by Beth Bolden
“The truth is,” Damon continued with a heavy sigh. “None of us have a perfect track record with relationships. All we can do is make the effort to do better.”
Xander’s dark eyes were very serious. “Is that what you want?”
Damon wanted all sorts of things. He wanted to be good, to be a better man—both for himself and for Xander—and he also wanted to be very, very bad.
He reached out and took Xander’s whole hand this time, lacing their fingers together. Maybe this was supposed to be hard, but he’d known since Rachel walked out that eventually he’d date again, and it might not be a woman. Wrapping his head around dating again was really the tough part, not the fact that Xander was male. “I want you.”
Damon didn’t know how Xander could still look surprised, but he did. It was a happy sort of surprise, like winning a lottery you hadn’t entered, but Damon had to ask.
“You look . . .”
“Surprised?” Xander answered wryly. “Well, you did say you were married before. To a woman.”
It had never occurred to Damon before that this could be a problem. He’d heard vague rumblings of the gay community underappreciating bisexuality, but he never would have pegged Xander with that sort of prejudice.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, no, of course not,” Xander reassured him, gripping his hand tighter, and tugging him closer. He slid a hand around Damon’s waist, and it felt so good that he had to hold back the pleasurable shudder. It had been so long since anybody had touched him. But it wasn’t just that; it was Xander. Only Xander. “I hoped. I hoped even though I’ve been let down before. The truth is, I couldn’t help myself.”
“I didn’t think I was very subtle,” Damon said with a wry laugh.
“I told you I wasn’t good at this. I’m . . . it’s hard for me to open up for people. But I want to try.”
“And I want you to,” Damon said. Resting his hand on Xander’s shoulder, and pulling him into an embrace felt as natural as breathing.
He’d thought about it before, but now he knew for sure. If Xander tipped his head back just a fraction, their lips would meet.
Damon had just about gathered enough courage. He knew Xander wanted this. He knew he wanted this. But then Xander spoke again.
“Did you know this would happen when you came to Terroir?” he asked softly.
“I didn’t know. But I sure hoped,” Damon admitted. “I knew the way I felt—the way I could feel—and I hoped you felt a little of what I did.”
Xander’s eyes were so soft. Damon admitted that he didn’t know him that well, but he’d never seen Xander look at anything—or anyone—like that before. It was incredibly humbling, and more than a little enthralling, that it was him on the receiving end of that look.
“I looked for you for months,” Xander said. “I wanted to do this. Even back then. Even if it seemed like a terrible idea.”
He moved so slow that it felt an eternity before Xander’s lips met Damon’s. So slow that he would have lots of time to change his mind. He had a feeling that was Xander’s whole plan. And that was before Xander even knew this was his first kiss with a man.
Damon didn’t think of how different it felt because it was a man, only that it was different because it was Xander. It was slow and sweet and gentle, just the softest brush of his lips over Damon’s. Once, then twice, and then he held a little longer the third time.
“Was that your first kiss with a man?” Xander asked, a shy grin on his mouth. Damon couldn’t wait to kiss it again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed just kissing, and he had a lot of lost time to make up for.
“Yes. And I’m glad it was with you.”
“I have to say,” Xander said, “I keep expecting you to freak out but you seem fairly calm about all this.”
“Freak out because I’m interested in a guy? I’ve known I was bisexual since I was in junior high. I just met my ex-wife young and never really had a chance to experiment. Even if experimenting was my type of thing.”
“It’s not?” The question was coy and a little flirtatious. Damon knew this was an important conversation—but he also wanted to know why they were still talking when they could be kissing.
“You. You’re my type of thing. I don’t need to sleep with a bunch of people to know what I like.”
Xander seemed really pleased at this answer. “So I don’t need to ask if you’re sure?”
“Have I seemed not sure during any of this?” Damon asked archly.
He pondered this for a moment and then answered. “No. Actually no. You’re good.”
Damon grinned. “Let me prove to you just how good I am.”
It turned out that it was both very much the same and also very different kissing Xander than it had been kissing Rachel. Then Xander shifted his mouth to a different angle, slanting it much more purposefully against Damon’s, and his mind dissolved into perfectly white static. His hands gripped Xander’s shoulders, sliding down his sides to grasp his hips and pull him closer.
Kissing was good. Kissing was great. Making out was fantastic. Xander tasted like spun sugar, and his tongue was clever, twisting Damon into knots of pleasure, his cock hard against the zipper of his jeans. He didn’t even know he wanted to be touched until Xander did, sliding a palm against it and laughing into Damon’s mouth as it twitched in surprise and in an overload of feeling.
Damon broke the kiss, panting embarrassingly, wanting to devour Xander all over again when he saw how red and wet his mouth looked in the remnants of the fire.
It felt like there were two roads. One led to easy, uncomplicated pleasure, and maybe a more complicated journey to figuring out what they wanted from each other. It would be so easy to take that road now, to take Xander’s hand and lead him back to the house. To even lead him to the barrel house, which was so much closer, and to let them both take the quick, easy pleasure that they both clearly wanted.
