He goes back in for more, not bothering to be neat about this bite. Just shovels a mouthful in like he can’t get it fast enough. His eyes grow wider. “This” he says around the bite, still chewing, “holy shit, this is incredible.”
I wink. “I know.”
He hums, clearly enjoying it, but still manages to roll his eyes at me. Then he shifts, settling the bowl in his lap, and looks at me. “You really didn’t have to do that,” he says again, quieter this time. “You shouldn’t even be here. Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?”
“Nah. I’ve got a great immune system.” I pause, then add, a little lighter, a little teasing, “Besides, if you keep your promise from the other night, I’ll have to get used to being exposed to your… DNA.” Then I waggle my brows for effect.
Spence exhales, long and tired, tipping his head back against the couch. His eyes squeeze shut. Only seconds pass, but it feels like hours. When he looks back at me, it’s different. Quieter. More serious.
Fuck. Here we go again.
“Ryan,” he says softly. “It’s not happening. It will never happen.”
Yep. The wind is effectively knocked out of my sails, but I don’t say anything. Because this is just a repeat from the limo. For six months we’ve been playing in that safe space where nothing has to be real unless we say it out loud.
I said it out loud.
In the limo.
Just now.
His responses—not what I want to hear.
“Look,” he continues, voice still rough but steady. “Even if I believed you’re genuinely interested—and that’s a big if—we can’t ever go there.” I swallow hard over the lump in my throat, not liking where this is going. He dips his finger to the rim of his bowl, catching a bit of sauce, and drags it into his mouth. My brain goes haywire for half a second.
Not helping, Spence.
“If we’d met under different circumstances,” he goes on, waving a hand loosely between us, “if we didn’t have mutual friends, if we weren’t…this,” he gestures again. “Workout buddies. Friends. Whatever we are.” He exhales. “If I’d met you at a bar? Didn’t know you?” His gaze flicks over me, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. I would’ve taken you home. No question. I would have fucking wrecked that beautiful body all night long.”
Heat floods my face and chest—not to mention other areas. “And that’s all it would’ve been,” he adds. “A night. I don’t do anything more than that.”
I’m hearing everything he’s saying, but my brain is stuck on what he would have done to my body. On the image of it.
“But” he continues, quieter now, “Idon’tthink you’re being serious. Which, by the way, you need to stop doing. Most guys aren’t like me. You could really hurt someone, Ryan.”
That does it. I don’t even fully process the decision. I just move. I lift his feet off my leg and set them aside. My bowl goes down on the table, and I stand. “I’m going to go.”
He shifts quickly. “Ryan—”
I grab my phone off the counter and cut him off before he can cut me with more words. “I hope you feel better.” My voice sounds flat. Distant.
I head for the door.
“Ryan,” he says again, softer this time.
There’s something there, in his voice, but he’s either unwilling or unable to say the words. I stop with my hand on the handle, head down, and wait. For something. Anything.
Nothing comes.
What would it even matter?I think.If I outed myself to him, he still wouldn’t give me a chance.
So, I square my shoulders.
And walk out.
Eighteen
Missing
