CHAPTER EIGHT

Over the next few days, Wyatt worked hard to create some kind of routine for his work and his friendship with Ryan. He didn’t want the other man to feel obligated to hang out with him, or eat with him, or even talk to him, but Ryan always sought him out.

“Are you trying to push me away?” Ryan asked one evening when in determination that he should get a choice, Wyatt had set a single place setting in the cavernous dining room.

Ryan had showed up in the kitchen, where Wyatt was eating at the island, with his plate and silverware and had shot him a half-hearted glare. “Do you not like eating with me?”

It had been difficult not to flush. The problem wasn’t that Wyatt didn’t like hanging out with him, it was that he was increasingly loving it, and he’d really liked it to begin with.

“If I want space, I’ll take it,” was all Ryan had said about it before setting his plate down right next to Wyatt’s.

They hadn’t gone surfing again, and Wyatt hadn’t invited himself to use Ryan’s home gym. And Ryan hadn’t pushed there either, which was probably smart. The truth was getting half-naked and sweaty together was a terrible combination if they wanted to keep things platonic.

The attraction was there. The possibility for it to deepen wasn’t far behind. And at least half the time, Wyatt imagined saying fuck it, and pinning Ryan to the nearest convenient surface.

The wall. The kitchen counter. Ryan’s bed. Wyatt’s bed. In his wilder daydreams, Ryan’s bike again. His imagination definitely wasn’t doing him any favors. He’d go to bed, and lie awake in bed, running through memories, real and otherwise, and put off jerking off as long as possible until he was burning up and there was no other way to relieve the pressure of wanting Ryan.

And every time, even as he wrapped his hand around his cock and gave himself an experimental stroke, Wyatt knew that it wouldn’t help because in the end, it wasn’t what he really needed.

What he needed was the god damn real thing; on top of him, under him, pressed against him. Wyatt was discovering he wasn’t particularly picky except it had to be Ryan Flores.

Wyatt wasn’t naïve enough to believe it might be the same for Ryan, but there was more than one morning when he swore he caught the sharpened edge of sexual frustration in Ryan’s eyes. He recognized it because he saw the exact same fucking thing in his bathroom mirror each morning.

“You ready to go?” Wyatt looked up, and Ryan was standing there, board shorts and a loose tank, one nipple almost poking out the armhole.

He’d dressed in jeans and a polo shirt that he’d dug out from the back of his meager closet, because he was going to see the aunt of the guy he liked, and old habits died hard.

Now Wyatt was wondering if he was criminally overdressed.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You know, I have lots of money but my family rarely lets me give it to them. My titi won’t even let me buy her an air conditioner.”

Okay, so he was definitely overdressed. But changing would mean admitting why he’d pulled these clothes out in the first place, and even though Wyatt thought Ryan probably knew, admitting it was a whole different story.

“It’s okay,” Wyatt dismissed, “I worked in hot kitchens my whole career.”

“Don’t tell me the Bastard didn’t give you guys even a measly fan?” Wyatt had made the mistake a few days ago of referring to Bastian Aquino by his hated nickname, and Ryan had been unexpectedly delighted and had been looking for ways to bring him up so he could use it.

Wyatt shouldn’t find it adorable, but that ship had definitely sailed.

Maybe he should stop trying to fight it, and instead figure out how to embrace it—no matter how impossible the situation felt.

“I shouldn’t have told you Aquino’s secret nickname,” Wyatt admitted.

But Ryan just kept grinning in delight as they headed down the garage steps. Ryan opened the door of the Tesla, and Wyatt followed suit, sliding into the sleek car.

“If I ever meet him, I might have to accidentally slip one or two ‘Bastards’ in,” he said as they backed out of the driveway.

“If you ever met him, you wouldn’t even dream of it.”

Ryan raised a dark eyebrow and the hot, insolent look in his eyes swamped Wyatt with desire. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I like living on the edge.”

He’d definitely noticed. It had been a little hard to miss, and Wyatt, who considered himself laid-back but grudgingly cautious, found it strangely appealing.

