Chapter 17
ROB
Amber was one smart cookie.
She’d organized the week leading up to the grand finale with serious attention to detail and emphasis on community involvement.
Great H Bagels and Boardwalk Pizza hosted specific flavor days and gave coupons for participation.
It was a huge hit. Both stores had lines out the door every day, though at different times.
We were busy from dawn to early afternoon, and Mateo and his cousins were swamped from late morning to closing.
“Everyone loves giving their two cents.” She snickered. “All they want is a platform to judge.”
“How are we doing?”
Amber wrinkled her nose. “I think they’re winning, but there’s still a week to go and the ad campaign is about to hit hard.”
She wasn’t kidding. Amber had arranged for Mateo and me to do an interview with the local paper that had been picked up by the San Francisco Chronicle and had made the front page of the sports section.
Nice, but it was nothing compared to the social media frenzy Amber had ignited with a few reels she’d posted featuring Mateo and me in our college football uniforms mashed with current clips of us in our respective shops, making bagels, slinging pizza dough, and proudly representing Haverton.
Sales were through the roof so no one was complaining, but the new attention was surreal.
Mateo and I were asked to attend a recent football game together where we’d been surrounded by eager fans who’d wanted autographs, selfies, and a chance to chat with a couple of OG Great H players.
I’d drawn the NFL crowd for sure, but Mateo was popular with the locals.
Not too surprising. Mateo knew practically everyone in town and had a great rapport with college students.
I spotted him taking selfies with the girls’ basketball team and five minutes later, he was chatting with a group of octogenarians about the family of raccoons that had taken residence in the alley behind the Chinese restaurant.
Mateo switched gears easily. He had a knack for recalling names and oddball events from ten or twenty years ago and was somehow up-to-date with the latest TikTok fad. And on top of being charismatic, he was ridiculously gorgeous.
I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I overheard two old women twittering on the sidewalk outside our shops the other day.
“Oh, that Mateo is a looker, all right.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be fifty years younger.”
They’d giggled like schoolgirls and winked at me as I’d pushed open the door to the pizzeria. I wanted to tell them I was as smitten as they were. It was true. I had a big ol’ crush on Mateo Cavaretti…a thousand times bigger than the one I’d secretly harbored in college.
Now I knew him. The real Mateo.
I could tell his real smile from the polite one reserved for customers.
I knew how to tease him, make him laugh, and turn him on.
I’d mapped every inch of his body, kissed his scars, and tasted him…
over and over again. He was prickly yet kind, edgy yet somehow relatable.
And he was so good with people—customers, family, friends.
His interactions with his cousins were always entertaining. They were like brothers to him, and his colorful Aunt Sylvie was like a second mother. And his mom…well, he adored her. For some reason, that made me like him even more.
Or maybe I was already in too deep.
Something had changed between us after the morning we’d gone surfing.
I found myself listening for the sound of his voice, staring at him across the counter, or finagling a way to brush against him in a crowded room.
This was what happened when you had prolonged episodes of amazing sex: You developed… feelings.
I didn’t want to have feelings for Mateo. Nothing serious, anyway.
We’d agreed on a no-strings “friends with bennies” deal, and I was determined to stick to my end of the bargain.
Unfortunately, feelings were leaking out and people were beginning to notice.
Okay…Amber noticed.
“So…funny story.” Amber flipped her curly hair over her shoulder and wiggled on the barstool at my kitchen island.
“I drove by your house last night, and Mateo’s car was in the driveway.
I thought, ‘Wow, those two have come a long way. I love that they’ve set aside their differences and have embraced the bake-off challenge.
’ I wondered what you could possibly be collaborating on at this late stage of the game, and whatever it was, I didn’t want to disturb you.
But gee, guess whose car was still here this morning? ”
“Amber…”
She lifted her coffee mug and hid her smug grin for a beat. “Sharing is caring. What’s going on, Robbie?”
“I…uh…”
I fiddled with the cap to my water bottle, wishing I’d had my speech better planned. I’d known this day would come. Amber knew me too well.
“Are you and Mateo…more than friends?”
