Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  As Matt walked back to their bedroom to change his pants, Alex couldn’t help but feel that all of this—the happiness and the light and the hope for the future—that was in his life now was all because Matt had told him once, “I want to hear you sing someday.”

  Savor Me

  When Chef Xander Bridges leaves the warmth and safety of his car on a cold, stormy night and approaches a stranger, the last thing he expects to find is a future. He’s wanted to leave his job for awhile, but with no good opportunities on the horizon, he’s been stuck in a long, painful rut. But when he befriends the stranger viciously tearing up his own vineyard, Xander discovers something inexplicable. Maybe he’s not the bitter, sarcastic man that everyone, including himself, has endured for years.

  Maybe, with someone like Damon in his life, he could be something more. Something better.

  Damon Hess doesn’t just want more, he demands it. With his alcoholic past, there are no gray areas for him. Only black and white. In love or not. Sober or drunk. But the chance meeting with Xander opens Damon’s eyes, and gives him a vision full of something he hasn’t experienced in years: hope.

  Hope that he can expect companionship and affection, hope that he doesn’t have to grapple with his family’s questionable Napa legacy any longer, and most importantly, hope that there’s a future worth believing in. But the longer he and Xander spend cultivating that future, the more Damon realizes that the key is so much simpler than he ever imagined--it’s Xander.

  Chapter One

  What the fuck.

  Xander Bridges slammed on his brakes half a second before he remembered it was storming, the rain coming down in unrelenting sheets, and the road resembling a creek more than it did an actual swath of asphalt.

  It would have been really fucking difficult to make him forget it was raining—the water coming down from the sky had been relentless for his entire drive home from another long day at Terroir, the Michelin-starred restaurant where he worked insane shifts as a sous chef. But the sight before him made him forget nearly everything.

  To the left, there was a vineyard, which was not the surprising part of the view. There were vineyards everywhere you looked in the Napa Valley, some better, some worse, some merely mediocre. Xander knew that the vineyard he was looking at now wasn’t any of those. It was one of the first vineyards that had ever been planted by the Hess family, and therefore one of the first vineyards ever planted in Napa. It wasn’t just good or great or anything else on that spectrum; essentially, it was priceless.

  And there was a man out there, battered by the sheets of rain, yanking up the vines with his bare hands.

  It wasn’t even close to the smart thing to do. Xander hit the brakes anyway, and skidded along the edge of the road, finally coming to a stop right next to the embankment.

  He sat there for a moment, heart thumping with the surge of adrenaline. From the skid he’d taken or the man, who was still ripping up the vines, it was hard to say.

  If Wyatt or Miles, his best friends, had been here, they would have told him to keep his ass in the car and drive away. No good could come from him walking into the torrential downpour and confronting someone who was clearly insane. But Wyatt and Miles weren’t here—they had moved to LA, leaving Xander behind—and he was riding a rough-edged fuck it mindset these days.

  The only smart thing he did was to leave his phone in the console, charging, and to pull off the zip-up sweatshirt he’d thrown over the undershirt he generally wore under his chef whites.

  It was wet, sure, but it wasn’t cold, and he didn’t need to be bogged down by extra soaking wet fabric.

  He knew it was going to be miserable, but the first blast of moisture to the face still made him gasp as the rain ran down his face. Slamming the car door shut, he struggled through the mud of the embankment, finally making it to the edge of the vineyard. He climbed over the short, pointless wire fence, and started walking toward the man destroying hundreds of thousands of dollars of vines. Maybe even millions.

  The man hadn’t seen him yet, even though Xander stopped in front of him, only a few yards away. He was completely intent on the vines, hacking away at them with his bare fists, tearing and pulling and grasping, caught up in a rage that Xander recognized, deep down. He’d never acted on it though, had only internalized it, and had developed a finely honed sarcasm to express it safely.

  The man wasn’t internalizing jack shit.

