1
The One
“Ihave someone for you.”
Roman Reynolds paused at the height of his deadlift to offer his best friend of thirteen years a dubious look. “Of course you do, Jay.”
“No really, this one’s legit, Roman. He’s the one.”
“The one to make off with my Rolex?” Roman said with a wry grin once he’d lowered the barbell again. “Or the one to crash my Cadillac and flee the scene?”
Jay shook his head ruefully, his stylish dreads swishing with the movement. “Look, I know I’ve made some mistakes in the past, but trust me when I tell you this man isperfectfor you.”
Roman raised himself to a fully standing position and slapped Jay’s back with good-natured affection. Ever since they’d met as rookies with the Saints, Jay had assumed the role of Roman’s matchmaker. Back when they were both closeted professional athletes, the task had involved non-disclosure agreements and oftentimes an exchange of cash. Now, even with them both being retired from the NFL and out of the closet, Jay still made it his habit to meddle.
“I know you mean well, buddy,” Roman said, “but believe me when I say, emphatically, no thank you. I do fine on my own.”
Jay’s brow wrinkled as he gave Roman a hard, assessing look. “You don’t though. You work too much, and you have no life. You need someone to take care of you, give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning, or you’re going to send yourself to an early grave.”
Roman didn’t know if it was quite that dire, but hewasa bit of a workaholic, and his doctor had warned him that he needed to do more to reduce his stress level. Unfortunately, his love life these past few years had been a complete disaster. Whether it was the men he’d chosen for himself or the ones Jay introduced him to, his relationships all fizzled out or ended with Roman feeling used. He could acknowledge that he was, at times, distant, that he had a tendency to replace actual intimacy with gifts, so perhaps it was his own fault that the men in his life came to see him as a walking ATM. Lately, Roman preferred to keep his exploits brief and impersonal, which allowed him to focus on what he was good at: recruiting talented chefs, building interesting menus, managing successful teams, and ensuring his customers enjoyed their dining experience at any one of his half-dozen restaurants in New Orleans, food capital of the South.
“You have to at least give him a try,” Jay insisted.
“I don’thaveto do anything.”
“I’ll set something up.”
“Please don’t. Haven’t you punished me enough? Remember Anthony?” Anthony had slowly moved his family members into Roman’s home until it had become so chaotic and dysfunctional that Roman himself had considered moving out. “Or Sebastian?” Sebastian had taken a trip to St. Martin on his dime and posted photographs of himself with other men on Instagram. His excuse was that he was trying to get Roman’s attention. Well, it had worked. And Roman had ended it. He didn’t have time for those kinds of games.
“I’ve already made up my mind, QB. Besides, he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
“Looking forward to getting his hands on my Platinum AMEX, you mean.”
“Not this one. He’s pure. A real soft touch.”
Even if that were true, Roman’s standards had proved to be too great a burden for his lovers. They chafed under his demands and acted out, or else Roman lost interest and they accused him of being emotionally unavailable. Roman had accepted that he was the problem in his relationships. “I’m too picky, Jay. We both know it.”
“This one’s worth your time, Roman. Trust me on that.”
Roman shook his head. A man who was both kindhearted and compatible with his desires? He’d been looking long enough to know that that sort of dream man simply didn’t exist.
* * *
Roman forgotabout Jay’s promise until a few days later. While reviewing profit and loss statements at his kitchen counter, he was interrupted by a brisk knock on his front door. That was odd. He wasn’t used to having unexpected guests, not to mention his home wasn’t fit for company.
He checked his video surveillance and saw a young man standing on his doorstep wearing a lavender dress shirt, diamond-patterned sweater vest, and perfectly knotted tie. Under one arm was a leather satchel. Roman could acknowledge, thanks to the high-definition feed, that the man was rather lovely, with big brown eyes, long black lashes, and rosy pink cheeks along with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his slightly upturned nose. Cute as a button, his mother would say. Was he a door-to-door salesman? A Mormon intent on converting the sinners of New Orleans?
Roman crossed the threshold and opened the door, causing the young man to startle. His eyes swept Roman’s rather large and imposing frame, then offered a brilliant smile that was likely the product of nerves and adrenaline.
“May I help you?” Roman asked, noticing the man’s death grip on his bag.
The stranger checked the house number at the side of the door then peered up at him. “Are you Roman Reynolds?”
“I am.”
“Oh, good.” He held out his hand. “My name is Ezra Powell. I’m here about the job.”
“Job?” Roman’s brow dipped as he shook the proffered hand. If the young man was looking for a job, why hadn’t he applied at one of his restaurants and gone through his general managers?
