Chapter Two
One year later
Xander took the same route to work that he’d been taking for the last year.
He and Kian shared a car sometimes, when Chef Aquino didn’t need him ridiculously early in the day, and once Kian had asked why he’d changed his route.
Xander couldn’t tell him that he wasn’t willing to drive by Damon Hess’ vineyard and see him on his land again. It wouldn’t have mattered what he was doing, Xander still would have pulled over and demanded to know if the spark he’d felt that night was one-sided.
And if it wasn’t, he wanted to know what they were going to do about it.
He didn’t drive by, because he already knew it was a mistake to do anything about it. That’s why he didn’t even give himself the option.
It was sort of a lonely existence—home to work and then back home again.
He argued with Kian about his ill-advised crush on their boss.
Argued with Nate, their other roommate, about everything he could think of, and entertained himself by rebuffing every sexual offer he made.
Nate entertained himself by continuing to make them.
There were some days when Xander would give anything to drive by the vineyard.
Some days, ignoring the basic curiosity took all his self-control.
Had Damon torn up the rest of the vines?
Planted a garden? Sold the property? In the year since that night, Xander had imagined three hundred and sixty-five different possibilities.
Some good, some bad, some made up of plain normal life, but all full of a tantalizing possibility that Xander couldn’t seem to forget.
He knew he was romanticizing a single encounter that hadn’t even lasted an hour. But when the alternative was resenting the happiness his friends had found in LA, and worrying about Kian’s future, most nights Damon looked really damn good. Maybe even better than he had for real.
The memory took on an elastic quality, like it wasn’t quite real, and Xander exploited that, tugging it and turning it and manipulating it just a little. A second longer where he’d lingered, staring into Damon’s eyes. An undeniable interest in those eyes, instead of the more ambiguous truth.
When his job sucked, like today, it was comforting to pull the memory out, and relive his encounter with Damon the way he wished it would’ve happened.
“Bridges, what the fuck are you doing?”
Xander jerked himself out of the memory and instantly re-focused on the monotonous work in front of him.
Naturally it was impossible to tell what was so terrible about his prep work on the eggplants—but that was par for the course with Chef Aquino.
Every basic action was a disaster waiting to happen, and inevitably a disaster in his own paranoid mind.
Aquino yelled because he was a notorious sadist who apparently got his rocks off by torturing everyone within hearing distance.
Especially anyone who worked for him.
“Those aren’t thin enough,” Chef bellowed. His arms were crossed across his broad chest, chef jacket rolled to his elbows, exposing his forearms. They were objectively nice-looking forearms but Xander would have rather crawled into a pit of fire ants naked than find his boss attractive.
Besides, Kian had the market cornered on that kind of insanity.
“I’m using the mandolin,” Xander said slowly. Enunciating. Chef was not stupid, but sometimes he threw a hissy fit about the same stuff that he insisted they do every single damn night.
Apparently today was one of those times. To illustrate, Xander pointed to the metal slicer in front of him, clearly set on an eighth of an inch, because preciseness was the cornerstone of every kitchen, and the foundation of Terroir.
“Is that set correctly?” Chef demanded. Xander barely refrained from rolling his eyes, because it was clearly set on the correct setting.
Instead of saying anything, Xander leaned over, checked the setting, and exaggeratedly set it a click higher, then returned the dial back to an eighth of an inch.
“All better,” he said in a fake relieved voice. It wasn’t that convincing, because 1) Xander was not that good of an actor, and 2) he put in zero effort.
Chef’s eyes narrowed, like he wanted to call Xander on his attitude in front of the entire kitchen, who was currently watching their exchange with a held breath.
It was the beginning of prep. If someone pissed Chef off now, they were in for another eight hours of hell.
But he turned away abruptly instead of arguing, and stomped off into his office, calling for Kian as he walked off.
It wasn’t something Xander was proud of, but he was relieved that Kian was going to have to deal with the Bastard’s passive-aggressive pouting now instead of him.
After all, Kian was the one who acted like he was in love with that monster.
Damon Hess almost never gave a shit. Not anymore, not after he’d been forcibly dragged, demons kicking and screaming, back to the Napa Valley.
