by Beth Bolden
“Listen,” Damon said, leaning closer to the waiter and lowering his voice. “I know it’s a huge no-no, to do what I’m asking. But I need you to go get Xander Bridges.”
“It’s important?” the waiter hedged.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important,” Damon promised him.
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Thank you,” Damon said, and resolved to give him a very large tip. And a job, if everything turned out according to plan.
The waiter was back in five minutes. Damon had looked perfunctorily through the menu, and thought, as he gazed at the listed dishes, that Bastian had used to be more innovative.
This didn’t feel tired exactly, but it lacked the excitement of previous years. Or maybe Damon had just changed, and wanted something wilder, a little less controlled.
“Are you ready to order, sir?” the waiter asked.
Damon knew he wouldn’t be staying long; what he really wanted was to grab a burger at the Napa Tavern, but he felt obligated to order something besides the iced tea.
“I’ll take the burrata appetizer,” Damon said, handing the menu to the waiter. “And what about my request?”
“I’m working on it,” he promised, glancing around pointedly at the other diners. “It is the middle of the dining hour, and Mr. Bridges is the sous in the kitchen.”
Damon had come on a Tuesday, deliberately late, for that exact reason. It was almost the end of service. It should be easy for Xander to duck out and see him for five minutes. There was even a better chance Bastian Aquino wouldn’t notice Xander breaking the rules.
He wasn’t the world’s best planner, but he’d been thinking about this for a long time—just over a year, actually—and while he’d initially thought about catching Xander in the staff parking lot after he was finished for the night, he’d eventually decided that this way carried more weight.
It made him look serious, and it should, because Damon was incredibly serious.
“I’ll be happy to wait,” Damon said.
The waiter beamed. “Very good.”
He returned ten minutes later with the appetizer, and Damon was just digging into the soft, creamy cheese with a toast point when Xander slid into the chair opposite his.
“What are you doing?” Xander hissed. He’d taken off his chef jacket, and had thrown on a navy blue sweatshirt. As disguises went, it wasn’t great, but it was probably enough.
“I needed to talk to you,” Damon said.
Xander’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “It’s important,” Damon tacked on. “Sorry?”
“You practically gave Nico a heart attack,” Xander said. “He doesn’t usually wait tables, he’s subbing tonight, and demanding a kitchen staff member come into the dining room didn’t make his night any easier.”
“I’m sorry,” Damon repeated. “But I really needed to talk to you.”
“So, talk.” Xander drummed his fingers impatiently on the tablecloth.
“I’d ask if you remember me, but you obviously do.”
“Despite what you probably think, I don’t go charging onto other people’s property every day, demanding they tell me what they’re doing,” Xander hissed.
“I didn’t think so,” Damon said, and he grinned in spite of himself. Xander looked good; of course, he’d looked good that night too. If he was being honest, that night in general and Xander specifically had figured in more than one of his dreams. And his fantasies.
“I ripped up the rest of the vines,” Damon continued. “And I’m growing a vegetable garden.” Just like you said.
Damon hadn’t exactly gotten up bright and early the next morning to do it, but it had been close. As soon as Xander had said what he should do, everything, which had felt muddy for so long, had suddenly become crystal clear.
“If you’re here to become a supplier for Terroir, you’re asking the wrong person,” Xander said.
“I don’t want to supply Terroir,” Damon said. “I want to supply my own restaurant.”
“You’re opening a restaurant?” Xander asked. This time he looked truly surprised.
“I am.” Damon leaned across the table, eyes intent on Xander’s dark ones. “And I want you to run it.”
Xander froze, looking shell-shocked for a single moment, then leaned back and gave out a bark of laughter. “You want me to run your restaurant.”
“I want you to be my head chef,” Damon said stubbornly. It had felt for the longest time that this was the only deal breaker in the new plan that had taken over his life. He had to have Xander. No matter how crazy it sounded.
“I have a job,” Xander said slowly.
“Aren’t you sick of being yelled at?” Damon offered. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly the yelling type. Or the extreme control freak type.”
“I noticed.” Xander’s tone was dry.
“Of course, I’ll pay you more than you make here. And you’ll get total autonomy over the menu. Input into the design of the space. I want a partner, not a slave.”
“You’ve been practicing this pitch,” Xander observed.
“This is important to me,” Damon admitted. His mouth felt dry at just how important and he took a long drink of his iced tea. “It would be dumb of me to leave it all to chance.”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll say no?”
All the time. Constantly. “It’s a good job. Freedom, when you haven’t had any for a long time. An opportunity to express your point of view as a chef. And even though I might have been shit at growing grapes, I’m good with the earth. My garden is thriving. Anything I don’t have, we’ll get from some friends of mine.”
“You’re really serious,” Xander said. “You’re really here, offering me a job. After a year.”
So he did remember. He’d paid attention, and noticed that Damon had never sought him out. And he hadn't only because Damon hadn’t been ready to find him again.
“I am,” Damon said steadily.
“Let me think about it,” Xander said. He hesitated. “Can I come by and see the garden?”
