“Here’s the thing. How does this keep happening?”
“And what is this?” Declan queries.
“This gross injustice when it comes to love and hot men. You two met and fell like that. As for me, I meet all the sexy, charming gay men in San Francisco, and I’m wretchedly single. What gives? I’m like the mayor of gay San Francisco.” I wave a hand at this establishment teeming with queer guys. “Literally every guy I meet in any given night bats for my team, and still, here I am, single at twenty-nine. When you, Grant,” I say, gesturing to the catcher, “fell in love with the only other out baseball player in the freaking city. Not that I begrudge you two, but would it kill either the Greek heartthrob or the smug little Valentine’s baby to throw some arrows my way?”
After all, it’s been a while.
And I don’t mean for sex.
Though that’s sadly true too.
It’s been a while since I had a great date—since I wanted to spend time with someone.
Several years ago, I met a guy at a local hiking club, and Hayden and I hit it off so well he asked me to move to Phoenix to be with him. I happily trotted along to the desert, opened my first bar, and was generally loving life with a guy I thought I’d maybe someday settle down with.
Then I caught Hayden cheating.
With the pool boy.
My life was a porno, and I didn’t even get off at the end.
I’ve dated plenty since then.
A couple years ago, I met Mateo at a coffee shop in my neighborhood after I finished a run. I was hot and sweaty and needed an iced coffee, and he did too. We clicked, then got hot and sweaty together for several months.
But the conversation started to fade, and sometimes he was too quiet. I’m chatty by nature, but I do like it when someone talks with me. I was the nixer in that relationship—I ended things with Mateo on account of the zing fading.
There have been a few others in between. I’m into serial monogamy and flirting my ass off, but I haven’t met anyone in a while who makes my heart and cock flutter. They’re a package deal and I need both reacting hard and strong, and all night long.
As I slide napkins to the ballplayers, Grant, the he-devil, tips his forehead to Owen. “Owen’s out and cute.”
No fucking kidding.
But Owen has been off-limits for years, and Grant damn well knows it.
“I’m more than cute,” Owen says, squaring his shoulders. “Matt Bomer, eat your heart out.”
Owen’s not far off in the self-assessment. He’s got the sweet smile of the TV star, as well as the chiseled looks and tight body. Owen’s more handsome now than he was back in college, and he was a smoke show then when we made our pact. Now, he’s grown broader, bigger, and I don’t mind the time he logs at the gym at all.
Plus, with blue eyes like the sea, carved cheekbones, and a jaw that would make other jawlines weep with jealousy, the man is simply . . . hot.
Seriously, if he weren’t my friend, I would be all over that body. He’s entirely yum.
But I won’t go there. Too many men come and go, so why even entertain the thought of boning a friend? Best to keep bangable friends in the no-bang category. “Yes, Owen is cuter than Matt Bomer, plus he has the whole cute-guy-in-glasses vibe that makes all the men want to buy his drinks. Seriously, do you ever buy a drink here?” I ask Owen.
“Why would I? I know the bartender,” he says with a grin.
“True. Either way, Owen and I are just friends,” I say, reminding Grant yet again. Maybe reminding myself a little too. The way my mind’s been wandering to Owen lately, Lord knows I need a fridge covered in Post-it notes.
“Good thing you two have your pact then,” Grant adds, sketching air quotes.
“Respect the pact,” I say, since that pact has saved my ass from temptation. Owen’s in my life, and I want him to stay put. Sure, he likes cats, and I like dogs, while he prefers the gym, and I love the great outdoors. But we rely on each other, we go to family events together, and we even volunteer together at an LGBTQ teen athlete organization. No way am I going to let a few risqué thoughts about his eyes or his mouth upend all that.
Grant lifts his Diet Coke. “And since you have the pact, maybe the two of you should do that Friendsgiving thing together that you guys were talking about.”
Owen dips his face, his tone going coy. “But I didn’t invite River.”
“Bet you wanted to,” Declan says, egging him on.
“What would you say if I invited you, River?” Owen asks me, all doe-eyed and innocent.
I flutter my lashes right back. “You haven’t invited me yet, hun.”
Owen leans closer on the bar. “I guess we’ll see if I do.”
“I guess we will,” I say, like I’m fine with him not inviting me, even though maybe I’m not fine with it at all.
When my shift ends a little later, and we head to the game room to play pool, my mind isn’t on stripes or solids.
It’s on whether Owen’s going to ask me to Friendsgiving or not.
I do want him to, since I bet it’d be a hoot, and I love a good time. Nisha, Hailey, and I hit it off at the party.
Maybe I’ll just try to reel Owen in.
“Admit it. You’re dying to watch me wow the crew in Tahoe with my Everything But The Kitchen Sink pie,” I say as I lift the stick and laser in on the blue-striped ball.
Owen takes a beat as a smile curves his lips. He’s quiet, like he’s thinking. His eyes spark with possibility. “You know what? That’s a good reason to invite you. To see if you can pull off this pecan-pumpkin-apple-pie feat.” He gestures with his pool cue. “River, would you like to come to Friendsgiving at Nisha and Hailey’s Airbnb in Tahoe next weekend and test out your pie skills?”
Next weekend.
Fuck my life.
My shoulders sag.
Knew it was too good to be true.
“That’s one of the biggest weekends here at The Lazy Hammock,” I say, dejected.
“We could man the bar for you,” Grant offers, gesturing to his fiancé and himself. “You could even bill it that way. A night with two of the city’s pro baseball players doing the serving.”
Owens eyes light up. “As the PR guy for the Dragons, I have to say that idea is the best. I swear I can see the hashtags now and the retweets.”
“You do love your social media, Owen,” I say.
Owen rests his chin on the end of the pool stick. “Like I love pecan pie,” he says, then tilts his head, his expression serious, maybe even a touch nervous. “So, what do you think, River?”
That it sounds like an entirely fun way to spend a weekend.
Bonus that it comes with zero risk of pact-breaking temptation since we’ll be in a house full of friends and food and games.
“Yes, let’s do it.”
It’ll be like every other time we hang out.
When we don’t kiss, touch, or anything else. And I’m fine with that. Because why wouldn’t I be?
2
River
“Who’s a good girl?”
Delilah wags her tail, thumping it against the hard-packed earth, the Golden Gate Bridge a majestic arch behind her.