CHAPTER SEVEN

Ryan knew he should have told Eric during their phone call that he’d asked Wyatt and Wyatt had turned down everything that didn’t involve a kitchen, but Ryan was still aching over the whole conversation. Especially over the noticeable conflict and pain in Wyatt’s voice when he’d turned Ryan down.

He hadn’t wanted to say no, that much was obvious. But Ryan understood that sometimes coming out was difficult, and sometimes it was impossible.

That acknowledgement didn’t stop him from lying in bed the next morning, staring at the ceiling, wishing that Wyatt’s situation was different. Maybe it was a little selfish, because that might mean Ryan’s situation would be different, but he reminded himself that there was no harm in wishing for things that would benefit everyone.

Just like there was no harm in a little flirting, as long as he didn’t fall in too deep and hurt them both all over again.

It was also better, Ryan decided, for him to stay in his room and indulge in his melancholy mood than try to use Wyatt to improve it.

Wyatt also wanted to know when Ryan was going to start bringing around a cute boy to play his boyfriend, and probably play with other things, and he couldn’t blame him for that. It was probably going to hurt like hell.

What Ryan couldn’t acknowledge to him, was that it wasn’t just going to hurt Wyatt. Ryan didn’t want to play house with someone else. Not when who he really wanted was on the sidelines, watching.

And that was why he hadn’t told Eric. Eric would have had a backup there that afternoon, probably all trendy haircut and tight pants and gym abs.

It was funny, Ryan thought as he shifted in his bed, realizing he was going to have to change his sheets because they still smelled like Wyatt and what they’d done the other night, because those things would have easily been enough to attract him only a few weeks ago.

He hadn’t been picky about his hookups, but those had usually been things he wanted. And if he was lucky, he might even find them all in the same guy. But then he’d met Wyatt and suddenly he wanted something else: muscular forearms from knife work and constantly lifting heavy pans; blond hair half-messy from the wind; the intriguing hints of vulnerability that Wyatt revealed because he wasn’t trying to be sexy or mysterious all the damn time.

Tabitha had been so right about what she’d whispered into his ear yesterday afternoon; he’d gotten in too deep and now he was fucked.

He could call up Eric today and tell him the whole thing was off. There had been no guarantees it would even change the GM’s mind about Ryan. But Eric had unbelievable instincts when it came to contract negotiation and there was a very good chance he was right.

Telling Eric it was off was as good as acknowledging that he was willing to leave this city, his friends and his family behind. And while it was shitty that his fake boyfriend couldn’t be Wyatt, this was his life. Even for someone who generally lived by the seat of his pants, there had to be weight to this decision.

“Fuck,” Ryan told the ceiling. “Fuck all of this.”

The ceiling didn’t reply, which was probably better in the end.

He thought about calling Tabby and whining to her but he’d already unloaded on her twice yesterday, and he couldn’t in good conscience do it again the next day. But he still couldn’t bring himself to call Eric and tell him the truth.

Glancing out the partly open window showed a beautiful blue sky beckoned and Ryan decided that if he wanted to keep pouting, then he might as well spend time with someone who wouldn’t get annoyed with him.

Or something.

He was in board shorts and a tank top, grabbing his phone and the keys to the Range Rover before he could change his mind. It was easy enough to pull his surfboard off the wall and maneuver it to the rack on top of the Range Rover.

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 following 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.

“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.”

“I’m good. How about you, darling boy? You settle into your big fancy new job okay?”

She was back. The lapse had only lasted a minute, but it had left an indelible impression on Wyatt. He wasn’t sure he would ever forget this moment. The grease in the air, the five pressure points of Ryan’s hand on his knee, the sweaty grip on his phone.

He talked aimlessly for five minutes and then told Nana he had to go. He couldn’t pretend like nothing had happened.

When he finally hung up, there was silence in the car.

Finally, Ryan broke it. “Was that the first time she didn’t recognize your voice?”

Wyatt wasn’t sure he could speak, so he just nodded.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan sounded legitimately sorry, even though it was Wyatt who wanted to apologize for ruining a beautiful afternoon with this tragedy.

“Don’t be. Please,” Wyatt managed to say. “Please don’t.”

“We don’t have to talk about it. But if you ever need to go see her, you just say the word,” Ryan said.

“Okay. I . . . I appreciate it.”

Wyatt knew he should be more grateful for Ryan’s support and for his flexibility, but all he felt was a growing rage at fate and how it was trying to take yet another beloved member of his family. First his dad had left, then his mom had died, and now the one person he still felt close to was going to forget who he even was.

He clamped his hand over Ryan’s, and as Wyatt gripped his hand, it struck him, suddenly and catastrophically, that the man Bea Blake would be forgetting wasn’t even the real Wyatt.

“I texted my aunt this morning,” Ryan said, clearly making good on his promise to change the subject. But Wyatt’s fingers didn’t let up on Ryan’s for even a moment. “Would Friday afternoon work for you?”

Swallowing all the emotions back, Wyatt held on even harder. “Don’t you have something important or fun to be doing besides going to your aunt’s house and watching her teach me how to cook?”

Ryan laughed unexpectedly. “Obviously you’ve never met my titi Flor before, because she definitely won’t let me just watch.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Wyatt said, and discovered that he wasn’t even lying. He wanted to meet the woman who could make Ryan laugh like that.

Ryan pulled into the driveway, the gate shutting behind them. “Do you think you could eat?” he asked, even though the bag of burgers was still sitting between them—a special detour to In-N-Out, and Ryan had whipped out his credit card despite the challenge he’d given earlier.

Wyatt still felt vaguely nauseous, but he’d only had a few eggs and some turkey sausage this morning before his run, and he’d worked up a real appetite surfing.

“Yeah, of course,” Wyatt said. How had Ryan even known he’d gotten nauseous? Had it been written all over his face? He pushed the embarrassment away. If there was ever a situation to feel sick over, it was this one.

“We could even watch some TV,” Ryan suggested.

Even though Wyatt had long come to terms with the fact that Ryan was nothing like his old boss, it still felt weird that Ryan was seeking him out all the time. Either because he actually wanted to be friends, or because . . . Wyatt didn’t even know how to finish that thought. Because Ryan had explicitly and clearly expressed interest in a fake boyfriend, someone to convince the GM that he was dependable. And if fake boyfriend had been ruled out, real boyfriend was definitely not in the cards.

“Sure, but if you turn on another of those godawful nature documentaries, I might have to pass.”

But then there was the way Ryan lit up at Wyatt’s teasing, defying explanation. “What about Star Talk?”

“With Neil deGrasse Tyson?” Wyatt opened his car door. “I thought you were a stupid athlete.”

“Well, this stupid athlete went to Stanford, and attempts to combat that stereotype by arming himself with knowledge,” Ryan said flippantly, but his voice was warm and comforting and certain. And Wyatt realized then that Ryan didn’t want him to agonize and obsess alone.

He thought about thanking him but going back to his cottage, but then Ryan was in the house, leaving Wyatt behind in the garage, and he was babbling about Twitter and flat earth conspiracists, and instead of dwelling, Wyatt let his words wash over him, taking all the ugliness with them.

Wyatt might not know what the hell they were doing, but they were friends. And that was going to have to be enough—at least for now.