No Way Out by Julie Lynn Hayes

Author:Julie Lynn Hayes [Hayes, Julie Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
ISBN: 978-1-64080-498-2
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2018-08-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

THE FIRST tendrils of morning light crept into Wyatt’s awareness as he drifted to consciousness. He reached sleepily across the bed. Visions of Shy floated through his head, memories of him lying there beside him. So close and yet so far.

How badly Wyatt wanted to touch him. Wanted to pull Shy into the warmth of his aching embrace, to wrap himself about him like a living security blanket and keep him safe from harm. But his fingers closed only on emptiness, a coolness where he’d hoped Shy would be.

He cracked open one eye to confirm what he already knew—the other half of the bed was unoccupied. A feeling of panic welled inside of him, overriding the voice in his head, the one that managed to sound just like Lukas. He hadn’t forgotten his mentor’s admonition. He remembered Lukas’s words very well—he just didn’t know how long he could abide by them.

He threw back the covers and leapt to the floor, not bothering with his usual morning routine. Normally he took advantage of Masterson’s king-size bed to stretch himself every which way but loose, to luxuriate in the feel of the soft, expensive sheets against his skin. Today he had other things on his mind.

Well, just one thing. Shy and his whereabouts.

Don’t panic. He has to be here. Somewhere. Where else could he logically be? But Wyatt’s heart refused to be reasoned with. It thumped erratically as he fled the bedroom and sprinted through the hall and down the stairs, skipping at least half in his haste.

The living room was spotlessly empty, the remnants of last night’s drunken discussion with Lukas nowhere in evidence. The glass-topped coffee table gleamed in pristine innocence. Shaking his head in disbelief, Wyatt hurried into the kitchen. The unmistakable aroma of coffee hit his nostrils as he skidded across the floor, that and more. Something that oozed cinnamon and fresh-baked goodness. What the hell?

And there he stood. He was hunched over the counter, his nose buried in a book, his weight canted to one side so that Wyatt’s sleep pants appeared in imminent danger of sliding down his legs at any moment. Not that Wyatt would complain if they did.

Shy glanced up. He blinked at Wyatt, pushing back a lock of blond hair that fell across his face, drawn from his literary reverie by Wyatt’s dramatic entrance. Wyatt noticed what looked like flour on Shy’s forehead. He had to resist the urge to dampen his thumb and wipe it away.

“Is something wrong?”

“Um, no.” Wyatt attempted a casual air but knew he failed at it. Miserably. He was breathing hard and no doubt his face was red, and his normally messy hair probably looked even more unruly than usual, possessing that fresh-out-of-bed look that simply begged for a comb. “Um, what’s that I smell?” When in doubt, change the subject.

“Cinnamon rolls. I hope you don’t mind?” A fleeting shadow crossed Shy’s face. His eyes were pinned upon Wyatt, his brow furrowed in unease, and for just a moment Wyatt found himself unable to speak, caught in that deer-in-the-headlights gaze.

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