Chapter 5
Five
Semi-Charmed Life
Ryan
When I was a kid, I spent countless dinners at my best friend Bobby’s house.
His mom, Trish, was a culinary expert and prominent food critic in North Carolina.
Their gourmet kitchen always smelled like butter and herbs and something caramelizing in the oven, and to this day, I can’t walk into a kitchen like that without thinking of her.
One night, while we were enjoying one of her ridiculous meals—braised short ribs, I think—Trish reached across the table and placed her hand lightly over my little wrist.
I looked up at her.
“I’ve noticed, Ryan,” she said softly, “that while my son and husband inhale their dinners, you seem to be on a slow mission to capture each forkful of food.”
I froze.
I remember heat flooding my face. Mortification, pure and simple. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I didn’t like her cooking. On the contrary, dinners at the Winthrop house were the highlight of my week.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winthrop,” I said quietly.
She shook her head, set her wineglass down, and smiled. “No, don’t mistake my meaning. It’s a good thing.”
I must have looked confused, because she chuckled softly. “You’re not being a slowpoke, Ryan. You’re carefully selecting every mouthful.”
Her eyes sparkled over the rim of her glass. “Do you know what we call that in the culinary arts?”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”
She leaned forward slightly. “That,” she said, “is what we call la bouchée parfait—the perfect bite.”
I looked down at my plate.
I had never thought of it that way.
Back home, my family always made fun of how slow I ate. Dinner was a race in our house—who could clear their plate fastest, who could get seconds first, who had practice, who had a meeting, who had somewhere more important to be.
That moment with Mrs. Winthrop stuck with me. Maybe because it was the first time someone had framed something about me as… interesting.
Special, even.
I’d already developed a habit of sneaking into my mom’s kitchen whenever I could. I’d tie on one of her aprons and mess around with whatever I could find—cutting fruit, whisking sauces, trying to follow recipes I’d printed off the internet.
That usually lasted until my dad got home.
The moment he saw me there, he’d grab the apron strings and yank them loose. “The kitchen’s no place for a man, Ryan,” he’d say. “Leave that to your mother and the help.”
Still, I snuck back in every chance I got. Late at night. Early mornings. Whenever the house was empty.
I studied everything I could find online about gourmet techniques. I wasn’t interested in just being a good cook. I wanted to understand the craft—how top chefs thought, how flavors were layered, why certain textures worked together and others didn’t.
Flavor profiles.
Knife skills.
Sous-vide.
Emulsions.
Fermentation.
I devoured every cooking show in existence. If there was a documentary about a Michelin-starred chef somewhere in the world, I’d watched it twice. Most of them were men, by the way, dad.
Over the years, I got good enough to impress friends and family. Not anywhere near the level of a classically trained chef, but enough that people started requesting things.
Still, the whole journey—the constant hunt for the perfect bite—became something more than just a hobby.
It became an escape.
Because from the outside, my life looks charmed.
Prominent Southern family—my father’s a long-running star in North Carolina politics, currently serving his third term in the U.S. Senate and quietly preparing to launch a presidential campaign in the next couple years.
Mommie dearest is a socialite who could host a charity gala for five hundred people seemingly without breaking a sweat. That’s because she did not, in fact, break a sweat. She hired people for that.
Two successful sisters that run an event planning business together. Honestly, those two were my only lifeline in an otherwise suffocating family.
And me.
The golden boy.
The quarterback.
Perfect American family, right?
Except it’s all plastic. A put-on veneer. A glossy magazine cover version of reality. And I hate it. That’s why I chose Arizona for college.
On purpose.
Three time zones away from the stifling expectations of uber-wealthy Weddington, North Carolina, and the endless parade of fundraisers, donors, and political strategists who always seemed to be circling my father like sharks.
When Arizona picked me up in the first-round of the draft, I jumped at the chance to stay. No way in hell I was going back east.
So yeah, my passion for the culinary arts has been a pretty damn good way to manage the pressure that started when I was a teenager destined for the NFL and only intensified once I actually became the starting quarterback for Arizona.
Most people look at me and think charmed life.