Or they could wait. They could take the road slower. Make it deeper. Make it feel more meaningful when Xander finally came to his bed.
Damon already knew he was going to be happier and also way more disappointed by the choice he was going to suggest. And also that that particular path was probably going to lead to blue balls tonight and more nights in the future.
“Can we take this slow?” he asked, and hearing it out loud, he remembered all too well the awkward teenager he’d been and laughed.
But Xander didn’t look embarrassed or disappointed. He looked like he was happy to do whatever made Damon happy. “Sure, of course. I’m happy to go at your pace. This is all new to you.”
Damon tugged him close again, making sure he could feel how much he wanted him—though Xander had to know, it was important that he didn’t think this had anything to do with him.
“I’m going to enjoy having you show me everything. Every single thing you want,” Damon whispered in his ear, pressing a single kiss against his neck. He tasted like smoky sugar, and Damon was never going to eat a marshmallow again without getting hard.
And if he kept Xander around, and Xander kept making him marshmallows, then that might work out well for both of them.
Chapter Eight
It was an unexpectedly hot day for fall in Northern California, and the Barrel House didn’t have air-conditioning yet. Xander wiped off his forehead as surreptitiously as he could, hoping that Damon hadn’t seen him sweat.
It was silly and childish, but he knew he was walking on eggshells around him. A few kisses, a few promises, and he was a lovesick teenager, terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing.
He knew he was supposed to trust Damon more, but deliberately opening himself up to anybody was new for him. It had been hard enough to make the initial decision to do so, and then he’d realized it was a continuing choice every day.
Each day when he woke up, he chose Damon and all the risk he came with instead of protecting his soft, vulnerable heart. Right now the decision was hard, but ultimately lopsided. Dam
on won out every single time, no doubt about it. Xander wasn’t naïve enough to believe that would always be the case.
“Are you okay?” Damon asked. Xander jerked in surprise. He’d been so sure that Damon was absorbed in listening to the contractor talk about the plans for the restaurant remodel, which were currently spread over the temporary job site office—a pair of sawhorses and an old door Damon had taken off the hinges.
“Fine, I’m fine,” Xander said.
Damon smiled. “Sorry, it’s boring.”
“Just a whole different language,” Xander said apologetically. “If we’re talking menus, I’m here with bells on.”
When Damon had mentioned he was meeting the contractor today, and had offered for Xander to join them, he’d thought it was a good idea.
Okay, he’d actually thought it was a chance to see Damon again after they’d both been busy over the last few days. What he’d been hoping for was more making out and less mind-numbing, nitty-gritty construction details.
David, the contractor, grinned. “I’d be happy to come back to discuss menus. I really admire the work you did at Terroir.”
David was shorter than Damon, and all compact muscle, but they were in almost a similar uniform of jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt. Damon’s was autumnal orange tones and David’s was red and blue. Still, he had a nice smile, and seemed to know what he was doing. Plus, Damon had known him for a long time, and Xander trusted Damon’s judgement on this sort of thing.
Now, menus? That was a whole different ballgame.
“Maybe you’d just like to come back for the tasting sessions,” Xander offered. “Once the kitchen is in.”
“Yeah, the kitchen,” David said, like Xander’s words had reminded him of something else to discuss. “Do you have a list of kitchen equipment that you need?”
There was not going to be a large amount of space in the Barrel House kitchen. Not like the gigantic Terroir kitchens that housed every wet dream professional kitchen appliance Bastian Aquino could get his hands on, times two.
Xander was going to need to be careful and conservative, and only put in exactly what he needed.
He’d been working with his hand-drawn kitchen diagrams and appliance dimensions for a few days now, in anticipation of this request, and he still hadn’t finalized everything.
“I’m still working on it,” he admitted. “The space is tricky.”
“I told you that you could have more space, if you needed it,” Damon inserted, looking worried.
Xander might have a crush but he was still determined to make this restaurant a success. “And take away from table space? No way. I can manage.”
“We might be able to build a small addition in the back for the refrigerated units,” David said, pulling out a pencil from a pocket and beginning to sketch directly on the plans. “That would give you a little more work room in the kitchen itself.”
Xander leaned over the table, looking at David’s scribbles, and tried not to jump out of his skin when Damon placed a steadying hand on his back as he leaned in too.
Tried not to internally freak out when Damon kept his hand there after they were upright again. That was definitely something not “just partners” would do, and if David didn’t know they were involved—or getting involved—before, he probably knew now. But he didn’t even act like he’d noticed.
“It might add a little more to the budget,” David said. “And we’ll have to alter the permits, but I think I can charm their way through. They’re not much different than the originals.”
Damon waved a hand, completely dismissing the extra expense as they walked outside—like somehow he’d known Xander was hot and a little miserable. “I don’t want Xander in a cramped kitchen. He’s an artist. He needs space to work his magic.”
Xander was in the middle of basking in this sweet compliment when he noticed Damon’s face change abruptly. His mouth compressed into a grim line, and his eyes hardened unmistakably.
