have been drawn in the first round against Josh for two tournaments in succession like that—then took himself to the players’ lounge, knowing Josh would be busy for the next few hours.
He got a juice from the bar and strolled outside to where tables were set out, complete with branded parasols, in a garden that looked as if it had been trimmed and manicured to within an inch of its life. Ryan thought it was a shame it was so ordered and rigid; he preferred things to be a little more natural and messy. Which was always his excuse for his hair, if anyone asked—and they did, frequently. It sounded better to present his hairstyle as a positive decision he’d made rather than confess his hair had a mind of its own, defiantly ignoring every attempt he made to tame it, or even to try and convince it to behave in a slightly less independent fashion.
He was running a hand through his hair in the vain hope that this time it might calm down a little when he suddenly saw a very familiar figure. He couldn’t help the delighted grin that sprang to his face. Mitch was standing by the regimented flowerbeds, talking to Philippe Martin. He was wearing those jeans again, or a pair equally flattering, and a faded black t-shirt that clung enough to show off every single muscle in his torso. And that was a whole lot of muscles. He also had that damn belt buckle on again, the one that automatically drew Ryan’s eye to his crotch.
Ryan schooled the grin on his face to more manageable proportions and simply nodded as he walked past, not wanting to interrupt. Mitch, however, reached out to snag his arm and reeled him in. “You know Philippe, don’t you?”
“Bonjour, Philippe.” Ryan’s mom had raised him to be polite.
Philippe greeted him in return, looking genuinely amused by Ryan’s execrable French accent, before his face shifted again to the expression of concern it had worn when talking to Mitch. “We’ll talk later,” Philippe said, clapping Mitch on the arm before heading back inside.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Ryan said.
“You didn’t,” Mitch replied, slinging his arm round Ryan’s shoulder. “Philippe’s just worried his wife’s going to find out he’s been screwing the masseuse.”
“Oh.” Ryan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that.
“I know it won’t go any further than you. I trust you, Ry. Now, we should celebrate your win at Delray Beach. You want a drink?”
Before Ryan knew what was going on, Mitch was steering them back inside and to the bar, despite Ryan gesturing helplessly with his juice to indicate he already had a drink. Warmth flickered through his stomach, though he wasn’t quite sure whether it was from Mitch’s warm welcome or from the fact his arm was still draped round Ryan’s shoulder. It felt good to know he was making friends in the company he was now keeping. The fact the company he was keeping happened to look like every wet dream Ryan had ever had before he’d discovered the joys of Josh Andrews was just a bonus. He wasn’t tempted by Mitch, not now that he was with Josh—Ryan had never understood why people cheated—but it didn’t stop him from appreciating the view as Mitch stood with his back against the bar, his elbows resting on it as he leaned casually in a way that just happened to show off his body to anyone who might be looking.
Ryan hadn’t really wanted a beer, not in the middle of a tournament, but it seemed churlish to refuse in the circumstances. He took a swig before putting it on the bar. Maybe he could leave most of it without Mitch noticing.
“How’s the leg? I heard you had a bit of an accident at Memphis.”
It took Ryan a minute to remember just what Mitch meant. Memphis seemed so long ago with all that had happened since. “It’s nothing.”
“Could have been nasty.”
Ryan shrugged. “But it wasn’t.”
Mitch shrugged himself, then raised his bottle, meaning Ryan had to pick up his beer again to respond to
He got a juice from the bar and strolled outside to where tables were set out, complete with branded parasols, in a garden that looked as if it had been trimmed and manicured to within an inch of its life. Ryan thought it was a shame it was so ordered and rigid; he preferred things to be a little more natural and messy. Which was always his excuse for his hair, if anyone asked—and they did, frequently. It sounded better to present his hairstyle as a positive decision he’d made rather than confess his hair had a mind of its own, defiantly ignoring every attempt he made to tame it, or even to try and convince it to behave in a slightly less independent fashion.
He was running a hand through his hair in the vain hope that this time it might calm down a little when he suddenly saw a very familiar figure. He couldn’t help the delighted grin that sprang to his face. Mitch was standing by the regimented flowerbeds, talking to Philippe Martin. He was wearing those jeans again, or a pair equally flattering, and a faded black t-shirt that clung enough to show off every single muscle in his torso. And that was a whole lot of muscles. He also had that damn belt buckle on again, the one that automatically drew Ryan’s eye to his crotch.
Ryan schooled the grin on his face to more manageable proportions and simply nodded as he walked past, not wanting to interrupt. Mitch, however, reached out to snag his arm and reeled him in. “You know Philippe, don’t you?”
“Bonjour, Philippe.” Ryan’s mom had raised him to be polite.
Philippe greeted him in return, looking genuinely amused by Ryan’s execrable French accent, before his face shifted again to the expression of concern it had worn when talking to Mitch. “We’ll talk later,” Philippe said, clapping Mitch on the arm before heading back inside.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Ryan said.
“You didn’t,” Mitch replied, slinging his arm round Ryan’s shoulder. “Philippe’s just worried his wife’s going to find out he’s been screwing the masseuse.”
“Oh.” Ryan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that.
“I know it won’t go any further than you. I trust you, Ry. Now, we should celebrate your win at Delray Beach. You want a drink?”
Before Ryan knew what was going on, Mitch was steering them back inside and to the bar, despite Ryan gesturing helplessly with his juice to indicate he already had a drink. Warmth flickered through his stomach, though he wasn’t quite sure whether it was from Mitch’s warm welcome or from the fact his arm was still draped round Ryan’s shoulder. It felt good to know he was making friends in the company he was now keeping. The fact the company he was keeping happened to look like every wet dream Ryan had ever had before he’d discovered the joys of Josh Andrews was just a bonus. He wasn’t tempted by Mitch, not now that he was with Josh—Ryan had never understood why people cheated—but it didn’t stop him from appreciating the view as Mitch stood with his back against the bar, his elbows resting on it as he leaned casually in a way that just happened to show off his body to anyone who might be looking.
Ryan hadn’t really wanted a beer, not in the middle of a tournament, but it seemed churlish to refuse in the circumstances. He took a swig before putting it on the bar. Maybe he could leave most of it without Mitch noticing.
“How’s the leg? I heard you had a bit of an accident at Memphis.”
It took Ryan a minute to remember just what Mitch meant. Memphis seemed so long ago with all that had happened since. “It’s nothing.”
“Could have been nasty.”
Ryan shrugged. “But it wasn’t.”
Mitch shrugged himself, then raised his bottle, meaning Ryan had to pick up his beer again to respond to
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