by Beth Bolden
“Good news,” Damon said. There was the sound of wind on his side of the line, like he was driving with the window open. Which made sense, because they were having a surprisingly hot spell. Xander was personally sweating his ass off in his un-air-conditioned kitchen.
“Did the permits come through?” Xander asked, continuing to stir his onions. He was looking for a jam-like texture, after the onions had started to really break down and grow caramel in color. The result was not quite there, but he was regretting deciding that today was the day he was going to perfect his ravioli recipe.
“Yeah, they’re in. David’s starting construction tomorrow. And good news, the HVAC people are going to be in pretty soon, installing the new air-conditioning.”
“If the building wasn’t going to be a mess of dust and dirt, I would seriously consider packing up and moving recipe testing there,” Xander complained. “It’s hot as hell in here, and for some reason I thought it’d be a great idea to hunch over a stove all day.”
“The ravioli recipe?” Damon sounded sympathetic.
Xander hummed in agreement, reaching down to grab a taste with a fingertip. Close, but not quite. He plucked his bottle of balsamic vinegar from the counter and added a splash, tasted again, and then splashed in some more.
“It needs pepper,” Damon said, his teasing tone light and happy. So far from the wounded despondency of a few days ago when his father had visited him. Xander wanted to believe he had something to do with Damon’s attitude bouncing back, but it was easy to doubt himself. Too easy.
“You think everything needs pepper,” Xander scoffed. “If you tell me this dish needs pepper, I’m going to throttle you.”
“Okay, no pepper. Does that mean we aren’t having the waiters come to your table with a pepper grinder for your salad?”
Xander made a wounded noise over the phone. “You’re physically hurting me. Of course not. Like I would ever make a dish that needs to be liberally coated with fresh ground pepper! That’s only for food that has no flavor and they’re trying to hide it by ruining your taste buds up front.”
“Huh.” Damon sounded thoughtful. “I never thought of it that way before.”
“That’s why you hired me,” Xander said, and this time he could say it without even a hiccup, had been practicing saying it and acknowledging it for the last few days. Damon had hired him. He was technically Damon’s employee. Yes, he was also more—they both believed that—but he couldn’t let himself forget that one fundamental fact. He’d started this by pretending facts weren’t facts, and that wasn’t going to get either of them anywhere. If he was going to commit to this relationship, he wasn’t going to let himself forget who he was, or where he’d been. Honesty—and self-honesty—was vital.
“It’s true,” Damon said casually.
“What else are you doing today?” Xander asked, finally pulling the onions off the heat. They looked perfect, and after taking another taste, also had perfect flavor.
“Weeding. Watering, at least after the sun goes down.” He sounded as eager for it as Xander felt.
Just as Xander was thinking of how much he’d pay for a dunking that wasn’t just a cold shower, Damon suggested, “You could come over, if you wanted. I’ll have the sprinklers out. We could run through them like kids. It’s not much but it’s something.”
Xander wiped the sweat from his forehead. Imagined Damon in a white tank, soaked through, outlining every one of his incredible muscles. It was not a tough decision to make.
“Count me in.”
“Dusk is about nine,” Damon said. “I can’t water until then.”
“I’ll be over then.” Xander paused. “I can bring over some of these ravioli. You can try them, but there’s one important condition.”
“I can’t say it needs pepper?”
Xander laughed. “That and you don’t complain that they’re hot. Or warm. Unfortunately they’re not meant to be eaten cold.”
“You could make a cold ravioli salad,” Damon suggested.
Xander couldn’t help it—he laughed again. “Pasta salad? With ravioli?”
“That’s weird, isn’t it?”
“It’s . . . different. But different could be good.” Xander had an idea, and then three more, just in the quick pause before Damon answered. They weren’t really high-end ideas, but every time he had that thought, Xander shoved the snooty voice of Bastian Aquino right out of his head, and did whatever the fuck he wanted.
So far that had seemed to work well for him. Whether that would work once the Barrel House opened and critics showed up, that remained to be seen. But nothing was more freeing than forcing himself not to care what other people thought.
“I like different,” Damon said loyally. “Especially your different.”
It was taking time, but Xander was finally beginning to believe he deserved that hushed, reverent note in Damon’s voice.
“Yours is pretty great too,” Xander admitted.
Silence stretched between them, full of things that Xander knew neither of them had the nerve to say just yet. I miss you. I’m craving you. I want you so badly it hurts.
Xander was left wondering how long this self-enforced celibacy could continue lasting. Probably not much further, if he was being honest with himself.
“I’ll see you tonight?” Damon finally said.
“Yeah, of course. About nine,” Xander said, repeating himself because he wanted to linger on the phone, just to hear Damon’s voice, even though what he really needed was to finish up the ravioli, get out of this boiling hot kitchen, and take a very cold shower—and not just because it was a hundred degrees outside.
“See you then,” Damon said, and finally clicked off.
Xander sighed as he set the phone back on the counter. It was now liberally smeared with flour, like just about every other surface in the kitchen, including his arms and probably his face.
Turning his attention back to the caramelized onions, he tested them with his fingertips, making sure they’d cooled down enough to incorporate them into the rest of his mixture, but they weren’t nearly ready yet.