  It occurred to Xander that despite not wanting to ruin his phone, he shouldn’t have left it in the car. Now he was completely at this man’s mercy, and he didn’t seem particularly stable, with a side dish of barely leashed control.

  He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be interfering. But he was here now, increasingly soaked, and so he spoke up.

  “What the fuck?” Xander asked.

  The man looked up, rain pouring down his face. His hair was dark and cropped close to his head, his face a pale swath under all that water, his eyes a surprisingly light bluish-green. They stared right through Xander, as he held himself motionless.

  It was something to behold; all that muscular power being held still. And Xander knew just what was hiding under his soaked flannel shirt because it clung to every inch of him. His jeans, too. Xander shouldn’t even be thinking it, but those were definitely the finest thighs he’d ever had the privilege of not seeing.

  At least if he died, he’d have a real good view at the end.

  “What are you doing here?” the man growled. “You’re trespassing.”

  “And you’re basically ripping up money,” Xander challenged right back. He really should have called the cops, instead of deciding to confront this guy by himself. What he was doing was a crime, wasn’t it?

  A segment of vine still hanging from the man’s hand dropped to the mud with a solid plop. “They’re mine, I can do whatever I want with them.”

  “Including being stupid?” Xander asked. Really the only stupid person here was him, but it was in his nature to keep pushing and not let things go. It was how he’d ended up sous at Terroir, and also how he’d ended up in this vineyard, past midnight, in the middle of a gigantic storm. It was probably how he was going to end up murdered, he thought darkly.

  The empty fist opened and then clenched tightly again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  This was undeniably true. “So why don’t you tell me,” Xander suggested. Not like they were in the middle of a storm. Instead like they had just met at a local bar, and Xander, completely unlike himself, had approached the built and rugged man everyone kept eyeing nervously and offered to buy him a drink.

  There was shock radiating out of those light eyes. Like the last thing he expected Xander to do was to ask. To care.

  As far as Xander was concerned, that was his ultimate curse. He always, always, always cared too much, no matter how much he tried to hide it under layers of sarcasm and bitterness.

  “You really want me to tell you.” His voice was cautious and a little gentle now, nothing like the fierce growl from only a few minutes ago. As if Xander had managed to calm him despite himself.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Xander spread his arms, the rain continuing to come down around them.

  “Hell if I know why,” the man grumbled. “Let’s get out of the rain first.” He jabbed a finger quick and sharp toward a ranch-style house that sat a few hundred yards away.

  Xander hesitated, and the man must have sensed it. He extended a muddy, grimy, bloody hand. “I’m Damon Hess.”

  Damon Hess. Well, now it was official. Xander felt stupid as shit. Damon probably owned these vines—or his family did. And why he was out here, in the middle of the night, ripping them to shreds, really wasn’t any of Xander’s business.

  Yet when he shook his hand, palm sliding wetly against Damon’s, Xander couldn’t miss a loneliness he recognized peeking out from behind the wall in his eyes.

  Maybe the man really needed someone to talk to, and that was why he’d resorte
d to the worst-case scenario of pulling up the god damned vines. God knew, Xander hadn’t been able to talk his friend Kian out of making an enormous mistake, but maybe he could be an ear for Damon.

  “Xander Bridges,” Xander said. “Sure, why not. Let’s go talk.”

  The walk to the house was both short and also an eternity. His pants were soaked through, the sodden fabric slapping against his legs, rain dripping down his chest in big, fat rivulets. He couldn’t wait to stop getting poured on, and find a towel. Karma, Xander supposed, for going after Damon, even though there was a god damn storm swirling around them.

  It was his whole fucking problem, encapsulated into one single decision. He always thought he could be good for people, could fix them, but the truth was, he was just as much of a disaster, if not more of one. His meddling typically made things worse, and at the end, he was always left holding the shit end of the stick.

