by Lyn, Viki
What was with that piss poor attitude? Why run a hospitality business if you didn’t want to be hospitable? Dinner with Chris would either prove enjoyable or a complete disaster if the prickly owner refused to speak more than two words all evening.
Settling into his chair, and trying to forget about Chris, Graham turned his attention to the dog-eared page. He should have packed several books because it looked to be a long vacation. After reading a page for the third time, he tossed the book aside.
“He’s not interested,” Graham said, loud and clear. If he said it enough times, then he might get it through his thick skull to leave Chris alone.
Graham hopped across the hot sand to the edge of the shore. He buried his feet in the cool, wet sand and let the tide wash over them. The far horizon was colorful stripes of blue, and sailboats with crisp white sails braved the choppy waters. Maybe he should buy a sailboat and sail the world? Walk away from Winter Media and reinvent his life. But he didn’t know who he wanted to become, or what his life would look like anywhere else. Two weeks with nothing but relaxation and living with his thoughts. Surely he’d go apeshit.
He picked up a smooth black rock and skipped it along the surface of the water. Then he picked up another…and another. Skimming rocks were such a simple pleasure, a pleasure he had experienced as a child with his father. Those kinds of father/son memories were all too rare.
From a far distance, he spied Chris returning from his run. Despite Chris’s grumpy nature, Graham felt the physical pull of attraction when around him. Yeah, Chris was a challenge, but he was worth taking on. Graham would have to bring his A-game if he was going to get Chris into bed. But he never backed down from a challenge. And in the process, he’d have some fun, and hopefully, so would Chris.
A vacation fling would be the perfect diversion from thinking too much about his own life and the sacrifices he’d made for success.
5
Standing in front of the floor-length mirror, Chris changed into his third shirt. He looked like a fucking waiter wearing a white dress shirt tucked into his black pants. He switched back into a light-gray linen shirt, a birthday present from his dads. Pete and Bob had tried to get him out of his shorts and T-shirts by buying him clothes every damn holiday and birthday. Secretly, Chris liked that they cared about his appearance, and thankfully, his dads had great taste.
Chris buttoned up the shirt and adjusted the collar. The light fabric felt good on his skin. The last time he’d worn the shirt had been at his dads’ funeral. He’d given away the suit he’d worn for the service but kept the shirt since it had been the last gift he’d received from them.
Tugging at the cuffs, he frowned in the mirror. After what he’d heard from Honda, Chris wasn’t out to impress Graham Winter. A gay man brokering a deal to purchase a far-right company as notorious as Freedom Press made him sick. As president of EAN, he had an obligation to find out more about the possible purchase. EAN had a list of business offenders of anti-gay legislation, and Freedom Press was on top of this list. The current owner of that shitty company threw pots of cash toward stopping any bill that supported LGBTQ rights.
There was nothing to like about Graham Winter besides his looks—an empty shell of a man with a greedy heart.
Chris hung his discarded clothes in the closet by their color. Taking one last assessment in the mirror, he ran his hand down his face, avoiding the patch of scarred flesh near his left temple. He hardly thought about his scars anymore, the marred flesh an integral part of him now.
Checking his watch, his frown deepened. It was seven fifteen and time to meet his nemesis. Ready as he would ever be, he grabbed his house key and slipped it into his pants pocket. When he reached the living room, Graham was waiting for him by the mantle, studying a photograph. This particular picture had been taken in Egypt with his dads. Somehow this bothered Chris to have Graham scrutinizing his life.
“Hello and don’t you look nice.” Graham softly whistled as he took in Chris from head to toe.
A blush seeped into Chris’s skin at the compliment. Grabbing the frame from Graham, he snapped at Graham to hide his embarrassment. “Let’s go.”
“Is that a picture of you and your…uncles? How old are you? Nine? Ten?”
“No.”
“No, they are not your uncles? Or not your age?”
“No to both.”
Graham smirked. “They seem happy, but you look annoyed. Don’t like your picture taken?”
