Chapter One
Wyatt couldn’t take his eyes off him. Not his face, with those dark eyes and those cheekbones.
Not his hands, cradling the single glass with its inch of golden liquid.
Definitely not the way his arm muscles rippled under his tan skin.
Considering how many guys were packed into this bar, including the mostly naked ones dancing on the stage, that the man had caught and held Wyatt’s attention was an undeniable accomplishment.
Under any other circumstance, Wyatt would have opened with that line when he approached him. But that wasn’t happening tonight, or any other night.
He was definitely cute though, with smile wrinkles around his dark eyes, and close-cropped brown hair.
The loose, graceful way he held himself made Wyatt believe that he had a very decent set of muscles under his t-shirt and jeans.
None of that explained why Wyatt couldn’t look away.
Maybe it was that the man didn’t smile as much as he should.
Only occasionally his very white teeth would flash, a contrast to his tanned skin, but it never felt like the smile reached his eyes.
Maybe it was the way he had so easily garnered every other person’s interest in the bar.
Maybe it was because he was Ryan Flores, and the first “out” professional baseball player in the history of the game.
He’d come out a few years before, right before the draft, and after spending a year or so in the minors, had broken out in a huge way during a Dodgers’ playoff run.
So what might have become only a footnote in the history of Major League Baseball instead got a whole paragraph.
It was a Thursday night, and Wyatt had come to Temple, one of the most famous gay bars in West Hollywood, hoping for a few beers, a chill night, and some well-deserved ogling of the gorgeous dancers.
One of them had always reminded him of his ex, Nate, and now that Nate’s memory had faded to a pleasant afterglow rather than acute bitterness, Wyatt had thought he might appreciate the similarity a little more.
Wyatt had not expected to run into the Los Angeles Dodgers’ hottest property, and it was making his previously desired chill evening not very chill at all.
But everyone always said he was adaptive, and this was basically true, so Wyatt had decided that people-watching worked too, especially when the people-watching was so god damned excellent.
Person-watching, mainly.
It was unexpectedly entertaining to watch groups of interested guys approach Ryan’s VIP area, be ushered inside, and then promptly ushered back out five minutes later.
He’d watched close to fifty guys try to flirt with Ryan Flores, and while there had been some vaguely flirtatious behavior in return, it was clear nobody was getting anywhere with him fast. Wyatt, who also wanted Ryan to smile more, understood both their desire and their frustration.
There was too much hesitation and assessment in Ryan’s eyes, and not enough pure enjoyment.
It was a problem. It wasn’t Wyatt’s problem though; he had enough of those. He didn’t need to add yet another to the pile.
“Want another?” The cute bartender with the white fluffy angel wings sauntered up and gave Wyatt another inviting look.
They’d been offhandedly chatting whenever the bartender had a free second, and on another night, when Wyatt’s attention wasn’t so laser-focused on another man, he might have stuck around past closing and given the angel a ride home. Maybe another kind of ride, too.
He was absolutely hot—ripped abs paired with those wet-dream angel wings and dark eyeliner emphasizing his killer baby-blue eyes. There was a glint in them that promised he’d be very good—or maybe if Wyatt was lucky, very bad.
It wasn’t his fault he looked too much like Kian, one of Wyatt’s roommates back in Napa. Since Wyatt felt very brotherly towards Kian, it was not a comparison the bartender would have appreciated. Not with the way he kept eyeing Wyatt.
“No, thanks,” Wyatt said. It would only be his third; he was definitely sober enough to get home, but he didn’t feel like drinking. He didn’t know you could feel too sober to get drunk.
Definitely too sober for this crowd, anyway.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” the angel said, undeterred by Wyatt’s refusal.
“I’m visiting for a few days,” Wyatt said shortly. It was insanity, but he didn’t want to flirt with the hot angel bartender. He didn’t really want to flirt with anyone.
Lie.
The person he wanted to flirt with was acting like he was holding auditions for his next boyfriend, and Wyatt, while generally optimistic about his chances with guys, was sure he wouldn’t qualify.
Broke. A line chef at a prestigious restaurant, but only a line chef. Painfully single. Even more painfully, still mostly in the closet.
