Page 75 of I Think They Love You

Denz squints at his screen. First off, he’soffendedby the very violent quotes around “coaching.” As if what he does isn’t real.

Secondly, he has zero time for anything extra outside of concentrating on his dad’s retirement party. He just had his ass handed to him two days ago for less than 110 percent dedication to the company’s future. He can’t possibly help Braylon.

Dusting his hands on his T-shirt, Denz prepares a diplomatic response. Except, his thumbs hover over the keyboard instead of typing. He imagines Braylon on the other side of the screen. That little knot between his brows. Teeth worrying his lower lip.

Braylon’s been aggressively independent most of his life. Aproduct of his mom dying young and Emmanuel’s attempts to balance work and raising his son alone. He hates asking for help.

This isn’t easy for him.

Denz considers his approach. He’s not fast enough.

His screen lights up with a FaceTime call from Formerly Known As Bray.

He freezes.

Why does a video call with his fake boyfriend feel oddly intimate? It’s not like he’s stretched out on the sofa, naked. Not like Braylon hasn’tseenhim naked before.

Wow. The excited stir in Denz’s basketball shorts feels like being thirteen again. Between that, and his phone’s noisydeet-deet-deet,Denz ends up panic-answering.

“Hello?”

He’s met with a crooked view of Braylon’s kitchen. There’s a cutting board, slices of cheese, and a loaf of bread. The background noise is a familiar combination of soft music and a sizzling pan.

Offscreen, Braylon yells, “One moment!”

With a curious grin, Denz asks, “Are you… cooking?”

“Yes. Sorry. Ow!”

Braylon’s face finally appears on-screen. He’s far from the brow-furrowed, nervous man Denz was picturing minutes ago. Instead, he’s unshaven, curls rumpled, smiling sheepishly. When he steps back, he’s wearing a wrinkled white T-shirt. Everything about his appearance is cozy. Likehehasn’t spent the entire weekend having an existential crisis.

Must be nice.

“I’m making a sandwich.”

“A sandwich,” Denz repeats.

“It’s an incredibly delicate process,” Braylon tells him. “Texting was a nightmare. I called to explain my idea.”

Denz rolls onto his back, holding his phone above his head.

“I’m listening.”

Please don’t be something like lip-synching to Ariana Grande.

“Hold, please.” Braylon disappears. “Fucking bacon grease! How dare you?” He peers back into the camera. “Are you laughing at me?”

“N-no,” Denz says around his choked giggles. “What kind of sandwich are you making?”

“French toast grilled cheese, of course.”

“You—what?” Denz yelps when the phone slips from his hand, smacking him in the face. Switching back to his side to avoid a concussion, he glares at Braylon. “You’re cookingthatsandwich? With me on the phone?”

“Is there a problem?”

Denz swallows thefuck yeahhe wants to yell, replying, “No” without a hint of longing in his voice.

In college, neither of them were experts in the kitchen. Denz mostly lived off microwavable foods. If it wasn’t on the coaching staff’s approved meal list, Braylon didn’t know how to cook it. But his one specialty was the French toast grilled cheese. Two slices of warm, egg-and-cinnamon-soaked, pan-fried bread stuffed with Gruyère cheese and bacon, the sandwich finished with a light drizzle of maple syrup.

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