Page 80 of Serving Bunt

“So, what do we need to figure out now?”

His grin returned, bright and playful. “Whether or not there’s enough leftover Lane Cake for breakfast.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet somehow you’re still in my bed.”

“It’s my bed,” I reminded him, poking his ribs.

He caught my hand and brought it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. The sweetness of the gesture made my chest ache in the best way.

I closed my eyes and let out a long breath, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. I was still nervous. Terrified, really. Not of wanting him, but of what wanting him could cost us. The team had already been struggling this season. The last thing they needed was relationship drama in the clubhouse.

“We’ll be careful,” Diaz said softly, reading me like he always seemed to. “But I’m not going to hide you forever, Matty. When you’re ready, we’ll figure out what that looks like. Until then, this is ours. No one else gets to touch it.”

“Ours,” I echoed, the word settling in my chest.

His arm tightened around me. “I don’t want you to ever feel rushed. If you decide this isn’t what you want, I’ll understand. But I’m hoping like hell you decide it is.”

The sincerity in his voice made my throat tight. I searched his eyes for a moment, then brought his mouth back to mine.

“I already know what I want,” I whispered against his lips.

Diaz smiled against my mouth, relief and joy plain on his face, and pulled me back against his chest.

“We’ll figure it out, tesoro. Together.”

I wanted to fight it. I wanted to overthink every possible way this could go wrong, the hundred different ways it could blow up in our faces. That was what I did best.

I planned and worried, prepared for every worst-case scenario.

But tonight, lying in the dark with Diaz’s arms wrapped warm and solid around me, I didn’t want to do any of that.

So instead, I just closed my eyes and let myself believe him.

Diaz

The opening credits of Moonstruck rolled across the massive screen in my home theater, and Cher’s voice filled the surround sound like velvet.

I should’ve been thrilled to watch one of my favorite comfort movies. It had all of my favorite things—food porn, unhealthy family dynamics, the original “hot rodent boyfriend,” Nicolas Cage, looking all sweaty and neurotic while baking bread.

Damn, I guess I have a type.

Tonight, though, I couldn’t focus on a single frame. Not even Cher could snap me out of it. Any second now, the queer community was going to bang down my door and revoke my membership.

Abuelita was curled up in the oversized recliner beside mine, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap while Loretta Castorini argued with her family about Johnny . . . or was it Ronny? Honestly, I’d always had a difficult time keeping them straight.

There was a certain circle of hell for the parents—fictional or otherwise—who gave their kids names that rhymed, one shared with telemarketers and the weirdos who preferred faux banana flavoring to the actual thing.

“You’re not paying attention, Peter.”

So much for keeping a low profile. I should’ve known Abuelita, of all people, would be able to pick up on the storm that was brewing inside me.

“Am, too.”

“Don’t lie. And you only had two helpings of my pastelón.” She turned her head, eyes narrowing on me like I had committed a cardinal sin.

I forced a grin. “Did you ever think I might just be watching my figure after five days of nonstop gluten?”