by Beth Bolden
“You are,” Xander said, and he knew how god damn earnest he sounded. Like the kid he’d been right out of high school, desperate to prove to everyone how genuine he was. He hadn’t been that kid for a long time, but he felt the echo of him tonight, sitting across from Damon.
“We’ll see.” Damon’s smile was wry. “Sorry to be such a downer, on such a great night.”
“This is important stuff we should be talking about,” Xander said, even though part of him desperately wanted to laugh off this whole conversation. Probably because it struck so deep, and Xander was used to keeping that softer side of himself barricaded with jaded sarcasm. But jaded sarcasm just didn’t feel right, at least not at this moment.
Definitely not when Damon was beginning to open himself up.
Chapter Four
Hands down, it was one of the best meals Damon had ever eaten. Even though he’d watched Xander prep it with his own two hands, it was a marvel that he’d done it with only those hands. It was a far better meal than any he’d ever had at Terroir, and that was prepared by an entire staff and countless pieces of expensive equipment.
Xander had come to his house with a bag of groceries and a knife, borrowed a pan and a pizza cutter, and had made an astoundingly delicious meal. It was talent and drive, all wrapped up in one package.
A cute package.
Damon had been telling himself not to notice—or if he was going to notice, then he should just ignore the attraction. But sitting across from Xander, staring at him in the candlelight, it was much harder than he’d imagined. Especially when he looked relaxed and much more at peace than he had that night a year ago.
At first he’d been too worked up himself to notice the anxiousness that Xander wore like a cloak. Or a very difficult-to-scale wall complete with archers equipped with fiery arrows and soldiers pouring boiling oil.
But tonight his guard had fallen a little, and despite everything, Damon wanted desperately to believe it was more than just quitting a job he’d really hated.
Damon wanted to believe the smile on Xander’s face had something to do with him.
“Thank you,” Damon said. “If that was an audition, you nailed it.”
“I know.” He was a little smug, and it was more than a little adorable. The way his nose scrunched up, the eye crinkles, the expressive look in his dark brown eyes.
Damon had imagined he might be in danger, hanging around Xander all the time, especially considering the impression he’d made on him in such a short time, but this was Trouble with a capital t.
“You’d better watch yourself. Not sure your head’s gonna fit back through the back door,” Damon teased.
“You wanted a chef,” Xander said, spreading his arms. “You got one.”
“They’re sort of thick on the ground in Napa,” Damon softly insisted, “but it turns out I’m particular.”
“Imagine that, a Hess particular.” The sarcasm in Xander’s voice cut through the dreamy romantic quality of the candlelight and let in a little of the real world. Specifically his family.
He couldn’t exactly tell Xander he didn’t ever want to talk about his family. After all, this land was their legacy, and his trust fund was making the restaurant a reality. Truth was, he really didn’t want to talk about them, and it felt like Xander brought them up as some sort of defense mechanism. Damon still didn’t understand why, and this was definitely not the first time it had happened.
“What’s your deal with the Hesses?” Damon asked. Might as well be honest, at least before Xander walked back in the house and signed the contract that would tie them together for the near future. Of course, that also meant the question had barely made it out of his mouth.
Something ugly churned deep in his stomach, exactly the opposite reaction he should have had after that incredible meal.
What if he changes his mind?
“Nothing,” Xander said, but his chin was jutting out again, and his fingers were drumming anxiously against the wood tabletop. It sure didn’t look like nothing.
There was a definite voice in his head, begging him to leave it, to make sure he didn’t drive Xander away with his insistent questioning. After all, Xander wasn’t signing with Hess Vineyards, he was signing with Damon, who stayed as far away from his family as possible.
But Damon’s last name was still Hess, and it wasn’t going to change.
“Really?” Damon asked.
Xander sighed. “I said it was nothing, and it is. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t want it to interfere,” Damon offered. “Not with what we’re about to build.”
“It won’t. I promise. I know you’re not your family. And to be honest, that’s what it is. I’ve had a few run-ins with Hess employees. But you’re not like them.”
The thing Damon had discovered before coming back to Napa, and definitely after returning to the Valley, was that he could run as far and as hard as he could, but his family was still his family. Time and distance couldn’t alter his blood, no matter how much he wished otherwise.
“Okay, that’s fair.” Damon stood, and brushed off his jeans. His best pair, without any mud or holes. Terroir hadn’t even gotten that much from him. He leaned over to snuff out the candle, and the scent of beeswax filled his nostrils.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to go read through the contract,” Xander said.
“Sure. I’ll just clean up.” Xander looked like he was about to protest, but Damon held up a hand. “I’m no good in the kitchen, but I can use a sink and a dishwasher.”
“If you insist, I’m not going to stop you,” Xander conceded with a smile. He’d relaxed again, and Damon found himself hoping that Xander let whatever issue he had with his family go for good this time.
He gathered up the rest of the dishes, and when he let himself in the sliding back door, Xander was at the counter, absorbed in the printed pages of the contract.
“Dry reading?” Damon asked as he flipped on the sink, filling it with hot soapy water.
