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“Meh, he did me a favor. I just…”

Rob nudged my shoulder with his. “What?”

“I wished I’d been braver earlier. I wished I’d come out to my dad, my coaches, the whole damn world. If I was going to lose people and opportunity anyway, I wished I’d done it being a thousand percent true to myself. Hiding sucked. It felt necessary at the time, but…it still sucked. I guess I’m trying to say…I see you. I’ve been there. You’re not alone, ya know?”

Okay, that was a terrible speech, and it sounded sappy as fuck when I replayed it in my head. I wiggled my feet in the sand, watching the waves with the intensity of a new lifeguard while I ignored Rob’s curious stare.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat. “I think I needed to hear that.”

I opened my mouth, a casual brush-off on the tip of my tongue. The sincerity in his eyes stopped me. For the first time in years, I set my protective armor aside and let myself connect with someone new. I reached for his hand. That was it. The smallest gesture, really, but it was a leap of faith for me and he knew it.

Rob laced our fingers and squeezed.

We sat there for a while, holding hands. And I knew without asking that it was a first for both of us.

ChapterTen

Rob

Amber was one smart cookie. The bake-off, which was really more of a “vote for your favorite free bagel or pizza sample of the day” was a huge hit. Great H Bagels and Boardwalk Pizza had lines out the door every day, though at different times. We were busy from dawn to early afternoon, and Mateo and his cousins were swamped from late morning to closing.

The ad campaign was pure genius. Our interview with the local paper had been picked up by theSan Francisco Chronicleand had made the front page of the sports section. Nice, but it was nothing compared to the social media frenzy Amber had ignited with a few reels featuring Mateo and me in uniform in college mashed with current clips of us in our respective shops, making bagels, slinging pizza dough, and proudly representing Haverton.

We were asked to attend a recent football game together where we’d been surrounded by eager fans who’d wanted autographs, selfies, and a chance to chat with a couple of OG Great H players. I’d drawn the NFL crowd for sure, but Mateo was popular with the locals. He was gorgeous and charismatic.

I overheard two old women twittering on the sidewalk outside our stores the other day.

“Oh, that Mateo is a looker, all right.”

“What I wouldn’t give to be fifty years younger.”

They’d giggled like school girls and winked at me as I’d pushed open the door to the pizzeria. I wanted to tell them I was as smitten as they were. It was true. I had a big ol’ crush on Mateo Cavaretti…a thousand times bigger than the one I’d secretly harbored in college.

Now I knew him. The real Mateo.

I could tell his real smile from the polite one reserved for customers. I knew how to tease him, make him laugh, and turn him on. I’d mapped every inch of his body, kissed his scars, and tasted him…over and over again. He was prickly yet kind, edgy yet somehow relatable. And he was so good with people—customers, family, friends.

His interactions with his cousins were always entertaining. They were like brothers to him, and his colorful Aunt Sylvie was like a second mother.

Mateo’s mother, Therese, was a petite beautiful woman in her sixties with jet-black hair and sharp eyes. He looked so much like her, it wasn’t even funny. She came by once or twice a week for a plain bagel with cream cheese on the side. An interesting order from someone who liked to give Amber and me tips about seasoning.

“Leave ’em alone, Ma,” Mateo scolded when he stopped by this morning before heading next door.

It was part of our new routine. I made him coffee, toasted an oat grain bagel with lox and capers or a scrambled egg and we’d chat about sports and current events. It had quickly become my favorite part of the morning.

But this was the first time Mateo and his mom were here together.

“I’m being nice and neighborly,” Therese protested in a lilting Italian accent, giving her son a suspicious once-over. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have work?”

“On my way now. I just stopped by to say…” Mateo glanced my way and smiled. “Hi.”

His mom darted her gaze between us, nodding thoughtfully. “I see.”

A stream of Italian later, she patted my cheek and grinned. “Ciao.”

Yeah, that was gonna stick with me all damn day.

“Does your mom know about us?” I asked later that night as I stirred the arrabbiata sauce simmering on the stove in Mateo’s one-bedroom apartment.