“The camel stunk.”
Chris knew it was near to impossible to ignore Graham, but he didn’t have to give out his personal information. Pete and Bob were off limits. His dads held a special place in his heart, and their deaths caused a hollow echo in his chest. Dead for three years, a part of him had died in the fire that consumed them.
Setting the silver frame back in its rightful place, Chris fought down the temptation to threaten Graham. He could out him, knowing what he knew about Freedom Press that would squash the deal. Then he’d be rid of the guy and never have to deal with him again.
But he wouldn’t. Coming out was a personal journey.
“We better go,” Chris said. “The place gets packed, and the maître d’ runs a tight ship.” He locked the door behind them.
“Hey. If you’re going to give me the cold shoulder it will be a long evening.” Graham briefly touched Chris’s arm. “Can we try to get along?”
A flutter rippled through Chris’s stomach. Already his cock stirred from the musky cologne wafting off Graham’s jacket. He should have gone bar hopping with Honda. If he’d gotten laid, he wouldn’t be this worked up over a guy.
Giving in once again to Graham’s request, he said, “I’ll try, but I don’t appreciate being bullied into a situation. I’m here because I agreed to your terms. It doesn’t mean I have to enjoy them.”
Graham chuckled. “So fun isn’t on your to-do list. I saw all your Post-It-Notes in the kitchen. How many lists do you have?”
Chris’s face flared. Seems like this was a constant state when talking with Graham. “Snooping around the house, were you?” Graham had to be talking about the yellow notes on the refrigerator and counter and a few posted on the pantry door.
“Hey, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I figured I’d get it myself rather than ask you. Although you are my personal valet.” Graham’s glint in his eyes twinkled in the outdoor lights. “So how many vitamins do you take every day?”
Chris inwardly flinched for Graham must have seen the line-up of bottles on the counter. What was this guy’s problem? He posted notes to keep on task, and he believed in keeping healthy and fit. Why the fuck did Graham care how many pills he took? The jerk probably went to some fancy clinic and got vitamin B shots in his ass.
Graham burst out laughing. “Ease up. I’m teasing you.”
Chris picked up the pace. He went to pull at the hem of his T-shirt but then realized his shirt was tucked in.
Graham caught up with Chris’s clipped steps. “Can I call you Chris?”
Chris’s brows furrowed. “Yeah, I guess.”
“We’ll be spending a lot of time together in the next week. So please, call me Graham.”
“I’m sure a bungalow will open up in a few days.” Along with a valet, but Chris kept this to himself.
Graham removed his leather jacket and draped it over his arm. He wore a printed shirt tucked into a pair of black jeans. Chris slightly relaxed at seeing a younger, more approachable version of the usually cool, wealthy businessman.
“We had a cold snap in New York, but it feels like summer here,” Graham said. “You said you jog every day.”
“Most days.”
“I’ll join you tomorrow. In the morning you can show me the grounds after breakfast. If the weather holds, I’d like us to go to the beach. You can keep me company.”
“Are you always this bossy? That’s not part of the agreement.”
“I am your job. Remember, I read the pamphlet. A valet must see t
o my needs, make sure my fridge is stocked with items I request, set up my cabana and fill my cooler, make reservations, arrange outings, serve me breakfast in bed if I want it. Should I go on?”
The guy wasn’t letting him off the hook. Chris would talk with Josh and see if they could rearrange the bungalows. This didn’t solve the problem of a personal valet. Henri already had assigned guests, and they were big tippers. Chris, in his right conscience, could not ask Henri to take on Graham. The fuck-up wasn’t Henri’s fault. Josh insisted no one had any recollection of taking the reservation. The bottom line was, he had agreed to this absurd arrangement, and now he had to stick with it.
He inwardly sighed, knowing he was acting like an ass. The night would be a long one if he didn’t try to get along with Graham, at least for tonight. He lightly punched Graham in the arm. “Fine. You win this round, but I’m not going to make it easy for you.”