  Damon threw open the back door of the house, glancing back at Xander. Luckily, it was the laundry room, and it was covered in a functional linoleum that they probably couldn’t ruin. Probably. Xander stayed on the concrete stoop, pretty sure his shoes and pants were both headed to the trash bin.

  “I’ll go grab some towels,” Damon said. He leaned over, fingers fumbling with the muddy laces of his boots. And Xander, who was a terrible human being, couldn’t help but check his ass out.

  He felt only a single pulse of guilt; it was a pretty fantastic ass, though not quite as fantastic as Damon’s thighs. But then, those were clearly a work of art, deserving of all sorts of worship that Xander would never get to perform.

  Damon finally got his boots untied and toed them off. He was only gone a moment, which made sense because it wasn’t that big of a house. It certainly wasn’t the kind of simple, homey residence that he’d expect a Hess to own, never mind live in. It felt more like a caretaker’s house, or a vineyard worker’s house.

  When he re-appeared, he was toweling off his head, color back in his cheeks, and Xander nearly took a step back, right back into the mud. Damon, who had looked pretty attractive in the middle of a rainstorm, was crazy hot. Sort of loner, intense hot, with that farmer thing going on. He unbuttoned his plaid shirt and dumped it straight into the open washing machine.

  Turning toward Xander, Damon extended a towel. “Feel free to use the washer, if you’d like,” he said, and the gruff sort of edge was back in his voice. Like he’d invited Xander here on a whim, and now he was rethinking the whole thing.

  Well, that made two of them. But Xander was curious now, too. Why would a Hess live here? Why would a Hess tear up his own vines? Never mind those vines?

  He wiped his face off, and without a second thought pulled his white tank over his head. He was in decent shape, and despite his own inability to stop checking Damon out, there was very little chance Damon was actually interested in men.

  Xander dropped the wet cloth into the washing machine and tried not to look as Damon dumped his own white undershirt in. He was definitely ripped. His muscles practically had muscles. He was tall and big, and since it wasn’t that big of a room he took it over.

  Damon didn’t look over at him as he wrapped the towel around his middle and shed his jeans, the fabric landing with a sodden plop on the floor. Xander copied his movements, shoved the wet pants into the machine, and Damon got it started.

  It wasn’t until the mechanical whir of the washing machine began that he looked up at Damon again. “Want some coffee?” he asked.

  “We’ve got an hour or so to kill,” Xander said wryly. “Sure.”

  He followed Damon through the house, and it was exactly as he’d imagined. The furniture was worn, and the house was lived in. There were books scattered throughout, a worn blanket tossed thoughtlessly across the back of the leather sofa.

  The kitchen was small, but very neat and very clean. Which, considering Xander’s profession, was an essential requirement.

  A stainless steel espresso machine gleamed on the counter, and a glance at the brand told Xander that it was worth probably more than all the furniture in the house combined.

  Damon fired it up, looking like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Espresso okay?” he asked.

  “I’ll take a cappuccino if you can manage it,” Xander said.

  Damon gave a rough laugh, and leaned over, grabbing a carton of milk from the fridge, all while holding his towel firmly around his waist.

  Xander slipped onto one of the barstools that overlooked the kitchen. “Why don’t you tell me what you were doing out there?”

  “You’re a chef,” Damon said, not answering Xander’s question.

  “I am.” Xander wondered what had given him away, then remembered he’d still been wearing half his chef uniform. At least before the distinctive checkered pants had gotten soaked and muddy and had taken a trip to Damon’s washing machine.

  “A good one?” Damon’s voice was deep and rumbling, like a boulder rolling down a hill. Xander liked how he could feel it deep in his chest. If he was being really honest, he liked it a little too much.

  “Yes,” Xander said shortly. He’d left his jacket with Terroir’s emblem embroidered on the pocket in the car, and it seemed like that was for the best. Xander had no intention of sharing that he worked for one of the best restaurants in the world.

