Chapter 3
Danny
The restaurant is waaay fancier than anything I’m used to.
Crystal glasses, heavy silver cutlery, low lighting that makes everyone look like they stepped out of a magazine. It’s intimidating, that’s for sure. But with the rest of the crew seemingly not bothered, that does actually make me feel a little more chill about the whole thing.
I slide into my seat at the long table, sandwiched between Mikey and Lane, and try to make myself smaller even though that’s basically impossible with my shoulders.
But, hey, it’s not like the others aren’t pretty damn big either.
Xander’s at the head, of course, looking relaxed in a dark button-down that strains across his chest. Taylor’s opposite him, already scanning the room like he’s casing a bar for the quickest exit to the nearest beer tap.
The rest of the crew fill out the table: Taylor, Lane, a couple of the other guys from the site whose names I’m still trying to lock in.
Everyone’s showered and changed out of work gear, but we still kinda look like a sports team that wandered into the wrong venue.
The banter starts the very second we sit down.
“Place smells amazing,” Taylor says, nose in the air. “But if I don’t get a steak the size of my head in the next ten minutes, I’m gonna start eating the tablecloth.”
“Same,” Mikey groans, slumping dramatically. “I’m starving. We should’ve hit the bar first, got a couple beers in us, then come here for dessert.”
Taylor snorts. “You’d be face-down in a bowl of pasta after two pints, Mikey. We’d have to carry you out.”
Everyone laughs, and I grin along with them, but I keep quiet.
It’s easy to listen. These guys are funny without even trying. I’m still the new guy, still figuring out where I fit. Saying the wrong thing feels like a risk I’m not ready to take yet, especially after my attempt at a joke back in the hotel flopped.
Mikey kicks my shin lightly under the table.
“Danny, you good, big man?” Mikey asks. “You’re awfully quiet over there.”
I shrug, cheeks warming. “Just taking it all in. Nice change from site sandwiches.”
That gets a couple of chuckles, and I relax just a little.
Taylor leans forward, elbows on the table like he owns the place. “So what’s the plan after this? We eating and getting the hell out, or what?”
“Bolting,” Mikey says firmly. “There’s gotta be a dive bar around here with cheap beer and a pool table.”
I clear my throat. Everyone’s looking at me now, and my heart does a little flip.
“Actually… I looked up a couple places nearby,” I say.
“There’s a spot called The Chainsaw two blocks over…
craft beers on tap, decent reviews, pool tables, and they do late-night tacos if we get hungry again.
And there’s O’Malley’s just past that. Classic Irish pub, live music on Fridays, supposed to be packed but friendly. ”
Silence for half a second, then Taylor grins wide. “Listen to the new guy doing homework. The Chainsaw sounds perfect.”
Xander raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Damn, Danny. You just became our official nightlife scout…”
Taylor reaches over and fist-bumps me. “Respect. I was ready to wander around like idiots for an hour.”
Warmth spreads through my chest.
They actually liked my suggestions.
I didn’t sound like a total dork. Result!
I duck my head, hiding a shy smile behind my water glass. And then the food starts arriving…
Servers in crisp white shirts glide over with tray after tray—platters of grilled fish, perfectly seared steaks, colorful roasted vegetables, fresh pasta that smells like heaven. My mouth waters instantly. But what really catches my attention is the man walking out with them.
He’s not one of the regular servers. Oh no, definitely not.
He’s shorter than most of us—maybe five-ten or five-eleven—but he carries himself like he owns every inch of the room.
Dark hair swept back, sharp cheekbones, a neatly trimmed beard with a hint of silver at the edges.
His chef’s whites are pristine, sleeves rolled to show strong forearms dusted with hair.
He’s talking directly to Xander, voice low and confident, gesturing with one hand while the other rests on the back of an empty chair.
I can’t hear everything, but I catch the gist: everything tonight is on the house. All of it. A thank-you for the affordable housing project.
Before I know it, the crew erupts in cheers and grateful shouts.
Xander stands to shake the chef’s hand, and the guy, Olivier, smiles, but it’s a controlled smile, like he’s used to being in charge.
Damn.
Damn, damn, and triple-damn.
He’s hot. Like, unfairly hot. There’s something about the way he moves—precise, deliberate, totally in command—that hits me square in the chest. And lower too.
He’s smaller than me, probably by a good five or six inches and fifty pounds of muscle, but I can picture him barking orders and everyone jumping to obey. Stern. Charismatic. The kind of man who could pin me with one look and have me apologizing for things I haven’t even done yet.
