by Beth Bolden
Damon groaned out loud. He was so fucked. Especially if Xander was as drawn to Damon as Damon was to him.
We’re on.
S’mores sound really good. I’ll bring homemade marshmallows.
Don’t argue. They’re so much better than the ones at the store. Will prove it tomorrow night.
Damon wasn’t going to argue, and if he had, he only intended to put up a token protest. He was more than ready to let Xander prove the marshmallows, and just about anything else, tomorrow night.
Chapter Six
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Xander glanced up from the candy thermometer he was carefully monitoring to see Kian standing in the doorway. It was four in the afternoon on a Thursday, and Kian wasn’t at Terroir.
There must have been a disruption in the Force, or maybe the Bastard finally grew a single heart molecule.
“I could ask you the same question,” Xander retorted steadily. He and Kian hadn’t seen each other since their fight almost a week ago, and every time he thought about the way Kian had sided with Aquino, something in his stomach burned.
He would’ve sworn it was indigestion, but after dealing with it for a few days and swearing off all spicy food, it remained, persistent and annoying. Making him, who was completely the innocent and wronged party in this scenario, feel guilty. It wasn’t right, and Xander wasn’t happy about it.
“I cut myself pretty badly, had to go to the ER,” Kian said. “Chef told me to take the night off.”
This time Xander really looked at his friend, and it turned out the large, white bandage on his hand was tough to miss. If you were looking for it, anyway.
“Are you okay?” he found himself asking, because no matter how pissed off he felt, Kian was still somebody he cared about.
“Twelve stitches,” Kian said nonchalantly and even for a chef, who regularly cut themselves, that was bad.
“Actually, twenty-four,” Kian added. “They had to stitch the inner too.”
Xander kept his eyes glued to the candy thermometer and the hot sugar boiling away, but he said, “Must’ve been deep then.”
“I could see the tendon,” Kian said. “It’s that damn Japanese mandolin.”
Even for an experienced chef, the Japanese mandolin with its wickedly sharp and completely unprotected blade had scared the shit out of Xander. He’d always worn the special Kevlar gloves with it, no matter how much Aquino baited him by calling him a pussy.
He was fine being a pussy, as long as he was a pussy who wasn’t missing any fingers.
“You weren’t wearing the gloves, were you,” Xander said. He didn’t really need to ask. There was no way Kian would wear them, not if he was trying to impress Aquino. Even if Aquino never would have used it without them.
Actually, as far as Xander was concerned, Aquino hired people so he didn’t have to use the Japanese mandolin. Talk about pussy moves.
“Of course I wasn’t wearing the gloves,” Kian said. “They slow you down big-time.”
Xander raised an eyebrow. “And a bisected finger doesn’t?”
Kian shrugged, like the injury wasn’t a big deal. The truth was, they’d probably given him some good pain meds, the kind of meds that made you not care about a single damn thing. When Kian woke up in the morning, and felt the twenty-four stitches, it was definitely going to be a slightly bigger deal.
“You didn’t tell me what you were doing,” Kian said, wandering over, smelling like a hospital and also like eggplant, which made sense, because Terroir had a dish of paper-thin eggplant slices roasted, and then layered together with whipped goat cheese and fresh herbs. It was delectable, and also dangerous.
“Making marshmallows,” Xander said.
“Isn’t this normally Miles’ sort of thing?” Kian asked, referring to their friend who was a famous pastry chef. “Is that Hess guy making you work pastry too?”
“Yes, and no,” Xander retorted.
“Then why the marshmallows?” It seemed that Kian on pain meds was also an inquisitive Kian.
“Because I wanted to expand my culinary repertoire,” Xander explained, not very patiently. “And I’m going over to Damon’s tonight. We’re building a bonfire of all the crap we lugged out of the building that’s eventually going to be the restaurant. And I thought s’mores with homemade marshmallows would be fun.”
