1. River

1

RIVER

Present day, November

This is the year I’m going to learn how to make a pie.

“How hard can it be? You get crust and pumpkins and apples and pecans and stuff like that. If I can mix drinks this good, surely I can make a terrific pecan pumpkin apple pie,” I say to Owen as I mix a Negroni for a customer.

“Because Campari, gin, and vermouth are the same as pecans, pumpkins, and apples? Also, you do realize most pies don’t call for pecans and pumpkins and apples in the same recipe?” Owen points out, dragging a hand through his dark brown hair that has just the right amount of swoop to it as it hits his forehead with the perfect bit of bounce. Like a shampoo commercial.

“Details. Besides, who made you the pie-meister? Maybe my pie will taste good as an Everything But The Kitchen Sink Pie. I’ll toss in gin too,” I suggest, then bring the Negroni to a tall Asian guy at the end of the bar who’s transfixed by his phone, but nervously tapping his fingers on the wood at the same time. My guess? He’s meeting someone from an app here any minute, and he’s worried the guy won’t show. “Bet he’ll be here soon, hun,” I say, with a grin.

The man looks up, breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I hope so.”

I return to Owen, who’s knocking back the Tom Collins I whipped up for him when he arrived ten minutes ago.

“My pie will be as good as that cocktail you’re devouring,” I state.

“I’ll see your Tom Collins, but I’m going to raise you on the pie challenge. I bet you’re bluffing. I have a hunch you can’t make a decent pie, River, especially if you’re thinking of putting gin in it,” he challenges.

“You doubt me? That just makes me want to bake it and invite you to Thanksgiving at Mama Michaels’s house to prove you’re wrong about my gin-pie-baking skills.”

Owen laughs, tossing his head back. “You really do think you’re good at everything, don’t you?”

“Think so? I know so,” I say, then quickly scan the establishment I own. My servers are tending to customers, another bartender is quenching the thirst of most of the patrons here at the counter, and everyone seems happy right now. Good thing, since that means I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes—chatting with Owen.

“Then, I can’t wait to try this Kitchen Sink Pie and say I told you so . Also, why are you acting like you aren’t going to invite me to your parents’ house on Thanksgiving? You’ve invited me to every Turkey Day since you moved back to San Francisco.”

I groan. “But you were with Ezra last year, and you didn’t come.”

Owen shoots me a sharp stare. “Yes, and it’s not like I had the best time getting almost dumped by him in Napa, then getting officially dumped over Christmas in Las Vegas. We are, to quote Ms. Swift, ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.’”

“Hallelujah! He was the worst.”

“Tell me about it. He wouldn’t go with me to Friendsgiving last year. Should have been my tip-off,” Owen says, shaking his head.

I don’t want to say I told you so out loud so I say it in my head. “His loss. Your Friendsgiving always sounds like so much fun,” I say, since he’s told me tales of his work friends and their festive weekend-before-Thanksgiving celebrations in Tahoe. His friend Nisha and her wife, Hailey, throw fantastic fetes—I tagged along with Owen earlier this year to a work shindig when Nisha’s cruelty-free shampoo company launched its new line, and not only were the cocktails fabulous, but so was the shampoo I took home. I’m about to ask him if he’s going this year when two tall, strapping baseball gods stroll into the joint.

They’re also some of my closest friends. Grant is the catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, and his boyfriend, Declan, is the shortstop for the San Francisco Dragons. Grant’s my business partner too, and together we own all ten locations of The Lazy Hammock in California, Oregon, Arizona, and Washington, since we expanded this line of gay bars over the last few years from Phoenix all along the West Coast.

“What sounds like fun?” Grant asks with a curious glint in his blue eyes as he ambles up to the bar.

“Friendsgiving,” I say, tipping my forehead to my bespectacled best friend. “Owen and his armada of PR peeps do it every year, and supposedly it’s the?—”

What?

Are those what I think they are?

I sputter, pointing at the matching rings Grant and Declan sport. “Did you guys get engaged on your vacation?” My voice shoots to the ceiling.

They grin like only the grotesquely in love can.

“Congratulations, you lucky fuckers,” I say, beaming as I offer each a palm to high-five.

Owen joins in, and there are fist bumps and high-fives all around.

Once the local idols sit, I do the requisite gawk at the platinum bands, then ooh and aah. Truly, I’m over the moon for them. Especially Grant. This guy has been a good friend for more than five years, and I’ve seen him through all the highs and lows of his epic love affair with another pro-baller.

