Chapter 3

3

WAYLON

E xhaustion clung to me like the residual mud on my boots as I pushed open the front door. Today's shift had been long and intense, courtesy of some escaped horses I'd had to wrangle. My lasso skills weren't what they used to be, but I'd managed in the end.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting a soft twilight glow through the windows of Mom's old house—my house now—and setting the flowers in her garden ablaze. My muscles ached from the day's work, but a smile tugged at my lips despite the weariness. Melbourne was here.

He'd been asleep the day before when I'd gotten home and still in bed when I'd left this morning, but I'd seen signs of life in the wet towels he'd left on the bathroom floor and the trail of crumbs from the cabinet where he'd found cookies to the dining table, where he'd set up shop. His laptop sat in the middle of the utter chaos of notebooks, sticky notes, pens, a dictionary, candy wrappers, and more. It should've annoyed me, this mess, but instead, I found it strangely endearing.

"Hey," I called out as I walked in.

I took off my boots and put them on the shoe rack, then removed my gun belt and put my gun and ammo in the gun locker—the first thing I'd installed after officially moving in.

No response, but the faint sounds of a keyboard drifted in from the dining room. I peeked around the corner. Melbourne sat at the table, his shoulders hunched and his eyes narrowed. He didn't look up from his laptop, his fingers flying across the keys in a writer's fervor, lost to the world he was furiously crafting. A part of me envied that focus, how he could shut everything out and create.

I'd leave him be for now. Shower or dinner? I was a little sweaty, so a shower would be nice, but my stomach growled, so maybe dinner should get priority? Yeah, food first.

I quickly changed into shorts and a simple white T-shirt and headed to the kitchen, which embraced me with the warmth and scent of home. My mom had taught me how to cook, and I'd been an eager student, too much of a health nut to be content with store-bought meals. Home-cooked food was so much better…and healthier.

Besides, the domestic routine of cooking was comforting, familiar, and relaxing. It helped me unwind after a long day like today. Cooking was a kind of therapy, a way to regain control after a shift spent dealing with everything I couldn't fix.

The sizzle and chop of preparation soon filled the room—onions diced into perfect cubes, garlic minced until its aroma seeped into every corner, tomatoes deseeded and cut into smaller chunks, bell peppers, carrots, and zucchini sliced with precision. I let the onions simmer until they were almost caramelized, added the garlic until the whole kitchen filled with the tantalizing smell, and then added the tomatoes and vegetables, all while browning the ground beef in another pan.

The pasta I chose was thick and hearty, designed to capture every nuance of the red sauce that simmered on the stove. A good red sauce took time and patience, like most things in life, but it was so worth it.

"Need help?" Melbourne looked up, his gaze warm under the disarray of his salt-and-pepper hair. There was a smudge of ink on his cheek, probably from one of his many pens, and the sight coaxed a genuine chuckle from me.

"Got it under control," I said, stirring the sauce gently. "But you can keep me company."

"Deal." He closed his laptop with a decisive snap and leaned back in his chair, watching me with those keen brown eyes that seemed to see right through to my marrow. "How was your day?"

Such a simple question, yet joy blazed through me at the unexpected intimacy. "Good. Busy, but every incident I was called in for ended well, so that's always something to be grateful for."

"Did you always want to be a deputy?"

"I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, so I enlisted first. My dad served and always said he was grateful for the lessons the Army had taught him, so I figured I'd do the same. When I came home, I enrolled in a community college. Sheriff Frant asked if I was interested in becoming a deputy, and I said yes. Been doing it for four years now, and I love it."

"It fits you. You're very"—Melbourne gestured at me—"competent. And mature for your age ‘cause you're what, twenty-eight?"

I nodded. "Guess I had to grow up quick." I focused on the steam curling from the pot, letting it cloud the moment.

"Your mom?" Melbourne's voice was softer now, probing the edges of a wound still fresh.

"My dad died when I was ten. Guy fell asleep behind the wheel of his tractor-trailer and hit him head-on. So after that, it was my mom and me."

"That's awfully young for a boy to lose his father."

"It was, but my mom did an amazing job raising me by herself. But it was unavoidable that I stepped up in some areas where others were able to stay a child longer, like chores around the house. I could fix pretty much anything by the time I was fifteen. Our neighbor was a contractor, and he taught me everything I needed to know."

"Did you grow up in this house?"

I shook my head. "Two streets down, but Mom sold it when I moved out. I wanted my own place, so when they built some new apartments on Miller Street, I put myself on the list for a studio and got it. She downsized and bought this. I moved in when she was diagnosed…and now it's mine."

"Sounds like you were close with your mom."

"She was my best friend. I know people say it shouldn't be like that, that a parent-child relationship isn't a friendship, but ours was." I swallowed, the weight of memory pressing against my chest.

"Must have been rough, taking care of her."

"Hardest thing I've ever done." I stirred the sauce with more force than necessary. "But she raised me to be strong and to take care of those you love. I couldn't have done any less for her."

Melbourne nodded, his expression somber, respectful. "That's admirable, Waylon. Really."

My throat tightened at his words, at the unexpected warmth they sparked inside me. The admiration in his eyes wasn't something I'd sought, but it anchored me all the same. "Thank you."

As the pasta bubbled away and the sauce thickened, rich and fragrant, I set the table. Two plates, two forks, two glasses of water—everything in pairs. Some napkins, a candle to create some atmosphere. It was more intimate than I'd intended, but there it was. A simple dinner, yet it felt charged with an energy I hadn't anticipated.