“Fun.” Kian tested the word, rolling it around in his mouth like a savory treat. Like he couldn’t quite remember what it tasted like. And frankly, working himself to death for Bastian Aquino probably meant that he didn’t.
Of course Kian was also clearly masochistic and maybe working for Aquino qualified as fun.
“Yeah, fun. Do you even remember what that is?”
“Very funny,” Kian scoffed. “You’re such a fucking comedian. You should quit your job . . . oh wait, you already did."
"For a better one," Xander retorted. Normally he didn't stay so patient, and Kian had probably expected that the result of his baiting would be another argument. Clearly, he was spoiling for one. But Xander didn't want to fight. The sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach had made that clear enough.
"If you weren't injured," he continued, voice still mild, with only a hint of bite to it, "you could bloom that gelatin for me."
"Or if I knew what that was. I'm not a pastry chef," Kian said sulkily.
"You know what gelatin is." Xander rolled his eyes and pointed to the small glass measuring cup. "Just pour the packet into that cup of water and stir it a bit. It'll get thick.”
The rising temperature on the candy thermometer stole his attention away and when he looked back, Kian had reverted to regular form, pouring in and stirring the gelatin conscientiously. Maybe even a little too conscientiously, considering the relative simplicity of the task and the focus Kian was giving it.
“Once it’s bloomed,” Xander said, “pour it in that big stainless steel bowl there.”
“Really going to miss Miles’ professional stand mixer, aren’t you?” Kian asked, eyeing the small-ish hand mixer Miles had left them, all the while making pointed comments that they wouldn’t even need that because baking was foreign to them.
Xander was totally going to send him pics of these killer marshmallows when they were done. He could do pastry, he just chose not to.
“I think it’ll be fine,” Xander said confidently.
Kian gave him a dubious look. “You won’t mind if I stand over here? I already had twenty-four stitches today, I don’t need any third-degree burns on top of that.”
“Nobody’s going back to the emergency room.” The candy thermometer hit the right temperature and he pulled it off the heat, re-adjusting his oven mitt on his hand. “Now or never,” he said to Kian or maybe to himself.
Carefully, he poured the boiling hot sugar into the bowl, re-dissolving the gelatin, and switched from the oven mitt to the hand mixer.
“See?” he said, switching on the mixer, carefully keeping the beaters submerged in the hot mixture. “No big deal.”
Kian nodded, but still stayed on the other side of the kitchen, which considering he’d already had to go to the hospital today, was probably safer.
A few minutes later, even with his hand-mixer handicap Xander had beautiful snowy white mounds of marshmallow.
Kian even looked impressed as Xander poured it into the prepared pan, dusted liberally with cornstarch and powdered sugar. “And now they just set up?” he asked.
“Yeah, for a few hours. Then just cut into squares.”
“If I knew this was so easy, maybe I would have tried it before now.” Kian had a sweet tooth and a somewhat disparaging opinion of pastry chefs, their friend Miles withstanding, which didn’t make much sense.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Xander said, laughing. But that feeling in the pit of his stomach had finally began to recede, and Kian had softened during their time together in the kitchen. It could be just the pain medication he was on, but Xander didn’t think so. Kian wa
s wound so tight because Bastian was wound so tight. They were each other’s mirrors and as a result, each other’s worst nightmare.
“Come with me tonight,” Xander offered suddenly. “Like I said, it’ll be fun.”
He probably should have asked Damon before inviting anyone over to his house, but he had a feeling that the man would probably enjoy meeting Kian. Maybe he should even invite Nate. He wasn’t sure he was working tonight.
“Are you sure? You don’t want to be alone with Mr. Wine Big Shot?” Kian questioned.
Xander definitely wanted to be alone with Damon, which meant he absolutely shouldn’t be.
The hesitation was enough to tell Kian everything he needed to know, especially because he knew too much about Xander’s romantic history. “You’ve got another unrequited crush, don’t you?” He sighed.
“It might not be unrequited,” Xander defended. Even if it wasn’t, it was still a bad idea.
