Chapter Two #2
“If my father was sitting here,” Damon said, still staying pleasant, because it wasn’t the waiter’s fault that Bastian was crazy, “would you tell him that it wasn’t done? Or would you go to the kitchen and bring Xander Bridges up here?”
The waiter was definitely sweating now. “Uh,” he said, all eloquence momentarily evaporated.
“Listen,” Damon said, leaning closer to the waiter and lowering his voice. “I know it’s a huge no-no, to do what I’m asking. But I need you to go get Xander Bridges.”
“It’s important?” the waiter hedged.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important,” Damon promised him.
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Thank you,” Damon said, and resolved to give him a very large tip. And a job, if everything turned out according to plan.
The waiter was back in five minutes. Damon had looked perfunctorily through the menu, and thought, as he gazed at the listed dishes, that Bastian had used to be more innovative.
This didn’t feel tired exactly, but it lacked the excitement of previous years. Or maybe Damon had just changed, and wanted something wilder, a little less controlled.
“Are you ready to order, sir?” the waiter asked.
Damon knew he wouldn’t be staying long; what he really wanted was to grab a burger at the Napa Tavern, but he felt obligated to order something besides the iced tea.
“I’ll take the burrata appetizer,” Damon said, handing the menu to the waiter. “And what about my request?”
“I’m working on it,” he promised, glancing around pointedly at the other diners. “It is the middle of the dining hour, and Mr. Bridges is the sous in the kitchen.”
Damon had come on a Tuesday, deliberately late, for that exact reason. It was almost the end of service. It should be easy for Xander to duck out and see him for five minutes. There was even a better chance Bastian Aquino wouldn’t notice Xander breaking the rules.
He wasn’t the world’s best planner, but he’d been thinking about this for a long time—just over a year, actually—and while he’d initially thought about catching Xander in the staff parking lot after he was finished for the night, he’d eventually decided that this way carried more weight.
It made him look serious, and it should, because Damon was incredibly serious.
“I’ll be happy to wait,” Damon said.
The waiter beamed. “Very good.”
He returned ten minutes later with the appetizer, and Damon was just digging into the soft, creamy cheese with a toast point when Xander slid into the chair opposite his.
“What are you doing?” Xander hissed. He’d taken off his chef jacket, and had thrown on a navy blue sweatshirt. As disguises went, it wasn’t great, but it was probably enough.
“I needed to talk to you,” Damon said.
Xander’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “It’s important,” Damon tacked on. “Sorry?”
“You practically gave Nico a heart attack,” Xander said. “He doesn’t usually wait tables, he’s subbing tonight, and demanding a kitchen staff member come into the dining room didn’t make his night any easier.”
“I’m sorry,” Damon repeated. “But I really needed to talk to you.”
“So, talk.” Xander drummed his fingers impatiently on the tablecloth.
“I’d ask if you remember me, but you obviously do.”
“Despite what you probably think, I don’t go charging onto other people’s property every day, demanding they tell me what they’re doing,” Xander hissed.
“I didn’t think so,” Damon said, and he grinned in spite of himself. Xander looked good; of course, he’d looked good that night too. If he was being honest, that night in general and Xander specifically had figured in more than one of his dreams. And his fantasies.
“I ripped up the rest of the vines,” Damon continued. “And I’m growing a vegetable garden.” Just like you said.
Damon hadn’t exactly gotten up bright and early the next morning to do it, but it had been close. As soon as Xander had said what he should do, everything, which had felt muddy for so long, had suddenly become crystal clear.
“If you’re here to become a supplier for Terroir, you’re asking the wrong person,” Xander said.
“I don’t want to supply Terroir,” Damon said. “I want to supply my own restaurant.”
“You’re opening a restaurant?” Xander asked. This time he looked truly surprised.
“I am.” Damon leaned across the table, eyes intent on Xander’s dark ones. “And I want you to run it.”
Xander froze, looking shell-shocked for a single moment, then leaned back and gave out a bark of laughter. “You want me to run your restaurant.”
“I want you to be my head chef,” Damon said stubbornly. It had felt for the longest time that this was the only deal breaker in the new plan that had taken over his life. He had to have Xander. No matter how crazy it sounded.
“I have a job,” Xander said slowly.
