Off Limits (Secrets Kept 1)

I got the stuff for us to make homemade Alfredo sauce, then grabbed some chicken and fettuccini. I got both beer and wine, not sure what Hutch drank, then almost forgot the stuff for garlic bread and went back through the store before checking out.

Once I was home, I sent him a quick text with my condo number, cleaned up, took a shower, and waited.

For Hutch to come over and make dinner with me. The guy with the sad, chocolaty eyes, who had always been right in front of me, but I’d been too confused, too far in the closet, or too…too with his sister to let myself see him.

Shit. I wasn’t doing real well with the not overthinking it.

I got a beer from the fridge and opened it, just as there was a knock.

I smiled. Walked over and opened the door, leaning against the jamb with my arms crossed. “You’re early. Couldn’t stay away?”

“Didn’t want to rob you of my presence too long. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you when we’re apart.”

A laugh started deep in my gut, rumbling to the surface. “My poor, delusional friend. You wish.”

“I know.”

“Come in.”

Hutch paused, took a deep breath, and came inside. His hair was wet like mine, so he’d clearly showered. He wore jeans and a charcoal-gray Henley with white edges around the V-neck and the ends of the short sleeves. It was tight across his chest and arms, and his jeans fit just right over his ass. They looked new, but I didn’t think that was the case. Hutch just took care of his things. He looked more pressed than me, more polished. My Levi’s hung slightly loose on my hips, the waistband of my boxer briefs always riding just above them, so it was visible when I lifted my simple, black T-shirt.

“I have beer, wine, water, lemonade, and tea.”

“I’ll have a beer. Thanks.”

I plucked another bottle from the fridge, opened it, and handed it over.

“To friendship.” Hutch held up the bottle, and I clanked it with mine.

“To friendship.”

We both drank.

“What are we making for dinner? And if we’re cooking at your place tonight, that means we have to head to mine and I choose next time.”

“Fettuccini Alfredo, and you’re assuming there will be a next time. What if I don’t want to be friends with you anymore?”

Hutch laughed. “Impossible.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re full of yourself?” He was, but he also…wasn’t. The last part he tried to hide from the world, but I saw it.

“All the damn time.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I heard myself saying, as if I didn’t have control over my own words.

Hutch’s jaw tensed…flexed, then loosened as he cocked his head slightly, studying me. It was a probing look, one that burrowed inside me, searching for answers of its own. “Stop trying to discover all my secrets. You’re going to get us into trouble.”

“I think we’re already there.”

“No.” He shook his head. “We’re not, because we’re friends.” The words hurt more than they should. We weren’t supposed to want this, but I did, and while I knew Hutch did as well, maybe it wasn’t as much. Maybe I was in this alone. He cleared his throat. “Let’s make dinner. I’m starving.”

I tried to shake off the feeling of melancholy that had washed over me. “Prepare to be amazed.”

“Who’s full of themselves now?”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little confidence.” I winked, then began pulling the ingredients from the fridge and pantry. We washed our hands, and I rubbed mine together. “Step one, we need to warm the butter and cream.”

“On it,” Hutch replied, opening cabinets as if it was his own condo until he found a saucepan.

“Grab a bigger one for the pasta.” He did, and I started the water boiling.

We got to work together, me instructing Hutch, the two of us a team as we whisked in seasonings, making sure the consistency was just right. Buttering bread and adding garlic to that along with the sauce. The parmesan came at the end, helping to thicken it, and we let it sit for a few minutes to help the process along while the pasta and the bread finished up.

We laughed and talked and drank while we cooked, with an easy comfort and familiarity between us. It was as if we’d done this a hundred times, and I didn’t mean when our families would get together when we were kids—not that Hutch and I had been cooking together then. But it was like we just fit, moving around each other, sensing when to jump in and help or when to scoot out of the way and let the other by, the perfect running engine, every part doing its job.

“Do you want to eat outside?” I asked when we both had full plates.

“That sounds good.”