying up all his loose ends in Napa would be easy. For someone who loved stability, he lived a surprisingly simple existence. His belongings—clothes, laptop, books, knives, his sous-vide—they all fit in two duffels and a handful of boxes. His furniture he donated to Xander and Kian to keep for Nate. If he knew Nate at all, he would refuse to argue with Rage or Rake or whatever the fuck he was called to get any of his own furniture back. All Nate really cared about was his clothes and his shoes and his fucking wine, anyway.

He typed out probably the shortest letter in the history of the world, giving his notice. One line, and it probably wasn’t even a complete sentence. But he didn’t believe Aquino would even waste time reading it, and he certainly wasn’t going to reminisce fondly over the job he was leaving.

Someday, Wyatt let himself think, someday, I’m going to have a job where I respect people and they respect me back, and maybe I even get to call the shots. A job where I get to make the big decisions and when people love the food, it’ll be because of me.

He wasn’t naïve enough to think the job with Ryan was going to be like that. He was technically free of the Bastard’s iron fist, but he was really only changing one controlling boss for another, slightly less controlling one. There were still going to be rules. Cook this meal, prep this week of lunches, make this protein shake every morning, follow all these dietary guidelines. Would a little bit more freedom really feel life-changing?

Wyatt didn’t think so. The only life-changing part of this was the stupendous starting salary. That would change his life, and alleviate much of his stress.

With that thought on his mind, Wyatt drove his bike over to the memory care facility he’d moved his nana to a few months earlier.

She had gone reluctantly, and even Wyatt could acknowledge that she might not have needed the amount of care they could provide just yet, but he was terrified of getting a phone call in the middle of the night that she’d wandered away from her house or set something on fire because she’d forgotten she was using the stove.

It was a Friday afternoon, when Wyatt was usually at work, so it was great to be able to surprise her.

She was sitting by the window in her room, book upside down in her lap, eyes drifting across the gardens behind the home. The beautiful grounds had been one of the main reasons why Wyatt had picked this place for her—even if he couldn’t really afford to. He’d desperately wanted to give her something beautiful, even as her life progressed further into the dark.

“Nana,” he said softly, jerking her from her daydreams. She glanced up, blue eyes still bright even at her age, and the recognition in them was immediate.

Every time he came, he dreaded the first moment, the first time she might not recognize him. So far it hadn’t happened, but the possibility was always there, twisting his stomach into knots.

“Wyatt,” she exclaimed, getting to her feet, the book sliding to the floor with a thud. She glanced down in surprise, his gaze tracking her own, and he saw the astonishment in it.

She’d forgotten the book was on her lap. It could be the sort of momentary memory lapse everyone experienced—or it could be her disease progressing. Wyatt’s stomach twisted again, but instead of letting the worry show, he smiled wide, crossing the room and wrapping her slight form in a big hug.

To him, as a boy, as a teenager, and even as a grown man, she’d always been larger than life. It was hard to feel her bony limbs under his hands as he led her to the small sofa that faced her TV.

“I didn’t expect you today,” Beatrice Blake said, her eyes shining like Wyatt had done something amazing, even though he still felt he wasn’t doing enough.

“Had the day off,” Wyatt said. He tangled his fingers in hers and held tight. Tight to anchor her to this world, and not lose her to the next. “For an interview in Los Angeles, actually.”

Her smile dimmed a little, worry clouding her gaze. He’d told her a million times not to worry about the money after he’d taken over her finances, but she did anyway. “What’s this new job? It can’t possibly be better than Terroir.”

“It’s way better than Terroir,” Wyatt said, and found that he wasn’t even lying to her, though he had been prepared to. “It’s for a really nice baseball player. He needs a private chef. It’ll be a great opportunity to run my own kitchen.”

Her pride in him radiated out of her sweet, barely wrinkled face. She’d never have admitted it to anyone, but she’d always been a little vain. And Wyatt liked to slip her the face cream she loved so much, and had always used religiously, even though it was expensive.

“He’s a baseball player?” Bea asked.

“He plays for the Dodgers,” Wyatt confirmed. “I think it’s going to be a great opportunity.”

“But you’re moving.” Her face fell a little. He already knew what she was thinking; she might not see him very much. Wyatt reminded himself to send his brothers a guilt text, trying to get them over here to see her more often, so she wouldn’t be lonely.

“I’m going to be up here at least once a week, though,” Wyatt insisted. “The nice thing about working for Ryan is that he’s going to be on the road a lot, and I won’t always be needed in LA.”

“I’m just happy you’re doing something for you,” Nana said, a fierce edge to her voice. She might look delicate, with her spun sugar white hair in a cloud around her worn, pale face, but her blue eyes were still bright and she still wanted the very best for him. Would fight for the very best for him. Which was why he’d never told her about the shit that went down regularly at Terroir, or that he was taking this new job for the money, so she’d be properly taken care of.

“Tell me about what you’ve done this week,” Wyatt said. He didn’t want to lie to her. He would, but he didn’t want to.

“It’s so nice here, Wyatt,” she said. “They have such nice people. And we do fun things. They take me to Mass every week. There’s an art instructor once a week and we’re working on a painting. I didn’t think I had an artistic bone in my body, but it looks okay.”

“You’ll have to show it to me when it’s done,” he said.

She blushed. “I don’t know about that. It’s not exactly fine art.”

“I don’t care,” Wyatt vowed. “I still want to see it.”

“Your brothers came to see me, a few days ago,” Bea said.