As I mix cocktails for some other customers, my heart does a happy dance while my friends tell the story of their tropical proposal. “Question—could you two be any more disgustingly in love?” I shoot a glance at my college bud. “Could they, Owen?”

“Their love story should be a Webflix series, and I bet it’d be bigger than that regency London show,” Owen quips, as he lifts his drink in a toast.

“I bet you’d like it more than Discovery Prism ,” I add in a nod to Owen’s fave series.

“All I know is I’d watch the hell out of it,” Grant weighs in as I swing to the other end of the bar to serve mojitos to a couple of tatted guys in motorcycle jackets making googly eyes at each other.

Next to them, a Latino guy with buff arms and pearly whites laughs with the Asian dude.

Told you so , I mouth, and the guy with the Negroni flashes me a grateful smile.

I love my job. I love watching guys connect with other guys. Sometimes, hell, most of the time the dudes just hook up and that’s great, since sex is, well, great. But plenty of men have returned here, all coupled up and getting hitched, to tell me they met at The Lazy Hammock.

Warms my jaded heart.

I return to my friends, asking Grant and Declan if they want iced tea and Diet Coke, and then I grab glasses when they give me their orders. “Now listen, it’s high time the two of you jocks admit the truth. I’m your Cupid. Am I right?”

Declan laughs, his brown eyes twinkling with delight. “At this point, feel free to claim us.”

“You’re taking credit for their union, River?” Owen challenges with a lift of his brow.

“I’m the patron saint of hot pro-baseball players in love,” I say.

“But are you Cupid the Greek god, or cupid the cherub?” Owen counters, since he loves to rib me.

“Do I look like a cute Valentine’s baby who shoots arrows at couples?” I square my shoulders and deepen my tone, as I pour an iced tea. “Or a Mediterranean heartthrob?”

Owen knits his brow. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“There is only one answer,” I say, sliding the glass to Declan.

“C’mon, O. River’s gotta be Eros, aka Cupid,” Grant chimes in since he loves mythology. “Doesn’t he seem like the Greek God of Love, who struck the hearts of his targets till they swooned with passion?”

I tap my chest, nodding big and long. “Like a hot Greek god, I shot my arrows at Grant Blackwood and Declan Steele, once upon a time. Call me Eros from now on.”

“Fine, Eros ,” Owen says, dragging out the name like it has ten syllables. “What role exactly did you play in the happy couple getting together?”

I mime zipping my lips. Owen’s the PR guy on Declan’s baseball team, and it’s up to these two athletes what they share. But these guys did indulge in a few secret dates back at my bar in Phoenix at Grant’s first spring training years ago.

“You’re the worst at sharing anything,” Owen says, huffing as I pour a Diet Coke for Grant.

“I know. I’m terrible, and you hate spending time with me,” I say, then flash a smile at the pair of fiancés. “Seriously, I am so happy for you two, but let’s talk about me for a second, please.”

“By all means,” Declan says, sweeping out his arm to indicate the floor is mine.

“Here’s the thing. How does this keep happening?”

“And what is this ?” Declan queries.

“This gross injustice when it comes to love and hot men. You two met and fell like that . As for me, I meet all the sexy, charming gay men in San Francisco, and I’m wretchedly single. What gives? I’m like the mayor of gay San Francisco.” I wave a hand at this establishment teeming with queer guys. “Literally every guy I meet in any given night bats for my team, and still, here I am, single at twenty-nine. When you, Grant,” I say, gesturing to the catcher, “fell in love with the only other out baseball player in the freaking city. Not that I begrudge you two, but would it kill either the Greek heartthrob or the smug little Valentine’s baby to throw some arrows my way?”

After all, it’s been a while.

And I don’t mean for sex.

Though that’s sadly true too.

It’s been a while since I had a great date—since I wanted to spend time with someone.

Several years ago, I met a guy at a local hiking club, and Hayden and I hit it off so well he asked me to move to Phoenix to be with him. I happily trotted along to the desert, opened my first bar, and was generally loving life with a guy I thought I’d maybe someday settle down with.

Then I caught Hayden cheating.

With the pool boy.

My life was a porno, and I didn’t even get off at the end.

I’ve dated plenty since then.

A couple years ago, I met Mateo at a coffee shop in my neighborhood after I finished a run. I was hot and sweaty and needed an iced coffee, and he did too. We clicked, then got hot and sweaty together for several months.

But the conversation started to fade, and sometimes he was too quiet. I’m chatty by nature, but I do like it when someone talks with me. I was the nixer in that relationship—I ended things with Mateo on account of the zing fading.