They have no idea.
I shift my car into park and look up through the windshield. The afternoon sun glints off the sign in front of the building.
Golden Days Retirement Village
A genuine smile tugs at my mouth. Which is exactly why I volunteer in the kitchen here as often as my schedule allows.
When my publicist, Todd, found out what I’d been doing without his knowledge, he nearly had a stroke. First, he wanted to flog me for “unmanaged exposure.” Then he quickly pivoted and tried to turn it into a press event.
“Ryan, this is amazing brand positioning,” he’d said. “Human interest angle. Quarterback gives back. We could get a crew down here—”
I shut that down real fucking fast.
I told Todd that if a single word about this got out in the media, I would fire him on the spot.
Because this? This isn’t content. It’s not a brand moment. It’s not a carefully crafted social media story.
It’s just… mine.
And yeah, the residents know who I am. Half of them watch every game religiously. They’re tickled pink that the quarterback cooks for them sometimes, and that’s all I care about.
That—and the fact that I get to cook.
I grab my keys, push open the car door, and step out into the warm Arizona afternoon.
The smell of lavender perfume hits me the second I walk through the front doors and into the lobby.
“RYAAAN!”
I barely have time to react before Clara barrels out from behind the front desk and wraps me in a fierce hug.
Clara is a witty Black woman from Georgia who runs the front desk like it’s her own personal kingdom, and every single time I walk through these doors she reacts like I just returned from war.
Today is no different as she practically tackles me.
“Lord have mercy, boy,” she says, pulling back just enough to smack my arm. “Why don't you ever tell me when you're going to stop in, baby?”
I flash her my real smile. “Now where would the fun be in that, Miss Clara? Got to surprise my number one lady.”
I wink at her and she smacks my chest.
“Boy, don’t play with me. I’m a married woman.”
I let out a full-throated laugh.
“And keep your voice down,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Or they’ll hear you.”
“Who? The Bettys?” I snicker. “They’re harmless.”
Clara snorts. “The hell they are. I’m about to hire my own bodyguard.”
I shake my head, chuckling.
“But seriously,” she says, eyeing me. “They’re going to give you hell for how long it’s been this time, but they’ll be so excited to see you.”
I wince and gently grip her by the shoulders.
“I know. Schedule’s been crazy. I wish I could be here more. Honestly—they give me more than I give them.”
Clara’s expression softens and she pinches my cheek. “You’re a good one, Ryan.” Then she nudges me toward the hallway. “Now get in there before The Bettys hogtie me for holding you up.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll head back now.” I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Mmm. Tastes sweet.”
She shoves at me. “Boy, get out of here!”
Still laughing, I head down the hall and push through the double doors marked Community Space.
The moment I step inside every head turns.
A couple gasps, one squeal.
“Ryan!”
“Oh, my goodness!”
“Look who it is!”
I spread my arms in mock grandeur. “Well now,” I say. “If I’d known I’d get this kind of reception I’d have come sooner.”
Laughter ripples across the room.
Well… almost the whole room.
One table doesn’t even glance my way.
The Bettys.
The Bettys consist of three women: Betty, Betti, and Bette. The undisputed queen bees of Golden Days Retirement Village.
Betty is their ringleader.
It’s very Mean Girls meets Golden Girls.
When I first started coming here, they wouldn’t give me the time of day. But I love a challenge. It didn’t take long to win over Betti and Bette. Betty, though? She was a tougher nut to crack.
Until the day I noticed she never touched the food on her plate. At first, I thought she just hated my cooking. That upset me more than it should have. So, I kept trying different recipes. Then one afternoon Betti pulled me aside.
“Don’t you fret yourself, young man,” she said gently. “It’s not your cooking. Your food is magnificent.”
I blinked at her, confused.
“She’s too proud to tell you,” Betti continued, “but Betty had throat cancer.”
My face fell.
“None of that,” Betti said quickly. “She kicked cancer’s ass.” Then she sighed. “But the radiation therapy left her throat dry as a desert. She has a hard time swallowing.”
My eyes widened.