He picked up the pan and hauled it over to the fridge, stuck it on a shelf and stood there for a good minute just letting the cool air billow over him.
“You’d better be paying a higher fraction of the electric bill this month,” Nate said from behind him.
Xander didn’t budge or even turn around. He still felt a shaft of embarrassment deep inside at how he’d treated his friend. Using him while he’d only ever wanted to kiss Damon. “It’s hot as balls.”
“And somehow you’re still in this kitchen, sweating them off.” Nate sounded amused, and it helped break the ice between them. Xander relaxed a fraction, and once he did, found it was easier to let the embarrassment go.
“I have work to do,” Xander retorted.
“What, working in the kitchen is work? I thought your new career was all about working Damon Hess?”
“That would be nice, but it’s not in the job description,” Xander said. He’d do it. He wanted to do it. Was slowly dying that he hadn’t yet. He was no stranger to celibacy but waiting for Damon to be ready to take things up a notch was giving him an epic case of blue balls.
“Yet.”
Xander turned around, bringing out his pan of onions, and this time when he touched them with a finger, they were cool enough. He shut the fridge and walked back over to the prep counter.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“That means that Nathan Hess is talking. About you and his son.”
“Fuck,” Xander swore. “I don’t like that guy. I wish he’d leave Damon alone.” And me, Xander thought.
Nate raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t sound like nothing’s going on,” he pointed out.
“We’re taking things slow,” Xander said, hoping that he wouldn’t regret confiding in Nate. He had a real ear for good gossip, and this was sweet stuff. Nathan Hess’ son hooking up with his new employee
and an ex-Terroir chef? It had all the trademarks of a real juicy rumor.
“I can’t believe you’re not climbing that like a tree,” Nate offered.
“Me either,” Xander muttered. “Wait, how do you even know it’s Damon Hess? And what he looks like?”
“Kian told me. And after your aborted little experiment, I looked him up,” Nate pointed out, reaching in the bowl of filling and pulling out a bite before Xander could smack his hand. “But you don’t need me to tell you he’s hot.”
Xander definitely did not.
“He’s also technically your boss,” Nate continued. Xander was beginning to remember why they hadn’t ever really been friends. Why he had disliked Nate the moment Wyatt had brought him home the first time. “I bet you don’t feel hypocritical at all, especially after the way you’ve been trying to get Kian to stop panting over Aquino.”
Xander gritted his teeth. “I don’t feel that way, no. Bastian Aquino is an asshole who emotionally manipulates people. Especially his employees. Damon couldn’t do that even if he wanted to. He doesn’t have it in him.”
“His father is Nathan Hess.” Nate’s expression was incredulous. “You clearly know a little of what he’s like. I know Damon doesn’t like him much, but I’d worry, if I were you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t,” Xander said. “If I save you some leftovers will you leave me alone to finish this in peace?”
“The truth hurts, sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“You sound like a smarmy Bond villain,” Xander pointed out. “If I give you some ravioli, will that serve as an apology for how I used you terribly?”
Nate chuckled. “It might, if it was a real apology?”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not apologizing for the kiss. I’m apologizing for . . .” Xander tried to find a reason that made sense that wasn’t about the kiss, and his sluggish brain wouldn’t respond.
“The kiss.” Nate rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. Apology accepted.”
* * *
The first thing Damon smelled when he stepped outside was the rich scent of the earth after baking all afternoon in the hot sun.
It was one of his favorite scents, especially when the land he was smelling was his own.
His father might show up and issue threats, but this land was still Damon’s, and as far as he was concerned, it was going to stay his as long as he was in one piece.
He dragged the hose and sprinklers over to the first set of plants. A more professional garden might have in-bed sprinklers, and there were some nights when Damon wished he had them, but he’d also discovered there was a soothing peace to each night’s work, tending his garden in the dusk.
If the restaurant failed, yes, he might have to work another job to pay the property taxes on it—the property taxes Damon’s grandfather had ensured would always be paid by gifting him a trust upon his death. Grandpa might not be very happy that Damon was spending all that nice, safe property tax money on a restaurant, but he’d also always wanted Damon to fulfill his dreams.
He might be back to construction again, but Damon had made his peace with that possibility. If the worst came to pass, and the Barrel House wasn’t a success, the only thing that worried him was Xander.
Xander was depending on him—and on himself—to carve out a niche for now and for a long time to come. Damon was going to do everything he could to make that dream a reality.
“You haven’t started yet.”
Damon glanced up and Xander was standing there, fists on his hips, dressed in a white tank top and a pair of running shorts. There was a lot of firm, tanned, muscled skin on display, and Damon swallowed hard. He knew what he wanted; he just wanted Xander to trust that he wanted it. To stop questioning whether he’d change his mind.
He wasn’t going to. He’d known embarrassingly early in their high school courtship that he was going to marry Rachel. And he’d known from the first moment they’d met that Xander was going to be important to him.
Damon definitely wasn’t ready for Xander to know just how important yet. Here Xander was, terrified that Damon was going to get cold feet about having a guy for a partner, when in reality, Damon was afraid he was going to move too fast or demonstrate too much commitment.