At first he’d thought it was only Ryan's looks that had attracted him, but Wyatt was beginning to realize it wasn’t just his exterior that attracted him—it was the whole package.

“You drive too fast,” Wyatt pointed out as they screamed onto the freeway, the Tesla handling like a dream, even as he refused to glance over and check the speedometer. “Don’t tell me you’re aspiring to be a professional race car driver too.”

The other night, Ryan had told him that in high school, before he’d gotten the big scholarship to play baseball at Stanford, he’d briefly considered surfing for a living. “Becoming a professional beach bum,” Wyatt had teased, but it made sense. Ryan craved adventure, craved waking up and not knowing exactly where he was. Craved the liquid lighter fluid of adrenaline running through his veins.

“Maybe,” Ryan said with a dimpled, slanted grin.

“All things considered, baseball must feel pretty sedate for you,” Wyatt pointed out.

“Oh come on. You’re not one of those idiots who think baseball is slow and boring, are you?” Ryan gave a self-conscious snort of laughter. “You totally are.”

“I’m sure playing the game is a hell of a lot different than watching it,” Wyatt retorted.

“This should have been my first question in the interview: do you think baseball is a boring lesser version of golf? Or curling?”

“Curling is fantastic,” Wyatt argued. “Have you ever seen those Swedish guys?”

“Yes.” Ryan’s lip curled. “And I’m going to remember you voted baseball under curling because of the hot Swedes.”

“You’re very hot too,” Wyatt said because he should be loyal and honest. Or something like that.

Ryan cut over three lanes, taking the exit ramp going at least seventy miles per hour. Wyatt didn’t flinch, because he’d learned that if he flinched, Ryan would drive even faster.

“You’re also a maniac,” Wyatt mumbled under his breath.

“I heard that,” Ryan announced cheerfully.

“Tell me about your titi,” Wyatt suggested.

“Flor? She’s been here . . . fifteen years? Twenty? We’ll have to ask her. She came over with my mom.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask about Ryan’s mom, because even though he’d mentioned his aunt half a dozen times, his mother hadn’t ever come up. But Wyatt didn’t, because he knew how much it could hurt when someone thoughtlessly asked about his—and it had been eight years since she’d died.

Some wounds didn’t heal, they just scabbed over.

“She basically raised me,” Ryan continued, essentially but not completely answering the question that Wyatt hadn’t asked. “She’s probably my favorite person in the whole world.”

The wound created by his nana not remembering him hadn’t even had time to scab over yet, and it throbbed at Ryan’s words.

“She and my two cousins run a cleaning business. Rich people’s houses, all that bullshit. But she’s good at it, and loves her clients and they love her. Someday, she wants to open a restaurant. I keep telling her I’ll loan her the money, even charge interest, but she won’t take a penny.”

Wyatt thought of his nana, and one of the lesser lies that he’d told her recently: that the sale of her little bungalow in a Sacramento suburb would pay for her extended care in the memory care facility.

It wasn’t the most painful lie he’d ever told her—that was still ongoing and likely to remain so—but it had been entirely necessary. She’d never accept Wyatt paying for her care.

“Anonymous donation?” Wyatt asked, even though they both knew it was useless because they both had tough-as-nails, independent female relatives. They were so easy to love, but almost impossible to help.

The wound ached again when Wyatt remembered that Bea Blake was no longer as independent as she’d once prided herself on being.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “If only that would work.”

“You’ll figure out something, eventually. You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who just gives up.”

“When you meet her,” Ryan confessed, “you’ll realize that she’ll never let me. I just funnel as many nice, rich people as I can find her way, and that’s how I make sure her dream comes true.”

"You're a good person," Wyatt murmured.

"Not really. But at least I make an attempt," Ryan said flippantly. He pulled over next to a small house, painted bright yellow. “So, here we are.”

Wyatt hadn’t been nervous, but when faced with the prospect of getting out of the car, he realized he was really nervous. It wasn’t so surprising that he wanted Ryan’s titi to like him, and not because he wanted everyone to generally like him. Considering how compartmentalized Ryan typically kept his hookups, Wyatt wondered if he’d taken the job as Ryan’s fake boyfriend if he would have ever met her at all.

