The Last Drop

by Layla Reyne

  Greg fell sideways onto the bench seat, then rolled onto his back, staring up at the exposed wood ceiling beams and looking back into his mind for the mental picture of the dark haired, amber-eyed hipster writhing under him in bed. “He was perfect, Miller.”

  Glass bottles clanked, then heavy footsteps headed back his direction. “Because he poured a perfect cocktail or because he perfectly rode your dick?”

  “Both,” Greg admitted as he closed his eyes. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “If it’s making you stupid, yes.” A shadow fell over him, and Miller’s hip nudged him to the side, making room next to him. “You’re up against the clock, and you’ve put so much work into this place. I can feel it.” He laid a hand on Greg’s chest, over his heart. “You can too.”

  Yeah, he could. Greg covered Miller’s hand with his and squeezed. “I think this is the one.”

  He’d woken up that morning nine months ago in Manhattan’s bed, had a self-pitying shot of sublime barrel-aged cocktail, and the notion at the back of his mind had first started to take shape. A concept, a name. It had gotten stronger when he’d first seen this place, stronger still when he’d peeled back the brown paper that covered most of the stained-glass transom above the door. Inlaid in copper was the word Haven. Perfect for the community gathering space he envisioned. He’d had a business partner by Thanksgiving, multiple investors by Christmas, permits by the end of January. And now here he was in late April, down to the finishing touches. The pieces—all but one—had fallen into place. The fourth time was gonna be the charm. But Miller was right. He couldn’t wait much longer for the final missing piece. He’d have to move on without it and hope its absence didn’t spoil the dream.

  “I’ll give him through the weekend.”

  Miller’s hand squeezed around his. “Don’t think you’ll need that long.”

  Greg startled, a zing of hope racing up his spine. He turned his head and opened his eyes to look past Miller… and saw the one.

  Manhattan stood in the doorway, looking every bit as delicious as Greg remembered—tight cargo shorts, fitted T-shirt, a linen scarf draped around his neck, and his Mohawk of black curls moussed high.

  Miller momentarily blocked his view, bending to whisper in his ear, “I take back everything I said. He’s fucking perfect.”

  “And mine,” Greg practically growled.

  Miller chuckled as he released his hand and stood. “Then go get him.”

  The big man winked as he strode past Tony, and Tony would be lying if he said he didn’t sneak a peek at his ass in those denim shorts. He turned back to Greg Valteau—Tony had googled the highly-anticipated Dram and read up on its owner—who Tony was pleased to see was still checking out his body instead. “Boyfriend?” he asked.

  “Best friend.”

  Tony shouldn’t care, not if he was here in a strictly professional capacity for the gig the ad mentioned. But still, he was glad he didn’t have to compete with a giant like that—whose size and presence effortlessly filled the room—in any manner.

  “Restaurant number four?” he said.

  Greg righted himself and spread his arms. “What can I say? I’m a junkie.”

  “It’s a gorgeous space.” Tony strolled to the bar and ran his hand across the top. It needed a coat of lacquer, but the smooth wood grain was irregular and unique. “This is gorgeous too.”

  “Except it’s incomplete.” Greg was suddenly right behind him, and Tony sucked in a breath. “You’re not standing behind it.”

  “The gig your ad mentioned…”

  “I need a beverage director.”

  Tony moved to turn, but Greg laid a hand on his hip, fingers spread. Tony closed his eyes and struggled to breathe, the memories of their night together rushing back to drown him. He loved the weight of Greg’s big hand on him. Could only imagine how rough it would feel after building another bar.

  “Hear me out.” Greg rotated him, then stepped back, and Tony could breathe again. Until Greg added, “We open in six weeks.”

  “Six weeks?” he squawked. “And you don’t have—”

  Greg pressed a finger to his lips. “I already heard it from the grumpy bear.” He dropped his finger before Tony was tempted to suck it into his mouth. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you inspired this place.”

  “Me?” Fuck, why was he so fucking squeaky?