Total Daddy energy, full blast.
My brain short-circuits. I’m staring, and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop. I imagine that voice telling me to behave, those hands correcting me if I don’t. My face goes hot, and I shift in my seat, suddenly very aware of how tight my jeans feel as my cock begins to throb and pulse.
Then his eyes flick up and lock onto mine.
Oh crap.
He caught me.
For a second, the noisy table fades away. It’s just us. His eyebrow lifts, just a fraction, and the corner of his mouth curves—like he knows exactly what I was thinking. My heart slams against my ribs.
One of the servers says something, and Olivier turns to answer, but before he walks away he looks back at me. “Enjoy your meal, everyone,” he says, voice smooth. Then, quieter, directly to me: “You too, big boy.”
It’s barely four words, but they land like a hand on the back of my neck.
I manage a strangled “Th-thank you, chef,” and it comes out way too soft, way too breathy.
He gives me a small nod and heads back toward the kitchen, disappearing through the swing doors.
The table explodes.
“Yo, Danny, your face is redder than that tomato sauce!” Mikey roars, reaching over to ruffle my hair.
Taylor leans in, grinning. “Dude, you just got personally eyeballed by the hot chef. What the hell was that?”
“Leave him alone,” Lane laughs, but he’s looking at me with way too much amusement. “New-guy’s blushing so hard he’s gonna combust.”
Xander’s smirking from the head of the table. “Olivier Ramsey doesn’t come out for just anyone. You must’ve made an impression, Danny.”
“I—I didn’t do anything,” I stammer, shoving a forkful of steak into my mouth to avoid saying more. It’s delicious—perfectly medium rare, melting on my tongue—but I barely taste it.
Taylor leans back, arms crossed, looking far too pleased. “Sure you didn’t. That man looked at you like you were the dessert menu.”
Everyone hoots.
I want to slide under the table and die. My cheeks are burning, and I know they can all see it. There’s no hiding when you’re built like me and your face goes fire-engine red.
I risk a glance toward the kitchen doors, half hoping Olivier will come back out, half praying he doesn’t.
All I can think is: he saw me staring. He spoke to me. And I’m pretty sure everyone at this table knows exactly how flustered I am right now.
Great. Just great.
But underneath the embarrassment, there’s a tiny, thrilling spark.
Olivier looked at me like he saw something he wanted.
He looked at me like a Daddy eyeing up his Little…
The Chainsaw is exactly what I needed after that fancy restaurant.
Dim lights, sticky wooden floors, classic rock humming from an old jukebox in the corner. There’s a scarred pool table under a hanging Budweiser lamp, a darts board with more holes than cork, and a bar lined with locals who look like they’ve been coming here since before I was born.
Oh, and the beer is ice-cold and cheap, flowing freely from pitchers that keep getting refilled. This feels way more like home, and I’m all here for it.
We claimed a big corner booth and a couple of high-tops, the whole crew spread out and relaxed.
Coats are slung over chairs, sleeves rolled up, laughter loud enough to drown out the music.
Taylor and Mikey are already deep into a brutal game of pool, trash-talking each other like it’s the world championships.
“Your break was weak as hell, Mikey!” Taylor crows, lining up his shot. The cue ball cracks against the rack, solids scattering everywhere. “That’s how you do it. Watch and learn, boys. Watch and learn…”
Mikey flips him off, grinning. “Luck. Pure luck. Wait till I run the table, big man. Your ass is grass.”
Taylor is reffing, calling fouls that neither of them listens to, while Lane and a couple of the other guys shout encouragement from the sidelines.
I’m leaning against the wall near the booth, nursing a pint, content to watch.
The banter is easy, familiar, and for the first time tonight I feel like I can breathe.
No crystal glasses or perfect lighting here—just good beer and better company.
I’m chuckling at Mikey’s terrible attempt at a bank shot when Xander appears beside me, two fresh beers in hand. He offers me one, and I take it gratefully.
“You holding up okay, Danny?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry over the noise.
“Yeah, definitely,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. “This place is great. Good call on my part, right?”
Xander smiles, that calm, steady smile that makes him such a good boss.
“Solid call. You saved us from wandering the streets like lost puppies.” He pauses, studying me for a second. “You know it’s okay to be quiet at first, right? New crew, new city—takes time to settle in. Nobody’s judging you for hanging back a little.”
My cheeks heat up instantly. Damn it. I thought I was hiding it better than that.
“I… yeah,” I mumble, staring into my beer. “I guess it’s kinda obvious, huh?”