by Beth Bolden
“Can you text me the varieties you like?” Damon asked. “I did actually swing by to show you something. I’ve got a meeting in town in about twenty.” He made a face. “As much as I’d like to stay.”
“Oh, right.” Xander had forgotten about the reason why Damon had supposedly stopped by. He’d secretly hoped there hadn’t really been an excuse at all, and the thing Damon wanted to show him was actually his dick. Again.
Damon pulled his phone out of his pocket, and flipped through a few screens. “Here,” he said, extending it toward Xander. “I got the first drafts on the logo for the restaurant.”
Glancing over, Xander looked through the different choices the graphic designer had provided. “That one,” he said, pointing with a flour-dusted finger. It was a combination of a swirly, elegant font and rough-looking letters that seemed inspired by the wood that the Barrel House was named for.
“I like that one too.” Damon stared at the screen. “But I think I have a few notes for Carol. I’ll email them over and as soon as she sends me the final, I’ll text it to you.”
Since the night Damon had come to Terroir, determined to woo Xander into working for him, he hadn’t known how this was supposed to work. How their professional and personal relationships—both so new and so different from anything either of them had experienced before—could co-exist.
This morning, for the very first time, Xander glimpsed a future that looked very much like today had. And to Xander, it was one of the best things he’d ever seen. Instead of feeling dread that they might fuck one or both of their relationships up, he could see it working. One of the facets of their partnership encouraging and nurturing the other and vice versa.
This might not end in a fiery disaster; this could really work. Nobody was more surprised than Xander, who tried hard to keep both a level head and also a realistic, pragmatic view of the future. He rarely let himself get carried away, but he threw both arms around Damon, smudging his plaid shirt with flour and leaving the scent of herbs behind.
“It’s just a logo,” Damon said, laughing.
But it wasn’t just a logo. It was the combination of both their visions, it was their two selves melding and merging and becoming more powerful together than they were individually.
“Sorry,” Xander said, but he was laughing too. “I got a bit carried away.” He brushed as much of the flour off as he could, but they were both smiling. As good as last night had been, it felt like this morning was even better.
Wasn’t the morning after supposed to be awkward and difficult? Maybe they were running on a high of sexual endorphins and potential professional success and maybe they were eventually going to come back to earth, but Xander didn’t want to think about that.
So he didn’t. He brushed a kiss over Damon’s cheek, fingers still lingering on the waist of Damon’s jeans, and sending him off with a bright smile and a promise he’d bring some of the focaccia over tomorrow morning.
* * *
“I can’t stop looking at you this morning,” Xander said. He’d had the thought the moment he’d climbed out of the car, dawn rising over the Napa Valley hills, and Damon’s dark hair and eyes matching the muted colors of the plaid he wore today. “You’re gorgeous.”
Damon looked up and smiled, only a little self-consciously. “I am?”
Xander nodded emphatically. He didn’t always say this sort of thing—he was far more likely to spit out, bluntly and clearly, all the things he didn’t like, than to let anything pass his lips that was overly demonstrative.
He was still afraid of falling harder, of being the one left holding what was left of their relationship after Damon moved on. If Damon moved on, Xander told himself firmly. There were zero indications he had any intention of doing that, but it was still hard for Xander to trust completely.
So he usually kept comments like, I can’t stop looking at you this morning, to himself, but the few he’d let out recently had produced such a beautiful effect on Damon that he’d started wanting to relax his own self-imposed rules.
And really, it was silly to let a little fear get in the way of Damon’s gorgeous blush whenever Xander complimented him.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Damon said, pulling Xander in and planting a firm kiss on his mouth. “But I always think you’re handsome.”
Xander usually got the you’re so cute moniker, so being told he was handsome was surprisingly electrifying. Or maybe that was just the hot look in Damon’s eyes as he said it, his gaze sweeping down Xander’s white t-shirt and black running shorts.
“You don’t have to suck up,” Xander teased. “I brought treats.”
Damon looked just about as excited to taste the focaccia samples as he had to see Xander pull into the driveway.
“Should we go in the house?” Damon asked, glancing around. He’d been checking on some of the plants, as he did most mornings before David arrived to work on the Barrel House building. They were starting refinishing the flooring soon, and Damon had complained at length at what a nasty, dirty, smelly job it was.
“It’s so nice out here,” Xander pointed out.
“My hands are dirty.” Damon lifted his palms and they were streaked with mud.
“That’s okay. I’ll feed you and you can tell me what you and David have planned for today.”
“We’re going to expand the front door, add in a few more windows and add the back door,” Damon said, eyes glued to the container in Xander’s hands as he popped the lid open.
Immediately the air smelled of fresh baked bread, herbs, citrus, and garlic—and not just the morning dew over the freshly tilled earth.
“I have three kinds for you to try,” Xander said. He picked up a piece and held it toward Damon’s lips.
“Lemon basil,” Xander said, as Damon took a quick, neat bite.
“Mmmm,” Damon hummed as he chewed. “That’s really, really good.”
