by Beth Bolden
Kian looked like he was desperate to argue, but they both knew it would be a lie. Turning, Xander walked back down the hall to his bedroom and tried to ignore it when he heard the door shut behind Kian and the engine turning over on Bastian’s Audi R8.
Picking up his phone from the table, he sent Damon a quick text. The Bastard was just here, I’m assuming you had to deal with him too. We’ll talk later tonight. I’ll be there around five.
He lay back down, stared at the ceiling and tried to banish the thought that he’d just made a life-altering mistake. Things would be different, Xander told himself, but they could be good different. At the very least, he wouldn’t be making the same mistakes over and over again.
Then he remembered how his blood had spiked every single damn time he looked at Damon, and yes, maybe he was about to make a mistake, but at least this was a familiar mistake.
* * *
“What’s all this?” Damon asked when he opened the door.
“Dinner,” Xander said, hefting one of the grocery bags a little higher on his hip. “I got the impression last time I was here that you were good with that espresso machine but that you don’t use your stove that much.”
Damon grinned, unexpectedly fierce and bright, and it nearly knocked Xander right back. “Guilty as charged,” he admitted, opening the door wider to let Xander come into the house.
It looked much the same as it had that night, a year ago. A little cleaner, perhaps, like Damon had gotten that text and had decided to neaten up in anticipation of Xander coming over.
This is not a date, Xander reminded himself.
He’d had to remind himself of this more than once when he’d been at the grocery store picking up food for tonight. First he’d agonized at the meat counter. When you brought a filet for dinner, what did it mean? What about salmon? Shrimp?
Love, marriage, or maybe even eternal devotion? A white picket fence?
Xander had to stop himself before he asked the butcher if the different cuts had deep, secret meanings, like flowers. There was no cut of meat that communicated: “this is just a friendly work dinner, but if you wanted it to be more, I could be convinced. And by the way, do you like men?”
“I decided,” Xander told Damon as they walked through the living room toward the kitchen, “that it would be completely stupid for you to hire me if I’d never even cooked for you before.”
Damon shrugged, one side of his mouth quirking up a little. It had the side effect of making his bottom lip look very bitable.
Xander set his groceries on the kitchen counter and began to unpack them like they held the secret to world peace. He was attracted to Damon and it was a problem, but their partnership didn’t have to be defined by his inconvenient attraction.
“I think I’d like to see you explore what you’re interested in,” Damon said quietly as he settled in one of the barstools. The same one Xander had occupied a year ago. Xander told himself that meant nothing. After all, there were only three barstools to pick from. Maybe that one was secretly the most comfortable and Xander had just gotten lucky.
It did something to the base of his stomach to think that Damon didn’t care; that he just wanted to give Xander the freedom and the space to do what he wanted. It had been a very long time since anyone had thought highly enough of him to do that, and Xander told himself not to be fooled into thinking that’s what this was.
“You really don’t care?” Xander asked in disbelief.
He’d never hired a chef before. Maybe when you hired one, you just naturally assumed you were getting their point of view, not your own.
“My point of view is the garden,” Damon said. “As long as you use as much of it as you can, I’m good.”
And Xander had taken at least that much away from their previous conversations about the restaurant, so he’d bought lots of vegetables, which he spread out across the counter now.
“Someday,” he told Damon, “all this will be from your garden.”
Damon set his elbows on the counter, forearms rippling with muscle, because even though he was wearing another plaid shirt, of course he’d rolled up the sleeves. But his intent couldn’t be to drive Xander crazy; it was just probably more comfortable. Maybe those crazy gorgeous forearms didn’t even fit properly into shirts.
Xander swallowed hard and looked away. “I figured I’d make a quick pasta with roasted garlic and sautéed vegetables. I got a nice salmon filet too.”
“Salmon’s good. I like salmon,” Damon said.
It was weird cooking in someone else’s kitchen, and it was even weirder doing it with Damon watching him so intently.
All of Damon’s pans were hung up on a nice suspended rack in front of the front counter. They weren’t the best pans he’d ever worked with, but they were fine for his purposes tonight. He picked one and set it on the stove. After breaking down the head of garlic, he set a few cloves in to roast, and cleared the marble counter to make his fresh pasta.
“So Aquino came to see you,” Xander said. He’d figured out quickly that Damon wasn’t a big talker, unless you asked him a direct question and expected an answer. And not only was the purpose of tonight’s dinner to make sure his cooking didn’t disgust his new partner, it was also important to get to know each other better. After all, Xander had come here with every intention of signing the contract, and he knew there was due diligence he needed to exercise first.
“Yeah, this morning. I knew he was a jerk, but wow,” Damon muttered darkly.
“And he told you about the job he wanted to offer me,” Xander said. He wasn’t mad exactly . . . but maybe he was. Maybe he would have taken the chef de cuisine position—Damon didn’t know him well enough to know either way.
The last thing he wanted was a partner who thought he knew best and would speak for Xander. Of course, Xander didn’t really think Damon was like that, but the worry was still there, hidden in the back of his mind.
After all, Xander wouldn’t be Xander if he wasn’t always expecting the other shoe to drop.