“He’s probably straight. Did he tell you he wasn’t straight?”
Trust Kian to figure out the crux of the issue immediately, like an arrow straight to the heart. “He was married to a woman before,” Xander admitted.
Kian’s sympathetic expression was like death. Xander could feel the bell tolling for all his hopes, even as he tried to remind himself Damon had looked interested more than once—or at least intrigued. “That doesn’t mean he’s straight,” Kian rallied.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not.” Xander knew how bitter he sounded. “Just like old times, right?”
“Miles wasn’t straight,” Kian said. “Not that him being gay really helped.”
“Not exactly.” He hadn’t been in love with their friend, but he’d crushed on him forever, always hoping for more, and assuming it wouldn’t happen. And in the end, of course it hadn’t. Miles had only ever seen him as his friend, and then had proceeded to move to Los Angeles for work and fall in love with his producer.
And that was all well and good for them, living in their happy LA bubble of love and success, but where had it left Xander?
Alone. Like always.
“I think you should try, Xander,” Kian said. “I know the chances of him reciprocating are small, but you can’t just keep letting these chances to find somebody pass you by. Sometime you’re going to have to take a leap of faith.”
That sounded like vintage Kian, all hope and sweetness and light. Before Bastian had gotten his talons into him.
It also sounded unpleasantly like what Nate had just told him the other night.
Xander rolled his eyes. “If I tell you I’m considering it, would you leave me alone?”
“Yes and no.” Kian grinned. “I want to meet him. So instead of giving you some time alone, I’m going with you. I can do reconnaissance.”
“Reconnaissance?”
“You know,” Kian said impatiently, sounding higher by the second, or maybe just more manic, “reconnaissance to find out if he’s interested in guys.”
“Oh god,” Xander said. “No, you will not. You absolutely will not.”
Kian grinned wildly. “Oh, but it’ll be fun!”
* * *
Of course, the marshmallows were not amazing or incredible or even the tiniest bit transcendental.
Kian peered over the side of the pan and poked at the goopy mess with an offset spatula. “What’s wrong with them?”
“I don’t know,” Xander snapped. “God, Kian, it’s like you expect me to be Miles or something.”
“They were supposed to set up, right?” Kian asked.
“Of course they were.” Xander grabbed for his phone. “I’m calling Miles.”
“I’m going to go take a shower,” Kian announced lazily.
“Wrap your hand!” Xander called after him after dialing. He hoped that Miles wasn’t filming today, but it felt like Miles filmed a lot of days now.
“Wrap my hand?” Miles answered, voice puzzled. “Did I hurt my hand?”
“Oh, that was for Kian,” Xander said. “He cut his finger pretty badly today. Twenty-four-stitches badly.”
“That explains why he’s not at Terroir right now,” Miles said. “And I know you’re not there because you quit, you smug bastard. I’m still wondering why all I got was a text message to our group chat.”
“Because you’re a busy and important man and I like to respect your time?” Xander asked meekly.
Miles laughed. “No. I get it. The days after I quit all I wanted to do was sleep and constantly fist pump because the torture was finally over.”
“You barely spent any time with the Bastard,” Xander pointed out.
“And yet, my job still sucked.” Miles paused. “So what’s the emergency?”
“How did you know?”
“You always text. You never call. Wyatt’s the actual phone-conversation friend in our group. You just send terse texts.”
“They’re not terse, they’re to the point,” Xander grumbled.
“What’s the emergency?” Miles repeated. “Apparently we’re going to some fancy LA restaurant tonight and I need to look presentable. Evan’s picking out shirts and I’m going to end up in one that’s mandarin orange if I’m not careful.”
Awhile ago, Xander would have been unavoidably jealous of the casual affection and undeniable love in Miles’ voice as he talked about his boyfriend and producing partner. Now, all Xander felt was relief that he’d never actually done anything about his crush on Miles. They were so much better as friends.
“I was making marshmallows and they didn’t set up.”