“Just make sure you don’t mention Eric,” Ryan warned as they walked up the concrete path to the house. The grass on either side was neatly trimmed and there was a profusion of tropical flowers on either side of the front door.

“Eric?” Wyatt asked blankly.

“My agent. Flor hates him. She thinks he’s a weasel.”

The door opened and a shorter woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and equally dark, intense eyes stepped out. There was a wide smile on her face, and a few laugh lines around her eyes and bracketing her lips. She looked warm and friendly and the way she immediately pulled Ryan into a big hug and then said loudly, “He is a weasel,” made Wyatt want her to like him even more.

“No arguments from this corner,” Wyatt said, extending his hand. “Thank you for inviting me into your home. I’m Wyatt Blake.”

Flor let go of Ryan and gave Wyatt a quick, but very thorough look up and then down. If he’d thought Tabitha’s examination had been tough, it had nothing on Flor’s.

She reached out like she was going to shake his hand, but then pulled him into a hug. Wyatt got a fleeting impression of coconut and roasted pork and sunshine.

“You are ready to cook, yes?” she asked, leading them into the house. “Ryan told me you are very good.”

The house was scrupulously neat, with warm wood floors and framed retro tourism posters dotting the walls. A navy-blue couch sat across from a flat screen television, with sunny orange and yellow pillows brightening its surface.

Wyatt had never felt particularly unsure about his qualifications before, but faced with Flor’s fierce gaze, he wavered and Ryan ended up answering her instead.

“Yes, I told you,” Ryan said. “He’s a chef.”

“Well, lucky you came in time. I’m making the sofrito first.”

The kitchen was tiny, with just barely enough room for the three of them. But something incredibly delicious was already simmering on the stove, warming up the room. Ryan shot him a smug look, and Wyatt couldn’t help but wish that he’d taken Ryan’s advice and dressed down.

“Sofrito?” Wyatt asked, fully expecting that he would get incredulous looks from both Ryan and Flor.

“Oh, you didn’t tell me he knew nothing.” Flor directed this comment to Ryan.

But Ryan only laughed. “Titi, I told you he was a chef. He doesn’t know anything about Puerto Rican food.”

Flor turned to Wyatt. “Sofrito is . . . the most important thing in Puerto Rican food. It creates the important flavor. I usually make mine every few weeks and then freeze it.”

Wyatt took in the counter full of peppers, huge bags of herbs, onions, garlic. “I can help chop,” he offered.

Flor wordlessly handed him a knife. “Not perfect,” she said once he began to break down the peppers. “We’re going to blend it all.”

But Wyatt hadn’t learned knife skills in culinary school for nothing, and then honed them in one of the most exacting kitchens in the world. He knew what to do with a knife in his hand, even with Flor glancing over at him to check in every minute or so.

After he’d broken down the peppers and onions and had started mincing the garlic, Flor turned to Ryan, who despite what he’d claimed earlier, was just lounging against the kitchen counter, browsing through his phone.

“Hijo, he’s very good with his hands.” Her knowing look in his direction had him blushing and Ryan sputtering. He’d been right then, Flor had not met many—or any—of Ryan’s boyfriends. If he’d even had one. That was still unclear and Wyatt wasn’t sure it was even right to ask him.

“It’s why I hired him,” Ryan said.

“You didn’t even give me a real interview,” Wyatt pointed out. “We sat at a table and you half-heartedly asked me a few questions.”

“True,” Ryan admitted and Wyatt didn’t miss Flor rolling her eyes.

“You’re going to end up broke,” she said.

“Been doing good so far,” Ryan argued. “I have a huge shoot coming up for Adidas. I think I told you about that.”

But Flor didn’t seem to be deterred, even as she pulled out a big Vitamix blender. “You trust too many people, who want to take all of your money.”

