The Last Drop

by Layla Reyne

  The Last Drop

  A Table for Two Novella

  Layla Reyne

  The Last Drop

  Second Edition Copyright © 2020 by Layla Reyne

  First Edition in the Heart2Heart Charity Anthology Vol. 3 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright owner, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review.

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-7341753-2-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7341753-3-2

  Cover Design: Cate Ashwood, Cate Ashwood Designs

  Cover Photography: Eric Battershell, Eric Battershell Photography

  Editing: Susie Selva

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Thank You

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Layla Reyne

  About the Author

  About This Book

  Three restaurants, three flops. Chef Gregory Valteau doesn’t want to believe it’s a sign, but his culinary future in New Orleans looks bleak. Until he meets a handsome hipster with all the right moves, behind the bar and in bed. Gone the next morning, the sexy bartender leaves Greg inspired and wanting more—of him and his creative cocktails.

  Anthony Monaco has spent five years on the go, but a steamy NOLA night with a sexy chef has Tony aching for a return trip to the Big Easy. When Greg offers him the chance to help launch a new gastropub, Tony can’t turn it down. But six weeks is all he’s willing to commit. Any longer and he might not be able to leave, especially working beside temptation-in-a-chef’s-coat every day.

  As Dram prepares to open and the chemistry between them boils over, Tony’s fears come true, his heart whispering stay while his brain shouts go. Greg can’t abide by the latter; he wants Tony in his life and behind their bar. He’s the one, but to keep him, Greg will have to convince Tony he can show him the world without leaving the one they’ve built together.

  For Kim and New Orleans.

  Chapter One

  Dear Mr. Manhattan,

  We met nine months ago at a bar in New Orleans. You were the too cute hipster behind the bar. I was the out-of-work chef acting the Virgin Mary with my too big hands. You blew my mind with your cocktails, then you rocked my world and started it spinning again. I’ve got a gig for you. Dram, Bywater, New Orleans. Come drink with me.

  Yours, Mr. New Orleans

  Three strikes and you’re out, according to baseball and conventional wisdom, neither of which Greg Valteau liked all that much. If he believed in that kind of nonsense, he would have never gone to culinary school, never made a hollandaise that didn’t break, never bought the fucking Saints jersey on his back. He believed in ghosts and vampires more than he believed in some three strikes bullshit.

  But something about tonight felt different. Felt final.

  He’d known it would be tough. More restaurants failed than succeeded, and New Orleans itself was a challenge. While things were better now in his hometown, it had taken time to bounce back after Katrina. He’d hoped to be a part of the vibrant re-awakening. Instead, he had three failed concepts and a pair of very callused hands to show for all his efforts, for the heart he’d poured back into his city only to have his dreams washed out into the Gulf.

  Maybe it was time to pack it up and go back to New York or join his best friend in the Bay Area. Except as much as his heart ached to be with him, it ached even worse at the thought of leaving his hometown again. He was committed to the humidity, the mosquitos, to his family here, and to the soulful culture he loved, that was a part of him. But making that commitment work with the part of his soul that also wanted to cook for a living was fucking hard.

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  Greg looked up from his empty hands and blinked, twice. He didn’t normally go for hipster, but damn. The Mohawk of black curls, the amber eyes fringed by thick lashes, and the trim dark beard worked for the bartender. As did the fitted gray vest, mint-green dress shirt, and tight black jeans, all showcasing a compact, fit body, and… just, damn.

  Talk about hard; Greg had to shift on his stool.

  The bartender tilted his head and bit his plump bottom lip. Not making things any less hard for Greg. Neither did the much-missed accent that blanketed the bartender’s words when he spoke. “Judging by that look on your face a moment ago,” he said, “I’d say something heavy on the alcohol and light on everything else.” Clipped as the thick New York accent was, Greg would lay odds on Manhattan.

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “Well, you were doing your best Virgin Mary impression.” He struck a palms-up pose, and Greg half groaned, half laughed. He hoped he hadn’t looked quite so woeful. Mr. Manhattan winked and slid a napkin in front of Greg. “I promise, all is not lost.”

  “How many times have you made that promise tonight?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Half a dozen. Doesn’t make it any less true.” He flipped an old-fashioned tumbler right side up and dropped a giant sphere of ice into the glass. “And I know just the drink for you.”

  Over the ice, he poured Sazerac, cognac, and sweet vermouth, and Greg smiled. He had a pretty good idea where this was headed, and he was impressed at the bartender’s confidence. Pouring the cocktail freehand, he added a shot of Bénédictine, then dashes of Peychaud’s and Angostura bitters. “By that accent and the Saints jersey,” the man said as he spiral-shaved a lemon rind, “I’m guessing you’re local.” He swirled the mixture with the rind, dropped it into the glass, then set the drink on Greg’s napkin. “So I know you’ll appreciate this.”

  Greg picked up the glass and held the cocktail under his nose, eyes fluttering closed. The familiar rye and herbal notes stung his nostrils, only to be smoothed over by the wave of underlying sweetness. Home in a glass. “Vieux Carré,” he said, letting the words he’d learned as a kid roll off his tongue, the inflection perfected in culinary school and the best French kitchens in New York. He opened his eyes again to a pair of heated amber ones. Gazes locked, Greg tipped the glass against his lips and sipped.