“Yeah,” Damon said, and then he laughed self-consciously. “He told you that I said you’d turn it down, didn’t he?”
Xander had wondered if Aquino was trying to play them against each other, hoping he’d come out on top if their partnership fell apart before it ever began, but it was extra annoying to discover that he’d been right.
“He did,” Xander confirmed.
“I did say that I thought you’d walked out for good reasons that had nothing to do with me. I didn’t think you’d take the job back, unless they were extraordinary circumstances.”
“It wasn’t even extraordinary circumstances that made me walk out,” Xander said wryly. He cracked a few eggs in the center of the flour he’d formed into a loose pyramid shape on the marble. “More the straw that broke the camel’s back. He pulled one of his stupid ego stunts and I suddenly thought, what the fuck am I still doing here, catering to this asshole?”
Damon nodded. “I didn’t mean to speak for you, I just wanted him off my land with his smug attitude, if I’m being honest.”
Xander waved a flour-dusted hand. “It’s fine, really. He is a smug asshole, it’s undeniable. He was even smugger when he came by my house today. It felt good to tell him to get the fuck out.
“But,” he continued, “I don’t want to get things off on the wrong foot. I just left a restaurant where nothing I said mattered. One of the reasons your offer looked so appealing was my opinion counting. And I want it to count.”
Damon didn’t say a word, just slid a sheaf of papers across the eating counter, until they were precariously balanced over where Xander was mixing his pasta dough.
“It’s all there,” he said. “You get full say over the menu. Kitchen design. Collaborative input over the design and direction of the dining room and the restaurant itself. I want us to be partners. Don’t let Aquino get in the way of that.”
“I don’t want to,” Xander said. “I want this to work out.”
All the rest they could figure out later.
“I don’t have a pasta machine,” Damon said apologetically just as Xander whipped out a long wooden rolling pin that he’d had forever and that worked beautifully on pasta.
“I guess you don’t need one,” Damon added, a self-conscious smile on his face.
“I’m adaptable, and I like doing things by hand,” Xander said as he steadily rolled out the dough. “This whole process is relaxing for me.”
“Is that why you started cooking?”
“I’m not sure why I started,” Xander admitted. “Probably because my mom was always teaching in the late afternoons and someone had to make dinner.”
“Your mom was a teacher?”
Xander told himself the real interest he was hearing in Damon’s voice didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t sure he entirely believed it.
“Piano,” Xander said. He shifted the sheet of dough on the counter, making sure it wouldn’t stick. He looked up at Damon. “Pizza wheel?”
“Second drawer to the left of the stove,” Damon answered right away, and Xander had to admire a man who was organized enough to know where all his tools were.
“I eat frozen pizzas a lot,” he admitted when Xander pulled it out of the drawer.
“Not anymore you don’t,” Xander retorted. He paused, pizza wheel above the dough, and really thought about Damon’s question from earlier. “I guess I started cooking because I had to. I kept going because I was good at it. But I’m ready to figure out again why I still want to.”
“I hope you can.” Damon looked down at his hands. From where he was standing, Xander could see the nicks and cuts and the sheen of dirt that he couldn’t get off no matter how much he washed. They were the hands of someone who worked with them for a living.
Xander began to cut the dough into long, thin strips, demonstrating his own confidence in his hands. Not many people made pasta with only hand tools—but Xander liked the rustic quality it gave the pasta. He also liked relying entirely on himself to get the job done.
“That’s amazing,” Damon said, sounding awed as Xander, with a few clever flips of his fingers, curled the pasta into several little nests, dotting the countertop. “You’re totally going to throw away my frozen pizzas.”
“You want pizza, at least let me make it for you,” Xander insisted. He ignored the thrill that resounded deep at the idea of feeding Damon for every meal.
He wasn’t Damon’s personal chef, but maybe he wanted to be. Maybe he wanted to be everything Damon needed.
Definitely everything he wanted.
He pulled out his chef’s knife and began decimating the pile of zucchini and squash that he’d bought at the store, and maybe his chopping motion was a little more emphatic than it needed to be, but who could blame him?
It didn’t matter that he’d gone down this road before, and it had been epically disastrous. Clearly he hadn’t learned, because it didn’t feel like falling for Damon was a matter of if, more a matter of when.
Finishing up with the vegetables, and moving onto the salmon, Xander looked up, surprised at the quiet. Damon wasn’t a big talker, but they’d been having a decent conversation, he was taken aback to see that the other man had disappeared.
The seasoning on the salmon was simple—just a squeeze of lemon, a sprig of dill, and some salt and pepper. Despite claiming he didn’t cook, Xander noticed that his pepper grinder was high quality, and the salt was the brand Xander himself recommended.
Damon might not cook for himself, but he knew his way around a kitchen. Xander wondered why he’d stopped. He knew it didn’t always make sense to go to the trouble just for yourself, but Damon, despite his solitary demeanor, maybe hadn’t always been alone.
“Table’s set,” Damon said, and Xander turned back from the stove, surprised to hear his voice. He’d gotten lost in the quiet, and in the rhythm of prep and cooking.