  “So you’re connected,” Damon said. He turned back, holding out a solid white enamel mug in one hand, the other still keeping his towel up. Xander wanted to ask him what he was packing in his boxer briefs that had him so protective, but a lot of people didn’t understand or appreciate his sense of humor, and Damon was still very much an unknown entity.

  Xander took the coffee and took a sip. It was excellent, which either said something about the person who’d made it, or at least about the investment Damon had made in the machine.

  “What does that even mean?” Xander questioned. Damon turned back to the espresso machine to make his own cup. “Why does it even matter?”

  “I don’t want this getting out,” Damon said quietly. “People in Napa talk.”

  “Yeah, it’s a surprisingly small community,” Xander agreed. The wine and restaurant businesses were particularly intertwined, which was probably why Damon had questioned what kind of chef he was. Definitely good that he hadn’t mentioned he worked at Terroir. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, but I have to tell you, people are going to notice that you’re ripping up your vines. Especially those particular vines.”

  “You know what they are?” Damon questioned. He’d finished making his own coffee, and from Xander’s vantage point, it looked dark and thick as mud.

  “I’ve lived here a long time. I know a lot about this area.”

  “It’s inevitable people will notice the vines are gone. I just don’t want them knowing why.” Damon’s jaw tightened and his eyes looked particularly bleak, so light and clear in his tanned face.

  “I’m not going to go blabbing around, if that’s what you’re asking,” Xander retorted.

  “But you’re the kind of guy who pulls over at midnight, and goes tromping out into a muddy vineyard in the middle of a storm to ask me why,” Damon said.

  “Like I said, I know those vineyards,” Xander said, setting his coffee on the countertop with a decisive click. “I don’t think I need to tell you what they represent.”

  Damon looked away, his fingers tightening on his own coffee cup. “No, you do not.” He hesitated for a long moment, and if Xander’s clothes hadn’t been in the wash currently, he would have left. There was no point in trying to talk to someone who didn’t want to talk. It was like trying to milk solid fucking stone.

  Xander didn’t know which annoyed him more; this difficulty or Kian, who would actually listen to everything Xander said, and respond all the way up until the point where he flatly refused to change anything he was doing.

  “I’m an alcoholic,” Damon said finally.

  “Wow, that sucks. For a Hess, especially,” Xander said. He was definitely surprised, at le
ast at first, but when the confession sunk in properly, he realized it wasn’t all that shocking. Damon looked like he’d cornered the market in loner-ism. He was hiding out here, except that the property was surrounded by the very thing he was trying to battle.

  In fact, there were miles and miles of it, caging him in entirely. Suddenly, it wasn’t a shock that Damon had tried to tear down his vineyard with his bare hands—it was amazing that he hadn’t devastated all the vineyards in the Napa Valley.

  “For a Hess, yeah. It’s definitely not convenient for my family.” Damon’s voice was bitter. “I’d actually moved away, was doing better, away from all . . . this. But then my grandfather died, and they all wanted me to come home so desperately, I guess he thought leaving me one of the original properties was supposed to be an enticement.”

  “And it wasn’t,” Xander said.

  “It’s a fucking jail sentence,” Damon gritted out. “I’ve been sober four years, and this is a test I don’t want to fail. But I don’t know how to pass either.”

  “Put that way, I can’t blame you for destroying those vines. Have you thought about selling?”

  Damon looked mildly shocked. “Selling this property? To who? This has been Hess land as long as there have been Hesses in California. Besides,” he added wryly, “one of the stipulations of the will was I had to keep it for at least ten years.”

  “Does it have to be a vineyard?” Xander asked. His family had always been supportive of him. It hadn’t mattered if he wanted to be a chef or if he was gay. They hadn’t ever cared, had always loved him no matter what. It was hard hearing about someone who seemed decent who hadn’t had that unconditional support system surrounding him.

  Damon shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck what it is, as long as it’s not a vineyard.”

  “This is still wonderfully fertile land,” Xander said. “Why don’t you grow something else?”