Chapter One #2
Xander dropped the wet cloth into the washing machine and tried not to look as Damon dumped his own white undershirt in. He was definitely ripped. His muscles practically had muscles. He was tall and big, and since it wasn’t that big of a room he took it over.
Damon didn’t look over at him as he wrapped the towel around his middle and shed his jeans, the fabric landing with a sodden plop on the floor. Xander copied his movements, shoved the wet pants into the machine, and Damon got it started.
It wasn’t until the mechanical whir of the washing machine began that he looked up at Damon again. “Want some coffee?” he asked.
“We’ve got an hour or so to kill,” Xander said wryly. “Sure.”
He followed Damon through the house, and it was exactly as he’d imagined. The furniture was worn, and the house was lived in. There were books scattered throughout, a worn blanket tossed thoughtlessly across the back of the leather sofa.
The kitchen was small, but very neat and very clean. Which, considering Xander’s profession, was an essential requirement.
A stainless steel espresso machine gleamed on the counter, and a glance at the brand told Xander that it was worth probably more than all the furniture in the house combined.
Damon fired it up, looking like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Espresso okay?” he asked.
“I’ll take a cappuccino if you can manage it,” Xander said.
Damon gave a rough laugh, and leaned over, grabbing a carton of milk from the fridge, all while holding his towel firmly around his waist.
Xander slipped onto one of the barstools that overlooked the kitchen. “Why don’t you tell me what you were doing out there?”
“You’re a chef,” Damon said, not answering Xander’s question.
“I am.” Xander wondered what had given him away, then remembered he’d still been wearing half his chef uniform. At least before the distinctive checkered pants had gotten soaked and muddy and had taken a trip to Damon’s washing machine.
“A good one?” Damon’s voice was deep and rumbling, like a boulder rolling down a hill. Xander liked how he could feel it deep in his chest. If he was being really honest, he liked it a little too much.
“Yes,” Xander said shortly. He’d left his jacket with Terroir’s emblem embroidered on the pocket in the car, and it seemed like that was for the best. Xander had no intention of sharing that he worked for one of the best restaurants in the world.
“So you’re connected,” Damon said. He turned back, holding out a solid white enamel mug in one hand, the other still keeping his towel up.
Xander wanted to ask him what he was packing in his boxer briefs that had him so protective, but a lot of people didn’t understand or appreciate his sense of humor, and Damon was still very much an unknown entity.
Xander took the coffee and took a sip. It was excellent, which either said something about the person who’d made it, or at least about the investment Damon had made in the machine.
“What does that even mean?” Xander questioned. Damon turned back to the espresso machine to make his own cup. “Why does it even matter?”
“I don’t want this getting out,” Damon said quietly. “People in Napa talk.”
“Yeah, it’s a surprisingly small community,” Xander agreed.
The wine and restaurant businesses were particularly intertwined, which was probably why Damon had questioned what kind of chef he was.
Definitely good that he hadn’t mentioned he worked at Terroir.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut, but I have to tell you, people are going to notice that you’re ripping up your vines. Especially those particular vines.”
“You know what they are?” Damon questioned. He’d finished making his own coffee, and from Xander’s vantage point, it looked dark and thick as mud.
“I’ve lived here a long time. I know a lot about this area.”
“It’s inevitable people will notice the vines are gone. I just don’t want them knowing why.” Damon’s jaw tightened and his eyes looked particularly bleak, so light and clear in his tanned face.
“I’m not going to go blabbing around, if that’s what you’re asking,” Xander retorted.
“But you’re the kind of guy who pulls over at midnight, and goes tromping out into a muddy vineyard in the middle of a storm to ask me why,” Damon said.
“Like I said, I know those vineyards,” Xander said, setting his coffee on the countertop with a decisive click. “I don’t think I need to tell you what they represent.”
Damon looked away, his fingers tightening on his own coffee cup.
“No, you do not.” He hesitated for a long moment, and if Xander’s clothes hadn’t been in the wash currently, he would have left.
There was no point in trying to talk to someone who didn’t want to talk.
It was like trying to milk solid fucking stone.
Xander didn’t know which annoyed him more; this difficulty or Kian, who would actually listen to everything Xander said, and respond all the way up until the point where he flatly refused to change anything he was doing.
