by Beth Bolden
Damon leaned against the back counter, and Xander had a really difficult time not staring at his bare chest. A dark trail of hair that started just under his belly button disappeared into the towel, accentuating the ripples of his abs. He looked like he worked for a living—or maybe worked out for a living.
And even though Xander had sworn off crushes on men who were almost definitely straight long ago, he wanted to lay his palm across the bulk of Damon’s pectoral muscle and feel his heart beating underneath.
Xander told himself that he wasn’t staring, that he wasn’t obvious, but Damon was big in such a small space, and it was nearly impossible to look anywhere else.
A loud buzz from the washing machine interrupted the sudden silence, and Damon shot Xander a tiny, lopsided smile. The first smile he’d given Xander since they’d met. It wasn’t much but Xander had a feeling that he didn’t really have a lot of reasons to smile these days.
“That’s the cycle finishing,” Damon said apologetically. “I’ll go throw the wet things in the dryer, and you’ll be on your way in about twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” Xander asked, surprised—and if he was being very honest, disappointed—at the length of time he’d be required to stay here.
“Whether I like it or not, this is still a working farm. If you’d ever worked a farm, you know how vital laundry is,” Damon said, as he walked back toward the laundry room. Xander trailed him, not wanting to let him out of his sight. And that was definitely a problem.
“You’ve been tending the vines?”
Damon threw the clean clothes into the dryer and pressed the start button. He’d used the edges of the towel to tie some sort of complicated, very secure-looking knot around his waist. That towel wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how much Xander wished it would. “There’s not exactly anybody else.”
“Your whole family?” Xander pointed out. Damon looked up swiftly, his light eyes going darker. “I’m sorry,” Xander said hurriedly. “I have a terrible habit of being uncomfortably honest.”
Damon’s eyes went softer as they walked back to the kitchen. Xander resumed his position on the barstool, and to his surprise, Damon picked up his coffee from the kitchen and sat right down next to him. “I bet that doesn’t make you very popular sometimes.”
This was true, but Xander didn’t want to talk about it. Which, he supposed, was pretty hypocritical of him. After all, he’d tromped across a muddy vineyard to demand Damon tell him why he was destroying his vineyard.
“Sometimes,” Xander answered vaguely.
“So,” Damon said, “what do you think I should plant instead of grapes?”
He hadn’t been intending on telling Damon where he worked, but then Damon probably hadn’t intended on telling Xander he was an alcoholic, so Xander figured he owed him. “I work at a restaurant named Terroir.” He saw the moment the name registered and how familiar Damon was with it. But Xander forged on, anyway. “We source everything we can from local farmers and suppliers. This would be great ground to grow vegetables.”
“I didn’t know Bastian Aquino was a proponent of the farm-to-table movement,” Damon offered wryly.
“Chef Aquino does what is most convenient for Chef Aquino,” Xander admitted. “And it makes him look good to try to source stuff locally.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Damon said casually.
“You’ve met Chef Aquino?” Xander asked, which was stupid, because he was a Hess. The Hess family didn’t run the Valley exactly, because there were too many big wine families for anyone to have a monopoly, but they were definitely one of the more important players.
“A couple of times, before I moved away,” Damon said. “You must have skin like steel to work for him.”
“Yeah, something like that.” This was hardly the first time someone had pointed out that Bastian Aquino was an asshole, and it was definitely not going to be the last. “There’s a reason he’s affectionately known as the Bastard.”
“Have you ever thought about leaving?” Damon asked.
Had he ever thought about leaving?
It was tough to consider leaving, when everyone else kept leaving him. First, Miles, to his big cooking show career in Los Angeles, and then Wyatt, as a private chef to professional baseball player Ryan Flores.
Only Kian was left out of their original foursome of friends and roommates, and Xander wasn’t sure that these days Kian would even consider them close anymore.
That was the problem with trying to give people advice; when they wouldn’t listen and you started sounding like a broken, desperate record, your friendship generally suffered.
“I hadn’t. I became sous chef six months ago, and it’s better with some power in the kitchen.” This was a terrible lie, but Damon, who had plenty of demons of his own, didn’t need a rundown of Xander’s.
Especially considering that up until tonight, he’d even been tending the vines he’d eventually be driven to tear down. It must have been a bad night, and Xander was glad he’d intruded if only because Damon had clearly needed a distraction.
“You seem very capable, so I’m not surprised Bastian would promote you,” Damon said.
“You’ve never seen me in a kitchen,” Xander pointed out.
Damon flushed, and Xander had a heart-stopping moment where he thought he might be flirting with him. But that wasn’t possible.
Because even if by some miracle Damon was interested in guys, he probably wouldn’t be interested in Xander. He was a Hess. He owned some of the most valuable land in California. He was undoubtedly rich, with a handsome trust fund. Add to that his incredibly good looks, all of which added up to the fact that Xander needed to get out of here before he began thinking there could be some nebulous possibility here, with Damon.
“I’m going to go check the dryer,” Xander said, sliding off the barstool before he could get any more wild ideas.
Damon didn’t say anything, just stared down into his empty coffee mug.
