The breeze was stronger a few hundred feet above sea level, the view breathtaking.

Ryder reached the top and turned to take it in. “Wow.”

“Views like this never get old,” Michael told him.

“Makes me wonder why I’m living in Utah.”

“It’s where we grew up. It’s safe.” At least that’s how Michael thought of things when he’d lived there. He enjoyed going back now that things with his parents, or more importantly, his father, were on better terms. Not that he would ever return to live there. In the past few years, he had revealed his sexuality to his older sister and brother, and just recently one of his younger sisters. It was only a matter of time before he had a conversation with his parents. Distance helped keep his secrets. Still, revealing his sexuality to his father was a pinnacle in his life he had yet to cross.

Ryder leaned back on his forearms, drawing Michael’s attention. The two of them had shared more together than anyone else in Michael’s life. When they stole time together, it was as if they were kids again, or at least a decade younger. Life felt full and packed with the promise of a bright future. “You know, they have high schools everywhere. You don’t have to stay in Hilton.”

“Trying to lure me away to the big city, Mike?” Ryder’s teasing grin sprayed two mirrored dimples.

Was he? “Why does our life have to be so damn complicated?”

“Because we’re gay.”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Is that it? I didn’t realize.”

Ryder rolled onto his side, smiled up at him. “If I left Utah, where would I go? Beverly Hills with you, become a kept man?”

No one could keep Ryder. He was too strong, too pigheaded. “You’d work.”

“And when people asked why I was living with you?”

“People have roommates all the time.” Saying the words aloud gave Michael room in his brain to consider the possibility. “Aren’t you tired of a small town filled with narrow-minded people?”

Ryder reached out, laid a hand on his thigh. “We could jeopardize everything you’ve worked for.”

His heart jumped. He thought of Meg’s words . . . asking if he’d ever have enough money to be happy. Did the money in his bank even compare to this moment on the side of a cliff with his lover at his side?

Michael took Ryder’s hand and squeezed it. “We both have something to lose.”

“Bears some serious thought,” Ryder agreed and looked away.

They were silent for a moment, watching the seagulls flying over the waves and picking up their lunch.

“This really is beautiful,” he said.

Michael watched Ryder’s profile. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

Chapter Ten

Mrs. Masini decided a nap in the afternoon was a good idea, leaving Meg to stir the sauce for a half an hour unsupervised.

The woman clearly didn’t know how easily Meg could screw up a meal. It probably didn’t help that half the bottle of wine was gone.

She filled a pot with water to boil fifteen minutes before the hour, as instructed. According to Mrs. Masini, a late pasta lunch was the perfect meal. Meg was convinced that eating at two was an excuse to soak up the wine.

Meg turned to the sink long enough to wash sauce from her hands and heard the water on the stove boiling over.

“Whoa, there.” Of course, Val would walk in the kitchen right as Meg was making a mess.

He twisted down the flame, taming the boiling water. He was once again in a three-piece suit and she was in . . . Meg glanced down about the same time Val swept her frame with his eyes.

The apron around her waist took some of the weight of the flour off her clothing, but there was still a good quarter pound of that crap all over her. She was fairly certain kindergarten kids could make pasta from scratch with less mess.

Val hid a smile behind his hand.

“Oh, go ahead and laugh.”

His hand fell away. “You look . . . you look . . .”

She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and walked around him to the stove. She wasn’t going to muck up the sauce because he couldn’t articulate how ridiculous she looked.

“It took three attempts to make the pasta right.” She nodded toward the dried strings of carbohydrates.

“I warned you.”

She growled, the sound surprisingly similar to that of Val’s mother.

“Where is my mother?”

“Resting. Seems creating culinary greatness takes it out of her. She asked that I wake her when the pasta is done cooking.”

Val slid out of his jacket and loosened his tie. “If it’s any help, it smells delicious.”

“I popped a few gray hairs making this meal, I hope it smells good.”

He laughed, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands. “I don’t think it’s gray in the hair. Just flour.”

The thought of tossing her pasta-smudged dishtowel at him crossed her mind. But then she’d mess up his linen shirt. Maybe if he wore something more casual . . .

“I told her I didn’t cook.”

“That was your first mistake.” He took the rack of dried pasta over to the boiling water.

Meg stood beside him, managed a whiff of the scent of the man through the garlic and tomatoes. Instead of taking notice, she concentrated on stirring.

Once he placed the pasta into the pot to boil, he stared at her.

She looked through her lashes, didn’t turn her head. “What?”

He reached out, brushed at her cheek. “You have a little . . .”

Flour? Sauce? It could have been anything to draw his touch. A zip of crazy energy tingled up her back. “I thought about you last night,” he told her.