Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  “I almost called my dad, and I’m so glad I didn’t,” Damon confessed. “I’m glad I called you instead.”

  “I’m glad too,” Grant said. “He’s a waste of your time. You’re never going to get a worthwhile answer out of him. You already know that. But this person you love, that’s a different story. They deserve better; they deserve your best.” He hesitated. “And don’t tell me you’re not capable of your best because you’re an addict. We both know that’s not true.”

  For the first time in days, Damon felt a spark of what Grant was describing.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Grant laughed. “I’m totally right. Now go fix this.”

  “I’m going to,” Damon said. “There’s just something I need to do first.”

  * * *

  The security code to the vault was unchanged. Damon supposed he should be surprised, because of the hundreds of dollars of wine stored here, but his father was a creature of habit, and also egotistically believed that nobody would ever dare steal from him.

  He looked up at the camera in the corner, and gave his father, who would be watching the security footage hours from now, a one-finger salute.

  Nathan was damn lucky that the only thing Damon intended to steal from him was some alone time.

  Pulling the door open, hearing the hiss of the pressure release, Damon stepped into the vault, and let the particular smell of wine barrels and dust wash over him. Even though he’d wondered if it might, it didn’t make him desperate to pull a bottle from the shelf and drain it dry.

  Maybe he was never going to get answers from Nathan Hess. Maybe he was never going to get answers at all, but he could still let go of his poisonous anger—and all the frustration that Nathan was never going to apologize. Not for being a shitty father, not for giving him booze at such a young age, not for making it seem like a perfectly normal part of every single day.

  He walked around the vault, pulling out a bottle here, examining the label of another. The wooden racks didn’t just hold the cream of the Hess collection, but also housed Nathan’s personal wine collection. Even though Damon had been out of this lifestyle for years now, he could still recognize and appreciate the value of some of the bottles he was looking at.

  An idea was beginning to form in his head. He didn’t know initially why he’d come here—it had seemed like a good plan to go back to the beginning, and this had always felt like the start of it all. He’d been watching his father come in here for years, ever since he was a little boy, to pick out a bottle for a special occasion or even for a normal Tuesday night. He knew this place like the back of his hand. And maybe he’d been wondering if coming here, to the beginning of his own obsession with alcohol, would make it tougher to resist the draw of the oblivion so close at hand.

  But all he felt was a vague disgust. He didn’t want to be that man anymore, holding onto old, ancient baggage, with all its anger and its hostility and its uncertainty. He knew he wasn’t going to drink anymore; Xander had been right about that.

  “I don’t want a drink,” Damon said out loud, feeling a little lame, but also hoping that his father had installed sound with the sophisticated security system. “I really could give a damn if these are worth thousands.”

  He thought coming here would absolve him of all the guilt and the frustration, but all it showed him was that he’d absolved himself of it a long time ago, he just hadn’t realized it. He’d already moved on; he just hadn’t caught up with the fulfilling, happy life he was already living.

  If he hadn’t conquered the thrall of his addiction, he never could have dreamt of starting something of his own. He never would have built a new future for himself. And he sure as fuck wouldn’t have fallen head over heels for Xander.

  There were only two things he needed to do now before he went to Xander.

  The first would have to wait until morning, but the second he could take care of right now. He looked right up at the other camera, smiled broadly, gave his father the second middle finger of the night and sauntered off.

  * * *

  “There’s a lot of stuff about last night that we can celebrate,” Miles pointed out, pouring another cup of coffee. They were sitting on the outdoor porch of one of their favorite brunch places, conducting a complete rundown of last night’s preview success.

  Xander knew they were trying to cheer him up, but it wasn’t exactly working. Not after the way Damon had turned and walked away last night. The very worst was Xander knew how much it had hurt him, and he’d known just how much it was hurting Xander. And he’d done it anyway. Xander didn’t know whether to be pissed as hell at Damon for attempting to ruin them, or leaving him on what was supposed to be the greatest night of his life—or for Damon believing that he didn’t deserve Xander’s love and support.

  “You’re not even listening to me,” Miles said with a frown.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Xander retorted back.

  “We’re just trying to . . . cheer you up,” Wyatt said with one of his more optimistic, sunny smiles plastered to his face. “And if that fails, then distract you.”

  Xander reached for his glass and took a big sip of his peach mimosa. “Then distract me.”

  “You should be hydrating,” Miles said with a frown at his glass. “You drank a lot of wine last night.”

  Yes, he had. He hadn’t only done it to forget; he’d also done it as sort of a petty fuck you to Damon. Except he’d woken up this morning with a bottomless pit in his stomach, the victory from last night long since faded.

  Xander switched his champagne flute for the water glass, and glared over the rim at Miles.

  “Well, if you really want to be distracted,” Wyatt said. “We can talk about what didn’t go well last night.”

  He switched his glare from Miles to Wyatt. “What?” Wyatt exclaimed. “You need to know, since you’re the general manager now.”

  “Speaking of that,” Miles said. “You need to hire a front of the house manager. As awesome as it is for Wyatt and me to be handling that side of things, if Damon’s not coming back, you’re going to need someone.”