  Greg smiled, sexy as all get out. “It’s called Dram, Mr. Manhattan.”

  Tony returned the infectious grin. “So you’re just going to serve Manhattans?”

  “I wish I could get away with that, but no.” Greg stepped away, around and behind the bar, across from Tony. “But I do want the bar, the drinks, the crowd it draws, and the community it builds and supports to be the stars here, the centerpieces. My previous ventures, I was too focused on the food. Hyperlocal, then hyper fancy, then fucking all over the place with no cohesive vision.” He spread his hands over the bar top. “This will bring it all together.”

  “No offense,” Tony said, palms raised before laying them on the bar. “But how is that different than half the other places in this town?”

  “One, because I want it to be a safe space for NOLA’s queer community. And two, because I’ll have you.” Greg winked. “And you’re the best.”

  The compliment felt good, tempting, on top of the chance to do something for his career and his community, and to do it with the handsome temptation grinning across the bar from him. “Listen, Greg—”

  “Hey!” Greg’s brown eyes widened, the corner crinkles smushing a freckle by the right one. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  Tony extended a hand to him. “Anthony Monaco. I go by Tony.”

  Greg shook his hand… and didn’t let go. “Help me launch this, Tony, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Already worth it for the chance to stare into those deep, earnest brown eyes again. Dangerous too. Even knowing that, Tony wasn’t about to turn down the offer. As scary as it was, it was also too good on too many fronts to pass up. Provided Greg could do one thing for him… “Just one request. I need to know upfront or me working here, with you, won’t work.”

  Greg’s smile faltered, and his shoulders tensed, like he was preparing for the last thing he wanted to hear. “What’s that?”

  Nothing so dire. “I need music or some other noise any time we’re eating or trying food. I can’t handle the sound of a person chewing in the quiet. Even someone smacking gum is like nails on a chalkboard for me.”

  Greg’s smile returned, bigger, like he’d solved a mystery and won a prize. “That’s why you work in bars?”

  Tony nodded. “Drowns it all out.”

  “We’re already wired for sound.” He pointed out several speakers, each discreetly tucked between jutting bricks in the walls. “All set there.”

  “One other thing,” Tony said before he lost his will to say what he needed. “We should keep this professional.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “It’s not what I want,” Tony confessed. “But it’s what I need if I’m going to leave here after the launch.”

  He thought Greg’s smile would falter again. That that was what he hadn’t wanted to hear earlier. Instead, Greg’s gorgeous grin turned wicked and impossibly more handsome as he braced his forearms on the bar and leaned across it. “I’ll promise you this,” he said, voice low and vibrating with temptation. Knees weak, Tony gave more of his weight to the bar, which brought them closer. Close enough he could feel the heat of Greg’s breath when he uttered the promise that would seal Tony’s fate. “I promise I won’t make the first move.”

  Chapter Six

  Tony arrived outside the front door of Dram… and cringed. The racket inside did not sound good. Greg had said the floors were being varnished this week, but whatever was going on inside sounded like demo, not like staining the floors. What had happened in the day and a half since he’d last s
een Greg? They’d chatted—flirted—some more that day, then Tony had left to find a rental while Greg spent time with Miller before he left town. Greg had offered Tony his guest room upstairs, but that was way too much temptation. Thankfully, his old rental was vacant again and not too far away, which was why he was early for their ten o’clock. He raised his fist to knock.

  “Don’t bother.” Greg rounded the corner of the building, striding toward him in jeans and a faded LSU tee. “Can’t hear shit.”

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “Just leveling some things before they start with the varnish.” The smash and bang from the other side of the door sounded far more serious than ‘just leveling,’ but Greg didn’t give him time to question. He was a man in motion, shoving a handful of canvas bags into Tony’s hands, then walking on past him down the street. “We’ve got other work to do.”

  Tony caught up with him a half block later. “Like shopping?”

  “Farmer’s market.”

  “A little late, isn’t it? I thought you chefs were first in line.”