“Sometimes food gets stuck,” Betti explained. “She has to sputter and cough it up. She just doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of you.”
That very minute I marched into the kitchen and set to work. That day I made French-style scrambled eggs—soft and buttery. Then I whipped goat cheese until it was extra smooth and folded in a drizzle of white truffle oil from the chef bag I keep tucked in the back of the kitchen.
For dessert, I cubed brioche, toasted it, soaked it in coffee and Irish cream until it softened into a bread-pudding texture, and topped it with fresh whipped cream.
When the food came out, residents flooded the buffet line.
But I grabbed three plates first and walked them straight to The Bettys’ table. From the kitchen I watched Betty stare at the plate. After a few minutes, she picked up a fork to poke the eggs.
I watched as she took one small bite.
Then another.
Suddenly she was eating like she hadn’t seen food in days.
When I returned to their table, I sat down and said casually, “Well, Queen Betty, looks like I finally made something that tastes good.”
She straightened her shoulders. “It was passable.”
I snickered, then I felt a small hand squeeze mine under the table. Betti. Her eyes were wet as she mouthed two words. Thank you. From that day on, I only made food Betty could comfortably eat.
Whipped vegetables, fancied-up mashed potatoes, bisques, and patés. But those damn French eggs? Her favorite. I think she knows damn well what I’m doing, she just refuses to admit it.
Which brings me back to the present as I stand behind their table. All three of them have their backs to me, arms folded. Bette even huffs.
I spread my arms again. “What, no love today?”
Betti scoffs. “It’s been over a month, Ryan. I’m not that easy.”
Betty shoots her a look. “The hell you aren’t.”
Betti gawps and throws a rolled-up napkin at her.
Betty swats it away. “Slut.”
I bark out a laugh, crouch beside the table, and look at Bette. “You’re supposed to help me with these two.”
She huffs. “You’re on your own. I’m mad at you too.”
I nod solemnly. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. This is the soonest I could get here with my schedule.”
Betty humphs.
I gently pull her chair out, so she has to look at me, then I grin at her. “Can I make it up to you by letting you give me your secret recipe for your Polish coffee cake?”
Betti cackles. “Oh, good luck. She’ll never give that up. I once tossed her whole room looking for it.”
I lean in and rub my head against Betty’s arm like a cat.
“Pleeeease.”
She bursts out laughing and shoves my head away.
“Damn you, Ryan. You’re too cute for your own good.”
I beam at her.
“Now go make my eggs,” she orders.
I stand up and kiss her forehead. “You got it,” I say as I step backward toward the kitchen. “Don’t kill each other while I’m in there.”
Later that night, I finish an extra workout at the team practice facility. The locker room is nearly empty as I peel off my sweat-soaked shirt and glance up at the mirror.
Well, hello there.
The post-workout pump is pumping. Shoulders broad. Arms veined. Chest tight. Skin flushed. I tilt my head slightly.
Not bad, Buterbaugh.
A devilish thought creeps in, so I grab my phone.
Snap.
The mirror selfie catches everything from the waist up. I crop it, add a light filter, and send. A response comes across nearly instantaneously. I imagine a man as busy as Spence is glued to his phone twenty-four-seven, so that comes as no surprise.
Spence: Seriously?
I snicker.
Me: I can't find you anywhere on social media. It would be a shame for you to miss this post. Thought I'd send it to you myself.
Spence: Attention whore. [eye roll emoji]
Me: Not really. I'm actually quite shy.
Spence: Uh-huh, sure.
My grin widens.
Me: Hit the gym with me tomorrow night.
Spence: No. Goodnight, Ryan.
“Cold,” I mutter, chuckling.
I drop my phone and strip down for the shower.
Turning sideways, I glance back at my ass in the mirror and give it an approving nod.
Then I sing-song, quietly to myself so any lingering teammates don’t hear, “Your loss, Spence… your loss.”
I wrap a towel around my waist and head toward the showers, up nodding my bud Marquis as I pass his locker.
One thought dominates my brain as I rinse off: If I can win over The Bettys, I can win over Mr. Surly Pants.
Or at least…
Get him out of them.