“Good. I don’t like easy.”
Chris realized he was grinning and glanced away.
Lighten up, Chrissy. Enjoy the experience.
“Shut up, Pete,” he muttered under his breath.
Since their deaths, he often heard his dads dishing out their sage advice as if they were still standing next to him. Call him crazy, but he liked that his dads were close by, even if it was in his imagination.
But tonight he didn’t need advice on how to handle Graham Winter. This tug of attraction was nothing more than one night in the sack would cure. With another man, not Graham, not when the guy supported anti-gay rights all because of the holy dollar.
The guy is a stud. Bet he’d look great in leather.
“Shut the fuck up, Pete,” he said, again, but this time out loud.
Graham stopped Chris by the shoulder. “You said something?”
“Just talking to ghosts.”
6
Graham opened the restaurant door and placed his hand lightly on Chris’s back as they walked into the foyer. How nice Graham’s hand felt on Chris’s back, and how nice to be envied as several diners glanced their way at seeing Graham enter the restaurant with Chris by his side.
“Chris, it’s good to see you.” The maître d’ greeted them warmly. “Loren has made sure to have your favorite on the menu tonight.”
“Thank him for me, Paul.”
Paul nodded. “I will. Ah, but a word of warning. He’s unhappy about the tablecloths you’ ordered. Not the right color.”
Chris waved away Paul’s concern. “They’re close enough.”
Graham nudged Chris. “The décor is great. I like how comfortable the place looks without being pretentious. Your lobby has the same feel. So what’s the problem?”
“One temperamental chef that is colorblind,” Chris said, his sarcasm evident. “We’ve been through three sets of tablecloths trying to find the right burnt orange.”
“Ah, I see.” Graham chuckled. “Let’s hope he’s not ‘taste blind.’”
“Don’t worry. He’s a genius in the kitchen, despite being a pain in the ass.”
Graham tapped his chest in an exaggerated gesture. “I feel your pain. I have a few employees who drive me insane, but they’re too damn talented, so I put up with their crap.”
Interesting that Graham had similar business worries as Chris. Maybe they had more in common than Chris had first thought.
With impeccable grace, Paul led them to the patio table sequestered at the far end, away from the bustle of wait stations and crowded tables. Chris sat first, giving Graham the ocean view. There were no menus to hand out, and Paul flawlessly gave them the rundown on entrees and side dishes. After he had taken their orders he left.
Fiddling with the silverware, Chris collected his thoughts. Graham was too confident, too sure of himself. The guy unnerved him. Most of the diners gave Graham the once-over, not hiding their appreciation of his good looks.
Graham broke the silence. “Tell me about your chef. There’s not an empty table in sight.”
A question Chris could answer. Proud of the restaurant’s reputation as one of the finest on the Pacific coast, Graham would be hard-pressed to dine at a better restaurant in New York.
“I stole Loren from a restaurant in Carmel.” Chris related how he’d snagged one of the top chefs in the area. “I promised him carte blanche to run the restaurant as he saw fit. He uses fresh ingredients from the area. That’s why the menu changes daily. Oh, and we have an excellent pastry chef, so save room for dessert.”
Graham settled back into his chair, letting his napkin rest on his lap. “Thanks for the heads-up. I have to admit to having a sweet tooth, although I try to curb it. Why don’t you have a gym here?”
“This resort isn’t a stereotypical gay hangout.” Chris air-quoted stereotypical. “Like I said before. If you want entertainment, you’ll have to drive into Monterey or the City.”
Graham’s gaze took in the diners. “Mostly couples tonight.”
“It’s not always this way. You’re here alone. “
“True. I’m not with anyone at the moment. And you?”
Chris picked at his scarred fingers under the table. “I’m not looking for that special someone.”
“So you’re not a romantic? I’ll have to change your attitude.”
What the hell did Graham mean by that statement? Before Chris could think about that further, the wine was served, ending the conversation. Thank fuck because he didn’t want to talk about relationships.