Wyatt wasn’t sure he agreed. Yeah, Ryan was generous. He paid him a great salary and had insisted more than once on picking up the bill for things. Had given Wyatt a credit card to charge supplies and groceries. But more than one offhand comment he’d made had made it clear that he monitored it fairly closely. He wasn’t tight-fisted by any means, but he certainly wasn’t running through cash the way Flor made it sound.

“You’ll have to forgive my titi,” Ryan said. “She thinks anyone who gives a gift over a hundred bucks is careless with their finances.”

Flor glared at him. “If you had told me how much this blender cost, I never would have taken it.”

Ryan’s eyes were guileless. “You could have given it back after you found out.”

“Hardly. It saves me so much time and energy, it’s cost-effective to use it,” she sniffed.

Wyatt found himself chuckling into his garlic while still missing his nana so much it was hard to take a breath. He’d wanted to call her again, but frankly he was afraid to, terrified that he would dial her number and a stranger would answer again.

He knew it was something he might have to get used to—not might, he corrected bitterly, he would—but he wasn’t ready. He needed more time, except that the disease wasn’t exactly clued into his timetable, or anyone else’s either.

“So what have you been feeding my nephew?” Flor directed this question Wyatt’s direction, her bickering with Ryan over the blender concluded—at least for now.

“I’ve been to the farmer’s market three times since I got here. So lots of fresh veggies. Salmon. Chicken. I made burgers the other night with roasted mushrooms.”

Flor made a tsking noise as she began to load his chopped vegetables into the blender pitcher. “He takes terrible care of himself on his own. I thought this was a bad idea, but I’ve changed my mind.”

Wyatt had a feeling that this was unusual, so he gave her a grateful nod. “It’s very different from what I’m used to, but I agree. It’s been good.”

The toughest part had probably been being around Ryan and not being able to do what he wanted to him, with him, against him, etcetera, but second toughest had been all the unexpected free time he’d found himself with. He didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t working fourteen hours a day, falling into bed, and then getting up to do it all over again.

“And you’re used to what? Very long days?” Flor shot her nephew a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re keeping him busy enough.”

“I’m only one man,” Ryan complained. “I can only eat so much.”

“Sofrito isn’t cooked, then?” Wyatt asked. He’d looked up the rudiments of Puerto Rican cooking before this day, and he’d seen many recipes claiming to be authentic, but most of them cooked the pepper and herb mix down first.

Ryan groaned. “Don’t get her started.”

Flor shot him a glare. “Each cook does it differently. This is my way, at least for this dish.”

“We’re making pasteles,” Ryan supplied. “Usually served on holidays or special occasions. Very fancy. And sort of my aunt’s specialty.”

“Not sort of,” Flor corrected. “Hijo, come here and do something besides hold up that counter. Chop up the pork for me.” She gestured to where she’d set up another plastic cutting board. A huge hunk of pork shoulder sat on it, waiting to be broken down. Wyatt’s fingers itched, because he would much rather be doing that more delicate, more skilled work, than mincing another fifty cloves of garlic.

Also, despite Flor asking him to do it, Wyatt wasn’t sure Ryan knew how. He’d acted very uneasy every time Wyatt had asked him to help with anything in the kitchen.

“Very fine,” Flor reminded Ryan as he picked up the knife. “You know how it should be.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Sí, I know.”

And to Wyatt’s surprise, Ryan very competently wielded the knife and began to break down the shoulder into more manageable pieces. It wasn’t precisely how Wyatt would have done it, but he’d been trained in professional kitchens, and he was certain that Flor had taught Ryan.

In fact, now that Wyatt was seeing Ryan chop up the pork, he realized that Flor had been more concerned about his knife skills—for ingredients that were eventually going to be blended. Wyatt didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

“Professional skills,” Flor said, following Wyatt’s gaze to where Ryan was working. “I only trust what I know.”

Wyatt laughed. “And you taught him.”

Flor broke into a huge smile. “Exactly.” She turned towards Ryan. “I think I like this one. You don’t let me meet many—or any—of your men, hijo, but I still like this one. Don’t scare him away.”

