Thoreau came over and sat on the coffee table across from him. “You need to give me a minute. You never say what I’m expecting you to. I was sure my genius plan to shock some sense into you had backfired and I was going to have to explain to Fiona why you’d booked a flight to Canada. I don’t think I’m as good at this as I thought. Maybe I should stick to brewing beer and leave the psychology to Fiona.”
“I wouldn’t say it backfired, though Canada is tempting.” Wyatt shook his head. “You definitely shocked me. Seeing your dick was not even on my list of potential weird shit that could happen today. Or ever,” he added, chuckling despite himself.
Thoreau grinned and ducked his head.
“Trou drop might have been over the line. I’ll give you that and I’m sorry,” he laughed self-consciously. “It was for a good cause.”
“Yeah, okay, as long as we sign a blood pact to never mention it again. After you tell me how this was supposed to go down. You know, without the unnecessary dick brag,” he waved his hand absently at Thoreau’s impressive package. “Talk to me like I’m a dumb jock.”
“I would, if you were,” Thoreau countered. “I was just thinking if we could hash this out between us first, get comfortable with each other, then we could give her what it is she seems to want. Call her bluff.”
“Both of us,” Wyatt responded grimly. “Yeah, I don’t think she’s bluffing about that.”
“Neither do I. But she doesn’t believe it could happen either. Both of us working together. No jealousy, no competition and no ego. Just Fiona in the middle.”
“Teamwork makes the dream work?” Wyatt asked with a disbelieving snort, remembering the flaming poster from the fire.
“That’s the plan. Well, phase two of it, anyway.”
It was funny, but when he put it like that, Wyatt actually got it. He was wired for it. He’d literally been raised to be part of a team. Granted, the man who’d trained him had been a soulless homophobe who hadn’t had this kind of team in mind, but the lessons still ran deep.
James and some of the others chafed against relying on anyone but themselves, preferring to go their own way. But Wyatt didn’t like to be alone. He never had. In fact, the only thing he’d ever wanted just for himself was Fiona.
Fiona, who needed more than one other person on her team.
Had he been looking at it all wrong? Torturing himself because he never seemed to be enough for her instead of seeing himself as a necessary part of a whole?
Had he been reading too many of Fi’s self-help books?
Yes, to all of those questions.
“You really think we could be a team? I mean, theory is one thing, but practice might be a fucking train wreck.” He saw the surprise in Thoreau’s expression and bit back a smile. “We don’t exactly have that much in common.”
Thoreau’s eyes sparked with relief and determination. “I think we have a few hurdles to get over, but it could work. And you might be surprised about what we have in common. We never really tried to find out.”
Wyatt felt that squeeze on his chest again. “And you care about her enough to go through with this?”
“Would I have acted like a creepy perv if I didn’t?”
No. This wasn’t Thoreau’s style at all. “What if we’re wrong and this isn’t what she wants?”
What if it still wasn’t enough to get her to stay?
“We’ll cross that bridge when and if we come to it. Now let’s get dressed so we can put the rest of my WTF plan in motion.”
“What? Tonight?” He barked out a laugh. “And WTF?”
Thoreau grinned. “Wyatt, Thoreau and Fiona. What the fuck? Catchy, isn’t it?”
A year ago, he never would have considered this. But now? The last month had been torture, and the weeks after Fiona had left last time had really messed with his head. He’d tried everything else, why not give phase two a shot?
At least once.
He stood up, resolved but still more than a little anxious. “What the fuck? I guess I’m in. But I’m going to need a beer for this. The good stuff.”
“I only make the good stuff, Wyatt.”
“And she thinks I’m cocky.”
Chapter Seven
Wyatt
“I thought omelets were for breakfast,” Wyatt said, puzzled as he studied the menu Thoreau had handed him.
“It’s not the kind of omelet you’re thinking of. The real name is tortilla Española. Eggs, potatoes and onions, fried up and served in bite-sized wedges.”
“Then why do they call it an omelet?”
“They just do.” Thoreau said, shrugging. “I thought you said you’d had tapas before.”
“I thought you said tacos.”
“Why would I ask if you’ve ever had tacos? You and your brother practically lived at that taqueria truck by the station for a year when you weren’t eating Finn Again dinner leftovers.”