  Greg grinned. “We won’t be serving brunch at Dram, and not only because hollandaise is the devil.”

  “You mean angel, right? All that buttery goodness.”

  “Fuck you. Not in my kitchen.”

  Tony laughed out loud, and Greg shot him the bird. The gesture, however, was belied by the chef’s teasing smile. Tony pretended not to feel it in his dick.

  “I’m also shit at the morning thing,” Greg said as they made their way toward the water. “Which is why I treat the purveyors well. They hold what I need until I make it there. Or if I’m feeling adventurous, I send my sous out to shop.” He nodded toward the bags in Tony’s hand. “Which is how we’re going to play this today.”

  Tony froze midstep across the street from the park where multi-colored umbrellas dotted the pathway. “You want me to shop? But I’m not a chef.”

  “You are. The most important chef in this venture. I may have mentioned the Balcones Bomb when I pitched Dram to my business partner and our investors.”

  Pressure cemented Tony’s feet to the sidewalk. He hadn’t thought this through enough. What if falling for the sexy chef wasn’t the biggest risk? Said sexy chef was risking it all—on him and his talents behind the bar. It was an amazing opportunity—once in a lifetime, perhaps—but anyone could see how much Dram meant to Greg. What if he didn’t live up to the hype Greg had built up in his mind? What if he cratered this venture not because he had a soft spot for his boss but because he wasn’t good enough? “Greg, I—”

  “Breathe, Manhattan.”

  The nickname calmed him, as did Greg’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. He directed them across the street, and they fell into step with the crowd. “I’m sorry, I come on strong, I know.”

  “You don’t say?”

  They reached the edge of the market setup, and Greg drew them off the path, out of the way of passersby. His ever-present smile was infused with the sun and an even deeper warmth that promised addiction. “I need your help, Tony.” As did his earnest words in that New Orleans drawl. “I meant what I said the other day. I want the bar, the gathering place for our community, to be at the center of the Dram concept. We’ll work out the details of that together, one day, one step at a time. Today is just the first of those. Let’s see how we work together.” Greg smirked. “Besides in bed.”

  Tony laughed, the professional pressure vanishing, as he returned to worrying about the problem in his pants and the handsome man his dick wanted to chase after.

  They rejoined the moving mass of people, strolling amid the tables of bright and fresh delights. Tony gravitated toward the vendor selling fresh flowers, the stems of lavender catching his eye, sparking an idea, as did several of the other blooms and herbs. Garnishes and subtle flavorings he could work with. He purchased a sampling, and without missing a beat, Greg next directed them to a fruit vendor where Tony gathered a variety of citrus items. Lemons, yuzu, white grapefruit—late winter and early spring varieties.

  “All right,” Greg said, after another minute of Tony coveting a crate of blood oranges. “You finish up here. I know what I need to do.” He handed his credit card to the woman behind the register. “Cass, take care of him. And we’ll take the full crate.”

  “Just like that? You don’t even know what I’m going to make.”

  “I got the gist.” He moved on, calling out a greeting in French to the greens purveyor a few tables over.

  “You know he’s one of the best chefs in the city, right?”

  Tony rotated back to the raven-haired woman behind the register. “I haven’t gotten the chance to eat at one of his places yet,” he told her.

  “Divine.” She blew a chef’s kiss as she weighed out the produce in his bag. “This a sign of what’s to come?”

  “I hope so.” He extended a hand. “Tony Monaco. I’m working with Greg on the beverage menu.”

  “Excellent. Cassandra Talbott,” she said, returning the greeting. “We’ll be talking again, I’m sure. I source most of Greg’s fruit, and the wife and I have been watching Dram come along. We can’t wait.”

  A little of the pressure returned, but in a good way. “We can’t wait to have you.”

  By the time they finished at the farmer’s market, then swung by the store where Greg admired Tony’s quick and efficient shopping for the liquor and mixers he needed, then by the butcher shop where Greg was much less efficient, and finally by Port of Call for burgers to-go, it was midafternoon when they returned to a much quieter Dram.

