by Layla Reyne
“No, it’s not. You always—”
“I lost my beverage director.”
Greg couldn’t help but laugh at the high-pitched “What?” that had no business coming out of a man as big as Miller.
“I pressed too hard and scared him off.”
The pop and hiss of a beer cap was unmistakable. A gulp later, Miller had his voice back. “Okay, Valteau, start from the top.”
He filled Miller in on everything he’d shared with Tony the past four weeks. The tastings, the menus, the laughs, the first hiccup, a picture of the wall with Tony’s elegant solution.
“You haven’t lost him,” Miller said.
“He said it was time for him to go. He hasn’t answered any of my calls. He—”
“One look at that wall, and I can tell you that bar means as much to him as it does to you. He gets it, and he gets you.”
“What if that’s not enough?”
“Babe, breathe.” Miller waited for him to inhale twice. “Now go behind your bar and get a shot of whiskey.”
Greg followed the advice and, after a shot of Four Roses, felt a measure calmer. “Better, thank you.” He tossed back another, then set the glass in the bar sink. “What am I gonna do, Miller?”
“God help us, but you need to put on your Detective Valteau cap.”
“Fuck you.”
“Made you laugh though, didn’t it?”
He had, the asshole. And Miller knew him well enough to keep playing into Greg’s amateur detective streak. “Do you know why he reacted the way he did? And don’t say it’s because you pushed too hard. I saw the way he looked at you when I was there. This isn’t one-sided. He wants you too.”
Greg mentally rewound every conversation he’d had with Tony, from the past four weeks and from nine months ago. “Something happened, five or so years ago. He hasn’t stopped moving since.”
“Moving or running?” Miller asked, a heightened note of concern coloring his North Carolina drawl.
“Moving,” Greg assured him. “I’ve never gotten the impression he’s being chased. Just needs to keep moving. Like he doesn’t want to be in one place for too long.” Another flash of memory from last summer. “He said he doesn’t visit the same place twice.”
“But he came back for you and Dram. He’s attached to you and that bar. That backbar wall proves it.”
“It scares him,” Greg put together. “That attachment.” He leaned against the bar and laid a hand over his heart, futilely trying to soothe the pain there. Not for himself, but for Tony. “Fuck. I gotta find out why.”
“Yeah, you do, and whether you can help him overcome it, because you two need each other.”
And Dram needed them both.
Tony didn’t go straight back to his rental. If this was his last day in New Orleans, he had several stops to make. Iced coffee from French Truck, beignets from Du Monde, another burger from Port of Call, a cherry hand pie. He savored each treat one last time, because this would be his last ever trip to the Big Easy. He would never be able to return here and not run straight into Gregory Valteau’s arms.
The fears he’d had before leaving San Francisco, the ones he’d confessed to his sister on the road here, were one hundred percent founded. The pull to stay in New Orleans and with Greg at Dram—our bar, he’d called it, and that’s what it felt like now—was so strong Tony almost went back on the promise he’d made to himself five years ago. He’d had to leave, had to get out of there before he was well and truly fucked in more ways than one. So he visited his favorite NOLA spots, tucked the cherished memories away next to his aching heart, and struggled to button it up. When he returned to his rental, he couldn’t flop onto the mattress and cry. He needed to pack and get on the road. There were still hours of summer twilight left.
He rounded the corner onto his street, saw the man sitting on his front stoop, and mentally scrapped his head start out of town. This was the other reason he’d spent time out after fleeing the bar. He’d hoped Greg would’ve given up by now. The text messages had dwindled over the past hours, and he’d thought it safe to return. Stupid. Greg had instead gone to the place he knew Tony would have to return to eventually. The man had persevered in some of the toughest kitchens in New York and was on his fourth restaurant here. He didn’t give up.
Tony ate the last bite of his pie and crinkled up the pouch. Greg lifted his head, eyes darting from his phone to Tony, then to the plastic wrapper in his hand. “You hang around a while longer, I’ll get you the real thing, not that imitation version.”