Ryan flushed red, knife pausing in the middle of a cut. “He’s not my man, titi.”

Throwing up her hands, Flor retreated back to the blender, and hit the power button. She didn’t seem very convinced, and Wyatt was torn between embarrassment and pure satisfaction.

He’d totally dawdled through the rest of the garlic, because he’d been listening to Flor and Ryan chatter and then watching Ryan chop up the pork. So he was unexpectedly surprised when he heard a voice over his shoulder.

“You’re looking awfully smug at that garlic clove,” Ryan murmured near his ear. Only long practice helped Wyatt keep his rhythm and not let his knife falter.

“I don’t know why I’d be staring smugly at garlic,” Wyatt said.

“Okay, so you were staring at my ass at least fifty percent of the time,” Ryan said, and Wyatt looked up at him to see smiling, little dimple and all.

“I think I wouldn’t be staring smugly at your ass if I was getting it,” Wyatt groused. Hopefully quiet enough that Flor wouldn’t hear.

“True,” Ryan admitted.

Wyatt wanted to ask again, when am I going to come home to find another man in the house, the one who gets to play your boyfriend? But Flor was right there, and Ryan had shut down the last time he’d asked. So he didn’t, even though he could taste the question on his tongue.

“I’m going to smell like garlic for a month,” Wyatt said, changing the subject for self-preservation reasons. “Reminds me of when I first started at Terroir, and Aquino put me on garlic duty for contradicting him once.”

Ryan sighed deeply. “You’re only convincing me more that I have to go up to Napa and kick the Bastard’s ass. Soon.”

“Language,” Flor piped up from the other side of the kitchen. “I know I raised you better than that.”

“That’s his name,” Ryan protested.

Flor raised an eyebrow. “Okay, it’s his nickname, but it seems like a god damned accurate one,” Ryan added.

“Bastian Aquino can be . . . well . . .” Wyatt hesitated. “He can be a bit of a jerk, sometimes. Even though Terroir was supposed to be such a great place to work, I don’t miss it at all.”

“When I first came here,” Flor said, raising her voice to be heard over the Vitamix, “I work for company cleaning houses. They pay me a good wage. But the supervisor was awful. I quit, and started my own company. Less money, more happiness.” She hesitated. “But Ryan wouldn’t let you come work for him without paying you more.” She sounded fond but exasperated.

“Don’t worry, I’m not breaking the bank,” Wyatt said. “And it’s crazy how long I suffered at Terroir, just because it was Terroir, and a thousand chefs would have committed murder for my spot. Somehow that was supposed to make me like it more, I guess, but I didn’t. Leaving was hard, I only wish I’d done it sooner.”

Wyatt finished the garlic and passed it over to Flor who was still magically concocting the sofrito, mixing and matching ingredients and tasting each batch after she blended it. Once she determined a batch was perfect, she’d pour it into ice trays, and they went into the freezer.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll pop them out and stick them in freezer bags. And then they’re good as long as they last, whenever I cook.”

“I might do that with fresh herbs,” Wyatt mused. “It’s a brilliant idea.”

“Not brilliant,” she retorted. “Common sense.”

“Amazing how the two things are often the same thing,” Ryan said.

“Time for the pork,” Flor announced. The skillet she produced was massive. Wyatt probably could have sat in it and paddled it out into the Pacific Ocean. “Hijo, will you grate the yautia and the bananas for the filling?”

Ryan groaned, but didn’t hesitate to pull out the necessary bowl and grater, and begin what looked like an arduous job.

“I thought you said your titi wasn’t going to make you work,” Wyatt teased.

“I would never say that,” Ryan loyally protested when Flor shot him a look from where she was beginning to load the pork into the hot pan.

“I hope you help Wyatt too,” Flor said. “He’s not your slave.”

Ryan laughed. “No. Unfortunately.”

“I have everything under control, usually,” Wyatt inserted. He hadn’t ever felt comfortable asking Ryan to help prepare meals because that was what Ryan was technically paying him for. Even when Ryan hung around the kitchen, which he did most days, having a beer or a bottle of water as he watched Wyatt prepare food.

