Chapter Three
“So the rumors are true. You did destroy this vineyard.”
Damon looked up from his position on his knees in the dirt, where he was carefully weeding around his cabbages.
Bastian Aquino stood tall and arrogant, eyes covered with silver aviators, arms crossed across his chest, his mouth compressed into a tight line.
Damon didn’t say a word, didn’t move an inch. Sometimes it was good to remember he was a Hess. Not always, but sometimes.
“You tore up all these vines and then stole my sous chef,” Bastian continued. “I’m still trying to figure out what I ever did to you.”
Like most egotistical assholes, Bastian would naturally make Xander’s defection about him.
“Nothing,” Damon said, finally rising to his feet. It didn’t matter to him what position he occupied—he already knew that power had nothing to do with being on your knees, but Bastian clearly hadn’t. The only way to face him was to don the trappings of an authority he’d long rejected.
Sort of the way he’d done to trick his way into Terroir.
“I know you lied to get into my dining room,” Bastian continued, the edge of his voice cruelly patronizing.
“I know you weren’t meeting your father.
He never would have asked a server to bring a member of the kitchen staff to a table.
He never would have ordered a single appetizer and an iced tea and then left. ”
Nathan Hess wouldn’t have. He would have never dreamed of speaking to a staff member unless he needed something. He would have ordered a full meal, several bottles of wine, and then spent the next several hours enjoying what he considered the just fruits of his labor.
“Is your problem with the single appetizer or the iced tea?” Damon asked mildly. He wasn’t going to fight with Bastian Aquino about his father. Xander—that was a slightly different story.
Bastian ripped the sunglasses from his face and took a few strides, stopping short of where the garden began, eyes narrowing at the muddy knees of Damon’s jeans.
He couldn’t help but wonder the last time Bastian had gotten his hands—or anything else—dirty.
“My problem,” Bastian snarled, “is that you fucking poached my best chef.”
“If Xander is your best chef, then you can’t be surprised that he left. Isn’t that what good chefs are supposed to do? Spread their wings? Develop their own point of view? I thought that was supposed to be something you wanted. The pedigree of a whole stable of famous culinary offspring.”
“Generally that’s the idea,” Bastian said. It looked like it hurt to admit it.
“Then why are you here?” Damon asked, turning away from the man in front of him. He’d already wasted enough breath on Bastian Aquino; he was never going to understand why everyone left him.
“I came to tell you to back off, and that when Xander rethinks his behavior, you’re going to encourage him to stay at Terroir.”
Damon glanced over from his position by the cabbages.
When he’d woken up this morning to Xander’s text that he’d walked out in the middle of prep for the night’s dinner service, he’d half-dreamed that Xander might show up bright and early in the garden.
It turned out Bastian Aquino was not a pleasant substitution for what Damon really wanted.
“He doesn’t need to stay at Terroir. He shouldn’t stay at Terroir. He doesn’t want to stay at Terroir.” Damon made sure his voice stayed calm, but it was firm. Implacable. His demons were a hell of a lot tougher than Bastian Aquino, and he faced them down every damn day.
“He will if I offer to make him chef de cuisine,” Bastian said smugly.
Damon didn’t know exactly what that particular position entailed, but by the way the chef was referring to it, it was illustrious and there might be some circumstance under which Xander would take it.
He still didn’t know Xander well enough to be sure, but he’d gotten an indelible impression of him from just the few times they’d met. Damon knew Xander was loyal and hardworking, and would never walk out on a job just because he got annoyed with something.
The annoyance would have to be long-occurring, far-reaching, and far more serious.
“I think if Xander wanted to keep working at Terroir, then he wouldn’t have left,” Damon said simply.
“I don’t think it matters what position you want to dangle in front of him, he’s done with you.
He’s done being treated like a toy you can win back with a prize, after you’ve mistreated it.
Xander deserves to work for—with, actually—someone on his side. And that’s never going to be you.”
“You seem very sure about that,” Bastian retorted wryly, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
“I am,” Damon said. And he was.
“You think you can be that partner,” Bastian sneered, shoving his sunglasses and covering up his smug, handsome face. “A Hess who isn’t even a Hess. A Hess who ripped up his own vineyard.”
Better than the drop-dead drunk Hess, Damon desperately wanted to say, but Bastian Aquino had already spent too much time poisoning the place where he’d begun to find peace.