  Well, mostly quiet.

  “Gregory, mijo, come see!”

  “Agree with whatever she says,” he told Tony as they dropped their bags in the kitchen. His father had given him the same advice many moons ago, and where the spitfire standing at the edge of the dining room was concerned, it was gospel.

  And his general contractor had delivered one hell of a miracle today. “You do good work, Gloria.”

  “Of course I do,” she preened, but the blush on her cheeks conveyed her appreciation of the compliment, which was more than due. She’d saved his ass.

  This morning, he had come downstairs to find water standing in one corner of the dining area. He’d feared the entire floor would need to be replaced, no small feat given the reclaimed wood they’d sourced. And no small feat given the custom furniture arriving next week and the staff arriving the week after. If he had to delay, he risked his chefs and servers finding other jobs, risked his soft opening date for the critics, risked his grand opening in time for Pride.

  He hadn’t let on about any of that to Tony. The last thing he needed was to spook his beverage director on day one. Greg had called Gloria, and she’d taken charge, rolling up her shirts sleeves and assuring him she’d handle it. Which she’d done, marvelously. The replaced floor boards were a perfect match, the varnish on the entire floors nicely complemented the bar, and the brown paper over the door had been removed, allowing sunlight to stream in through the freshly cleaned stained glass, casting a rainbow of light across the shining floors and bar.

  Tony gasped behind him. “Holy shit. I didn’t think it could get more beautiful in here, but it’s…”

  Greg glanced over his shoulder. “Perfect.” Their gazes met and held, the same splash of color reflected in Tony’s golden irises. Greg would have broken his no-first-move promise if not for Gloria clearing her throat.

  “Manners, mijo,” she teased.

  Chuckling, he shifted a step so he could introduce the woman who’d helped make all this possible. “Tony Monaco, meet Gloria Ramos, best general contractor in the city. And all those silver curls”—he gestured at the pile of gray curls on top of Gloria’s head—“are my fault.”

  “Esa es la verdad!” She moved past him with a playful shove. “I should warn you this one’s middle name is trouble.”

  Tony laughed. “I got that same warning from half a dozen vendors today. Seems to be a trend.” He res
ted the orange crate on his hip and extended his hand. “Encantado de conocerla, Gloria.”

  Greg smiled. He’d overheard Tony conversing in Spanish with several vendors today. No doubt he’d been following his and Gloria’s byplay. “Tony’s my new beverage director.”

  “You make some good choices.” She shot him a wink, then returned her attention to Tony. “Welcome aboard.”

  Greg headed for the kitchen while Tony and Gloria continued to converse in Spanish behind him, Gloria explaining how she’d met Greg’s family in Houston, post-Katrina, volunteering at a shelter. They got to talking, Henry learned what she did for a living, and he enticed her to New Orleans with the GC title, a glass ceiling she hadn’t been able to break in Houston. She had shattered it here as the foreperson on his dad’s biggest projects, on the shelters his parents’ nonprofit had built, and on Greg’s restaurants. And with each restaurant build, she’d patiently let him help, taught him all the basics he lacked, and rescued his ass as needed, like today.

  Entering the kitchen, she circled the island and peeked into their bags. “What are you cooking?”

  “I haven’t told him yet,” Greg replied as he flipped on some music using the app on his phone.

  “And I haven’t told him what I’m mixing,” Tony added.

  Gloria cackled. “Oh, he’s a keeper.”

  “No argument here,” Greg replied. She laughed some more as she headed for the exit, until Greg called after her. He waited for her to turn, then pressed his palms together over his chest. “Thank you for today, truly.”

  “Of course, mijo.” She graced him with a kind departing smile, gave Tony one too, then disappeared out the back.

  “You want to tell me what that was about?” Tony asked as he unloaded bags.

  “Overnight leak.” Greg fetched two water bottles from the fridge and set them next to the to-go boxes on the pass. “I was worried about the floors.”