Today, though, today mattered. Which was why he had given about half a shit, and had made sure his boots weren’t muddy, and his jeans didn’t have any particularly awful stains or patches.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” The Terroir hostess was as polished and elegant as the rest of the surroundings.
Just casual enough, with her colorful scarf elegantly arranged over her classic little black dress, a pair of designer flats on her feet.
There was always a reminder that under all the unstructured relaxation, this was one of the finest dining establishments in America.
“No,” Damon said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she might have been a budding actress, because she sounded genuinely apologetic. “We don’t have any tables available.”
She did, but she didn’t know that he knew that. He also really didn’t want to act like his father, walking into places, demanding everything he wanted, just because he was a Hess.
Unfortunately she wasn’t leaving him much choice, continuing to stare at him with that pleasant rejection smile on her face.
Damon sighed, considered leaning conspiratorially over the hostess stand, but it looked pretty flimsy, and it wouldn’t help his case to destroy the furniture.
“My father is meeting me here,” he lied. “I’m sure he’s going to be really disappointed that we couldn’t get a table at Bastian’s restaurant.”
She did two double takes. One, at the father comment. The second, that he called Chef Aquino, Bastian. Not many people did that and lived to talk about it.
Damon figured that he could have really been an asshole and called him the Bastard, but he still wanted a table, and that might have been a step too far for the hostess.
“And your father is?” she asked, directly yet delicately.
“Nathan Hess.” Damon would have rather ingested rocks than used that name, but he also really needed a table, and she’d left him no choice.
Her shoulders straightened. “Of course, right this way, sir.”
The sir was back, too, despite his too-casual jeans, and Damon hated it because he knew why she was saying it.
He was shown to a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing diners to look out on the incredible vistas of the Napa Valley, but near the corner, which guaranteed privacy.
Damon had only come here with his father a handful of times, but it was enough to remember that this was his regular table.
The hostess waited for him to seat himself, draping the napkin across his lap with an elegant flick of her wrist. “I’m sorry, again, sir. I didn’t recognize you. We didn’t realize you’d come home.”
Damon hadn’t realized he’d come home either, so they had that in common. Maybe because home had never felt like a place to him, but a person, and then that had gone to hell. “Of course,” he said. “Not an issue.”
He was barely settled—pointedly ignoring the temptation of the wine book sitting so innocently in its cognac leather binding—when the waiter arrived to introduce himself.
“Mr. Hess, it’s so good to see you, sir,” the waiter said. He was Bastian’s perfect combination of urbane formality. “I hear Mr. Hess will be joining us.”
“He may be running late,” Damon said, and the waiter didn’t bat an eyelash. Likely he didn’t give a shit, as long as he got a good tip. Which Damon fully intended to leave him.
“May I fetch you a glass of wine while you wait?” the waiter asked. He'd told himself to expect the question, because he was a Hess and because this was Napa, so it was easy enough to turn aside.
“I’ll have iced tea, unsweetened,” Damon said. “And I’d like to speak to a sous chef in your kitchen. Xander Bridges.”
Damon fully expected to see the panic lights flashing in the waiter’s eyes, and he didn’t disappoint.
One of the tenets of Terroir was that you never saw any kitchen staff on the dining room floor, with the illustrious exception of Bastian Aquino himself.
That was because Bastian was an egotistical maniac who couldn’t bear anyone else taking credit for his creations.
Even though everyone in here knew that Bastian wasn’t actually cooking their food.
“I’m not sure that’s possible, sir,” the waiter said. He had begun to sweat at his temples, and Damon might have felt sorry for him, but this was important.
Damon had learned from a very young age from observing his grandfather and his father that the most effective way to get people to do what you wanted was to keep repeating the request, over and over, without embellishment or explanation, until you simply wore people down.
“I know,” Damon said. “But I’d still like to see Xander Bridges.” He didn’t raise his voice, but made sure he sounded confident and firm.
He actually sounded like his father, which he would have hated and avoided at all costs except that these were extenuating circumstances.
“I’m . . .” The waiter paused, hesitating. “It’s really not done, to bring kitchen staff to the dining room.”