“I know,” Xander said, and he couldn’t help but sound smug. He’d already sampled these all himself. In fact, these were the second and third versions of his original idea—or Kian’s original idea. He’d perfected them since then, and he’d been hard-pressed to keep himself, Kian, and Nate out of the Tupperware container long enough for Damon to try them.
“What’s the next one?” Damon asked.
“Sun-dried tomato with rosemary and orange zest.”
Damon made a face. “Orange zest?”
“Trust me,” Xander said, as he pulled the piece out of the container and held it up toward Damon’s mouth.
He chewed longer on this piece, his thoughts clearly whirring as he let each unique taste roll off his tongue.
“That was . . . incredibly interesting and shockingly good,” Damon finally pronounced. “I wasn’t sure about the orange zest, but it . . . worked?”
“Unusual flavor combos aren’t usually my sort of thing,” Xander confessed. “But that came to me in a dream when I was napping yesterday, and it totally worked. To my own surprise.”
“You weren’t surprised,” Damon scoffed. “You’re brilliant and you know it.”
Xander grinned. “True.” He pulled the last piece out of the container. “Last one. Garlic herb. A more generic combination. Safe maybe, but still delicious.”
Damon chewed this piece just as thoughtfully as the last two.
“Is it weird,” he asked in a conspiratorial tone, like maybe Bastian Aquino was watching this whole taste test go down from outside the fence, “that I liked the orange and sun-dried tomato one best?”
“No, not at all. It’s really good.” Xander was still surprised that Damon had picked it. It was definitely a little outside the box, and he hadn’t been sure if Damon’s palate would like it or hate it.
“We’ll do a rotating focaccia,” Xander continued. “So we’ll have options for the less adventurous. But the sun-dried tomato-orange will be featured every day.”
“So you’ve decided to go with the rustic Italian spin on farm-to-table?” Damon
asked.
Xander sighed.
“I love the idea, I really do. Mostly because it’s what you love, and I’m a firm believer that you should always do what you love.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple,” Damon argued. “I’m not asking you to be Mario Batali, I’m telling you to cook the food you love—because that love is always reflected in the finished product. A happy chef is usually a successful chef. And I want both.”
Mario fucking Batali. Xander tried to grasp at the peace and contentment he’d felt just a few minutes ago, watching the sunrise gleam on Damon’s dark hair and admiring how strong and capable he looked in one of his ubiquitous plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up.
“I’m definitely not going to be Mario Batali. I don’t want to be that guy that started an Italian restaurant.”
“Why not?” Damon still sounded mystified, and Xander wasn’t sure he was even capable of explaining.
“Because in high-end restaurants, you typically can’t point to one single inspiration or culture.”
“And high-end matters to you?” Damon asked. Even though Xander told himself he was imagining things, he could hear the hurt edge in his voice.
And yeah, he hadn’t been intending to be a high-end establishment trying for Michelin stars. Definitely nothing like Terroir. But he didn’t want to be laughed at either, and despite being completely confident in his own abilities, somehow this was the one tender spot in his ego.
“What other people think of our restaurant matters,” Xander snapped.
“Impressing people is good, even if we’re not going for Michelin stars.” Damon seemed to mentally digest this. “I’m sorry. I guess I thought we’d be impressing people with our great food. No matter what country inspired it.”
Panic clawed up from the bottom of Xander’s stomach, where he felt slightly sick. Like he’d eaten too much focaccia with too much olive oil over the last twenty-four hours.
“That’s not it. No. Don’t be sorry.” Xander reached out and grasped Damon’s bare forearms, his fingers curling around them. His skin was warm even though the sun had barely come up. “I’m the one who’s sorry. This is . . . this is all me. My insecurity. I’m going to it figure out.”
“I wish you’d let me help,” Damon said softly.
“I wish you could,” Xander said with reluctance. “But this is something I’ve got to come to terms with.”
“I was going to suggest we could take a little trip—maybe a bit of research thrown in,” Damon said ruefully. “We need to go to San Francisco to pick out the major equipment you need. I thought we could stay at the family townhouse while we’re there. Do a little fine dining. Get away while David refinishes the floors.”
Xander raised an eyebrow. “While David refinishes the floors?”
“That’s all you got from that?” Damon scoffed. “That David is going to be stuck refinishing the floors by himself?”
“No . . .” Xander drew out, trying to hide his smile as long as possible. The fight didn’t last longer than a few seconds. The grin bloomed across his face. “It actually sounds incredible. You have a family townhouse in San Francisco? You want me to pick out equipment? When can we leave?”
Damon laughed, and pulled him the rest of the way into his arms, hugging him close. “You’re adorable.”
“Seriously, when are we leaving?” Xander asked. “I’ve got lists to put together.”
“Lists?”
“Restaurants we have to go to. Food suppliers I want to visit. Equipment I need. Clothes I’ll have to pack.”
“Few days?” Damon hesitated. “I promised David some sort of help, and I have to find the help first before we escape.”
“I suppose I can wait that long,” Xander told him with an exaggerated sigh. He rose to his tiptoes and kissed Damon on the cheek. “I’ll let you get to that. I’ve got more recipes to test today. A variation on scampi. I bought the store out of bay scallops.”