“Aren’t you sick of being yelled at?” Damon offered. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly the yelling type. Or the extreme control freak type.”
“I noticed.” Xander’s tone was dry.
“Of course, I’ll pay you more than you make here. And you’ll get total autonomy over the menu. Input into the design of the space. I want a partner, not a slave.”
“You’ve been practicing this pitch,” Xander observed.
“This is important to me,” Damon admitted. His mouth felt dry at just how important and he took a long drink of his iced tea. “It would be dumb of me to leave it all to chance.”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll say no?”
All the time. Constantly. “It’s a good job.
Freedom, when you haven’t had any for a long time.
An opportunity to express your point of view as a chef.
And even though I might have been shit at growing grapes, I’m good with the earth.
My garden is thriving. Anything I don’t have, we’ll get from some friends of mine. ”
“You’re really serious,” Xander said. “You’re really here, offering me a job. After a year.”
So he did remember. He’d paid attention, and noticed that Damon had never sought him out. And he hadn't only because Damon hadn’t been ready to find him again.
“I am,” Damon said steadily.
“Let me think about it,” Xander said. He hesitated. “Can I come by and see the garden?”
“I was going to offer, but I was afraid it might hold . . . bad memories still.” Damon could hear the wryness in his voice. It was ironic that the man he’d met on one of the worst nights of his life might possibly be the tool in his salvation.
“Not at all. Can I come by tonight? After work? I’ll be here only an hour or so longer.”
“Sure, of course. You remember where it is?” Damon asked, almost not believing how well this conversation had gone. There had been no interruptions by screaming egotistical head chefs, and Xander seemed to be genuinely considering his proposal.
“I could hardly forget,” Xander said, his voice low and serious. It did something to the pit of Damon’s stomach. The same thing that he’d felt that night, a year ago. Before, he’d only felt it with women; Xander was the first man.
And like he’d known then, he understood that it was a complication. It wasn’t that being attracted to a man bothered him, it was that being attracted to Xander bothered him.
Because the one thing he knew better than anything else was that they could never get involved because Xander deserved better than a shell of a man still desperately trying to find his way.
Tearing up the vines had helped. The garden had helped.
Building something concrete and unassociated with alcohol would help.
But he was under no illusions that he would ever be ready to risk someone else's heart.
Especially not someone like Xander.
It was hardly possible for Damon's land to feel more chaotic than it had the first time he'd been there. The land was dark still, but there was a sweet peacefulness to it now, Xander thought as he wandered between the aisles of leafy greens. Damon’s pain wasn’t overflowing out of it anymore.
"I can't believe you listened to me," Xander admitted, looking up at Damon, who was still watching him warily from the head of the garden.
"Why shouldn't I listen to you?" Damon questioned.
"I don't know—maybe because I was a completely unknown person, bursting into your vineyard in the middle of the night?"
Damon laughed, low and a little wry. It sent an all too familiar spike of heat through him.
For weeks—for months—after that night, Xander had thought about him and worried.
Had wished more than once that he was less of a coward and could be Damon's friend without worrying about wanting more.
He could with countless other men, but he was undeniably attracted to Damon, and knew he was eventually going to want more than just friendship.
Now Damon had come back into his life, and this time it was him who wanted more.
A business partner. A head chef. And unspoken between them, a friend.
Could Xander be those things and not turn into the worst version of himself? The angry, bitter version of himself who couldn't resign himself to not getting everything he wanted?
He didn't know. But he also knew this wasn't an opportunity that came around every day.
"What did your family say?" Xander asked.
Damon just shrugged, big body a dark outline against a darker sky.
No, it wasn't really Xander's business what his family thought of him ripping up seventy-year-old vines.
What mattered was that they wouldn't show up to interfere, leaving Xander without a job after burning down the bridge he'd spent years building.
Bastian Aquino was not exactly the “forgive and forget” type. If he left Terroir, he was leaving Terroir. There would be no going back. Even if Damon's restaurant never made it off the ground.
Was he ready to take that step?
It came as a total surprise that he was. When he’d been promoted to sous chef over a year ago, it had been an exciting change, with more responsibility. Only a little, of course, because the kitchen was Chef Aquino’s and he never let anybody forget it.
“I’d like to build something,” Xander said. “Here. With you.”