"How did you become a writer?" I asked, steering the conversation to safer waters.

"I've always been one. I used to get in trouble in school for reading and writing stories when I was supposed to be doing other things. When I was fifteen, I completed my first book about a boy who discovered his grandfather didn't die of natural causes but was murdered by a neighbor. Looking at it now, I can see it was deeply flawed, but the talent was there. My parents weren't very supportive." He winced. "Not of my chosen career, nor my ‘ life choices .'"

I had no trouble interpreting that last bit of cultural code. "They had an issue with your sexuality?"

"A big one. They didn't kick me out, but only because it wouldn't have been good for their image. Instead, they mostly ignored me until I went off to college, and after that, we barely spoke."

"I'm sorry. I'll never understand how parents can reject their kids for something like that. My mom was…" I needed to take another deep breath before I could continue. "I didn't tell her I was gay until she was sick, but she'd known. She'd been waiting for me to be ready to tell her. I couldn't bear the idea of her dying without knowing the truth, but when I came out, she was more grateful than anything else. Grateful I'd had the courage to be honest with her…and myself."

"I'm so happy for you that she reacted well to the news." Melbourne leaned back in his chair, studying me with those deep, thoughtful brown eyes. "Authenticity is a rare thing. Not many have the guts to live their truth, especially in a small town like this."

I laughed dryly. "Yeah, well, I always thought Forestville wasn't a beacon of progressive thinking, but then my boss got a boyfriend, and no one batted an eye. That made it a hell of a lot easier to follow in his footsteps. And Mom was amazing about it. She said she loved me no matter what."

"She sounds like a remarkable woman," Melbourne said softly.

"She was."

Was it strange to wish she could've met Melbourne? I would've loved to hear her opinion of him. As a nurse, my mom had always had a great sense of people.

I tested the pasta, which was perfectly al dente. Time to eat. I plated our dinners with care, using a paper towel to wipe the edges of our plates so everything would look perfect. A few leaves of fresh basil were the finishing touch. There, all done.

"Wow, you really went all out." Melbourne eyed the arrangement with a mixture of surprise and delight.

"I like to cook," I murmured, shrugging slightly. Had I overdone it? "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Yes, please."

I poured us both a glass, though his was considerably fuller than mine. Even off-duty, I liked to keep my alcohol consumption limited.

Melbourne dug in with a big grin.

"This tastes amazing," he said between mouthfuls, his compliment sending a jolt of pride through me. "You could give any Italian grandma a run for her money."

My cheeks heated. "Thank you."

"Good food, good company," he mused, meeting my eyes. "It's the simple things, isn't it?"

"Definitely." Our gazes locked, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the two of us and the subtle clink of cutlery against china. Did he feel it too?

He took a slow bite, holding eye contact and licking his lips afterward. The gesture shot straight to my cock. He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling. "If you only recently came out, you probably don't have much experience yet."

"No."

"With men, I mean."

I could lie, but why would I? "Not much with women either. I've known I was attracted to men since I was fifteen. Just took me a while to accept it."

I took a big gulp of my water, but the cool liquid did nothing to soothe the warmth spreading across my chest.

"Must've been lonely," he observed, not unkindly.

"Lonely and confusing, but it made me into who I am. And now, I want to move forward, you know? Find something real."

He chuckled lowly as he swirled the wine in his glass. "Something real? Sex is about as real as it gets, if you ask me."

I was out of my depth here, but I refused to back down. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"I love sex."

He was baiting me. I didn't understand why, but I recognized the quiet challenge behind his words, as if he dared me to change the topic. "Yeah? What do you love about it?"

His eyes lit up in surprise. "Everything. It's dirty and messy, it scratches a need, and it's more relaxing and stress-relieving than anything else I've tried."

"I go for a run or do a workout."

He wiggled his eyebrows. "Oh, if you do it right, sex is quite the workout."

I snorted. "Walked right into that one."

"You sure did." Then he leaned forward, and I instinctively held my breath. He was about to drop a bomb on me. I knew it. "Would you like to get some sexual experience?"

"What?" I practically squeaked.

"Experience. With sex. With another man."

"W-why?"

"‘Cause I'm offering."

I nearly dropped the glass I was holding. Was he serious? "Is that a joke?"

"I'm dead serious. If you wanna know what it's like with a guy, I'm happy to help."

My mind went blank, empty, like the static on an old TV without a signal.

"Take a breath there, Deputy."

I sucked in air.

"Maybe another one?"

Not a bad suggestion, and finally, my lungs expanded again the way they were supposed to. "You're offering me sex?"

"I am."

"Why?"

He flashed a mischievous grin. "Because you're seriously hot? It's not like it would be a sacrifice on my end, you know? And I have plenty to teach you about how to pleasure a man." Then he took me in slowly with a heat in his gaze that made me feel as if I were naked. "Though with your thoroughness and attention to detail, I have no doubt you'll excel at it."

It wasn't just his words that sent a jolt of electricity down my spine, but the earnestness in his eyes, the unmistakable glint of genuine interest and attraction. "I'll have to think about it."

"Sure. No pressure at all. You should only say yes if you truly want to."

I wanted to. God, how I wanted to. But there were risks, weren't there? What if this changed everything? What if it changed nothing at all? "I know."

"But I think we would be good in bed, Deputy. Very, very good."

There was a promise in his words, a silent acknowledgment of the chemistry simmering between us. Melbourne smiled then, a slow spread of lips that promised adventure and whispered of pleasures yet to be discovered.

Oh, I wanted. But could I say yes?

After all, he was only offering sex.