* * *
Watching Xander walk back to his car, Damon wondered how much the scallops had cost, but as soon as he had the thought, he dismissed it. It didn’t matter. He had the money, and he wanted to give Xander whatever he needed to be successful—whether that was a crate of bay scallops, high-end equipment or a confidence boost.
The San Francisco trip was sort of unnecessary and entirely unplanned, but Damon knew what it felt like when the unique pressure of the expectations Napa held started to creep in. He was seeing it in Xander right now. But it was a good time to get away—Damon would be happy to hire someone to help David finish the floors, and he hadn’t really had time to spoil Xander yet.
Taking him to the city and staying in the condo would be a chance to do that.
Which left Damon one last action to take. It just happened to be something he really didn’t want to do. He dialed the number reluctantly, but with determination.
“Hi, Nancy,” he said when his father’s secretary answered the phone. “It’s Damon. Can I talk to him?”
Damon wasn’t sure who was more surprised that he was calling—him or Nancy. If it wasn’t for Xander, and that haunted look in his eyes, he wouldn’t be making this call at all.
“Sure, of course,” Nancy said, fumbling a bit. “Let me transfer you in.”
A click, a single dial, and then his father’s rich voice answering, “Nathan Hess.”
So Nancy hadn’t told him who was calling. Damon took a single deep breath. “It’s me.”
“Damon!” Nathan sounded surprised. And pleased. Never a good combination. “I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“I need a favor,” Damon managed to say.
“Of course. What do you need? Wine for the new restaurant? You should really go through our distributor, but I don’t think anyone would be surprised if I sold to you directly. You’re a Hess, after all.”
Yes. He was a Hess, and he was always going to be a Hess. Damon gritted his teeth. “No. I’m going to the city for a few days. I need to use the condo.”
“Oh.” His disappointment was clear. “Naturally. I’ll have Nancy email you the codes. It’s not in use currently.”
“I thought as much,” Damon said stiffly. “And it seemed silly to stay in a hotel when it was empty.”
“Right. Naturally.”
“Thank you,” Damon said, and this was even harder than asking for the favor in the first place. “I’ll look for the email.”
“I’ll tell Nancy to send it right over.”
“Bye.” As Damon clicked off the call, he realized that he and his father, who had never really known how to talk to each other, had spent that entire conversation talking about other people.
For a brief moment, he wondered if he should have told his father that Xander was coming with him, but no, that was a terrible idea. Nathan knew abstractly about his son’s sexuality, but had never actually been confronted by it. Damon didn’t know what he would say—or do—if he was confronted by it now.
Better, much much better, to play it safe when it came to Xander.
Chapter Eleven
“Fucking hell,” Xander said, pushing his sunglasses up and staring at the townhouse through the windshield of Damon’s car. “This is yours?”
“Well, it’s not mine,” Damon pointed out, more than a little subconsciously. How had he forgotten how Xander initially had reacted to the fact that he was a Hess? Was it so wrong he wanted to show Xander some of the nicer perks of being part of the family? “Technically, it’s my father’s.”
Xander’s gaze swiveled over to him only for a split second. Then it was right back to the white stucco edifice with its lake blue shutters. “You’re going to inherit it one day, though.”
He really wasn’t sure that was true. Yes, he was his father’s only child, but after what he’d done with his grandfather’s legacy, Damon really wasn’t certain he was even still in the will. But that touched on all sorts of issues that 1) Damon did not want to discuss ri
ght now and 2) Damon did not want to discuss ever. Even with Xander. Especially with Xander, if he was being truly honest with himself.
So he changed the subject.
“If you think the outside is gorgeous, wait until you see the inside,” Damon said, turning off his Jeep and opening the driver’s door. “I usually hate houses designed by interior decorators, but the one my dad hired really did a good job. It doesn’t feel look a showpiece, more like a real home.”
The sad part was that Damon had partially grown up in this house and while it might have looked like a real home, it had never really felt like one.
But that was another thing he didn’t need to tell Xander. Damon knew from personal experience that the poor-little-rich-boy act got old for everyone after awhile, if it didn’t start out that way.
“What’s the kitchen like?” Xander asked, and this time his voice was eager, not hidden behind shock or dismissal. “Wait, no. Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.”
Damon pulled their bags from the trunk and shut the hatch. “Well, let’s go inside,” he teased. “I don’t want to keep you waiting.”
Following him up the stairs, Damon repeated the entry code his father’s assistant had sent over and Xander carefully typed it in.
“What happens if I enter this wrong?” Xander asked in a hushed, almost reverent tone. “Will there be cops? Firemen? Will they arrest me?”
“If the cops are hot, they can definitely put me in handcuffs,” Damon joked as Xander swung the door open. No alarms went off. “But the truth is, yeah, my father pays for a security system for this place, but I just asked him for the code so I know it’s good.”
The entry was a narrow, arched passageway they passed through, emerging into an open rotunda, complete with a circular staircase, edged with a gleaming curved wood banister.
“Hooooly shit,” Xander exhaled. He seemed transfixed by the handblown glass chandelier at the top of the rotunda. Then he turned back toward Damon, his eyes narrowing. “You just asked him for the code? I thought you sort of grew up here.”