  Fucking perfect.

  He took another swallow, savoring the spicy-sweet cocktail as it washed over his tongue and down his throat, then he ran his tongue along his bottom lip to catch any drops he’d missed.

  “Guessing by your accent,” he said to the blushing bartender, “you’re not local, but I wouldn’t know it from this.” He lifted his glass in praise. “Nice job, Mr. Manhattan.”

  Blushing pink gave way to a deeper red, paired with a lovely pleased smile. “How’s a guy from New Orleans recognize a Manhattan accent?”

  “Chef’ed in the City.”

  “Anywhere I’d know?”

  Greg shrugged a shoulder, same as Manhattan had done earlier, and hid his smile behind another sip from his glass.

  Manhattan’s answering laugh sent a spike of heat zinging down Greg’s spine, straight to his dick. “Big shot then,” the bartender said. “Why’d you leave?”

  “Because this”—Greg waved a ha
nd toward the ornate bar, toward the jazz band on stage, then rattled the ice ball in his glass—“is home.” He finished his drink with a satisfied hum, and as he did, curiosity and all those detective shows he compulsively watched tempted him to ask, “How does a handsome guy from Manhattan make a Vieux Carré so well?”

  “Was one of the first drinks I learned to make,” he answered. “Dad didn’t have any mixers in the house.”

  What did they say about curiosity and the cat? Flirtatious mood killed, Greg was torn between making an apology and asking more questions he shouldn’t, but Manhattan’s face didn’t betray any melancholy or bitterness. Just a statement of fact delivered with a bemused smile.

  “Learned some other tricks too.” He pushed a cocktail menu across the bar. “Take a look. Decide what you want to try next.”

  While Manhattan worked the other end of the bar, Greg perused the menu. Old reliables—Hurricane, Sazerac, Margarita—but each with a unique spin, and other drinks from regions near and far. Eclectic mixes of flavors that spoke to a certain hipster’s big palette and big ideas.

  Greg’s mind spun, falling into the familiar game he and his best friend used to play when they worked in kitchens together, guessing the who, what, when, where, and why of their diners. Only tonight, Greg was speculating about the bartender who was headed back his direction.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Balcones Bomb.” Greg’s affinity for corn soup had drawn him to the cocktail made with the pure corn bourbon from Texas.

  One corner of Manhattan’s mouth hitched up. “Good choice.” He set about making the cocktail—freehand again—pouring the Balcones whisky and other ingredients into a shaker with ice.

  “How long you been doing this?” Greg asked.

  “Going on seven years.” He gave the shaker a few vigorous pumps, then set it aside and retrieved a martini glass. Into the glass, he poured a splash of chili oil and swirled it around, coating the sides of the glass before pitching the liquid into the sink.

  “Here in New Orleans?” Greg didn’t think so. Skills and looks like his, word would have gotten around the restaurant crowd.

  “No, I’ve only been here a few months.” He uncapped the shaker, fitted on a strainer, and poured the liquid into the glass, finishing it with a sprig of thyme. He pushed it across the bar to Greg. “Enjoy.”

  One sip and Greg almost came in his jeans. He was a chef after all, and right behind food and sex on his ecstasy ladder was a good drink. And this was the best chilled corn soup he’d ever had but in cocktail form. Fucking hell. He had to have this man, in his bed and in his next restaurant, whenever that happened. “Keep making drinks like this and you’ll make a name for yourself here in no time.”

  “Afraid I won’t be around long enough for that.”

  Fucking hell again. And yet, not all that surprising. His hometown tended to attract the nomadic sort. If Greg didn’t have his roots here, he’d probably go too at this point, not keep fighting this damn hard to make it work. But for all his moping, there was no debate for him.

  Didn’t sound like there was much debate for Mr. Manhattan either. He was leaving soon, but he was here now. Maybe Greg could get one of the things he wanted. He caught the bartender’s attention the next time he passed close, and Greg tilted forward on the stool, lowering his voice. “You around long enough after work tonight for me to fuck you?”

  Tony tried his hardest to ignore the excitement and anticipation that kept sneaking up on him. That made his breath quicken, his blood race, and his dick swell. New Orleans—the man, who’d paid in cash so Tony still didn’t know his name—was waiting outside. Waiting to walk him home and take him to bed. The night ahead promised the chef’s big body atop his, his big rough hands roaming Tony’s body, stroking his dick… Failing to ignore. Tony shook his head, chasing away the fantasy and focusing on his closing to-do list.

  The manager had already emptied the register of cash and receipts, the servers were straightening the dining area, and the kitchen staff had mostly cleared out. He just had to take care of the bar. Glasses and utensils into the dishwasher. Rinse, dry, and cap the taps. Date the wine bottles. Rinse the drains. Shine the bar top. Mop the backbar. Down to just the trash on his list, Tony shimmied the bin out from under the bar and set it on the other side of the flip for the servers to toss any trash into. He washed his hands and did his final departing pat-down check, making sure he had everything: wallet, tips, keys, phone.

