by Layla Reyne
He’d said Peru, and drink-wise, Tony had known his watermelon pisco sour would fill their glasses. As for the dish Greg paired with it, no wonder it was his favorite. Mussels and andouille in a spicy sofrito sauce. Divine. It was definitely South American in flavor profile, but the andouille gave it a touch of New Orleans. All the dishes tonight had that same touch of Greg’s hometown, while also being from around the world.
Around the world.
Tony froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, as the realization of what Greg had done tonight sunk in.
“Figured it out, huh?”
Tony glanced at Greg, whose chin rested on his chest, highlighting the slashes of pink on his cheekbones. He looked shy, embarrassed almost. Not a look Tony had frequently seen. It was so endearing it made Tony want to wrap his arms around the big man and tell him this was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for him. And the most confusing.
Tony sipped his pisco sour as an excuse to look away, to blink back the tears stinging his eyes. By the time he lowered his glass, Greg had lifted his face, gaze equal parts hope and fear.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” he said. “I understand why you might not want to put down roots somewhere just yet, but I can show you the world”—he covered Tony’s hand with his, pressing their joined hands together against the bar—“from right here.”
Tony’s gaze locked on their hands, on Greg’s big one atop his more slender one, on how Greg’s calloused hands had built this bar, cooked these wonderful dishes, and touched Tony with such kindness and heat.
“And we’ll travel too, baby,” Greg said, soft lips brushing Tony’s temple. “Give me a year to get this place up and running, and then we’ll go anywhere you want.” He squeezed his hand, and Tony shuddered, hope and fear fighting a war inside him too. “Please, just give this, give us, a shot.”
Leaving New York five years ago had been the scariest thing Tony had ever done. Turning his head and meeting Greg’s eyes just then was the second scariest. Making a jump—a life-altering leap—always was. But he hadn’t felt trapped or pressured once tonight, not even over the past month here. He’d felt… at home. That was what had spooked him yesterday.
It was also what gave him the courage to lean the rest of the way forward and whisper against Greg’s lips, “Yes.”
Greg inhaled sharply, then a wide smile bloomed on his lips. Tony captured the smile in a kiss that had them both groaning. Had Tony sliding off his stool and into Greg’s arms, and Greg carrying him upstairs to the apartment above the bar.
They made it as far as Greg’s bedroom wall, the plaster cool against Tony’s back, the chef’s body warm against his front. He wanted more of it, to touch and taste. “So this is the upstairs?” Tony teased as he worked Greg’s Saints tee up and off.
“Been dying to get you up here.” Greg ripped open Tony’s shirt and vest, his fingers trailing through Tony’s chest hair and lighting him on fire. “Best and worst four weeks of my life.”
“Have I really been that bad?”
Greg nipped at his ear, his neck, his shoulder. “Working with you all the time, wanting you all the time…”
Tony smoothed his hands over the wide expanse of bare chest he’d likewise been craving. “If it makes you feel any better…” He leaned forward and ran his tongue around one puckered nipple then the other, making Greg shiver. “I’ve been hard this entire time too.” He canted his hips and rutted his cock against Greg’s abs, proving his point.
It was all the encouragement Greg needed to spin them off the wall and toward the bed, Tony ditching his own vest and shirt along the way. His back hit smooth sheets, while Greg’s deliciously rough hands roamed over his skin and down to the button on his jeans. Off went Tony’s pants and briefs, and Greg’s hands slid under Tony’s ass, cupping and kneading. “Do you have any idea how many times I wanted to bend you over that bar the past month?”
The visual, which Tony had contemplated more than a few times himself, made his dick leak and his hole quiver. “Want that too.”
Greg spread his cheeks, his fingers dipping into his crease, one circling his hole. “I want to see this ass up in the air, the light streaming in through the stained glass and over your skin, while I feast on this hole.”
“Ngh.” He was going to explode if Greg kept saying things like that. And Greg would, if their only other night together was any indication. He’d torture and tease Tony to the very edge. Tony looked forward to that—later. He needed Greg inside him. Now. He swung a leg over Greg’s head and rose up on his knees and elbows. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Fuck me here now, downstairs tomorrow.”
“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Greg finished stripping and climbed onto the bed behind him, hands making another teasing sweep of his back and palming the globes of his ass, before reaching for the lube and condom in his bedside table.
Tony sighed with relief, then yelped as Greg, behind him once more, licked over his hole. Tony wobbled on one hand and reached down to grasp the base of his dick, staving off his orgasm. “You gotta get in me, New Orleans. Wanna come—”
“I got you, baby.”
The click of the lube lid and the snap of the condom had never sounded so good. The cold dollop of lube and the burn of fingers stretching him open never felt so welcome. The pressure of a thick, hard cock pushing past his ring and inside him never so perfect. Because it was Greg.
A heavy, delicious weight settled over his back and Tony groaned his satisfaction. Warm breath coasted over his ear. “That’s right, baby. Gonna make you feel good. As good as this feels to me.” Greg tortured him with long, slow strokes, pulling back far enough for the tip of his cock to tease Tony’s rim, then thrusting back in, all the way to the hilt. “Gonna make love to you all night long.”
