Chapter 1
Chapter One
The second shift Riley Connors ever worked at Hot Brew was the first time he met Wesley Brennan.
He hadn’t worked a service job since high school and he was still a little nervous about plugging in the right commands on the computer—especially during the morning rush when the customers, still in need of their caffeine fixes, weren't exactly patient. His manager, Meadow, was awesome, but she was running late that morning because her dog ate some socks and when she’d started to get overly graphic about the resulting mess, he’d hastily told her he’d be fine alone until she could get there.
He’d been keeping his head down, barely making it through three complicated orders in a row and he'd wearily asked the next customer what he could make for them without looking up.
The customer, in a voice that sounded like whiskey over gravel, asked for a plain black coffee.
Riley let out a fervent, spontaneous, "Thank fuck," typed in the order, and raised his relieved brown eyes to meet amused green ones.
"Uh, sorry, just—" Meadow hadn’t mentioned a policy about swearing in front of customers, but he had to imagine it wasn’t encouraged. Hopefully the guy wouldn't give him a hard time about it.
"It's okay."
Riley pulled his gaze away from the green eyes to take in the rest of the customer's face and nearly swore again.
There was a smile on the guy's mouth, and what a mouth it was, full pink lips to match the peachy pink of his skin—in fact, everything about this guy was gorgeous, from his floppy blond hair to the slight divot in his chin.
It took every ounce of Riley's self-control not to swear again out of sheer appreciation.
His internal Cher Horowitz was definitely letting out a breathy, "Damn," and he could only hope that this guy was a gay as Christian in the movie was.
Then Riley remembered the line of people standing behind Green Eyes; it wasn't getting any shorter. "Name for the order?”
"Wesley."
Wesley.
Riley let it settle into his bones for all of two seconds, then stammered out the total for the coffee.
“You can call me Wes,” the customer said as he stuffed all the change Riley gave him into the tip jar.
"Thanks, Wesley. Wes,” he managed to say, before the guy shuffled off to the side with the rest of the addicts waiting for their fix.
The next time Wes came in, a few days later, Hot Brew wasn't as busy.
Riley had time to register that Wes was as hot as he remembered and also noticed he had a gold band wrapped around his ring finger.
Damn. Wes seemed a little young to be married but looks could be deceiving.
Riley was twenty-four, but even though he was tall, his baby face still got him carded practically every time he went out drinking with his friends.
It took a few weeks, but Riley was able to get over his disappointment that Wes was married and started actually getting to know him.
They were both transplants to Connecticut from out west. Riley had washed up here after college, while Wes lived a few towns over but was a history teacher at the nearby Rosedale middle school, and assistant football coach besides.
He always ordered black coffee and—very occasionally—a bran muffin.
As the months passed, Riley started to forget just how breathtaking Wes was.
He stopped being mesmerized by how his eyes were somehow Riley's exact favorite color and simply started liking him a person.
He no longer got butterflies when Wes walked through the door, though he was always glad to see him, always happy for a chance to tease him about the spot of shaving cream he missed on his jaw, or to wish him luck with his team's big game.
They were friends, if it could be called friendship if they only ever saw each other at Hot Brew between 6:45 and 7:15 a few mornings a week.
There were things they talked about: Wes's job, Riley's remote master’s program in museum administration he was working on while working full time at Hot Brew and volunteering at the Rosedale historical society museum. Sports and barbecue and movies and music and even, occasionally, coffee.
There were things they didn't talk about: Wes's wife, though he'd mentioned her name, just once.
Georgia.
Riley had swallowed the name with difficulty.
The name made her real. He imagined her, beautiful and high maintenance with a name like Georgia.
But Wes rarely brought her up, and he had never once brought her to Hot Brew.
They also didn't talk about Riley's personal life, though Riley had tried to make it clear to Wes that he was gay, just so it didn't seem like he was trying to hide anything. But he didn’t know if Wes had ever fully picked up on it, and Riley wasn't sure why he hadn't made it more of a thing.
It was just one of their conversational blind spots.
One morning, after two years of friendship, two years of Riley shoving down his appropriate lust for a married man, two years of black coffees and bran muffins, Wes arrived at the coffee shop later than usual. He spared Riley a smile but was otherwise quiet.
When Riley passed him his coffee, there was something different about him. He seemed to be vibrating with manic energy, as if he was about to start running, or throw a punch.
"Are you okay?" Riley asked quietly.
"What? Oh? Sort of. Not really." Wes took the coffee and drained half in one scalding sip.
"Hey, Wes, what's—what's wrong?" Riley put a hand on Wes's shoulder, a little hesitantly.
Their coffee shop friendship had never extended to physical contact before. Wes's shoulder was warm and solid under Riley’s hand, but Wes almost jumped out of his skin at the touch. Riley backed off, not wanting to spook him further.
"Sorry, I just—you look a little wound up."
"Yeah. Um. I'm, on my way to my attorney's office. Took the day off work."
"Everything all right?"
"It will be," Wes said grimly. Then his face cleared. "Hey, Riley, thanks for asking. I'm fine. I'm going to be fine. I'll see you tomorrow." He smiled a little then, small but genuine.
"Yeah, tomorrow,” Riley repeated, mystified.
He left, and Riley stared after him until he'd long since disappeared from view.