Page 25 of Puck Yes

With my plans forming, I return to the convo. “She’s a cool one,” I say of Ivy, subtly egging Hayes on. “Always been fun to talk to. I can see why you’d be into her.”

There. Step one. Make him see that it’sokayto want a co-worker. Hayes can be rigid. He needs someone in his life who knows how to bend the rules.

He shrugs. “Win some, lose some. But it’s no big deal. It’s not like I was going to marry her. Or date her even.”

Gage snorts, then flicks a dismissive hand at both of us. “Pretty boys are always trouble.”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty,” I mock.

“Please. I can tell who looks like a fuckboy, and that’s you, Stefan.” He points at my buddy, too, in accusation. “And you, Hayes.”

I pat my cheek. “I can’t help it. I was blessed with goodbonestructure.”

With a smile, Hayes lets his gaze drift downward. “I was blessed with it too.Everywhere.”

Gage mimes gagging. “Enough about your bones.” He grabs another glass and pours from the tap. “Also, does this new crush mean you’ve put that Tia shit behind you?”

I shudder at the mention of Hayes’s ex. “He’d better put Tia behind him. Because she was one hundred percent wrong in her assessment of him.” No one messes with my friends.

“Dead wrong,” Gage confirms.

“Yes, Tia’s in the past,” Hayes says.

“Sounds like Building Girl needs to be there too,” Gage says.

Oh, no. I won’t let him rain on my plans for a sex parade.

“I don’t know about that,” I say. “Sometimes Hayes plays hockey even better when he’s…happier,” I suggest, sowing the seeds for a night for three. Just call me Farmer Stefan.

Hayes acknowledges that with a nod. Yup. I’m right. “That may be true,” he says, “But I don’t need romance fucking up my head. Saw enough of that with my dad.”

From what he’s told me, it wasn’t easy for Hayes to watch his dad jump from woman to woman, from hurt to hurt, from broken heart to broken heart. All the more reason for me to engineer a night of fun for my friend.

“Hayes, up for a run in the morning?” I ask.

“Always,” he says.

And so it begins.

* * *

The four-mile run I’ve planned takes us through the hills of the Presidio then down to Lower Pacific Heights. We peel off miles till we finish.

Conveniently, we don’t end our run near my three-story home at the top of Pacific Heights with its spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead, we’re a mile away, off Fillmore, pulling up outside Hayes’s building. I’m strategic that way.

And I’m also very, very thirsty. “I need some water. Help a guy out,” I say, panting, sweat dripping down my T-shirt. I might even need to take it off if my plan works well.

Carelessly, Hayes points to a nearby fire hydrant. “There you go. Or I could set out a water bowl for you.”

“How generous.” I ignore the offer and trot up the steps to the building’s revolving door.

“And feel free to let yourself in,” he deadpans.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He comes through the door right behind me. “Let’s get a drink then hit the weights in the building gym?”

“Fantastic.” It’s almost as if I’d thought of it myself. Once we’re inside the penthouse, and I’ve guzzled a glass from the tap, I gesture to the winding staircase leading to the rooftop. “I’m craving a fava bean.”

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