“You were . . . what?” Miles questioned. “Marshmallows? You’re not the pastry chef at this new restaurant, are you? Because I’m guessing that’s not going to work very well for anyone.”
Xander paced across the kitchen, not even bothering to glance over at his sad pan of marshmallows. “No. I’m not insane. I’m going to a bonfire tonight, it’s a new work thing, and I wanted to bring something fun. S’mores always seem fun.”
“Fun? Xander Bridges looking for something fun? You’ve got a crush.”
“Why do you have to make that sound so accusatory?” Xander objected. “What if I do have a crush? Why is that a problem?”
A year ago, he might have believed that Miles was jealous, but he knew better now. Miles was afraid he’d end up miserable and alone.
Sometimes Xander was worried about that too. Then he’d met Damon and then met him again a year later, and during the last week, that particular fear didn’t feel so pressing.
“It’s not a problem. It’s cute. You’re making marshmallows for a crush. Who is it? You said it was a work thing? Oh,” Miles said, realization clearly dawning, “it’s the Hess guy, isn’t it? Your new partner?”
“Did Kian tell you?”
“It was a lucky guess,” Miles said, but he was a terrible liar. Kian had totally texted him.
“So how do I fix them?”
“What happened to them?”
“They didn’t set up. They’re just . . . mush.”
“Sounds like you didn’t whip the sugar enough with the gelatin,” Miles speculated. “Especially if you’re using that pathetic little hand mixer I left you instead of my professional stand mixer.”
“Kian totally texted you,” Xander retorted, a little outraged and a little touched.
“Kian cares about you,” Miles argued. “Kian is worried you’re going to do the same thing with Damon as you did with all those other guys. You can’t just stand back on the sidelines forever, even if it means you’re protecting yourself.”
“Did Kian write that out for you?” Xander asked bitterly. “If I call Wyatt will I get a similar but different version of the same lecture?”
“Kian cares about you,” Miles repeated, a lot more gently this time. “And he’s right.”
“I don’t even know if he likes men. Or if he does, if he likes me.”
“Believe it or not,” Miles reminded him dryly, “you’re fairly likable. Plus you’ll never know if you do n
othing. Relationships require a certain amount of fuck it to work. That means giving up control. And I know you’re not good at that.”
Xander leaned back against the counter. “I’m not.”
“If you called up Wyatt you’d probably get a similar version of this speech because he knows that just as well as I do,” Miles said. “You’ve got to take a chance.”
Xander was quiet for a long moment. “Sometimes I think I like unobtainable people because that means I never have to do that.”
That was what his crush on Miles had really been about. Someone safe he could like from a romantic distance, even as they’d become closer friends. An excuse to never actually do anything. An easy way to protect his heart.
“There’s nothing to be gained without the potential of loss,” Miles said.
“How did you get so damn smart?”
“It’s not me. It’s all Evan.” Miles’ voice grew a bit hushed, almost reverent. And Xander was jealous then—jealous because he’d never talked about anyone that way before, and all he wanted was the chance. He wanted it, and he definitely wanted it with Damon. Maybe even more than he was afraid.
“So I need to whip the marshmallows more.”
“I think so,” Miles said. “Let me know how they turn out. I’m going to do an orange-shirt intervention.”
“Good luck,” Xander said and hung up.
They both knew he was going to end up wearing the orange shirt and liking it.
* * *
“So what did Miles say?” Kian asked as they walked to the car a few hours later.
Xander rolled his eyes. “You already know what he said. You can rest easy, knowing you called your ringer in and he gave his best effort.”
“The real question is,” Kian said, “was he successful?”
“I guess you’ll have to see,” Xander said, but he was grinning, a little effervescent from the realization that he had every intention of letting his walls down. Maybe not tonight, necessarily, but soon.
“Are you telling me reconnaissance is no longer required?” Kian asked archly. “Because I was definitely looking forward to asking Damon all sorts of uncomfortable questions like, do you like cock? And how do you feel about dick?”