  Xander took a deep breath. Was he ready to face the possibility that Damon might not ever come back to the Barrel House? Not really, but he wasn’t sure he had a choice.

  Except the idea of doing it alone, without Damon being that steady and certain force behind him, was a nightmare. Xander wanted to bury his head in his hands and wail that he couldn’t do it. Instead he finished the rest of his mimosa and set the glass aside with a decisive click.

  “Do you think we could cancel the reservations tonight?” he asked.

  “What?” Wyatt and Miles bellowed at exactly the same moment.

  “I know I said there was stuff to work on,” Wyatt continued. “But it’s small stuff. For a preview, last night went so smooth. There’s no reason to cancel the reservations.”

  Xander set his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “There is, if I never intend to open. I’m not doing this alone. I didn’t sign on to do this alone.”

  There was total silence at the table.

  “Are you kidding?” Miles burst out finally. “You can’t do this, not now! Not when you’re so close!”

  “Miles is right,” Wyatt said seriously.

  “I should record this,” Xander said. “I don’t think you’ve ever said Miles was right, ever.”

  “Well, he’s right now,” Wyatt countered. “You’ve worked so damn hard to get to this place. Just think of how many shitty shifts you endured to be offered head chef. How many times did Aquino yell at you? Throw a plate at you? Are you really going to give up after you’ve finally gotten out from under him?”

  “This isn’t me giving up,” Xander tried to tell them.

  “It sure as fuck looks like it,” Miles pointed out.

  Xander glared but neither of them backed down.

  “I just can’t believe you’re willing to throw this opportunity away becaus
e Damon let you down,” Wyatt said with a shake of his head.

  “He didn’t just let me down, he broke my fucking heart,” Xander burst out.

  “We know,” Miles said, reaching over and squeezing Xander’s hand. “And I wish he hadn’t. I want to go find him and chop his balls off, and shove them down his throat. But this isn’t about him, Xander. This is about you. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. The most driven. The most determined. You shouldn’t let one guy’s shitty behavior change that.”

  “You quit before you’ve even started, and you’ve let him win,” Wyatt added.

  Xander’s gaze narrowed. “You know, you’re a real asshole.”

  “What, me?” Wyatt asked with a faux innocent tone and a hearty laugh.

  “You know me too well,” Xander retorted. “You know exactly what will get me to the Barrel House tonight.”

  Miles shrugged. “To get you there, we’re willing to play dirty. You’ve sacrificed too much to just give up now, and we love you too much to let you.”

  “Don’t make me cry,” Xander drawled, but inside he was feeling all warm and fuzzy. Who made it through life without friends like Wyatt and Miles? He might even consider adding Kian to the list, even though sometimes he wanted to twist his neck in frustration.

  “We’ll be there tonight,” Wyatt said. “And we’ll be there as long as you need.”

  “Next Friday, we’ll be here until next Friday,” Miles inserted with a grin. “And then you either have to pay us or hire someone else.”

  “Fine,” Xander grumbled. “Now let’s hear about the issues that need cleared up for tonight.”

  “You’re going to need another mimosa,” Miles said and flagged the waitress down.

  * * *

  “Chef,” Miles said, his voice respectful, but his eyes glittering with amusement. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  Xander glanced up. They were two hours into dinner service, and even though there were a few moments where he wanted to set down his pan and walk right out, sticking his best chef’s knife in Damon’s door for good measure, things were going even smoother than they had during the preview.

  But Miles didn’t just look amused, Xander realized as they walked toward the back, to the long prep tables by the refrigerators. The problem with having a large glass wall in between the kitchen and the dining room was that everyone saw everything. Xander typically didn’t have anything to hide, except when his heart was broken and Miles was making that face.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Do you want the bad news or the really bad news?”

  Xander raised an eyebrow. “Really bad news first.”

  Miles still didn’t say anything. “Okay,” Xander corrected testily, “I guess I’ll take the bad news first.”

  “Bastian Aquino is here. He wants a table.”

  “I don’t care about that asshole,” Xander said. “If he’s decided to lower himself by eating at my humble establishment, you might as well give him a damn table.”

  “Damon is also here,” Miles said, before Xander could really prepare himself. He’d sort of expected what Miles was about to say, but maybe there wasn’t anything he could do to prepare himself.

  “I can’t talk to him right now. We’re in the middle of service,” Xander complained.

  “Which is what I told him,” Miles soothed, reaching up to put a hand on Xander’s shoulder.

  “But he’s not going to continue to take no for an answer and you don’t want him to cause a scene,” Xander finished wryly. “Fine, tell him I can give him thirty seconds.”

  “You want me to bring him back here?”

  “He decides to bail,” Xander said firmly, “and he comes to confront me in the middle of opening night, when Aquino just walked in? He can say whatever he’s come to say in front of God and everybody. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Miles looked mildly impressed. The hand on his shoulder squeezed reassuringly. “You’ve got this,” was all he said before he walked back out toward the front of the restaurant.

  Xander was focusing on the food at the pass-through, making sure every single plate was picture perfect before the waiter picked it up to take it to the table.

