The second Jin left, Wyatt couldn’t help but anxiously glance back toward the entrance, where the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the busy LA street. No sign of John yet. He pulled out his phone, hoping maybe he would’ve called or texted…
“Hey,” a deep voice said, drawing Wyatt’s attention.
He glanced up from his phone and saw that it was the tall guy who had winked at him. He bit back the urge to sigh, sliding his phone into his pocket and suddenly wishing he had a drink in his hand. At that moment, another waitress walked by with drinks, but the cups were darkly mismatched and had an array of decorated straws.
He stopped the waitress, “What are these?”
She smiled, bright green glitter adorning her youthful face. “Mystery drinks.”
“With alcohol?”
“Duh.”
“Fantastic.” He reached for the purple one with the umbrella sticking out of it.
The tall man also took one, the bright green one with a twirly straw.
“I’m Conner,” the tall man said as the waitress strolled away, her cat tail swashing behind her.
“Sorry, not interested, Conner,” Wyatt said firmly.
Conner, to his surprise, smiled. And Wyatt realized in that moment how attractive the man was. Sharp, almost regal features, with dark black hair and a perfectly cut square jaw with a dimple in the middle. If he wore glasses and a boring suit, he’d be Clark Kent. But he wore a casual yet expensive long-sleeved black shirt and khaki pants with polished leather shoes. He screamed sex and money, and in that order.
“You’d be surprised how often I hear that,” Conner said smoothly, taking a drink out of his curly straw.
Wyatt arched an indifferent eyebrow.
He’d been hit on plenty of times since moving to LA and traveling in the same circle as Jin. He blamed it on his boyish good looks, his dark, sandy blond hair, and his cowboy boots. Tonight, however, he left the cowboy side of him at home and wore an all-black finely cut Italian suit that molded to his body like butter. He had to admit, after putting it on, he rather liked dressing up. The blazer fit a bit snugly over his biceps, but everything else was perfect despite not wearing it for a couple of years.
“You related to Glenn Powell? Maybe that Jake-something-actor?” Conner drawled, tonguing his straw.
Wyatt bit his back molars. “Have a good evening, Conner.” He clipped out and attempted to leave when Conner snaked a quick hand over his wrist, stopping him.
“Aw, c’mon, I didn’t mean to offend, just trying to have a conversation.”
“And I already told you I’m not interested. Now, please, if you would, kindly let go.”
Conner didn’t, and Wyatt was about to yank free when someone cleared their throat loudly, and he glanced toward the sound, recognizing those dark, hauntingly blue eyes instantly.
“Hope I’m interrupting,” John said with that half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he glanced at Conner.
“Let me help,” John said in his doctor tone as he casually leaned forward, grasping Conner’s wrist and forcing it off Wyatt’s, but he didn’t let go. “You know, the wrist is a delicate thing, especially the older we get. Usually due to bone density loss or muscle overuse. With the right pressure here and… here.” John realigned his fingers over Conner’s wrist, bending it backward and tilting up his middle finger as if to demonstrate. “I could snap a few bones, and your pitching season would be over before it's even started, Mr. Hobbs.”
Conner Hobbs.
Wyatt’s eyes widened in recognition. Hobbs was the pitcher for the LA Dodgers.
Holy shit.
Conner shook off his hold, pretending indifference, though Wyatt caught a glimpse of alarm in the man’s expression. “I was just talking…”
“So am I,” John said casually. “If you’d like, I could educate you on how easy it is to fracture a nose.”
Conner’s hand shot up defensively, taking a step back, but not before he glanced arrogantly at Wyatt, “Your loss, handsome.”
“Not really,” he drawled back, and Conner returned to his gaggle of fangirls and boys.
“Well, that was interesting,” John said, amused.