Tony rotated his head enough to catch Greg’s heated gaze. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, baby, for me it is. I love you. You okay with that?”
“I think that’s why I’m okay with all of this. With staying. I love you too.”
Greg kissed his temple, his jaw, his lips. “I’ll make it worth it, Tony, I promise.”
Tony had no doubt he would. And that night he did, both of them grinding against each other, into each other, hot and sweaty, for what felt like hours. Swimming in the bliss and feeling of being at home under Greg’s body, under the rough and talented hands that were clenched in Tony’s each time they came together.
Sometime later, once they’d fucked themselves out, Tony rolled onto his side to face Greg, to get lost in his soulful eyes a few minutes longer before falling asleep, but his gaze skittered over Greg’s shoulder to the barrel on the bedside table. “You kept it?”
Greg rolled onto his hip, bringing them chest to chest. “It reminded me of you.”
“Can we have them at the bar?”
“I’d love that. You didn’t add them, and I didn’t want to suggest it.” Greg dropped a kiss on Tony’s lips and ran his fingers through his curls. “Was afraid you’d leave.”
“I think maybe that’s why I didn’t add them. Because I didn’t want to leave.”
Greg grinned and hitched one of Tony’s legs over his hip. “Barrel-aged Manhattan. Seems appropriate for Dram. I actually had it planned as the final drink tonight, the last drop from your barrel with a homemade cherry hand pie. But then we got distracted.”
“Good distraction. And good for breakfast.” Tony hummed and snuggled closer, tucking his head under Greg’s chin and sinking into sleep, and home.
Home.
“How about a barrel-aged Vieux Carré this time,” he said. “Something for our bar.”
Greg’s laugh rumbled beneath his ear, warm, soft, and sexy. “Perfect.”
Chapter Ten
“What’s cooking in there?” Henry peered over Greg’s shoulder, peeking into the large heavy-bottomed pot Greg was stirring on the stove.
Greg elbowed his middle. “How many drinks have you had?” If his dad didn�
�t recognize the bright, rich smells of his own bouillabaisse—orange, saffron, fennel, fish stock—then he’d probably had one too many cocktails. But with Tony out there pouring showstoppers like the Fireside Rye, a spicy whiskey concoction perfect for winter, Greg couldn’t blame his dad if he had.
“Your apartment’s gonna smell for days,” his dad said, drawing out the last word. Yeah, he recognized what was in the pot, all right.
“I know,” Greg said dreamily. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Especially the part where no one else in the building would bitch about it.
His dad squeezed his shoulder. “That’s my kid.”
“You want a taste of the broth?”
“Nah, I’ll wait.”
“Hand me the goods, then?” He jutted his chin at the bowls of cleaned and readied seafood a line cook had prepared. His dad set his glass out of the way, next to Greg’s phone, quickly washed his hands, then slid in among the chefs to help. No one batted an eye, all of them used to it. Dram, more than any of Greg’s other restaurants, was a family affair, in the biggest sense of the word. His parents had helped him find the place and were frequent guests. Gloria too, as were many of Dram’s purveyors, especially those in the LGBTQ community. He and Tony made it a priority to seek out their business, and they returned the favor. And Greg and Tony had made it clear to each of their staff, many of whom they’d recruited from local shelters, that they were welcome to bring their friends and family here too. There were no closed doors here. Dram was his and Tony’s home and a haven for their family, staff, and community. And that sense of safety, that love that started with Greg and Tony, showed in every dish Greg’s kitchen put out and every drink Tony’s bar served. It was everything Greg dreamed it could be, and his soul had never been happier, cooking food he was proud of, working and living with the man he loved, supporting his hometown and his community.
“Stir, son,” his dad said with a nudge. “I’ll get the phone.”
Deep in his feels, Greg hadn’t even heard it ringing.
“Hey, son.” It had to be Miller. Henry only called three people “son,” and two of them were here, which left only Greg’s best friend across the country. “Yeah, he’s here, up to his elbows in fish stew… All right, just a minute.” His dad lowered the phone. “He wants to talk to you. Said it’s important.”
Greg yanked the hand towel off his shoulder, wiped his hands, and traded his dad the long wooden spoon for the phone. “Is everything all right?”
“Why the sudden panic?” Miller replied.
“You’re calling me in the middle of service. You, of all people, know better.”
“Unless that’s exactly when I meant to call you.” Greg could hear the sly smile in his voice. What was he up to? “Where’s Tony?”
“Behind the bar.”
“Get out there. Something I want to tell you both.”
“Okay, hold on a second.” He handed off the care of the soup to his sous, exchanged a few words with his other cooks, then headed to the dining room with his dad. Phone back to his ear, he poked at his friend. “You meet a guy?” He didn’t think that would warrant a midservice call, but worth getting a dig in.
“Ha, ha.”
The place was packed, but as always, Greg’s attention went to the bar first. To Tony standing behind it, pouring drinks into the three highball glasses lined up in front of his mother, Cass, and his purveyor’s wife, the three troublemakers no doubt scheming. It skipped on past them to… Julia? What was Tony’s sister doing here? A man rose from the barstool beside her. Dressed in a flannel and jeans, his smile shone bright in his chestnut beard. Miller lowered the phone from his ear.