Tony halted in his tracks, and Greg lifted a hand. “Sorry, sorry. Hubig’s versus Haydel’s is a touchy subject for us locals.”
“That’s not why I stopped.”
“I know. A man can dream.” Greg tucked his phone into his pocket and glanced over his shoulder at the rental. “You liked this place enough to come back to it.”
Tony forced his feet to move and forced his heart to slow and stop trying to beat out of his chest. “Timing worked out.”
“Like it did for you to come back to New Orleans?”
“No,” Tony admitted as he came to stand in front of Greg. “I made time for that.”
Greg snagged one of his belt loops and tugged him closer. “Talk to me, Manhattan. If nothing else, I’d like to think we’re friends now.”
“We are.” Tony couldn’t resist running a hand over Greg’s head, loving the way the short hairs tickled his fingertips. Loving the dark, earnest eyes that looked up at him with genuine concern. Loving… They were friends, and more, judging by the way all that love tugged at the center of his chest. Which was why he couldn’t stay. The pull would only get stronger, and it would be even harder to leave when he had to.
He dropped a kiss on the crown of Greg’s head, then sat on the stoop next to him. It was hot and humid tonight, so very unlike the West Coast, but it reminded Tony of home. Maybe that’s also why the fear had kicked in so hard and fast today. But it was cooler now than it had been earlier, and people were out on the street, heading to dinner and enjoying the evening. Also like evenings in the City. That was as good a place as any to start his story. “I stayed still for a long time. In New York.”
“Because of your dad?”
Of course Greg had caught that. And remembered it still, nine months later. Not only was he a great chef, he was also observant. Sometimes a little too much, but it was endearing. And it helped move this particular conversation along.
“My mom left when I was a kid, so it was just me, Dad, and my sister, Julia. He was a lawyer, and we lived well, relatively, for Manhattan. And then an accident happened my freshman year of high school. He was hit by a car on his way to work. Fucked up his spine, which led to a whole host of other health issues.”
“The drinks you mentioned?”
“Helped with the pain. He tried to work through it, but that didn’t last long. He wasn’t a drunk or mean when he drank. Nothing like that. It just eased the pain, as much as anything could for someone in that much agony.”
Greg threw an arm around him, and Tony accepted the offered comfort. “I stayed home,” he continued. “And Jules went to college.” When Greg tensed, Tony rushed to add, “I didn’t begrudge her that in the least. I wasn’t the best student, so college was never going to be for me.”
Greg relaxed, even chuckled a little. “Same with Miller. He went straight into a kitchen. No college, no culinary school, and he’s the best chef I know.”
“Kind of the same here. I took online bartending courses, tested out recipes with my dad, and once I turned twenty-one, on the one weekend a month my sister visited, I’d work nonstop at one of the bars in the Village that needed extra weekend hands. Two years doing that.”
“Worked up a good savings?” At Tony’s nod, Greg added, “But you eventually left?”
“Dad passed away five years ago. I left the day after his funeral.”
Greg released a giant breath and held Tony tighter. “And you never stopped mov
ing.”
He buried his nose in Greg’s shoulder. “I loved my dad, he was my hero, but being stuck in that house…” He swallowed hard, remembering the feeling of the walls closing in, of the sound of his father chewing food making him want to crawl out of his skin. The fear of never escaping. Then guilt walloped him, as it always did. He spoke before it drowned him. “I like being a nomad. Never feeling stuck again.” He turned his face to Greg. “New Orleans is the only place I’ve ever come back to.”
Greg cupped his cheek. “And you’re not ready to stop moving yet.”
Eyes closed, Tony nuzzled into the touch, savoring that too. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be. There’s so much I was afraid I’d never get to see.”
“Never taste.”
“That too.”
Warm lips pressed against his forehead. “Thank you,” Greg said, “for coming back here. It must have been difficult.”
Tony leaned in and curled a hand around Greg’s neck. “But that’s just it, New Orleans. It wasn’t. It hasn’t been.” He moved his hand up, thumb tracing Greg’s jaw and coasting over his soft lips. “This is so easy, at Dram and with you, and that scares the fuck out of me.”