“I was going to offer, but I was afraid it might hold . . . bad memories still.” Damon could hear the wryness in his voice. It was ironic that the man he’d met on one of the worst nights of his life might possibly be the tool in his salvation.
“Not at all. Can I come by tonight? After work? I’ll be here only an hour or so longer.”
“Sure, of course. You remember where it is?” Damon asked, almost not believing how well this conversation had gone. There had been no interruptions by screaming egotistical head chefs, and Xander seemed to be genuinely considering his proposal.
“I could hardly forget,” Xander said, his voice low and serious. It did something to the pit of Damon’s stomach. The same thing that he’d felt that night, a year ago. Before, he’d only felt it with women; Xander was the first man.
And like he’d known then, he understood that it was a complication. It wasn’t that being attracted to a man bothered him, it was that being attracted to Xander bothered him.
Because the one thing he knew better than anything else was that they could never get involved because Xander deserved better than a shell of a man still desperately trying to find his way. Tearing up the vines had helped. The garden had helped. Building something concrete and unassociated with alcohol would help. But he was under no illusions that he would ever be ready to risk someone else's heart.
Especially not someone like Xander.
* * *
It was hardly possible for Damon's land to feel more chaotic than it had the first time he'd been there. The land was dark still, but there was a sweet peacefulness to it now, Xander thought as he wandered between the aisles of leafy greens. Damon’s pain wasn’t overflowing out of it anymore.
"I can't believe you listened to me," Xander admitted, looking up at Damon, who was still watching him warily from the head of the garden.
"Why shouldn't I list
en to you?" Damon questioned.
"I don't know—maybe because I was a completely unknown person, bursting into your vineyard in the middle of the night?"
Damon laughed, low and a little wry. It sent an all too familiar spike of heat through him. For weeks—for months—after that night, Xander had thought about him and worried. Had wished more than once that he was less of a coward and could be Damon's friend without worrying about wanting more. He could with countless other men, but he was undeniably attracted to Damon, and knew he was eventually going to want more than just friendship.
Now Damon had come back into his life, and this time it was him who wanted more.
A business partner. A head chef. And unspoken between them, a friend.
Could Xander be those things and not turn into the worst version of himself? The angry, bitter version of himself who couldn't resign himself to not getting everything he wanted?
He didn't know. But he also knew this wasn't an opportunity that came around every day.
"What did your family say?" Xander asked.
Damon just shrugged, big body a dark outline against a darker sky. No, it wasn't really Xander's business what his family thought of him ripping up seventy-year-old vines. What mattered was that they wouldn't show up to interfere, leaving Xander without a job after burning down the bridge he'd spent years building.
Bastian Aquino was not exactly the “forgive and forget” type. If he left Terroir, he was leaving Terroir. There would be no going back. Even if Damon's restaurant never made it off the ground.
Was he ready to take that step?
It came as a total surprise that he was. When he’d been promoted to sous chef over a year ago, it had been an exciting change, with more responsibility. Only a little, of course, because the kitchen was Chef Aquino’s and he never let anybody forget it.
“I’d like to build something,” Xander said. “Here. With you.”
It should have scared him more that all the parts felt equally important. He did want to build something. He wanted to do it here, in the place where so much of Napa had begun and evolved, now ripe for a new chapter. And he wanted to do it with a man he barely knew.
Despite the episode with the vines and the storm, Damon felt strong and sturdy. Unshakeable. Just the right person that Xander could batter with his own bred-in mistrust.
Damon didn’t just look surprised he’d agreed; he looked elated. That was a god damn genuine smile he was wearing on his handsome face.
“Really?” he asked, excitement seeping into that rough-and-tumble voice.
“This is a good start. I like it.” Xander leaned down, and picked up a clump of dark brown dirt. It crumbled between his fingers, fertile and rich. God knew his advice wasn’t always great—or taken into consideration—but he’d been right about this. From the look of the plants, he’d been dead right. This was a fantastic place for a vegetable garden.
“When should we start?” Damon asked, like he wasn’t really in charge. And maybe, Xander thought with astonishment, he didn’t think he was. After what felt like a lifetime of bending and scraping and obeying every order, equality and freedom felt like such a heady thing.
But Xander wouldn’t be Xander if he didn’t test things. “Aren’t you the boss? Don’t you have a plan?” he asked lightly.
Damon gave a deep bark of laughter. Xander felt it to his bones. He wanted to put his hands all over the man and feel it as he laughed. “I do. But we’re supposed to be partners? When do you want to start?”
There was nothing for Xander to do then, but be as honest as Damon was being. “As soon as possible.”
Smiling, Damon nodded. “Okay. Do you want to discuss your salary or benefits or anything?”
That was the last thing Xander wanted to do but he wasn’t stupid. “You said you’d pay me more than Bastian.”
“I will.” Steady. Confident. Sure. “How much do you make now?”
Xander rattled off a number. He was pretty sure it was correct. To be honest, as long as he had money in the bank to pay rent, he didn’t worry about money.
“Twenty percent more now, and then consider it doubled when we open,” Damon said calmly.