Greg stumbled the rest of the way behind the bar, aided by a push from his dad. “Why’d you call me if you’re here?” He shifted his gaze to Julia. “And why are you here?” He looked to Tony. “Do you know what’s going on?”
Tony shrugged. “No idea. They both just got here.”
Greg leaned across the bar, giving Julia a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you, Jules.” She and her family had visited them twice already—when they’d opened last summer and again over the holidays when Elle was out of school. “Unexpected, but a great surprise.”
“Got a call from Miller and a plane ticket arrived in my inbox five minutes later. Two days later, and I still don’t know what this is about. He”—she jutted a thumb at Miller—“just said I should be here and that it was a surprise.”
Greg turned to Miller, ready to interrogate his best friend, but Miller beat him to it. “All will be revealed,” he said with a wink, then snatched two copper mugs off the backbar and rotated toward the dining room. He banged the mugs together. “Can I have everyone’s attention?” His booming voice carried over the quieting restaurant, patrons pausing midconversation to listen and Henry turning down the music with the phone he’d slipped from Greg’s hand. Behind his dad, the kitchen staff were also poking their heads out to see what the commotion was about.
“You really have no idea what’s going on?” Greg said to Tony.
Tony nestled against his side. “None.”
Thankfully, Miller didn’t make them wait any longer. “Almost two years ago,” he started, “I got a call from Greg. He sounded pitiful.” He embellished the last word, and the crowd laughed. “He’d had a one-night stand with a hipster bartender, and he couldn’t get the guy or his drinks out of his head.”
A blushing Tony turned into Greg’s shoulder, and Greg kissed his headful of dark curls.
“Turned out Greg was on to something,” Miller continued. “An idea for this place and a partnership with Tony that brought them, New Orleans, and the LGBTQ community something great. Something potentially award-winning.”
Tony gasped. “Holy fuck.”
Greg, meanwhile, had lost all his words, the scene before him rearranging and coming back together. Realization dawning as to why his best friend and Tony’s sister were here, why his family and his closest friends had all come in tonight, why his staff were gathered together and all wearing blinding smiles.
It was an occasion to celebrate.
“It is my great honor, as someone privileged to call these two men dear friends and esteemed colleagues, and as a James Beard Award winner, to share with Greg and Tony, and with you all, that Dram is a James Beard Award Finalist for Best New Restaurant and Outstanding Bar Program.”
The cheers and applause were deafening, and only Tony’s arms around Greg’s middle held him up. “Are you serious?” Greg hollered over the noise at Miller.
Miller reached under his barstool, then laid a folder open on the bar top. He pushed it across the bar to Greg and Tony. Inside were two finalists’ certificates and a pair of invitations to the awards gala. “Fourth time was the charm.”
Beside him, Tony shouted, “Fuck yeah!” and the next instant, Greg’s arms were full of hipster, Tony jumping up and wrapping his legs around his waist. Greg caught him by the ass, and Tony framed his face with his hands. “You did it!”
“We did it,” Greg replied, and Tony’s answering smile was brighter than all the bottles behind the bar, brighter than the sun on a hot New Orleans day, brighter than any dream Greg had ever had for this place. “Our bar. Thank you, Manhattan, for staying.”
Tony leaned forward and brushed their lips together. “Thank you, New Orleans, for giving me the world.”
Thank you for reading!
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Want to know more about Greg’s best friend, Chef Miller Sykes? He already has his own book! Read or listen to Dine With Me now!
Acknowledgments
The second Greg hit the page in Dine With Me, I knew he had to have his own
story. Thank you Leslie Copeland and Lucy Lennox, organizers of the Heart2Heart Charity Anthology, for giving me that chance and for giving me the opportunity to contribute the first edition of Greg’s story to such a wonderful project. Thank you so much readers for coming back for the extended version now! Much love and gratitude to Kim for beta reading, to Susie Selva for editing, and to cover design maven Cate Ashwood, photographer Eric Battershell, and model David Lovelace for helping to complete this expanded package of NOLA-packed goodness!
Also by Layla Reyne
Table for Two:
Dine With Me
Changing Lanes:
Relay
Medley
Variable Onset
Fog City:
Prince of Killers
King Slayer
A New Empire
Agents Irish and Whiskey:
Single Malt
Cask Strength
Barrel Proof
Tequila Sunrise
Blended Whiskey
Trouble Brewing:
Imperial Stout
Craft Brew
Noble Hops
About the Author
Layla Reyne is the author of Dine With Me and the Fog City, Agents Irish and Whiskey, Trouble Brewing, and Changing Lanes series. A Carolina Tar Heel who now calls the San Francisco Bay Area home, Layla enjoys weaving her bi-coastal experiences into her stories, along with adrenaline-fueled suspense and heart pounding romance. Layla is a RITA® Finalist in Contemporary Romance (Mid-Length) and Golden Heart® Finalist in Romantic Suspense.