Greg covered Tony’s hand with his, turned his face inward, and kissed Tony’s palm. “What if I showed you it didn’t have to? That you could be here and still see the world?”
Tony shook his head. “I don’t—”
Greg bolted to his feet, then leaned down and stole Tony’s breath with a swift, hard kiss. When he pulled back, Greg was wearing the wicked smirk that made Tony’s stomach flip. “Give me one more day.”
“I was planning—”
“One more day, please, baby. Take tomorrow off, then meet me at the restaurant at seven. If nothing else, let me do this as a thank you for all you’ve done.”
Turning down that smile, turning down the chance to taste the talent that was Greg Valteau one last time was impossible. It was a risk, but one Tony was compelled to take. “All right. Tomorrow at seven.”
“You need any last-minute pointers?”
Passing by the phone he’d propped against a mixing bowl, Greg shot his best friend a glare. “I did go to culinary school.” He grabbed the tongs and rotated the ribs on the grill top.
“Got a hollandaise on the menu?” Miller asked.
That warranted a trip back in front of the phone and a middle finger. “Fuck you.” For calling him out on his culinary devil on a night when he was nervous enough already. “And the answer is no. Just like I told Tony, I’m never putting that bitch on a menu.”
Miller raised both hands in a praise pose. “Thank fuck.”
Greg had to laugh, and Miller’s answering smile shone bright in his beard. “Good,” Miller said. “You needed that.”
He did. It was the first break in tension since he’d left Tony the night before. Since this plan had come together in his head. He’d spent hours last night planning the menu, snatched a little sleep, and then today had run all over town gathering ingredients and putting it together.
He wanted the dinner to be special for Tony. Greg meant what he’d said the previous night. Even if the evening didn’t go the way he wanted, he owed Tony the special meal as a thank you for the hard work he’d put into making Greg’s vision for Dram a reality. But Greg sure as fuck hoped the night went the way he wanted. Except…
“I don’t want to fuck this up,” he said as he stirred the skillet of simmering sofrito.
“Not the kind of fucking you need to worry about tonight.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “I cannot wait for you to meet some snarky twink who will turn your world upside down.” There was a reason he and Miller had never hooked up. They were too much alike, and neither was the other’s type.
“Says the man trying to win the heart of a hipster.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Miller laughed out loud, but when he spoke again, it was with all the love and affection of the encouraging best friend Greg was lucky to have on his side. “It’s a good plan, babe. Go with it.”
It was a good plan, judging by the samples he tasted down the line. “It all came together.” The meal, like Dram… “Because of him.”
“And because you are a fabulous chef and a fabulous human being.” Miller kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them to the screen. “Now go show that boy the world.”
The phone went dark, just as the guest chime beeped, signaling the front door opening and closing. Greg glanced at the front of house monitor, at Tony standing there in an outfit much like the one he’d worn the night they’d met—black jeans, dress shirt, vest. He was gorgeous, and Greg’s chest tightened more than a little at the notion that this could be their last night together. Tony’s reasons for being a nomad these past five years were more than valid. And if he wasn’t ready to put down roots yet, or ever, then that was valid too. It would suck for Greg, but he’d have to accept it. Unless he could convince Tony he could see the world… from here.
Chapter Nine
Tony didn’t know why he’d expected a candlelit two-top when he walked through the door. The set up at the bar—two simple place settings, each with a champagne flute, and nineties grunge playing through the speakers—was far more Dram’s speed. The speed he and Greg had carefully crafted. Seeing the bar and place all set up, ready for critics in a few short days, for the public in a couple short weeks, Tony felt a sense of pride and accomplishment that had been missing from his other bartending gigs.
Who was he kidding?
His time here hadn’t just been a gig. It had been a labor of love, on multiple counts. Which was why he’d decided to join Greg for dinner, after going round and round in his head about it all day. He’d dragged his sister onto the merry-go-round too, and it was ultimately her simple question, a variation of the same one she’d asked him a month ago—“Do you want to go to dinner, Anthony?”—that had convinced him. He’d answered the same—yes—without hesitation. He and Greg were friends, and he owed it to his friend to celebrate what they’d achieved, what they’d created.