  “You guys all set?” he called to the servers.

  “We’re good,” one of them replied. “Go bang that tiger waiting for you outside.”

  Excitement and anticipation crested once more, as did curiosity. “Tiger?”

  The server slapped his outer shoulder. “Tattoo of a tiger. LSU alum, if I had to guess.”

  Tony would have to get a closer look. He wondered if the handsome chef had more ink. Didn’t they all these days?

  He exited out the back door and turned right, intending to circle around to the front and meet New Orleans there, but a voice called from the opposite direction.

  “How’s a guy from Manhattan end up in New Orleans?”

  Of course the chef would know to wait for him here; restaurant staff rarely came and went out the front door. Tony turned and admired the man leaning against the brick wall. He was every bit as gorgeous here as he had been sitting at the bar, even more so in the halo of the alley lights. Warm brown skin, dark soulful eyes, long legs and a built upper body, and a sexy as hell grin, tonight’s earlier despair wiped away by a parade of cocktails. He pushed off the wall and swaggered toward Tony, and the way he moved his big body with such grace, such confidence, was sexy as hell too.

  “You gonna answer, Manhattan?”

  Tony should really ask his name, but he liked the nickname bestowed on him too much to let the anonymity go. New Orleans wasn’t asking either; he seemed like a nickname kind of guy. And circumstances being what they were, this could only be a one-night stand. Anonymity was better. Kinder. As would be an answer to New Orleans’s question. He would better understand in the morning and hopefully not take it personally.

  “I wandered my way down,” Tony said. “DC, Virginia Beach, Charleston, Mobile.”

  He grinned wider. “You like the water?”

  More like he didn’t do landlocked. He’d lasted a month in Atlanta, then hightailed it to Mobile. He needed the ocean, needed to know he wasn’t trapped. Guilt squeezed his heart, threatening a wave of memories. He focused on the man in front of him instead, cutting through the breakers. “I do,” he answered simply, hoping to move this along.

  But the tiger was a curious one. “Why’d you leave the City?”

  “The City,” Tony echoed, in the same enamored tone New Orleans had used.

  “You loved it too,” he rightly surmised.

  “Always will,” Tony answered. “It’s home.” In a way no place else ever would be, in a way he didn’t want any other place to be. Easier to keep moving. “I wanted to see more.” He closed the distance between them and splayed a hand over New Orleans’s chest, fingertips digging lightly into packed muscle. “I want to see more of what’s under here too.”

  The chef inhaled, bit his bottom lip, and laid a hand on Tony’s hip, nudging him closer. Tony went eagerly, and New Orleans drifted his hand over Tony’s ass, hauling him closer. The same anticipation that had been riding Tony all night had clearly been riding New Orleans too. The other man’s cock pressed against Tony’s thigh was thick and hard. Tony bit back a groan. It escaped, however, when New Orleans lowered his face and scraped his trimmed goatee across Tony’s cheek, the scruff-to-scruff friction insane. Tony clutched a fistful of cotton, and a gravelly laugh rumbled out of the man pressed against him.

  “Where’s home for you now?” he asked.

  Two questions wrapped up in one. The answer to either wouldn’t be the same tomorrow, but for tonight, home was thankfully close. “Two blocks over, three streets down.” He rocked his
hips and shifted his thigh, pressing more firmly against New Orleans and eliciting a gasp. He could play this game too.

  “Short walk.”

  Tony flattened his hand over the chef’s chest, rubbing over the nipple that puckered under his touch. “How about you take it with me so we can get out of these clothes and onto the promised fucking?”

  “Goddamn, I fucking want that.” New Orleans rocked his hips with more force and nipped at Tony’s neck. “Want you.”

  Gasping, Tony drew out of the other man’s arms before he came in his fucking pants. The only way he wanted to come tonight was with a certain chef’s big rough hand around his dick. He turned toward the alley exit and leered over his shoulder, shaking his ass a little for good, tortured measure. He held out a hand. “You coming with me?”

  “Oh, baby, more than once if I have anything to say about it.” He swaggered forward and slipped his hand into Tony’s. “Lead the way, Manhattan.”

  A random hookup on his last night here probably wasn’t the smartest move, but the hot, hungry look in New Orleans’s eyes was undeniable. As was the way he used Tony’s hand in his to move Tony in front of him, then looped his other arm around Tony’s chest and crowded close behind him, his hands roaming Tony’s front and his dick grazing Tony’s ass with every step they took together. A promise of the night ahead. Tony let the excitement and anticipation wash over him, not ignoring it any longer. He couldn’t think of a better send off.

  Chapter Two

  It was a short walk from the bar to the shotgun double where Manhattan was staying. Though walk was being generous; stumble was more accurate. Between the creative cocktails Greg had continued to consume and, once they’d left the alley behind the bar, his need to run his hands all over Manhattan’s tight, hot body, Greg hadn’t been overly concerned with putting one foot in front of the other.