Graham took a sip of wine and let out an appreciative sigh. Once settled back into his chair, he asked, “How did you come to own this place?”
“I inherited the resort when Pete and Bob died. Ah, my dads. It was”—Chris rubbed his scarred temple—“unexpected.”
“Oh, hell, I’m sorry. You said dads. The two men in the photo. Right?”
“Hey, you have a brain behind those green eyes.”
Graham chuckled. “Fuck you.”
Chris held up his hand. “Sorry. Guys like you make me uneasy.”
“Guys like me? Damn. That’s harsh. Like I have some flaw in my personality or something.”
“Do you?”
Graham peered at Chris with his mouth partly opened as if he were about to answer. With such an intense gaze pointed his way, Chris squirmed to get comfortable. He’d said too much. Tactless. Again. When would he learn to think before he spoke? Insulting a guest was not cool, even if this guest was on EAN’s watch list.
“I sense you don’t like to talk about yourself,” Graham said. “Just now you ignored my question about your dads.”
“They died in a fire. That’s when I left Berkeley and took over Secretus.”
“Your scars?”
Swallowing his grief, Chris thought back to that horrible night. He’d stayed behind in class to flirt with a guy instead of leaving on time for Pete and Bob’s anniversary dinner. “I was too late.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Shit happens.”
“Yeah, how I know that. I took over Winter Media when my father died of a heart attack. I couldn’t walk away, although…” He circled the rim of his wineglass with his finger. “I had other plans. Or thought I did. Hell. I didn’t know shit about running a business.”
“Then you grew up fast too.” Chris lightly touched Graham’s hand, not sure why he did. He understood about pain associated with lost dreams, and how the responsibility of taking on someone’s legacy was scary.
Graham’s gaze remained fixed on Chris. “Those first few years I ran on adrenaline and fear.”
“Oh, yeah, I know that feeling. And the sleepless nights questioning every decision and choice that I’ made.”
“Did you ever feel like a fake? I did.”
This confident man sitting across from Chris admitted to his feelings of inferiority. Chris could relate, and nodded. “Shit yeah. Fooling everyone into believing I knew what the fuck I was doing.”
“I aged a millennium after the funeral.” Graham poured himself more wine and topped off
Chris’s glass.
When the reality sank in that his dads were dead, Chris’s self-doubts multiplied, and he still had panic attacks when under stress. He was on his own. Abandoned again, because eventually, everyone he’d ever loved had left him.
Ah, fuck this pity-party. He was better off than so many kids who had come through the foster system. He had known love.
Graham lightly stroked Chris’s scarred fingers. Chris’s wineglass tottered as he pulled back, embarrassed by the affection. He had to get a grip on his feelings. This wasn’t a romantic dinner between lovers. He hardly knew Graham, and didn’t he want to interrogate him about his business practices? Instead he was mooning over this guy.
Steeling against the fallout sure to happen, Chris not so innocently threw out, “I read your company owns Gossipy!.”
Graham’s brows shot up while his smile turned down. “It’s a piece of shit for journalism but you can’t imagine the money it brings in.”
Just as Chris had thought, it was the almighty bottom line for these rich fucks. “The sleaziest rag keeps you in riches while it destroys people’s reputations.”
Graham stiffened, and he shoved back his salad plate that had been recently served. “What are you insinuating?”
Too late to take it back, and anyway, what Chris had said was true. Graham made his fortune by ruining people’s lives, and Chris better not forget that fact. “That piece of shit, as you called it, spews out rumors without knowing the facts or caring about the consequences.”
Chris had been the victim of bullying and knew the emotional scars it left behind. Reputations were destroyed by Gossipy!’s false journalism. Careers ruined by taking a person’s words out of context. “Some people have never recovered from the vile poison published by that rag.”
“That rag makes more money than the majority of the magazines out there. It’s business, that’s all.” Graham contended. “I’m not involved. I can’t have a hand in everything we own.”