“I’m an alcoholic,” Damon said finally.
“Wow, that sucks. For a Hess, especially,” Xander said.
He was definitely surprised, at least at first, but when the confession sunk in properly, he realized it wasn’t all that shocking.
Damon looked like he’d cornered the market in loner-ism.
He was hiding out here, except that the property was surrounded by the very thing he was trying to battle.
In fact, there were miles and miles of it, caging him in entirely. Suddenly, it wasn’t a shock that Damon had tried to tear down his vineyard with his bare hands—it was amazing that he hadn’t devastated all the vineyards in the Napa Valley.
“For a Hess, yeah. It’s definitely not convenient for my family.
” Damon’s voice was bitter. “I’d actually moved away, was doing better, away from all .
. . this. But then my grandfather died, and they all wanted me to come home so desperately, I guess he thought leaving me one of the original properties was supposed to be an enticement. ”
“And it wasn’t,” Xander said.
“It’s a fucking jail sentence,” Damon gritted out. “I’ve been sober four years, and this is a test I don’t want to fail. But I don’t know how to pass either.”
“Put that way, I can’t blame you for destroying those vines. Have you thought about selling?”
Damon looked mildly shocked. “Selling this property? To who? This has been Hess land as long as there have been Hesses in California. Besides,” he added wryly, “one of the stipulations of the will was I had to keep it for at least ten years.”
“Does it have to be a vineyard?” Xander asked.
His family had always been supportive of him.
It hadn’t mattered if he wanted to be a chef or if he was gay.
They hadn’t ever cared, had always loved him no matter what.
It was hard hearing about someone who seemed decent who hadn’t had that unconditional support system surrounding him.
Damon shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck what it is, as long as it’s not a vineyard.”
“This is still wonderfully fertile land,” Xander said. “Why don’t you grow something else?”
Damon leaned against the back counter, and Xander had a really difficult time not staring at his bare chest. A dark trail of hair that started just under his belly button disappeared into the towel, accentuating the ripples of his abs.
He looked like he worked for a living—or maybe worked out for a living.
And even though Xander had sworn off crushes on men who were almost definitely straight long ago, he wanted to lay his palm across the bulk of Damon’s pectoral muscle and feel his heart beating underneath.
Xander told himself that he wasn’t staring, that he wasn’t obvious, but Damon was big in such a small space, and it was nearly impossible to look anywhere else.
A loud buzz from the washing machine interrupted the sudden silence, and Damon shot Xander a tiny, lopsided smile. The first smile he’d given Xander since they’d met. It wasn’t much but Xander had a feeling that he didn’t really have a lot of reasons to smile these days.
“That’s the cycle finishing,” Damon said apologetically. “I’ll go throw the wet things in the dryer, and you’ll be on your way in about twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” Xander asked, surprised—and if he was being very honest, disappointed—at the length of time he’d be required to stay here.
“Whether I like it or not, this is still a working farm. If you’d ever worked a farm, you know how vital laundry is,” Damon said, as he walked back toward the laundry room. Xander trailed him, not wanting to let him out of his sight. And that was definitely a problem.
“You’ve been tending the vines?”
Damon threw the clean clothes into the dryer and pressed the start button. He’d used the edges of the towel to tie some sort of complicated, very secure-looking knot around his waist. That towel wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how much Xander wished it would. “There’s not exactly anybody else.”
“Your whole family?” Xander pointed out. Damon looked up swiftly, his light eyes going darker. “I’m sorry,” Xander said hurriedly. “I have a terrible habit of being uncomfortably honest.”
Damon’s eyes went softer as they walked back to the kitchen. Xander resumed his position on the barstool, and to his surprise, Damon picked up his coffee from the kitchen and sat right down next to him. “I bet that doesn’t make you very popular sometimes.”
This was true, but Xander didn’t want to talk about it. Which, he supposed, was pretty hypocritical of him. After all, he’d tromped across a muddy vineyard to demand Damon tell him why he was destroying his vineyard.
“Sometimes,” Xander answered vaguely.
“So,” Damon said, “what do you think I should plant instead of grapes?”