“Also he’s way out of my skill level,” Ryan said. “He’s playing dumb now, making sure not to overpromise and underdeliver, but he’s got serious talent.”

“Maybe he could teach you to take care of yourself better,” Flor said, her voice going steely. “You eat out too much.”

Teaching Ryan how to cook sounded like heaven and hell, all wrapped up in one delicious package. But Wyatt couldn’t tell Ryan’s aunt that he wasn’t sure how much more time he could spend with him before giving in and dragging them both back to the bedroom.

Frankly, they might not even make it that far. The living room had a really nice soft carpet that had been figuring in Wyatt’s imagination a lot lately.

“I do fine,” Ryan argued. “You worry too much.”

But Wyatt chimed in before Flor could. “That’s her job,” he said. “Just like yours is to hit a baseball really, really far.”

“I do more than that,” Ryan said. “I also run around in a circle and catch balls sometimes.” The slanted, teasing look he shot Wyatt was almost more than he could bear. His fingers clenched around the edge of the counter.

Flor must have been at least partially aware of the undercurrents running through the kitchen because she waved Wyatt over and proceeded to distract him by giving him a long list of ingredients to be added to the browning pork. He was a food nerd, so it was an effective move.

“I’ll send you the recipe later,” Flor said when Wyatt was trying to remember everything they’d added. “We want it to be nice and cooked down. So we’ll let it simmer a little, while Ryan finishes up the masa. Do you need the achiote oil yet?” She directed the question to Ryan, not even glancing his direction as she turned the pork mixture with a wooden spoon.

“Soon,” Ryan said.

“When he was little he’d always beg to have pasteles,” Flor confided in Wyatt. “But I told him he’d have to make the masa, and that usually cured his craving.”

“It’s a thankless job,” Ryan pointed out loudly.

“But you’ve got a nice pair of muscles to get it done fast,” Flor said.

And Wyatt couldn’t exactly complain when he craned his neck to see Ryan straining against the old-fashioned box grater, biceps bulging. It was definitely a view worth turning around for.

The smug look Ryan shot him made it crystal clear he knew just how sizzling hot he was, and that he’d let Wyatt look and then keep looking any time he wanted.

He didn’t know if the sudden heat in the kitchen was from the hot stove or the tiny sluggish fan pumping warm air lazily around the small room, or Ryan sweating over the grater—but Wyatt knew his polo was sticking to him in damp patches, and there was sweat beading along his hairline.

But from the way Ryan kept gazing at him, all smolder and no stop sign, it was clear he didn’t mind. Maybe he even liked it.

If they’d been alone, maybe Wyatt would’ve stripped his shirt off and even though his abs weren’t quite the caliber of Ryan’s, let him look his fill anyway.

Except there was a reason they’d stayed mostly fully clothed around each other. They were dry matches desperate to burn, and all they craved was a single flame to set them alight.

But he couldn’t set them on fire, because it might burn too hot, and then they’d both be caught in the backdraft.

“Earth to Wyatt,” Flor interrupted his increasingly distracted thinking.

“Sorry,” Wyatt said, turning his attention back to Flor. “I got distracted.”

Her smirk told him that she knew exactly why he’d been so out of it, but she didn’t say anymore about it, for which he thanked all the kitchen gods.

“Are you ready to finish the filling?” Flor asked and Wyatt nodded.

Flor moved it off the heat, and they each gave it a taste. Wyatt was impressed by the complexity of the flavor, even though she’d added a fraction of the ingredients they’d used at Terroir and some of the other restaurants he’d worked at.

“Do you think it needs more oregano?” Flor asked him, and the sly light in her eyes informed him this was a test. He’d always been an achiever, and he was desperate to pass.

“He doesn’t know if it needs more oregano,” Ryan inserted, but Wyatt ignored him, and closed his eyes, rolling the flavor across his tongue, tasting each separate ingredient. Savoring each component, and how they became more than the sum of their parts.