Xander might be laissez-faire about money, but that was not an insignificant amount. “Are you sure?”
“I’m a Hess, aren’t I? We should do something with my god damn trust fund, and paying your salary seems as good a use as any,” Damon said.
It was hard for even Xander to argue with that.
This time when Xander left, they exchanged phone numbers, Xander promising to be back in a couple of days, after his time at Terroir was finished. Damon mentioned a contract, Xander agreed to read and sign it, which normally would have felt foolish to him, but this was Damon. He was like a rock. Unshakeable, even with the addiction. Probably even more so, because of it.
Even though Xander had misjudged people before, he knew he wasn’t misjudging now.
When he turned to go to his car, he glanced back, and saw Damon standing there, watching him go. A darker outline in the dark of the night. And it felt right to have his eyes on him still.
So right that Xander gave himself a blistering lecture when he got into his car.
“You will not fall in love with him,” he sternly told his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You will not fall for another straight boy who won’t love you back. You won’t pine or yearn or otherwise ruin your life panting after someone you can’t have, like Kian. You won’t.”
God knew if the lecture would stick, but at least Xander knew where the lines were drawn.
* * *
“Where did you go last night?” Kian asked as he julienned about a hundred thousand carrots, his knife flashing as it flew through the orange flesh.
Chef Aquino must be in a bad mood. He hadn’t forced Kian to prep vegetables for the side sauté they served with some of their main dishes in ages. It was an annoyingly menial job, even though Kian was really good at it.
Probably because he’d been stuck doing it so many times.
“Why are you doing that?” Xander asked, gesturing with a whisk at Kian’s mound of carrots instead of answering his question. He still wasn’t sure how to break the news. Or if he even should. Was Kian still on his side, still his friend, or had he permanently defected to the Aquino camp?
“Steve, one of the new kitchen assistants, quit unexpectedly today.”
“Do you even have to add the unexpectedly part?” Xander wondered out loud. “It seems a little unnecessary these days.”
The meaner Chef got, the faster his new employees departed. And that only wrenched him tighter, leading them all in a vicious cycle. Some days it felt like Kian was the only one who could talk him down.
“We needed him to prep these today,” Kian said, not even bothering to answer Xander’s question.
“So you’re doing it instead.” Xander was prepping the sauces, which was his main job every day, along with soup of the day. That, a delicate creamy vichyssoise, was already simmering away on the stove in a gigantic pot.
“Someone has to do it, and that’s part of my job. To fill in, wherever I’m needed. That’s part of the cross-training Chef promised I’d get.”
Xander rolled his eyes as he peeled shallots. Three years in, and there was still that note of hero worship in Kian’s voice whenever he talked about Bastian Aquino. These days, it was accompanied by a healthy dose of unrequited pining.
That worried Xander enough, but at least it was still unrequited. The day it changed, Xander was going to have to punch the Bastard in the face for taking advantage of a subordinate. For taking advantage of Kian. Xander wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Oh yeah, you’ve gotten a really well-rounded education,” Xander drawled. “A great opportunity to grow a thicker skin.”
Kian’s knife didn’t even pause. It still flew through the carrot at breakneck speed, each julienned slice perfectly sized. But his voice got harder around the edges. “I don’t know why y
ou keep doing this. If you’re not happy here, if you don’t enjoy working for Chef Aquino, then leave. I don’t need you to stay here just to protect me. I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Xander muttered. Kian looked up. “And maybe I will,” he said louder. “Maybe that’s where I was last night. Maybe someone offered me a really good job.”
Kian’s eyes went wide. “Did they really? Who is it? Are you leaving?”
“Shhhhhh,” Xander snapped. “I’m . . . I haven’t told anyone else. Especially Chef.”
“Maybe don’t do it today. You know, with Steve and all.” Kian’s tone went wry. He might defend Chef Aquino to the ends of the earth, because he was not very secretly in love with him, but he was also a realist.
Steve hadn’t even been around long enough for Xander to remember his name.
“I’ll tell him in a few days,” Xander said. “We’re still finalizing the details.” Damon had texted this morning, promising a copy of the contract in his email in a few days. And Xander, while giving his word, was still not stupid enough to quit his job until he’d made sure that everything Damon promised was also in writing.
“Who is it?” Kian whisper-demanded.
“It’s a Hess,” Xander said, and sue him, he definitely sounded a little smug. “They want to open a farm-to-table restaurant and they approached me for the head chef position.”
Kian’s already big eyes grew wider. “Head chef?” And Xander did understand his surprise. The Hess family was big in Napa, and if they were really going to open a restaurant under the familial auspices, they’d bring in someone well-known to head the kitchen.
They definitely would not be hiring Xander, who had never been head chef before, and who was definitely not well-known.
But Damon Hess wasn’t his family, with none of their high-profile obligations, which had opened the door wide for Xander.
Xander thought about telling Kian but he was going to be worked up enough already, being the last of their friend quartet to still work at Terroir—and everyone and their mother knew he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon—so he kept quiet about that important detail.