“No. I mean…yes, but it’s not serious,” I said in a rush. “And it’s not—no one knows, so—”
“Oh, honey. Let me stop you right there.” She cast a sharp no-nonsense look my way. “I know.”
I gulped. “Ah.”
“Okay, I didn’t know for sure, but I had an idea.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “For the record, I approve.”
“It’s not…we’re not…” I cleared my throat and tried again. “We’re friends who…”
“Do the nasty,” she finished. “Got it. And you’re acting weird about this because…why? You’re out and he’s out and—”
“But I’m not out…all the way. And I don’t know what the media BS will be like. It could be nothing.”
“Or…it could be sensational. NFL star and his former college teammate—oh. Mateo was drafted too. Two NFL stars reunite in their college town to—”
“No. See, that’s what we’re not going to do.” I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans, then crossed my arms and stared at the ocean view through my kitchen window. “I’m nervous enough about doing this on my own. I’m not dragging Mateo into a potential shit show.”
“Hey.” Amber stood abruptly and skirted the island. “What makes you think it’ll be a shit show?”
“The operative word is potential. I don’t know what to expect, Am, but I’d be foolish to think I’ll be hailed as some kind of queer hero.
And I don’t want that, anyway. I want a quiet life.
That’s why I moved here. I don’t want a spotlight.
I just want to get the coming-out part over with so I can run a bagel empire in peace.
But first, we have a bake-off to win. Or lose. ”
Amber studied me. “Have you talked to Bill?”
“Yeah, I told him I want to wait a month or so. He’s coming to the finale, and knowing Bill, he’ll want to put a date on the calendar and get a PR team ready to roll. You know him. He doesn’t do anything small,” I huffed, leaning against the counter.
“A blessing and a curse. He’s been good for your career,” she commented matter-of-factly.
I nodded, knitting my brow as another thought stirred uneasily in my head.
“Bill told me he remembered Mateo.” I shared Bill’s insights regarding Mateo’s brief foray in the league. “I can see some hotshot reporter digging into his past and coming up with a negative twist to sell a story that he never intended to tell. That’s not happening on my watch.”
Amber narrowed her eyes. “Does Mateo know any of this?”
“No, but…that’s the point. Whatever we have going on is new. He barely even liked me last summer. I’m not pushing him into anything he’s not ready for.”
“Shouldn’t he get a say in that?”
“No. Because having sex with someone doesn’t mean you want to hitch your wagon to their bullshit.”
“So…you’re protecting him.” It was a statement, not a question.
I glowered much to Amber’s amusement. “Don’t you have somewhere to go? Someone else to harass?”
“Yes…unfortunately, I do.” She stood in front of me, toe-to-toe, and tipped her head to meet my eyes. “Do you ever think that life would have been so much easier if you were straight and madly in love with me?”
I chuckled and pulled her into my arms, appreciating that as usual Amber knew how to coax me off the edge. “Yeah. But I’m gay, and I have a bad crush on the pizza guy.”
“Well, it’s kind of obvious that he feels the same way. That’s a good start.”
Maybe so.
Fun fact: I was an expert at compartmentalizing.
It was a trick a therapist had taught me years ago when I’d struggled with debilitating bouts of anxiety.
She’d urged me to remind myself that it wasn’t reasonable to take on multiple issues at once and to visualize boxes in my brain that could only be opened one at a time.
Easy concept, but lately I sucked at it.
At the moment, I had three open boxes in my brain. Box one: the bake-off finale. Box two: post-bake-off coming-out announcement. Box three: anything press-related to either event that might negatively impact Mateo.
Each compartment was spilling over like overfilled wastebaskets with lists of what might go wrong. The bake-off could get rained out, no one would show up—you get the idea.
Worrying about what I couldn’t control was pointless, and worse…
it stole joy. And there was so much fucking joy to be had.
We’d traded barbed banter and hostile posturing for passionate no-holds-barred sex and had opened a reluctant line of communication.
But there was nothing reluctant about us anymore.
We hadn’t planned on it, and I’d bet no one in our inner circles had seen it coming, but Mateo and I had become friends.
Real friends. The kind who shared stories of childhood trauma and unwittingly revealed insecurities one minute, then heatedly debated which season of Curb Your Enthusiasm was the funniest the next.