“No,” Wyatt finally answered. “But it does need more pepper. And a dash of red pepper, if you have it.”

“Cayenne,” Flor confirmed, and in her hand was the jar of bright red powder. “Agreed.”

“You’re pretty good,” Flor said, after both peppers had been added, and the filling was off the stove, cooling. “Not many people could have figured out what was missing without knowing what it was supposed to taste like.”

Wyatt shrugged. “Some people have a nose for smells. Some people are good at figuring out flavors. I happen to have a combination of both. I can usually tell what’s in any particular dish by smell. Definitely by taste. Makes it pretty easy to tell what’s missing.”

“Seriously?” Ryan asked. “You can really do that?”

“It came in very handy, especially at Terroir. If you think your aunt is terrifying, Bastian Aquino’s tests were legendary.”

“And you always passed,” Ryan stated, with a quick grin. “I bet you did.”

“He stumped me once or twice.” A lie. Bastian Aquino had never stumped him, even though he’d worked hard at it. He’d called Wyatt a freak, even in his hearing, and even implied once or twice when he was particularly nasty that all Wyatt’s skill revolved around something he’d been born with, not developed.

But Ryan was glowing, he was basking in it, and Wyatt already knew what lay that direction: disaster. They couldn’t go down that road again, and then end it before it ever began. If that happened, he’d end up halfway to heartbroken, and then he’d have to quit.

Wyatt needed this job. He also needed Ryan, but he was figuring out how to justify only tiny nibbles. Hanging out, being buddies, that was enough to keep his hunger at bay.

If he had another real taste . . . all bets were off.

“Finally ready for the oil,” Ryan said. He was sweating too, his forehead damp. Wyatt wanted to press his lips against his skin, taste the salt and the unique taste that was Ryan.

Thank god Titi Flor was right there. She was an excellent dissuading tactic.

Wyatt watched as Ryan finished the masa, mixing in the achiote oil for color, flavor, and to bring the grated fruit together to form a thick dough.

“Finally time to stuff the leaves,” Flor announced. She set up three stations and for the next half an hour, they worked like crazy, layering in masa and pork filling, and then bundling it together in the banana leaf, a perfect packet of tastiness.

“How do we cook these?” Wyatt asked Flor.

“Boil for an hour or so,” she said. “Salted water. They also freeze beautifully, which I’ll be doing with about half these.”

“Really?” Ryan pouted. “I promise to take those off your hands.”

“Even you do not need a hundred pasteles,” Flor said sternly. “Besides, you have a very competent chef in your employ who will make them any time you ask.”

“You really think so?” Ryan asked, shooting Wyatt a speculative look from under his thick, dark lashes. Wyatt felt pinned. Exposed.

“I’m not sure they would ever measure up to your titi’s,” Wyatt said quickly.

“Maybe I want to see what you can do with them,” Ryan insisted.

“They’re a lot of work,” Wyatt protested, even though it was weak. He’d been making complicated meals all week because he was bored and also because he wanted to give Ryan something, a little return for everything Ryan had offered so selflessly.

“Like you wouldn’t do anything he asked when he bats his lashes,” Flor scoffed, putting an end to the question once and for all.

Wyatt turned back to his stack of banana leaves, cheeks burning with heat and embarrassment. Was he so obvious? He thought he had his feelings at least partially under wraps.

“Well, he’s not alone in that,” Ryan said quietly, and Flor made an approving noise.

———

Wyatt and Ryan climbed back in the Tesla an hour later, fifty pasteles richer, with a load of unspoken, raw emotion boiling between them.

Flor had seen them off with a tight hug each. “You take care of him,” she’d murmured to Wyatt under her breath during his. “He cares more than he lets on.”

The problem was that Ryan already seemed to care, so if he cared even more, felt even deeper, Wyatt was afraid of what the future held for them.

He couldn’t give Ryan what he wanted—what they both wanted—but they were both drowning here, and there were no good ideas left to hold onto.

“Thank you for bringing me today,” Wyatt said, because trying to re-establish their friendship seemed like the safest bet.

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.