It was obvious that Xander was a professional cook, because even though he had used a number of pans and utensils to prepare the meal, they were all neatly piled next to the sink, and the counter and stove had all been carefully wiped down.
“It could be more interesting,” Xander admitted. “Do you mind if I take this with me?”
“Sure, but if you’d like I can email you an electronic copy to take to a lawyer,” Damon said steadily. It was the right thing to do, but his heart had wanted Xander to sign tonight. Before he could figure out that Damon wasn’t as good of a bet as he appeared.
“That would be nice, but I’m not taking it to a lawyer. I just want a copy for myself.”
Xander had gotten a real nice sear on the salmon filets, and the pan needed to be soaked. Filling it with hot water, Damon set it aside. “I don’t want you to look back on this conversation and wish you’d done things differently,” he said.
“It’s a straightforward contract, and anyway, I trust you.”
Damon glanced over, and was surprised to see in Xander’s expression that he really meant it. “I know we just met,” Xander rambled, “I know we also met under . . . extraordinary circumstances. But I choose to believe that we can make something extraordinary with those circumstances.”
It was inevitable that it would happen one day. Damon had known since he was twelve that he was attracted to both sexes. But he’d met his ex-wife so young, there had never been an opportunity to explore that attraction with men.
Until now.
He kept his trembling hands submerged in the sink, holding like a lifeline onto the pot he was scrubbing. He didn’t want Xander to see how affected he was—and he definitely wasn’t ready to approach Xander yet. If he was ever going to feel ready.
Also just because Xander was gay didn’t mean he was interested in Damon. After all, Xander knew he was a recovering alcoholic, and Damon had always imagined that not many people would ever choose to take that sort of burden on in a rom
antic partner.
Still, the possibility existing at all, even in a nebulous future, made Damon swallow hard.
“That’s a lot of trust to give,” Damon said, voice raw. He didn’t have to add, to someone who you personally witnessed falling apart only a year ago.
Xander shot him a quicksilver grin, and went back to reading the contract.
He finished washing and drying the dishes, putting them away, but Damon felt shaken to the core by Xander’s words, and his own reaction to them.
Whether Xander acknowledged it or not, he was taking a chance, and there was definitely a part of Damon that didn’t feel worthy of it, especially when he heard Xander scrawling his signature on the contract, the pen scratching across the paper.
“There,” Xander said with finality. “All it needs is your signature.”
He could have slid it over the counter. Damon’s hands were still a little damp, but he could have leaned over the prep counter and signed.
Instead, Xander left it next to him. Right next to him. Like he was inviting Damon into his personal bubble.
Damon hesitated, almost definitely for a second too long, because Xander chuckled, low and a little rough, and it did all sorts of things to Damon’s stomach.
The truth was, Xander had a supernatural effect on Damon’s stomach. He fed it incredible food while giving it the sort of nervous, hungry butterflies Damon hadn’t felt since he was a teenager.
“Come on, I don’t bite,” Xander said, flashing another one of those bright smiles. “Hard.”
There was nothing else to do but walk out of the kitchen to where Xander was sitting, until their shoulders were brushing up against each other.
It was the closest they’d ever been. Damon could feel the warmth of Xander’s skin through the cotton of his t-shirt, and his fingers trembled so hard he had to clench them tightly together.
Xander had to know he was prodding the bear, but he offered the pen up anyway, dangling it in front of Damon’s face. “You ready to sign?” he asked.
It was blatant flirting—even Damon knew what it was, and he was clueless about most romantic behavior.
He plucked the pen out of Xander’s hand, gave himself a pat on the back for not succumbing to his very base desire and signed the contract, right above where Xander had.
“It’s settled then,” Xander said. Damon took a step back, back out of Xander’s space. No matter how much he wanted to stay, wanted to see what else Xander might invite, this was a slippery slope and Damon wasn’t sure he was ready to tackle it yet.
Honestly he wasn’t sure he would ever be ready and he wasn’t willing to subject Xander to the same thing he’d already done to the rest of his friends and family, but mostly his ex-wife.
“You want to see the restaurant?” Damon asked.
Xander raised an eyebrow. “Maybe instead of auditioning, I should have been looking at the space.”
It was difficult for Damon not to flush bright red. Xander might not have seen the evidence under his farmer’s tan, but its existence flustered him regardless. He should have shown Xander the restaurant first thing.
“It’s not much,” Damon warned as they walked out the back door and he took Xander through the edges of the garden. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”
It was difficult to see Xander’s face in the growing dusk, but Damon glanced over anyway—an instinctual reaction he was finding it tougher and tougher to resist. For so long he’d stood out in the fields with just himself and the vegetables for company, and imagined what Xander might say to him. It was surreal to have him actually here, and Damon had to keep reminding himself that he was in fact real and not a figment of his imagination.
Damon brought them to the old barrel house on the property, long abandoned by the Hess family. Even as this vineyard had remained a jewel in the crown of their legacy, wine production had been brought into the twenty-first century by his father, increasing capacity and ensuring consistency of quality. Places like this one had faded away, some remaining ramshackle buildings on the Hess properties, others torn down to make way for more vines.
