Schmoozing at dinner parties and bookcollaborations.Fuck me!Ryker thought as he placed his handsover his face and wondered what else was next.
He continued his deep-breathing ritual, andhis tension eased.
Ryker glanced around and took in thestillness of the apartment he loved, his perfect sanctuary.Afterhis third bestseller, he’d splurged on a penthouse apartment onPark Avenue, and given that he spent most of his time here writing,it was well worth it.
The whitewashed wood floors complemented thedark gray feature wall that was full of artwork (including Cal’s,of course) and photos of his family and friends.The kitchen wascompact but well-appointed with a large breakfast bar.Slate-bluecabinets combined with polished concrete countertops, bronzefixtures, and chef-worthy appliances.Ryker cooked the basics, buthe’d appreciated the aesthetic of the kitchen when he bought theplace.Large, black-framed windows and fourteen-foot ceilings gavethe apartment an airy feel, and the exposed brick wall on the farside provided a warm contrast to the modern touches.
The blue velvet sectional and artwork werethe few pops of color in the living space.The bedroom was at theback along with a den and a spacious spa bathroom, his one luxury.It was a small apartment by many standards, but it was his—apeaceful haven in which to live and write.He vividly rememberedthe day he’d signed the paperwork and gotten the keys.He wasn’tmuch for showing his feelings, but even he had teared up.Comingfrom a childhood where food and shelter were inconsistent, Rykerwas appreciative of everything he had worked hard for.
A loud meow interrupted his musings.
Isaac, one of Ryker’s three fur babies,wandered over to complain to his human.Ryker had adopted the largewhite Persian cat from the rescue shelter downtown where hevolunteered.Isaac’s previous owner had noticed a flaw in one ofthe cat’s copper-colored eyes, decided he would not be able toenter him in any competitions, and promptly left him at theshelter.That person’s loss was Ryker’s gain.
Isaac bounded into Ryker’s lap and curled upin a tight ball, his ears flicking back and whiskers twitching tosignal his displeasure that his human had yet to pay him anyattention this morning.
“Okay, Isaac, sorry for neglecting you, butit’s back to work for me soon.”
Ryker murmured nonsense to Isaac whilestroking his long, sleek back, and Ryker’s body relaxed as thevibration from the purrs grew stronger.While Isaac welcomedRyker’s touch, the cat was not keen on others—neither Mac nor Calcould pet the beautiful beast without receiving a few scratches.They had taken to greeting the cat by name only and leaving wellenough alone.His other cat, a black-and-white tabby named PrincessLeia, usually stayed in her big bed, sound asleep.Spock wasRyker’s third furry roommate, a miniature pinscher rescue with bigears and unlimited energy.
Ryker had a soft spot for animals of allkinds ever since he was a kid.He’d rescued everything from birdsto cats and even a rat at one point.His mother hadn’t been amusedat the last one, however, and forbade him from any further rodentrescue operations.But that didn’t stop his love for animals—it hadonly grown as he got older.Ryker had been dropping by the localanimal shelter to volunteer for a few hours every week for the pastdecade.He’d also made several anonymous donations to ensure theycould continue to rescue and re-home as many animals aspossible.
He continued to pet Isaac and let his thoughtsdrift, thinking about the upcoming party.Ryker’s lack of socialskills—or lack of concern about them—was probably the reason hegravitated toward animals as well as writing.He didn’t care muchabout people’s expectations.He did what he enjoyed, and as long ashe was honest with himself, he was good.All these thoughts madehis body tense again.Isaac jumped off his lap and strutted to hisclimbing tower near the desk, mewling loudly.
Ryker shook himself out of his musings andopened up his laptop, Googling Wesley Stewart.Mac would have hisarguments ready to persuade Ryker to work with this guy, so Rykerneeded to prepare his rebuttal.He’d need more than just a “hellfucking no” response to this ridiculous collaboration idea.
Ryker scanned the numerous photographs ofWes online, some from events, others from social media posts, a fewfrom his TV talk show appearances.He had to admit that Wes was astunning man: tall and broad, with short, stylized blond hair,hazel eyes, and a spattering of freckles over a sharp nose.He hadfull lips and dimples when he smiled, which only amplified Wes’sfierce beauty.Going through the pictures, Ryker noticed a tall manwith curly brown hair standing near Wes at several events.Friend?Lover?
Lover?
“Why the fuck should I care about that?”Ryker said aloud.“Stop looking at the pretty man and get back toyour research.”