Maybe he knew Xander was running away, but he definitely didn’t know why, and as far as Xander was concerned, that was what mattered.
The clothes in the dryer were still a tiny bit damp, but he pulled them out anyway, tugging his pants on, and pulling on his tank top. He dumped the towel into the washing machine, and walked back out toward the kitchen.
Damon was washing out Xander’s mug in the sink.
“Thank you, for coming to talk to me tonight,” Damon said before Xander could say goodbye. “I was having a really bad night. Worst night in awhile, if I’m being honest. And you showed up, even though you didn’t have to, and kept me company.”
It ached that Damon thought Xander had done it for selfless reasons. And there were selfless reasons, but selfish ones too. Like the way the muscles in Damon’s back bunched as he dried out the mug.
“You’re welcome,” Xander said quietly. He knew he should ask if he should stay, if Damon would like his phone number if he ever had a bad night again, because it didn’t seem like Damon had a lot of people he could talk to. But he didn’t do either of those things. Self-preservation, he told himself. “Actually, I should be going. I have an early morning tomorrow.”
“Of course you do.” Xander told himself that it was okay, that everything was fine, because there was a dark thread of amusement in Damon’s deep voice. If he was amused, he couldn’t still be struggling so much.
“Thanks for the coffee, and the washing machine, and for not calling the cops on me,” Xander said in a rush. He couldn’t quite look at Damon’s bare back anymore, and Damon hadn’t turned around to face him either.
This was better all around, Xander told himself.
“See you around,” Damon said.
Then there was nothing left to do except go the way he came, opening the back door to only a weak sprinkle. Xander said a blessing, shoved his feet back in his muddy sneakers, and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Two
One year later
Xander took the same route to work that he’d been taking for the last year.
He and Kian shared a car sometimes, when Chef Aquino didn’t need him ridiculously early in the day, and once Kian had asked why he’d changed his route.
Xander couldn’t tell him that he wasn’t willing to drive by Damon Hess’ vineyard and see him on his land again. It wouldn’t have mattered what he was doing, Xander still would have pulled over and demanded to know if the spark he’d felt that night was one-sided.
And if it wasn’t, he wanted to know what they were going to do about it.
He didn’t drive by, because he already knew it was a mistake to do anything about it. That’s why he didn’t even give himself the option.
It was sort of a lonely existence—home to work and then back home again. He argued with Kian about his ill-advised crush on their boss. Argued with Nate, their other roommate, about everything he could think of, and entertained himself by rebuffing every sexual offer he made. Nate entertained himself by continuing to make them.
There were some days when Xander would give anything to drive by the vineyard. Some days, ignoring the basic curiosity took all his self-control. Had Damon torn up the rest of the vines? Planted a garden? Sold the property? In the year since that night, Xander had imagined three hundred and sixty-five different possibilities.
Some good, some bad, some made up of plain normal life, but all full of a tantalizing possibility that Xander couldn’t seem to forget.
He knew he was romanticizing a single encounter that hadn’t even lasted an hour. But when the alternative was resenting the happiness his friends had found in LA, and worrying about Kian’s future, most nights Damon looked really damn good. Maybe even better than he had for real.
The memory took on an elastic quality, like it wasn’t quite real, and Xander exploited that, tugging it and turning it and manipulating it just a little. A second longer where he’d lingered, staring into Damon’s eyes. An undeniable interest in those eyes, instead of the more ambiguous truth.
When his job sucked, like today, it was comforting to pull the memory out, and relive his encounter with Damon the way he wished it would’ve happened.
“Bridges, what the fuck are you doing?”
Xander jerked himself out of the memory and instantly re-focused on the monotonous work in front of him. Naturally it was impossible to tell what was so terrible about his prep work on the eggplants—but that was par for the course with Chef Aquino. Every basic action was a disaster waiting to happen, and inevitably a disaster in his own paranoid mind.
Aquino yelled because he was a notorious sadist who apparently got his rocks off by torturing everyone within hearing distance.
Especially anyone who worked for him.
“Those aren’t thin enough,” Chef bellowed. His arms were crossed across his broad chest, chef jacket rolled to his elbows, exposing his forearms. They were objectively nice-looking forearms but Xander would have rather crawled into a pit of fire ants naked than find his boss attractive.
Besides, Kian had the market cornered on that kind of insanity.
“I’m using the mandolin,” Xander said slowly. Enunciating. Chef was not stupid, but sometimes he threw a hissy fit about the same stuff that he insisted they do every single damn night.
Apparently today was one of those times. To illustrate, Xander pointed to the metal slicer in front of him, clearly set on an eighth of an inch, because preciseness was the cornerstone of every kitchen, and the foundation of Terroir.
“Is that set correctly?” Chef demanded. Xander barely refrained from rolling his eyes, because it was clearly set on the correct setting.
Instead of saying anything, Xander leaned over, checked the setting, and exaggeratedly set it a click higher, then returned the dial back to an eighth of an inch.
“All better,” he said in a fake relieved voice. It wasn’t that convincing, because 1) Xander was not that good of an actor, and 2) he put in zero effort.