“You know, he’s never been here before either,” the angel said, gesturing up to where Ryan was holding court. His voice was bitter around the edges. “You sure you’re not here to see him? You’ve been staring at him all night.”
“Pretty sure,” Wyatt said.
The angel made a face, which contorted his pretty features. Wyatt had a feeling he didn’t often fail to pick someone up when he made the effort. But it wasn’t the bartender that Wyatt wanted to make smile more.
“You’re cute and all,” the angel said, a sharp glint in his blue eyes, “but I don’t think you’d stand a chance with him.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Not trying to,” he said. It was clearly past his time to go, if he’d succeeded in pissing off the hot bartender.
It just happened that the moment he was ready to leave was also the same moment Ryan decided to venture past the velvet rope of his private section.
His security flanked him as he made his way onto the dance floor, just as Wyatt was trying to wade his way around the edges.
Some idiot designer had decided that the dance floor should be between the bar and the exit, and while undeniably keeping everyone going longer, it also made leaving annoying.
Wyatt heard a wave of interested noise wash over the dance floor, and through the customers milling around the bar.
Everyone turned Ryan’s direction. Not because he was the cutest guy there, or the most ripped, or the most unclothed, or anything obvious like that.
It must be because he was rich and famous, Wyatt assumed.
A real VIP at Temple on a Thursday night.
Even though he’d spent all night looking, Wyatt deliberately turned his head away from the dance floor. He didn’t want to know who had captured Ryan Flores’ attention enough to risk leaving his cushy, secure prison.
He couldn’t possibly be jealous over a guy he’d never even talked to. And yet.
The crowd was sweaty and close, the music thumping loudly in his ears as he skirted the edges of the mass of dancing bodies as best as he could.
His ass got groped three times, and Wyatt was pretty sure at least two of those were deliberate.
He kept his eyes on the big double doors of the exit, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
He didn’t want to get drawn in; what he needed was some air.
Finally he broke through to the other side, but the crowd on this side near the door was even pushier, shoving him back and forth a lot more aggressively.
Wyatt wasn’t a small guy—he was almost six foot, and had the long lean build of someone who worked hard for a living and liked surfing and rock climbing in his spare time—but he was getting jostled definitely more than he was used to.
The first sign something was wrong was that the bouncer at the door looked at him weirdly. But Wyatt didn’t look back behind him, even though in retrospect, he really should have.
Wyatt burst through the open door and skirting the line to get in—on a Thursday, no less, he thought incredulously—and headed toward the next block, resting against a brick wall to catch his breath.
“I think this is when I should ask you where we’re going.”
Wyatt glanced up and nearly fell over.
Ryan Flores was standing in front of him, arms hanging loosely at his sides, an expectant look on his face, and the hint of a smile. Like Wyatt’s shocked expression was very amusing.
“What are you doing here?” Wyatt demanded.
Suddenly a lot of things made sense. Like why it had been so difficult to reach the door.
Why guys had started shoving. Pushing. Trying to get to something behind him.
Why he had felt like he was swimming upstream against some very determined fish.
Why the bouncer had looked at him so oddly.
Because it probably hadn’t looked like Ryan was going with him, but following him.
Ryan smiled now, crooked and far more inviting up close than Wyatt had anticipated. “I thought you might know the answer to that. After all, you were staring at me for at least two hours.”
“Three,” Wyatt answered without thinking.
These things happened to other guys, maybe, but they didn’t happen to him. Wyatt shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Better to have them out of the way, better not to let himself start taking things—or touching things—before he figured out what the hell was going on.
“There you go,” Ryan said matter-of-factly.
“I still don’t understand,” Wyatt said cautiously.
He glanced around Ryan now, afraid they’d been followed by the crowd, but surprisingly, nobody had wandered over or was really paying any attention to them.
It turned out that removed from the VIP trappings identifying him as someone important, Ryan looked like a normal guy.
Ryan smiled again, bigger this time, and it did devastating things to Wyatt’s chest region.
He had been right about wanting him to smile more, but it was far more treacherous than he could have ever imagined.
He reminded himself that Ryan was a problem that he didn’t need, but the argument wasn’t exactly persuasive.