It was an ironic situation that might have been funnier if it was a little cooler outside and he didn’t want Xander quite so much.
Stop thinking so much, he told himself, and before he could question his own decision, stripped off his worn t-shirt, and couldn’t help but watch as Xander’s eyes grew big. Damon knew he looked good; he’d started working out in earnest after rehab because he’d always liked to drink in the evenings and if his arms were too tired to even pick up a bottle, then there was a little less temptation.
“Are you okay?” Xander asked carefully.
Instead of answering, Damon turned the hose on him instead of on his carrots.
As the cold water hit him, Xander yelped, throwing his hands up. “I take it back, I take it back,” Xander said, moving out of the way to try to dodge the spray after that first, frozen moment. Damon might have been worried, but he was laughing so hard it was hard for him to avoid the stream of water from the hose.
“I thought you were hot,” Damon teased.
Xander slipped on a patch of muddy ground, and nearly lost his balance, but his recovery was excellent. He moved with the grace of an athlete—or a dancer—and Damon never wanted to stop watching.
He only realized too late that Xander wasn’t just trying to move out of the way of the water. He was actively moving toward where Damon had plugged in one of his sprinklers. He leaned down for a second, his wet running shorts plastered to his ass like a second skin, and Damon lost track of what it was he was supposed to be avoiding. That incredible butt, toned and shapely and essentially begging for Damon to do terrible, wonderful things to it?
A cold spray of water to the face from the hose Xander had unhooked from the sprinkler had him gasping, but his thoughts hadn’t gotten any cleaner.
“You’re playing dirty,” Damon gasped through another burst of water to the face. He wasn’t going to tell Xander this, but it felt damn good after sweating all day.
Xander’s eyes narrowed, a bright smile blooming across his handsome face. “You love it,” he shot back.
He really did, and he never wanted Xander to stop. He loved every sneaky part of him, every achingly blunt part of his personality. Damon wanted it all, if only Xander would let him.
Damon turned the hose on himself, water cascading over his head. “I love this,” he teased. “But you could lean over again. Could use another firsthand bit of evidence to prove how much I love it.”
Following suit with his own, Xander turned his hose on himself, drenching every inch in water. His tank clung to every lean, muscular curve of his body, and Damon wanted to drop to his knees in the mud and beg.
I want to prove myself but I want to prove it to you first. Please let me touch you.
“Yeah,” Damon ground out, voice gruff and low, his erection growing despite the cold water he was pouring over himself, “yeah, I love that.”
Xander’s eyes sparkled with impudence as he sidled closer, letting Damon get a good look. He placed a cool palm on Damon’s bare chest, right where his heart beat hard and fast. “I love it too,” he said.
The hose dropped to the ground as Damon reached out and gripped Xander by his hips, dragging him those last few inches until they were plastered together.
“Is this what you want?” Damon demanded. “Tell me if it’s not because I can’t . . . I can’t. I’m not going to change my mind. I promise.”
Xander stared at him, mouth open, for a long moment. He must have felt Damon’s hard-on through his paper-thin shorts and Damon’s jeans—completely soaked and plastered to his thighs.
“You promise,” Xander stuttered back.
“I promise I’m not going to change my mind,” Damon vowed. “Because I don’t know about you, but I’m
feeling pretty damn gay right now.”
Laughing, Xander ran his hands down Damon’s chest, tracing the trail of dark hair that led to his fly. “You know what? Me too.”
Damon decided that was all the agreement he needed, and bent his head down, kissing Xander fiercely. Refusing to hold back anymore, he kissed him with all the desire that had been building inside him without a single outlet. He hadn’t wanted to scare him away with all he was feeling, but the time for that had passed. Xander had claimed he wanted honesty, so Damon was going to give him all the honesty he could handle.
Breaking the kiss, Xander panted into Damon’s neck, his breath hot against his skin. “Do you mean to tell me that we could have been doing that this whole time?”
Damon shrugged, feeling a little bashful about how much he wanted Xander—but not ashamed. He’d gotten over that in high school. He knew what he’d like, even if he’d never indulged in it before.
“I feel stupid,” Xander said, cradling his palms across Damon’s cheeks, stroking his beard, his neck, his ears, each pass of his fingers a graceful arc. His hands finally curled around Damon’s neck, thumbs rubbing the top of his spine.
Damon thought he looked like he wanted to say more, and decided that while they certainly hadn’t finished talking things through—not by a long shot—he was done talking for the night.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, reaching up and curling his hand around Xander’s bicep, tugging his hands away. “Let’s go inside.”
It felt like déjà vu, walking to the back door of the house, soaking wet, clumsily untying his boots while balancing against the doorjamb. But before, he hadn’t done it with a throbbing erection and he hadn’t dreamed about putting his hands all over the man next to him. Yet.
If he’d been thinking straight a year ago, he might have pushed Xander impatiently against the washing machine, but he fixed that mistake by doing exactly what he’d been dreaming of. Xander laughed brightly in between hot, unrelenting kisses, as he tried to shed his soaked tank top.