“Get off my land,” he said, beginning to rise to his feet again, because if push came to shove, he would literally throw him off of it, if he had to. Bastian Aquino wasn’t a small man, but Damon was bigger. And Damon owned a wealth of determination that Aquino couldn’t even begin to touch.
But to Damon’s surprise, Bastian actually did as he was told, turned and stomped off, and left him wondering what the hell had just happened.
Xander woke to someone pounding on his bedroom door. He opened one eye, saw the mostly empty bottle of cabernet that he’d stolen from Nate the night before on his nightstand, and promptly closed it again. Rolling over, he groaned.
The pounding continued and intensified.
“Xander, I know you’re in there,” the voice outside the door insisted. It was Kian. It could only be Kian. Though, Xander theorized, it could also be Nate, pissed that he’d nicked one of his better bottles of wine. But Nate knew he’d taken it, and had even offered to drink it with him.
But Xander had been celebrating and hadn’t felt like entertaining himself by turning down Nate’s sexual offers.
“You’re wrong,” he croaked, “Xander isn’t here.”
Kian finally got sick of pounding on the door and opened it. He didn’t look amused.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb and doing his best Bastian Aquino impression, which was not very good, because Kian was a marshmallow and couldn’t pull off asshole even with extensive training.
“So talk,” Xander said, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. “Clearly nothing is stopping you.”
“You walked out last night,” Kian began, but Xander interrupted him before he could get the rest out.
“I quit,” Xander corrected grimly. “I didn’t just walk out. I fucking quit. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”
Kian glared. “Believe me, it was.”
“Okay then,” Xander said.
“What I keep trying to tell you is that you don’t have to. Leave, that is. Chef is here . . . and he wants to talk to you.”
There wasn’t much Kian could say to get his undivided attention right now. Not with rancid red wine on his tongue and the insistent throbbing in his temples. “Chef is here?” He couldn’t help it, he gawked a little. “In our house?”
“Yes,” Kian said primly.
“What the fuck.”
“I suggest,” Kian said, his tone of voice much more insistent than a suggestion, “you get cleaned up and get out here before he gets tired of waiting and leaves.”
But would that be all that bad, in the scheme of things? Xander wasn’t sure. He did know that the last thing he expected was for the Bastard to show up at their house, prepared to beg him to come back to his old job.
He knew what it was like when people quit Terroir. There was usually screaming and yelling and almost always missiles of some sort. When Wyatt had left, Bastian had cleared his whole desk—keyboard, laptop, paperwork, several glasses—with a single sweep of his arm.
As far as Xander knew, there had never been a counteroffer.
And maybe there wasn’t one. It was entirely possible that instead of coming here to win him back, Aquino had come here to kill him. But Xander was fairly sure that he wouldn’t commit murder in front of Kian—or make him clean up the mess.
Even if he wasn’t going to take whatever offer Aquino had come here to make, Xander figured it was probably worth hearing. His curiosity demanded at least that much.
He threw the covers back and staggered upright.
Kian glared. “Hurry up,” he said, before closing the door behind him.
No doubt he was freaking out that their boss—his boss, Xander corrected—and the unrequited love of his life was sitting in their living room, probably trying to assess the dubious provenance of their couch.
Dressing was as simple as throwing on a pair of athletic shorts and a shirt that was probably clean. Mostly clean, Xander decided as he sniffed it. Good enough. He stopped by the bathroom, brushed his teeth, vaguely tried to neaten his bedhead, and called it good enough again.
As he predicted, Bastian was on the couch in the living room, with Kian hovering within reaching distance, looking an uneasy mixture of anxious and elated.
“Xander,” Bastian said to him. He sounded just as arrogant as always, but there was the tiniest bit of contrition layered over it. An apology without the actual words.
Meaningless, basically.
Xander crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t sit down. “What do you want?”
“You quit last night.”
“I did,” Xander said steadily.
“You’re not even going to give me the benefit of a two-week notice?” Like there was ever a real two-week notice at Terroir without some benefit to Bastian.
“No.”
“Or an opportunity to counter what Damon Hess offered you?”
Xander glanced over at Kian, who had the nerve to look ashamed. “Not much is a secret, is it?” Xander said bitterly.