Ryker perused the Web, wanting to know whatWes himself had to say.There was a YouTube recording of aninterview Wes had done five years ago, when his first self-helpbook was released.He was talkative and charming and had the hostin stitches.Very smooth.Maybe too smooth.When the interviewerasked about a special person in his life, Wes laughed and said heenjoyed dating a variety of men.Well, he was open about hissexuality, no question.But then there was an ask about Wes’sfamily, and another about whether he would return to writingfiction, and you could see the physical change in his posture andface.Wes’s smile vanished and he deftly changed the subject.Interesting sore points.Ryker would file that away for futurereference.
Writers were curious by nature, and Rykerwas interested in learning all about Wes and his motivations.He’dgo along with Mac’s plans for now.He’d listen and learn, and thenmake an informed decision.Or maybe he’d just shut the whole thingdown.
Ryker printed out a picture of Wes and tapedit to his board.He couldn’t help but stare at it for a long, longtime.
Chapter Two
Wes
Ahh, springtime in New York City.Wes lovedit.He sat at a small table on the outdoor patio adjacent to hisPark Avenue hotel, the wind ruffling his hair as he quietly sippedhis second morning latte.
Locals and tourists were out and about,soaking up the May sunshine that had been absent over the long,bitter winter.Honking cars, rumbling motors, and crowds of peopleshuffling down the street all culminated in the energetic vibrationthat was New York City.Yup, the pulse of the city Wes loved,second only to his hometown of Toronto, was jumping today.
Wrapped in his navy Burberry trench coat, hetook a moment to enjoy his break and people-watch before the busyday ahead.His phone buzzed with repeated notifications, jarringhis cup and utensils on the table.Reluctantly, he glanced down atit.One missed call: Mac Duran.
While Wes was pleased at what he’daccomplished with his writing career to this point, including theattention of many fans who enjoyed his books, he’d started to feelmore and more dissatisfied.Self-help books made him a householdname, but he hardly ever had a moment to himself anymore.A bigpart of his job was endless media junkets and talking so much thatnames and faces and cities started to blur.He used to love thetravel and attention, but not recently.Lately he found himselfrepeating the same conversations with different people, onlytouching the surface of things.No spark, no debate.He hadn’texperienced a meaningful connection in a very long time.Writingstill gave him some enjoyment, but it took more and more effort tofocus on that, too, which worried him most of all.
When Mac Duran had called two weeks ago andsuggested a meeting here in New York City to discuss a book serieswith R.D.Smith, Wes immediately said yes.The timing was perfectsince Wes was in town for the start of his cross-country book tour.And while he was familiar with R.D.’s work, he didn’t know anythingabout the author.For the first time in a long time, Wes wasexcited and motivated.
It’s been five years since you wrote amystery novel.Maybe you don’t have it in you anymore.Would hebe able to get back in the groove, just like that?He still wasn’tsure.But Mac’s phone call was a gift Wes wouldn’t refuse, and hewas hopeful that working with another author would help get himback to the writing he once loved.The only thing he loved.
At thirty-six, Wes lived alone.Just the wayhe liked it.His last relationship with Kieran—if he could call ita relationship—had lasted only a couple of months.This was backwhen he was thirty-three and riding high on his newfound self-helpsuccess.Kieran had shown his true nature by trying to sell Wes’sprivate details to the tabloids, and that was the end of things.Wes went back to casual fucks.No personal revelations required, nohurt feelings, no feelings period.Attraction, action, out thebathroom or hotel door, the end.Next.No way was he going to bethat vulnerable ever again.People only wanted the successfulpersona anyway and became infatuated with the celebrity lifestyle.They didn’t care about him personally, his dreams, his fears.No,anything deep and meaningful, he experienced through his writing,and that alone sustained him.Or at least, it used to.
His inner musings were interrupted by anincoming call from Luca.He’d been Wes’s loyal assistant for thepast eight years and was one of the few people Wes considered aclose friend.
Trustworthy, kind, and terrifyinglyorganized, Luca Santino had a bold personality and a personal styleto match.Luca had a quick answer for everything and wasn’t afraidto give Wes his honest, if somewhat saucy, opinion.Wes was prettylaid back about most things in life—why stress when it solvednothing?Luca, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on chaos andtook great pride in tackling the most challenging situations.Lucahad recently launched his event-planning business on the side, andWes knew that it was only a matter of time before he left hisemploy for good.
