The universe doesn’t work like that.
But the universe does test you. Why else would he have been shipped off to the academy? Whenever he’s faced with these kinds of decisions, he always takes a beat and chooses the option that is hopefully going to bring him the most joy. In this moment, sitting in this cushy chair in this expensive bar that’s less glitzy during the daytime, he can’t quite pinpoint which way he’s leaning.
“Can I expect to hear from you by Wednesday?” Alaina asks.
Greg nods again without thinking. “For sure.”
On his way back to the parking garage, each step spurring a new thought—start over again or stick it out?—Greg receives a message notification on TikTok. Usually, he doesn’t see those unless it’s from someone he follows and that person follows him back.
When he looks more closely, it’s from Stryker. Strange that he’d forgotten to unfollow Stryker, but when he moved, he rarely found himself scrolling through content absentmindedly like he did when he lived here. He’s been too busy.
Curiosity wins out.
Stryker: Are you in Manhattan? We should meet up!
Suddenly, he doesn’t know how to feel or what to do. He’s only paid for a few hours of parking in the pricey garage. He doesn’t want to go out of his way for a man who unceremoniously dumped him. That would be a major step backward.
Butwe should meet up? That’s not like the Stryker from six months ago. Stryker Storm never put out an invitation. Stryker Storm waited for the party and the people to come to him. Sitting in a VIP booth alone with buckets of ice and numerous bottles as a power move. Not planning anything for his birthday so somebody inevitably threw him a surprise shindig. Refusing a brand partnership on IG for months until the company caved and sent him a bunch of free merchandise he didn’t need and never used.
Greg’s changed. He feels it. Has Stryker?
It’s that question and the intense interest that comes with it that causes him to type back:Sure. Where at?
Twenty-One
JULIEN
Flopping down on a plush hotel bed in Dallas, Texas, is exactly what Julien needs after a long first day. His mind is overstuffed with knowledge, much like his notebook filled with scribbled grape varieties, vintages, and countries of origin.
He can’t stop replaying his performance in the selling portion of the course, which worked his ability to orally describe the characteristics and style of a wine in a skit-like setting, someone else in the class playing a patron. Julien’s tableside manner, despite the last few months of being really “on” during happy hour, is still one of his weak spots.
His other weak spot, which throbs like an infection in the center of his chest, is his cracked heart. It’s not broken. That would be too dramatic for this sort of ending. Even if it was of one of the best sexual relationships he has ever had.
The heels of his hands press into his tired eyes. Thankfully, he did his room check when he arrived yesterday. He stripped the bed of its linens and placed his own clean ones over the king-size mattress, laid out his own pillows, disinfected all the surfaces.
Before he flopped down, he tugged off his street clothes, showered, and slipped into his favorite robe, which he thankfully remembered to pack in the frantic flurry that ensued before Greg showed up.
He pushes all the thoughts of Greg—Greg’s toothy smile and perfect cock and buttery laugh—out of his head and sinks deeper into the mattress while focusing on his breathing.
His drowsiness gradually gives way to a slight sparkle of joy. He’s here, mid advanced sommelier course.
As of today, there are only one hundred and sixty-eight professionals in the Americas with Master Sommelier status. Julien dreams about being the one hundred and sixty-ninth as he reaches for the room service menu and considers ordering a really greasy cheeseburger. If his heart can’t be full, at least his stomach can be. He deserves a reward for the achievement of doing the damn thing.
He grabs his sanitizing wipes from his bag to clean the hotel phone but is interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Coming,” he calls, trying to remember if he set the DO NOT DISTURB knocker on the door. When he checked in, he informed the friendly clerk behind the counter that he would not be needing or wanting housekeeping during his stay. He had found the nearest market and stocked up on his own cleaning supplies.
Outside the door stands one of Julien’s course mates, Carlos—a gentleman somewhere in his early forties with a full head of thick hair graying at the temples in a sexy way. His attire screams wealth—shined-to-perfection shoes, large statement watch—but his smile is salt-of-the-earth, and Julien wishes it didn’t, but his body responds to that.
Today, Carlos’s sales pitch on a bottle of chardonnay was impressive. Succinct, catchy, and suave all at once. Even though Julien doesn’t drink wine for pleasure, he would’ve bought the bottle without a single sip.
“Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” Carlos says, looking down at Julien’s robe.
Julien pulls the flaps closer together, tightens the belt. “Not at all.”
“Do you have dinner plans?”
The greasy cheeseburger flickers through Julien’s mind, but there’s a handsome man standing at his door asking him if he has dinner plans. Screw the cheeseburger that will probably be more like a hockey puck anyway. “No. I hadn’t thought about it.”