There have been a few others in between. I’m into serial monogamy and flirting my ass off, but I haven’t met anyone in a while who makes my heart and cock flutter. They’re a package deal and I need both reacting hard and strong, and all night long.

As I slide napkins to the ballplayers, Grant, the he-devil, tips his forehead to Owen. “Owen’s out and cute.”

No fucking kidding.

But Owen has been off-limits for years, and Grant damn well knows it.

“I’m more than cute,” Owen says, squaring his shoulders. “Matt Bomer, eat your heart out.”

Owen’s not far off in the self-assessment. He’s got the sweet smile of the TV star, as well as the chiseled looks and tight body. Owen’s more handsome now than he was back in college, and he was a smoke show then when we made our pact. Now, he’s grown broader, bigger, and I don’t mind the time he logs at the gym at all.

Plus, with blue eyes like the sea, carved cheekbones, and a jaw that would make other jawlines weep with jealousy, the man is simply... hot.

Seriously, if he weren’t my friend, I would be all over that body. He’s entirely yum.

But I won’t go there. Too many men come and go, so why even entertain the thought of boning a friend? Best to keep bangable friends in the no-bang category. “Yes, Owen is cuter than Matt Bomer, plus he has the whole cute-guy-in-glasses vibe that makes all the men want to buy his drinks. Seriously, do you ever buy a drink here?” I ask Owen.

“Why would I? I know the bartender,” he says with a grin.

“True. Either way, Owen and I are just friends,” I say, reminding Grant yet again. Maybe reminding myself a little too. The way my mind’s been wandering to Owen lately, Lord knows I need a fridge covered in Post-it notes.

“Good thing you two have your pact then,” Grant adds, sketching air quotes.

“Respect the pact,” I say, since that pact has saved my ass from temptation. Owen’s in my life, and I want him to stay put. Sure, he likes cats, and I like dogs, while he prefers the gym, and I love the great outdoors. But we rely on each other, we go to family events together, and we even volunteer together at an LGBTQ teen athlete organization. No way am I going to let a few risqué thoughts about his eyes or his mouth upend all that.

Grant lifts his Diet Coke. “And since you have the pact, maybe the two of you should do that Friendsgiving thing together that you guys were talking about.”

Owen dips his face, his tone going coy. “But I didn’t invite River.”

“Bet you wanted to,” Declan says, egging him on.

“What would you say if I invited you, River?” Owen asks me, all doe-eyed and innocent.

I flutter my lashes right back. “You haven’t invited me yet, hun.”

Owen leans closer on the bar. “I guess we’ll see if I do.”

“I guess we will,” I say, like I’m fine with him not inviting me, even though maybe I’m not fine with it at all.

When my shift ends a little later, and we head to the game room to play pool, my mind isn’t on stripes or solids.

It’s on whether Owen’s going to ask me to Friendsgiving or not.

I do want him to, since I bet it’d be a hoot, and I love a good time. Nisha, Hailey, and I hit it off at the party.

Maybe I’ll just try to reel Owen in.

“Admit it. You’re dying to watch me wow the crew in Tahoe with my Everything But The Kitchen Sink pie,” I say as I lift the stick and laser in on the blue-striped ball.

Owen takes a beat as a smile curves his lips. He’s quiet, like he’s thinking. His eyes spark with possibility. “You know what? That’s a good reason to invite you. To see if you can pull off this pecan-pumpkin-apple-pie feat.” He gestures with his pool cue. “River, would you like to come to Friendsgiving at Nisha and Hailey’s Airbnb in Tahoe next weekend and test out your pie skills?”

Next weekend.

Fuck my life.

My shoulders sag.

Knew it was too good to be true.

“That’s one of the biggest weekends here at The Lazy Hammock,” I say, dejected.

“We could man the bar for you,” Grant offers, gesturing to his fiancé and himself. “You could even bill it that way. A night with two of the city’s pro baseball players doing the serving.”

Owens eyes light up. “As the PR guy for the Dragons, I have to say that idea is the best. I swear I can see the hashtags now and the retweets.”

“You do love your social media, Owen,” I say.

Owen rests his chin on the end of the pool stick. “Like I love pecan pie,” he says, then tilts his head, his expression serious, maybe even a touch nervous. “So, what do you think, River?”

That it sounds like an entirely fun way to spend a weekend.

Bonus that it comes with zero risk of pact-breaking temptation since we’ll be in a house full of friends and food and games.

“Yes, let’s do it.”

It’ll be like every other time we hang out.

When we don’t kiss, touch, or anything else. And I’m fine with that. Because why wouldn’t I be?