Chef’s eyes narrowed, like he wanted to call Xander on his attitude in front of the entire kitchen, who was currently watching their exchange with a held breath. It was the beginning of prep. If someone pissed Chef off now, they were in for another eight hours of hell. But he turned away abruptly instead of arguing, and stomped off into his office, calling for Kian as he walked off.
It wasn’t something Xander was proud of, but he was relieved that Kian was going to have to deal with the Bastard’s passive-aggressive pouting now instead of him.
After all, Kian was the one who acted like he was in love with that monster.
* * *
Damon Hess almost never gave a shit. Not anymore, not after he’d been forcibly dragged, demons kicking and screaming, back to the Napa Valley. Today, though, today mattered. Which was why he had given about half a shit, and had made sure his boots weren’t muddy, and his jeans didn’t have any particularly awful stains or patches.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” The Terroir hostess was as polished and elegant as the rest of the surroundings. Just casual enough, with her colorful scarf elegantly arranged over her classic little black dress, a pair of designer flats on her feet. There was always a reminder that under all the unstructured relaxation, this was one of the finest dining establishments in America.
“No,” Damon said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she might have been a budding actress, because she sounded genuinely apologetic. “We don’t have any tables available.”
She did, but she didn’t know that he knew that. He also really didn’t want to act like his father, walking into places, demanding everything he wanted, just because he was a Hess.
Unfortunately she wasn’t leaving him much choice, continuing to stare at him with that pleasant rejection smile on her face.
Damon sighed, considered leaning conspiratorially over the hostess stand, but it looked pretty flimsy, and it wouldn’t help his case to destroy the furniture.
“My father is meeting me here,” he lied. “I’m sure he’s going to be really disappointed that we couldn’t get a table at Bastian’s restaurant.”
She did two double takes. One, at the father comment. The second, that he called Chef Aquino, Bastian. Not many people did that and lived to talk about it.
Damon figured that he could have really been an asshole and called him the Bastard, but he still wanted a table, and that might have been a step too far for the hostess.
“And your father is?” she asked, directly yet delicately.
“Nathan Hess.” Damon would have rather ingested rocks than used that name, but he also really needed a table, and she’d left him no choice.
Her shoulders straightened. “Of course, right this way, sir.”
The sir was back, too, despite his too-casual jeans, and Damon hated it because he knew why she was saying it.
He was shown to a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing diners to look out on the incredible vistas of the Napa Valley, but near the corner, which guaranteed privacy. Damon had only come here with his father a handful of times, but it was enough to remember that this was his regular table.
The hostess waited for him to seat himself, draping the napkin across his lap with an elegant flick of her wrist. “I’m sorry, again, sir. I didn’t recognize you. We didn’t realize you’d come home.”
Damon hadn’t realized he’d come home either, so they had that in common. Maybe because home had never felt like a place to him, but a person, and then that had gone to hell. “Of course,” he said. “Not an issue.”
He was barely settled—pointedly ignoring the temptation of the wine book sitting so innocently in its cognac leather binding—when the waiter arrived to introduce himself.
“Mr. Hess, it’s so good to see you, sir,” the waiter said. He was Bastian’s perfect combination of urbane formality. “I hear Mr. Hess will be joining us.”
“He may be running late,” Damon said, and the waiter didn’t bat an eyelash. Likely he didn’t give
a shit, as long as he got a good tip. Which Damon fully intended to leave him.
“May I fetch you a glass of wine while you wait?” the waiter asked. He'd told himself to expect the question, because he was a Hess and because this was Napa, so it was easy enough to turn aside.
“I’ll have iced tea, unsweetened,” Damon said. “And I’d like to speak to a sous chef in your kitchen. Xander Bridges.”
Damon fully expected to see the panic lights flashing in the waiter’s eyes, and he didn’t disappoint. One of the tenets of Terroir was that you never saw any kitchen staff on the dining room floor, with the illustrious exception of Bastian Aquino himself. That was because Bastian was an egotistical maniac who couldn’t bear anyone else taking credit for his creations.
Even though everyone in here knew that Bastian wasn’t actually cooking their food.
“I’m not sure that’s possible, sir,” the waiter said. He had begun to sweat at his temples, and Damon might have felt sorry for him, but this was important.
Damon had learned from a very young age from observing his grandfather and his father that the most effective way to get people to do what you wanted was to keep repeating the request, over and over, without embellishment or explanation, until you simply wore people down.
“I know,” Damon said. “But I’d still like to see Xander Bridges.” He didn’t raise his voice, but made sure he sounded confident and firm.
He actually sounded like his father, which he would have hated and avoided at all costs except that these were extenuating circumstances.
“I’m . . .” The waiter paused, hesitating. “It’s really not done, to bring kitchen staff to the dining room.”
“If my father was sitting here,” Damon said, still staying pleasant, because it wasn’t the waiter’s fault that Bastian was crazy, “would you tell him that it wasn’t done? Or would you go to the kitchen and bring Xander Bridges up here?”
The waiter was definitely sweating now. “Uh,” he said, all eloquence momentarily evaporated.