A Kind of Romance by Lane Hayes

He was my first real boyfriend. I was thankful we’d figured out how to remain friends.
    I leaned my elbows on the black granite island and watched him move about the space like he owned it. Opening cabinet doors, pulling out plates, a mug, silverware, and even a couple of napkins. He hummed as he worked and didn’t stop until he’d poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he pushed the plate of pastries toward me and studied me as he blew into his mug.
    “Why are you here?”
    “First cup, eh? Drink up and eat something. I need you,” he said.
    “I know you do. But not this early on a Saturday morning.”
    Carter stared at me intently as though he were looking for clues, then widened his eyes dramatically and pointed toward my bedroom.
    “ Do you have company?” he asked in an exaggerated whisper.
    “Nope,” I said, rolling my eyes.
    “Good. Get dressed. The game starts at eleven.”
    “Game?”
    “I need a sub, and you’re it. Our shortstop’s wife went into labor last night.”
    “Schneider? That’s cool.”
    “Yeah, it is. Except he’s out for the weekend, and since you are by far the best shortstop who somehow never got signed with the Yankees, I knew exactly who to call.” Carter took a huge bite of a croissant, swiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth as he grinned like a fool.
    “What makes you think I don’t have any plans today?”
    “Do you?”
    “No.” I narrowed my eyes when Carter chuckled. “I was gonna go to the gym and get a little work done, then—”
    “Sounds like I got here just in time. Eat up, buddy. Want me to make you an egg? Protein is good for you. Unless… you got plenty of protein last night.”
    “I didn’t.”
    “Ouch. Poor guy. Scrambled or over easy?” he asked, opening my refrigerator. He pulled out the egg tray, then bent to grab a small pan.
    For a guy who was born with two last names and was heir to more money than Paris Hilton, Carter wasn’t overly concerned with social graces. Or boundaries. He had zero qualms about barging into my place and rifling through my cupboards. I knew him too well to be irritated. This was just Carter. He was a thirty-one-year-old goofball with a ribald sense of humor that hadn’t changed much in the thirteen years we’d known each other. He probably would have made the eggs even if I’d flat-out refused to play baseball on his company league team.
    “Scrambled, please. With a little bit of che—”
    “Cheddar. I know, I know.” He cracked four eggs into a shallow bowl and looked up at me expectantly. “So… what did you do last night? I figured you’d meet us at the club if you didn’t feel like dinner. It’s not like you to hole up on a Friday night alone.”
    “I wasn’t alone. I was on a date.”
    Carter let the whisk fall from his hand and clatter noisily against the bowl. “A date? What the fuck is a date?”
    I laughed at his comedic delivery and took another sip of coffee. “It wasn’t a real—actually, maybe it was real. But it wasn’t serious.”
    “Just tell me it wasn’t Taylor.”
    “You sound like my dad. No, it wasn’t Taylor. It was Benny. He’s the guy who called the ambulance when Pops fell last week. My dad decided we were perfect for each other, and you know how he is when he gets an idea in his head.” I snorted derisively.
    “I do indeed. How is George, by the way?”
    “He’s doing well. Only now he’s using his visit to Mount Sinai as a medical excuse to drive me bonkers. Benny was getting Pop’s unique brand of pressure too, so he suggested we get the date over with to get the old man off our backs.”
    “Hmm.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It’s not like you to go out with someone for your dad’s sake. You must have liked him more than you’re letting on. And even if you did agree to meet the guy for a drink, you’d have bailed within fifteen minutes tops. I know you.” Carter gave me a cocky grin before piling scrambled eggs onto the plate in front of me. “Oh,