Because despite the fear, despite the very real danger the GM’s meeting had underscored, despite knowing this could blow up spectacularly… I couldn’t imagine walking away from Griffin.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I just had to hope my optimism wasn’t setting me up for a repeat of Nashville’s devastating lesson: that loving someone in secret eventually meant losing them entirely, often in the most painful way possible.
But Griffin wasn’t Charles. I had to believe that.
I had to believe this time could be different.
Even if the careful choreography we’d have to maintain suggested the ending might be just as difficult, even if the consequences of discovery were just as severe.
I chose this. I chose him. I chose hope over fear.
Now I just had to make sure that choice didn’t destroy us both.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wesley
I stood in my kitchen at five thirty and stared at the ingredients laid out on the counter—chicken breasts, fresh basil, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, balsamic vinegar.
What am I doing?
Not the cooking. I could make caprese chicken in my sleep. The question was bigger, more terrifying, aimed at the choice I’d made the previous night when I’d kissed Griffin and agreed to this impossible arrangement.
Yet here I was, chopping basil for a man who couldn’t publicly acknowledge our relationship. A man whose agent and mother pressured him to stay closeted. A man whose career depended on maintaining the perfect image while hiding fundamental truths about himself.
I set down the knife and gripped the edge of the counter, forcing myself to breathe through the spike of anxiety.
I reminded myself this was my choice. Not manipulated through false promises. Mine.
The doorbell sounded at exactly six o’clock, Griffin’s punctuality both reassuring and amusing.
I opened my apartment door. He stood tall and broad-shouldered in jeans and a navy Henley that highlighted his intense, ice-blue eyes. He carried a reusable shopping bag and scanned his surroundings, being cautious, protecting us both.
“Hey.” His smile was warm, genuine, the expression he wore when he didn’t have to project his strong image. “No one saw me.”
“Good.” I stepped back to let him enter and caught the scent of his sporty body wash as he passed. The same scent that had been driving me crazy for weeks. “What’s in the bag?”
“Beer. Dessert. I didn’t know what you were planning for dinner, so I covered the extras.” Griffin set the bag on my counter and pulled out a six-pack of IPA from Cascadia Craft Brews and a bakery box. “Tiramisu from that bakery on Mabury Street.”
“Perfect.” I opened the box. Beautiful layers of espresso-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream nestled inside. “Though I’m impressed you found their bakery. It’s kind of hidden.”
“I did some research.” Pink stole up his cheeks. “Wanted to contribute something besides my awful cooking skills.”
The thoughtfulness of it—the effort he’d put into picking up beer and dessert—made warmth expand in my gut. This was what I’d been missing with Charles. The reciprocity. The sense that I mattered enough for someone to try.
“I appreciate it.” I gestured to the ingredients laid out on the counter. “Ready to learn how to make caprese chicken?”
Griffin eyed the array of food with obvious apprehension. “I told you I’m terrible at cooking. Like, genuinely bad. I once burned scrambled eggs so badly I had to throw out the pan. The smell…” He shook his head.
“How is that even possible?” I couldn’t help laughing. “Scrambled eggs are easy.”
“Not when I make them.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms, and washed his hands. “But I’m willing to try if you promise not to judge too harshly.”
“No judgment. Just instruction.” I handed him a cutting board and the mozzarella. “Start by slicing this into thin rounds. About a quarter-inch thick.”
Griffin picked up the cheese with the careful concentration of someone approaching a complicated play. He positioned the knife, pressed down, and produced a slice that was more like a half-inch wedge than a thin round.