He looked up and followed Damon’s sightline to an older man getting out of a silver Mercedes sedan. He had dark hair, touched with a little silver at the temples, and could be Damon’s twin, if not for the additional lines around his eyes and mouth.
This must be Damon’s father. The famous patriarch of the Hess family.
Damon, who’d had zero issue putting his hands on Xander in front of their contractor, dropped his hand from Xander’s back like it had suddenly caught fire.
He didn’t want to listen, but as the older man strode toward them, it was impossible not to hear the tiny, niggling voice that the last few days had just begun to silence.
This is just a phase. Damon doesn’t really want you. It’s just convenient. This isn’t for real.
Xander tried silencing the annoying voice by reminding himself that while Damon might be comfortable with bisexuality, that didn’t mean he was out to his father.
“David,” Damon said, reaching out to shake the contractor’s hand, “thanks for meeting with us today. Will you get me a new quote with the changes? Go ahead and start the revised permitting process though. I know it takes a long time to push through and we’re in a rush.”
Xander hadn’t really thought about whether they were in a hurry or not—though he understood that a business’ purpose was to make money and all they were doing now was spending it. They couldn’t begin to recoup that loss until the restaurant opened.
Still, it was strange that Damon hadn’t said anything to him about opening quickly. Or about his dad not knowing about his bisexuality.
“I’ll send it over tomorrow,” David said, shaking Damon’s hand briskly and then moving onto Xander’s.
When David started to walk toward the driveway, Damon’s father had just reached them.
“Xander,” Damon said, his voice mechanical and nearly unrecognizable. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Xander wasn’t stupid. He knew he was being dismissed. It was inevitable that despite understanding the generic reason why, it would still sting. What really bothered him was that he didn’t really know why. Couldn’t he stand here and be a business partner? Wasn’t that still his most important function in Damon’s life? Why couldn’t he meet Damon’s father under that circumstance? Damon’s sexuality didn’t even need to come into the picture.
He’d grown up a lot since high school, since that terrible, awful crush that had decimated his heart when he’d finally realized that he was always going to be Dustin’s ugly secret. He’d had years to separate himself from that pain, years to build a wall to prevent him from ever feeling that pain again. And now, today, Xander realized as he turned and walked away that he hadn’t just let Damon wiggle under the fence. He’d torn down a part and practically invited him to waltz inside.
Even as he came up with a half dozen very practical, very logical reasons why Damon might not want to introduce him to his father, Xander couldn’t help but think this was why he’d stopped letting people in.
Because they inevitably disappointed you, and worse.
* * *
Damon watched as Xander walked away. He knew he wasn’t happy with Damon’s decision to summarily dismiss him, and he couldn’t blame him. But he couldn’t let his father dig his poisonous claws into Xander. He’d never done anything to deserve that sort of pain. Damon was used to it; he’d been dealing with its side effects his entire damn life.
“Not going to say hello to your father?” Nathan asked. Passive-aggressive had always been his favorite language, and clearly nothing had changed, despite Damon avoiding him as best he could the last year and a half since he’d moved back to Napa.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Damon said shortly.
“But you so politely dismissed your friends so we could talk,” Nathan pointed out. “It would be a shame not to take advantage.”
“Lots of people think you’re important and that your opinion matters. Go talk to them.”
“Maybe,” Nathan threw out, “I want to see the wreck of our fam
ily’s oldest vineyard. Are there even any grapes left, Damon, or did you destroy them all?”
This old argument again. Nathan had, of course, come to see him after that night a year ago, livid that he would dare to destroy something so precious. Damon could only retort that maybe his father should care that the vines had been destroying him.
Nathan had just shaken his head, disappointed and hurt, which was so much worse than his cutting anger, because it came with a healthy dose of guilt and that had always been tougher for Damon to shake. “Always such a drama queen,” he’d said.
Yes, Damon was definitely being overdramatic with his alcoholism. According to his father, alcohol was the golden calf that had always been so good to their family, and anyone who rejected it was rejecting the Hess name.
The day Damon went to rehab, his father had texted him to remind him that alcohol was “always a choice.” Like he’d ever had a choice in being an alcoholic.
“There’s still some left,” Damon said. “Though they won’t be around for much longer. Should go check them out before I burn those too. Gonna plant a really nice orchard. Apples, I think.”
Nathan’s lip curled into a disgusted sneer. He still managed to look handsome, because that was another of the Hess family gifts—or curses. All depending on your angle.
“What are you even doing here?” Damon demanded. “You’re not here to see my garden or my land. If you’re just here to remind me what a terrible Hess I am, you’ve succeeded. Now, leave.”
Crossing his arms across his chest, Nathan actually had the nerve to look concerned. “I played a round of golf with Walter last week. He mentioned to me how happy he was that you were investing your trust in the family business.”
“It’s my trust,” Damon argued. “I can do whatever the hell I want to with it.”
“Including throwing it away on a pipe dream? Starting a restaurant? In that old shack?”
“Why does it matter to you?” Damon was struggling. It wasn’t like his horrible, overachieving, critical father was the only reason why he’d become an alcoholic—but he sure hadn’t helped.