When he’d inherited this property, Damon had fully expected that this barrel house would have gone the way of so many others, but to his surprise, it had still stood. Weathered and not in the best of conditions, but still existing, a testament to a time long gone.
“This is the restaurant,” Xander stated, and when Damon glanced over, he was gaping. And not in a good way. “This is a shack.”
“I told you it needed some work,” he retorted defensively. “Think of it like a blank canvas. We can do whatever we want with it. And the history . . .” Even if it wasn’t history that Damon always appreciated, it remained important, and it was important to Damon for Xander to recognize that.
This was what was left of his legacy, and the only part of it he still felt comfortable embracing.
Xander took a deep breath. “A blank canvas, falling apart around our ears.”
“It’s not going to be falling apart. When I left Napa, I did construction for awhile.” Damon was all too aware of how defensive—and desperate—he sounded. “I can fix it.”
Xander’s expression was incredulous. “You worked in construction?”
It was unsaid hanging between them. But you’re a Hess. Your family practically runs this valley. You have a huge trust fund.
All of that was true. And for a while, none of it had mattered to Damon, and it was all he could do to get away and do something, anything, else. Working with his hands had been soothing somehow. Creating something with his own two hands. Building something, instead of tearing it down.
But that was stuff he barely even felt comfortable sharing with his sponsor still. He couldn’t tell Xander. No matter how attracted to him he was, he was still almost a stranger. They’d agreed tentatively to trust each other, but that didn’t mean sharing every personal feeling.
“I enjoyed it,” Damon retorted shortly. “Anyway, it’s going to come in handy, because now I can help fix the building. Our restaurant.”
“Do you have a name yet? I noticed there wasn’t a clause in the contract providing me approval or denial on the restaurant name.”
“The Barrel House.” Damon told himself Xander’s opinion of the name meant little, but maybe it would also help him to understand the complex association Damon had with his own history.
Xander was quiet for a long moment. He tilted his head, eyes skimming the building from top to bottom again, taking in every broken board, every sagging eave. It still had good lines, and Damon knew he could bring them out again. “It suits the building.” He hesitated. “It suits you.”
He would have to be in a lot more denial to think he hadn’t been waiting with bated breath for Xander’s opinion. “I think so,” Damon said quietly. It was a relief to imagine that at least Xander might be beginning to understand.
“Can we go inside?” Xander asked. “Without being in mortal danger, anyway?”
“Of course. It’s all superficial damage. Easily fixed. Restored. That’s what I plan to do with it anyway. It’s not going to be fancy or polished, but it’s going to be what it was before.”
Damon led the way into the house, opening the door on hinges he’d kept continually oiled in the last year. He’d spent a lot of time in this building, making plans.
“Kitchen would go over there,” Damon said. “I want it to be open. Want diners to see their food being prepared.”
“Glass panels,” Xander said. “Floor to ceiling.”
Damon had never considered glass walls. At first he might have rejected the idea as far too Terroir-like for their restaurant, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of the high end merged with the more rustic originality of the building.
“That could be really cool,” Damon said. He had his phone out of his pocket, and was making notations. People he would need to call.
“Tables over here, then,” Xander continued, waving an arm. “Host
ess stand here. Refinished wood. A little glass for contrast. Simple, classic earth tones.”
“No barrels,” Damon said.
Xander looked over, and there was a concerned wrinkle between his dark brows. “Barrels?”
“It’s called the Barrel House, but I don’t want any barrels in here. I want the history but not the strong association with the winery,” Damon insisted.
Xander’s face softened. “I understand.”
He probably thought he did; most people who didn’t struggle with something as basic as a drink menu sitting innocuously on a table on a restaurant thought they knew what it would be like. They didn’t.
Alcohol, especially here in Napa, was everywhere.
“I don’t want to serve it. No wine. No beer. No booze.”
Damon told himself that Xander couldn’t possibly be surprised; after all, he’d just said he didn’t want old wine barrels decorating their restaurant which was named after them. How could he want alcohol on their menu?
“But this is a restaurant in Napa,” Xander said slowly. The wrinkle had reappeared as quickly as it had disappeared the first time. “People would expect they can get a glass of wine with dinner.”
“No.” It didn’t make sense to add any additional arguments, because this wasn’t an argument Damon intended to have. It was his one line in the sand. Still, he braced himself for an explosion out of Xander.
Instead, Xander did something he did not expect. He reached over and wrapped him in a tight, not-very-quick hug. He lingered, his hands, insanely capable and talented, lingering over Damon’s shoulders. And when he finally moved away, Damon wanted to grab him back and tell him never to stop.
“It’ll be a challenge,” Xander said, and his voice was very matter-of-fact, nothing like the sudden tenderness of the hug he’d just given Damon. “And nobody can say that I’m not up for a challenge.”
“You seem very sure of all of this, no matter how many obstacles I keep throwing your way,” Damon said incredulously. He’d planned on confessing this particular wrinkle at some later date. Not the first night. Definitely not the night they’d signed the contract, when it would be so easy for Xander to walk back to the house and rip it up.