Something in her voice worried Wyatt. He trusted his brothers because he knew they weren’t bad, trusted that they loved Nana too, but they could be careless. Selfish. “Was it good to see them?”

“Tony has a new girlfriend.” Tony always had a new girlfriend. Wyatt barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “And Marco, I guess he got fired.” That also didn’t come as a surprise. Marco liked to drink more on work nights than was appropriate and probably had called in one too many days at the auto shop he worked at. “But, he tells me,” Bea continued, “that he thinks he can convince the owner to rehire him.”

Wyatt did roll his eyes this time, and she tapped him firmly on the shoulder. “I saw that, Wyatt.”

“If they wouldn’t be so predictable,” Wyatt said.

“They’re your brothers,” Bea said, switching into Nana Lecture Mode, “and someday, they’re going to be all the family you have left. You take care of family. Blakes always take care of family.”

Something he’d been hearing his whole life. “I remember.”

“When they were here, Tony and Marco didn’t even say anything about you having an interview.”

Wyatt hadn’t told them. Hadn’t much seen the point. He and his brothers were so different, and the two of them so similar, that he’d felt so many times like the outsider to their partnership. It made it hard to call or text. Especially now, that he was the only one who’d taken on the burden of Nana’s care.

It wasn’t a burden, Wyatt mentally corrected. He was grateful and privileged that he could. If only it didn’t hang on his shoulders so heavily sometimes.

“I just found out about it, had to beg Chef Aquino for two days off and rush down to LA.”

“And you’re sure about this?” she asked, looking intently at him. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“It’s going to be good, I promise. Better for me, better for you.” That was all he could say before the tears clogged his throat. He cleared it, hoping that she wasn’t so aware that she’d somehow missed the flash of emotion.

“I brought you something,” he said, reaching for the bag he’d brought in, hoping he could distract her. “Miles made them for you.”

“Macarons?” she asked excitedly. Who would have ever thought his dear nana, Irish and traditionalist to the core, would love French pastries? Miles, that’s who. And who packed her a box every time he knew Wyatt was going to see her.

“Lemon almond and raspberry chocolate,” Wyatt said. “And some other strange flavors he wouldn’t tell me, so I’m not taking responsibility for Miles’ weird flavor combinations.”

“He’s a dear,” Nana said, opening the box with excitement in her voice. She glanced up at him conspiratorially. “Do you think it would be wrong of me not to share these?”

“I think you should keep them if you want to,” Wyatt said.

“But, Wyatt,” she said earnestly. “God is always watching.”

Wyatt sure hoped God hadn’t been watching last night when he’d been with Ryan.

Every time she brought up God or religion, that was usually his cue to leave. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to tell her that he was gay. Or that he thought she’d shun him or be disgusted by him. Her beliefs were part of who she was. She’d been raised that way, and spent her whole life going to Mass. She was one of the strongest, most loyal people he’d ever met. Wyatt knew she loved him, unconditionally. But fear was irrational and he couldn’t banish it and he couldn’t bear to push her away from him by telling the truth.

Especially not now.

“I have to get ready to go into work, Nana,” he said, rising to his feet. “Enjoy the macarons and your art class this week.” He dropped a quick kiss on a papery thin cheek and felt his stomach twist again.

“Take care of yourself, darling,” Bea said as he turned to leave.

———

If Bea had had any idea what was in store for Wyatt, she might have worried.

Which was exactly why Wyatt hadn’t told her.

Bastian Aquino, AKA the Bastard, and the owner of the only Michelin-starred restaurant in California, stared down at the paper Wyatt had placed in front of him. His resignation letter.

“What is this?” Chef Aquino demanded. “What is this bullshit?” He snatched up the letter and looked ready to shred it to pieces. Wyatt wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d seen it happen before and not just with paper. With homemade pasta. With fresh lettuce leaves. With a lamb chop lollipop he’d decimated, only the bone remaining. Never mind the gleaming white porcelain dishes. They routinely ended up chipped and mangled in the trash, their contents spilled across the walls of the kitchen, shards sprinkled across the floors.

It was a rare service when the Bastard didn’t break something.

“My resignation,” Wyatt said, making sure to keep his voice toneless, edgeless. Praying he wouldn’t upset Aquino more than he had to.

“What, is working for the best restaurant in the world not good enough for you anymore?” Aquino sneered. “Do you fancy yourself somehow better than my kitchen? Feel like your shitty grillwork might be good enough to make it someplace else?”

Wyatt had a fantastic, intuitive touch with meat, especially on the grill. It was not easy, but still doable, to push that insult away and leave it behind him.

Mostly because he was going to be leaving this place and this asshole behind. Probably very shortly.

“Did someone even hire your sloppy ass?” Bastian demanded.

“Yep.” Wyatt had absolutely zero intention of telling him who it was. There was a single, heart-stopping moment where they just stared at each other, Bastian’s nostrils flaring with his terrible temper.

“Well fine,” Bastian roared, sweeping a big hand across his desk, sending the resignation letter flying, along with cookbooks, recipe cards, a whole mug of pencils and pens, and his wireless keyboard.

The resulting clutter brought Kian to the doorway, which Wyatt had been hoping to avoid, yet also knew was inevitable.

“Get out,” Bastian growled, and because Wyatt was smart, he did what he was told.

He should have spared a single sympathetic glance for Kian, who was about to head into the lion’s den and be eaten alive, all because of Wyatt’s defection, but he didn’t. He wasn’t that good of a person, apparently.