“Grab a stool.” Greg strode out of the kitchen in a stained chef’s coat with a tray balanced on one hand.
Tony had seen him in the chef’s coat plenty of times, but something about tonight felt different. Bigger. He made a joke to cut the tension before it strangled him. “Is there any dinner left, or is it all on your coat?”
Greg grinned, big and goofy, and pointed at a red stain midway up his torso. “This one’s my favorite, but you gotta work up to that course.”
Tony eyed the tray he held aloft. “Gonna tell me about that one?”
Greg’s smile morphed from comical to genuine, soft and proud, and most of all, joyful. He so obviously loved feeding and serving people. “It would be my pleasure. Pull up a stool.”
Tony settled in front of a place setting, and onto the square chargers, Greg set small plates with silver domes covering their contents. Tony reached out to remove the domes, but Greg’s hand on his forearm stopped him.
“Drinks,” Greg said. “Give me just a minute.”
He expected Greg to duck into the wine closet for a bottle of champagne, which he did, but he didn’t come right back to the stools. He lifted the bar flip and skirted behind the bar instead. “What are you up to, New Orleans?”
“You’ve put as much into Dram as I have the past month.” He grabbed a shaker out of the bar fridge and gave it a few quick pumps. “I wanted to highlight my favorite contributions of yours.” He opened the shaker, fitted on the strainer, and lavender, lemon, and the juniper notes of gin scented the air as Greg poured the base of Tony’s Twisted French into the flutes. The first drink he’d styled for Dram. Greg topped it with champagne and garnished the drink with a spiral of lemon rind and a sprinkle of lavender leaves, just how Tony’s bar bible directed.
Once Greg was back on his side of the bar and settled on the stool next to him, Tony lifted his glass for a toast. “Nicely done.”
Greg turned up the music and tapped the rim of his glass against Tony’s. “We’re just getting started.”
It wasn’t a lie. Greg lifted the silver domes off the plates, revealing canapés of mornay-filled gougères, pork rillettes, and tiny truffled-grilled-cheese sandwiches. Tony might have groaned a little at his first bites. And again at the rich and light chawanmushi that followed. Steamed custard topped with gulf shrimp and radish, served with the Sake Summer, a sake, gin, and citrus concoction perfect for drinking in the hot weather.
And the medley continued. Jamón ibérico and manchego cheese croquettes, served with a Pom Fizz Paloma, the traditional Paloma recipe enhanced by pomegranate-infused club soda. Mojo chicken street tacos with Tony’s own Planter’s Punch, pineapple-orange juice with a spike of cranberry and aged rum. Tandoori chicken skewers with a dark rum mojito, the sweetness balancing out the spice. Drambuie-glazed baby back ribs, which were served with a perfectly mixed Balcones Bomb, one of the first drinks Tony had served Greg.
Conversation came easily, moving with the ebbs and flows of the dishes and music. Greg told Tony about each dish—its inspiration, beyond just the drink, who he’d sourced the ingredients from, when he’d first had it. And Tony came up with even more cocktail pairings, energized by Greg’s cooking. While all these foods wouldn’t be on the menu at the same time, owing to seasonality and scaling for a packed restaurant, it was an impressive display of Greg’s range and talent as a chef and his vision for Dram. The food wasn’t any one cuisine, which meant the drinks, the bar, and the place—the community it fostered—really would be the star. It was going to be fabulous.
Tony guessed, by the wide smile on Greg’s face, that the dish he was carrying out next was going to be fabulous too. It was clearly his favorite, the one that had caused the stain on his chef’s coat, which he’d ditched halfway through the meal. He set a bowl on each charger and an empty one between them. “My dad used to fix a version of this dish when I was a kid,” he said as he circled around to the other side of the bar. “There are varieties all over the world, but this one is modeled off a Peruvian recipe. And to go with…” He pulled out another shaker, and the drink he poured was very much expected.