  “Xander,” Damon said roughly, and Xander’s fingers hesitated on a lacy nest of microgreens decorating the top of his eggplant parmesan. He didn’t look up; suddenly he wasn’t sure he could. Why had he thought this was a good idea? That speech of Wyatt and Miles’ from earlier this morning, when they’d talked up how brave and hardcore he was, that’s why. Xander mentally cursed them both.

  “You have fifteen seconds,” Xander said, his voice thankfully steady, but he still didn’t look up. He was painfully aware that the whole kitchen had slowed down and all his employees were focusing more on the confrontation in front of them than their own tasks. But could he really blame them? Hell, he certainly wasn’t focusing on his own tasks right now.

  “Miles said I’d have thirty,” Damon said, and the flippant edge to his voice just pissed Xander off. He did not get to waltz in here, no matter how shitty the things Xander had said were, and make jokes.

  Xander glanced up and he knew his expression was hard as steel. “You got docked fifteen seconds because it turns out you’re not the good guy here. You’re an asshole.”

  Damon’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked tired. Something uncomfortable bloomed in Xander’s stomach. Was Damon drinking again? Had their fight pushed him away from his sobriety? As pissed as Xander was, he didn’t ever want that for him. He loved him—still, always, forever—no matter what Damon had done. Even if Damon was an asshole.

  “No,” Damon said wryly, answering the question Xander hadn’t asked. “No, I’m not drinking again, even if I look like shit. Apparently not sleeping for multiple nights in a row does that to you.”

  “I’m still waiting,” Xander inserted testily. “I’ve got a job to do, a job you fucking hired me for.”

  “I know, and I’ll leave you alone after this, to do it and do it brilliantly. I saw Bastian come in when I did, please make sure you knock his fucking socks off.”

  “Well?” Xander asked again. “I’m still waiting.”

  “I just didn’t want you to go through tonight without you knowing. I love you.” Damon said the words clearly and loudly, definitely loud enough for every interested party in the dining room to hear.

  It shouldn’t have mattered, not after his behavior of the last few days, but Xander felt his eyes fill. For so long this was exactly what he’d wanted—someone to love him with zero shame or embarrassment, and he’d finally found that.

  Except that Damon had still massively fucked up the last few days, and Xander wasn’t ready just yet to accept such a bad non-apology.

  “I know,” Xander said calmly. “I know you do.”

  “And I need to apologize?” Damon guessed with a heavy sigh. “I know I do. We’ll talk after dinner, and I’ll apologize the right way. I just wanted you to know I love you before you do this.”

  “We’ll see if it’s the right sort of apology first,” Xander challenged.

  Damon’s face broke into a bright grin. “Oh, it’s gonna be good.”

  Xander’s hands stilled on the microgreens. “It better fucking be.”

  Turning around, Damon sauntered out of the kitchen and to Xander’s surprise, he saw him walk over to where Miles was greeting guests at the host stand. They exchanged a few words, and Miles left, like he intended to give Damon the job he’d so callously forfeited.

  “Chef,” Billy said, suddenly right next to him. “Chef?”

  Xander’s gaze snapped over to him. He was still replaying watching Damon greet guests in a snazzy, sharp sport coat and jeans, one of his nicer plaid shirts underneath, smiling and shaking hands like he felt a real sense of pride in the Barrel House.

  The pride that Xander had been convinced after the last few days that he’d felt alone.

  Maybe things weren’t
quite as they seemed.

  “What?” Xander barked.

  “Nothing,” Billy stammered. “I just . . . didn’t realize you were involved with the owner.”

  Xander rounded on him. Was it nice that Damon had made that particular confession in front of everyone, so there was zero confusion about where he stood? Yes, but he also had zero intention of letting his staff turn into a bunch of gossipy grannies on shift.

  “Right now,” Xander bit off, raising his voice so every single employee could hear him, including Chris who washed the dishes, “Bastian Aquino is sitting in our dining room. You might have heard of him. He’s the head chef at Terroir, he has Michelin stars, he’s my old boss, and he’s affectionately known as the Bastard. Just in case you thought your distraction was going to slide for one millisecond. Now, let’s get to work.”

  “Yes, Chef,” they replied in chorus.

  “Damn right you will,” Xander said, and did something he hadn’t in two full days—he smiled.

  * * *

  It had been a really great night, Xander realized as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, releasing all the tension from so many hours bent over stoves and plates. Tonight, Bastian had proved there were rare exceptions to his Bastard nickname by even sending compliments back to the chef. He’d also said that he could tell Miles was working on his desserts, and his regular pastry chef better be up to Miles’ level, or the quality was going to suffer when he went back to his real job and his real life.

  But Xander had been in such a good mood that he’d just laughed. Bastian wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know, and if he hadn’t offered any criticism, then Xander would have believed he’d been taken over by the pod people.

  The kitchen had been scrubbed clean, and the staff had slowly been departing, even Billy high-fiving Xander on his way out. He had a feeling that Billy wasn’t going to quit if they never put wine on the menu. He’d bought in, and even though the waitstaff had reported a few odd looks and comments with no wine list on the tables, he felt like Napa was slowly buying in too.