The salmon sizzled on the stove behind him. “Where are we eating?” Xander asked. “I’ve got about five more minutes here. The pasta just needs to cook, and then tossed with the vegetable medley.”
“Outside,” Damon said, gesturing. “I figured we should eat our first meal together as partners in the garden. Found an old table, dragged it out. It’s not perfect, but it’ll work.”
“That’s . . .” Pretty fucking romantic, Xander didn’t want to say. “That’s really nice,” he rephrased, mentally wincing at how lame that sounded.
A few minutes later he was carrying plates outside, following where Damon had gone through the sliding glass door to the garden. Sure enough, there was a flagstone patio with an old wooden table set with silverware and glasses, and god damnit, he’d lit candles and there were several strings of clear Christmas lights crisscrossing the patio, augmenting the mood lighting.
This is not a date, Xander reminded himself for the hundredth time.
Maybe it wasn’t him that needed reminding though. But did Damon even like men? Xander wondered. He didn’t really give off a gay vibe, though Xander had felt some sort of interest directed toward him more than once.
And now there was this.
“I hope iced tea is okay,” Damon said. “I brew it myself.”
Normally Xander would have begged a nice white or a rosé from Nate to complement the meal, but obviously he wasn’t going to drink in front of someone who was a professed alcoholic. Not unless Damon made it explicitly clear that it was okay. And from Damon’s offer of tea, Xander took that the opposite was actually true.
It was okay, it was fine. Xander didn’t need a glass of wine with a meal. It just would have settled the sudden fluttering of the butterflies at the base of his stomach as he set the plates down on the table and slid into a chair.
He watched, trying to be casual and not like he was internally freaking out, as Damon lit the candles, and slid the lighter into his pocket.
“This looks great. Thank you for coming over and cooking,” Damon said, and his warm smile made Xander wonder just how lonely he’d been since coming back to Napa.
“It was no trouble. Plus, I figure it’s a semi-decent audition.” More than semi-decent, if Xander was being honest. He cut into his salmon, and was definitely pleased by the slight pinkish tone of the inside. It was perfect.
Eat your fucking heart out, Bastian Aquino.
“You don’t need to audition,” Damon scoffed.
“Because I worked at Terroir?” Xander said, taking a sip of tea. It was well-brewed, with the faintest hint of mint on the tongue. Not too sweet, either. And was that basil in the aftertaste? Xander remembered the perfect cappuccino from that night a year ago, and now this tea, clearly crafted with love and skill. An undeniable skill.
Damon inclined his head, twirling pasta on his fork.
That was a non-answer, but Xander wondered if he’d get anything more straightforward out of the man. He was quiet, so much of him buried far under the surface—and he was dying to go digging.
“Obviously, you grew up here,” Xander said. “But you mentioned you left for awhile.”
The corner of Damon’s full mouth quirked up. Like he knew that Xander was digging and why. Maybe he did, but then if he knew, why had he set this table with candles?
“I did leave. It turns out that living in Napa sucks for an alcoholic.” He took a deep breath. “I left after my divorce. Not only was Napa too small for me and the vines, it was too small for me and Rachel.”
It shouldn’t have hurt. It was hardly an official statement of his sexuality. Lots of men married women and liked men. Lots of men liked both. It was hardly the end of hope, but the salmon in Xander’s mouth turned to ash.
“I didn’t know you were divorced,” Xander said s
tupidly, like Damon was an open book, when actually the opposite was true. The truth was, he didn’t know what else to say without exposing his own interest in Damon. He’d known it was a bad idea from the first moment, and here was nearly the confirmation he needed to believe it.
“I don’t exactly go around talking about it,” Damon said with a quiet, wry amusement.
“Right, no, of course not.” Xander hesitated. “I’ve never been married.”
“I know,” Damon said, and the amusement was a little more pronounced now.
Xander raised an eyebrow.
“You and your friends, all Terroir employees, all living in that rental house. You’re not exactly low-key, not in this small town. Lots of people are willing to talk if you ask.”
So Damon knew he was gay, and he’d asked about him. Xander knew what he’d probably heard: gay orgies and all other sorts of sordid rumors. None of which were actually true, because nobody who worked fourteen-hour days on average, six days a week, had the energy to hold orgies.
“And what did they say?” Xander asked, more than a little bitterly. He couldn’t help it. He felt dumb and played, because he’d gotten distracted by an incredible pair of forearms and some soulful gazes.
“That you’re hardworking. That you all barely sleep. That you run that restaurant for Bastian Aquino. That you’re good guys who work for a shitty boss.”
Not what Xander had been expecting him to say.
“That was all I listened to,” Damon continued and the kindness in his voice was both galling and a balm to all that bitterness flooding him.
“You could have come and asked me directly. Might have avoided some of the more . . . colorful stories,” Xander pointed out.
“I didn’t want to approach you before I was ready.” Damon ducked his head, flush on his cheeks, almost like he was bashful about this confession. “I sought you out when I was ready. That night we met, I wasn’t ready. Not even close. I’m still not as rock steady as I want to be, but the garden helps and this project has kept me going. Even more, I want to be the kind of partner you deserve.”