Chapter Four #2
Xander raised an eyebrow. “Maybe instead of auditioning, I should have been looking at the space.”
It was difficult for Damon not to flush bright red. Xander might not have seen the evidence under his farmer’s tan, but its existence flustered him regardless. He should have shown Xander the restaurant first thing.
“It’s not much,” Damon warned as they walked out the back door and he took Xander through the edges of the garden. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”
It was difficult to see Xander’s face in the growing dusk, but Damon glanced over anyway—an instinctual reaction he was finding it tougher and tougher to resist. For so long he’d stood out in the fields with just himself and the vegetables for company, and imagined what Xander might say to him.
It was surreal to have him actually here, and Damon had to keep reminding himself that he was in fact real and not a figment of his imagination.
Damon brought them to the old barrel house on the property, long abandoned by the Hess family.
Even as this vineyard had remained a jewel in the crown of their legacy, wine production had been brought into the twenty-first century by his father, increasing capacity and ensuring consistency of quality.
Places like this one had faded away, some remaining ramshackle buildings on the Hess properties, others torn down to make way for more vines.
When he’d inherited this property, Damon had fully expected that this barrel house would have gone the way of so many others, but to his surprise, it had still stood. Weathered and not in the best of conditions, but still existing, a testament to a time long gone.
“This is the restaurant,” Xander stated, and when Damon glanced over, he was gaping. And not in a good way. “This is a shack.”
“I told you it needed some work,” he retorted defensively. “Think of it like a blank canvas. We can do whatever we want with it. And the history . . .” Even if it wasn’t history that Damon always appreciated, it remained important, and it was important to Damon for Xander to recognize that.
This was what was left of his legacy, and the only part of it he still felt comfortable embracing.
Xander took a deep breath. “A blank canvas, falling apart around our ears.”
“It’s not going to be falling apart. When I left Napa, I did construction for awhile.” Damon was all too aware of how defensive—and desperate—he sounded. “I can fix it.”
Xander’s expression was incredulous. “You worked in construction?”
It was unsaid hanging between them. But you’re a Hess. Your family practically runs this valley. You have a huge trust fund.
All of that was true. And for a while, none of it had mattered to Damon, and it was all he could do to get away and do something, anything, else. Working with his hands had been soothing somehow. Creating something with his own two hands. Building something, instead of tearing it down.
But that was stuff he barely even felt comfortable sharing with his sponsor still. He couldn’t tell Xander. No matter how attracted to him he was, he was still almost a stranger. They’d agreed tentatively to trust each other, but that didn’t mean sharing every personal feeling.
“I enjoyed it,” Damon retorted shortly. “Anyway, it’s going to come in handy, because now I can help fix the building. Our restaurant.”
“Do you have a name yet? I noticed there wasn’t a clause in the contract providing me approval or denial on the restaurant name.”
“The Barrel House.” Damon told himself Xander’s opinion of the name meant little, but maybe it would also help him to understand the complex association Damon had with his own history.
Xander was quiet for a long moment. He tilted his head, eyes skimming the building from top to bottom again, taking in every broken board, every sagging eave. It still had good lines, and Damon knew he could bring them out again. “It suits the building.” He hesitated. “It suits you.”
He would have to be in a lot more denial to think he hadn’t been waiting with bated breath for Xander’s opinion. “I think so,” Damon said quietly. It was a relief to imagine that at least Xander might be beginning to understand.
“Can we go inside?” Xander asked. “Without being in mortal danger, anyway?”
“Of course. It’s all superficial damage. Easily fixed. Restored. That’s what I plan to do with it anyway. It’s not going to be fancy or polished, but it’s going to be what it was before.”
Damon led the way into the house, opening the door on hinges he’d kept continually oiled in the last year. He’d spent a lot of time in this building, making plans.
“Kitchen would go over there,” Damon said. “I want it to be open. Want diners to see their food being prepared.”
“Glass panels,” Xander said. “Floor to ceiling.”
Damon had never considered glass walls. At first he might have rejected the idea as far too Terroir-like for their restaurant, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of the high end merged with the more rustic originality of the building.
“That could be really cool,” Damon said. He had his phone out of his pocket, and was making notations. People he would need to call.
“Tables over here, then,” Xander continued, waving an arm. “Hostess stand here. Refinished wood. A little glass for contrast. Simple, classic earth tones.”
“No barrels,” Damon said.
Xander looked over, and there was a concerned wrinkle between his dark brows. “Barrels?”
“It’s called the Barrel House, but I don’t want any barrels in here. I want the history but not the strong association with the winery,” Damon insisted.
Xander’s face softened. “I understand.”
He probably thought he did; most people who didn’t struggle with something as basic as a drink menu sitting innocuously on a table on a restaurant thought they knew what it would be like. They didn’t.
Alcohol, especially here in Napa, was everywhere.
“I don’t want to serve it. No wine. No beer. No booze.”
Damon told himself that Xander couldn’t possibly be surprised; after all, he’d just said he didn’t want old wine barrels decorating their restaurant which was named after them. How could he want alcohol on their menu?
“But this is a restaurant in Napa,” Xander said slowly. The wrinkle had reappeared as quickly as it had disappeared the first time. “People would expect they can get a glass of wine with dinner.”
“No.” It didn’t make sense to add any additional arguments, because this wasn’t an argument Damon intended to have. It was his one line in the sand. Still, he braced himself for an explosion out of Xander.
Instead, Xander did something he did not expect. He reached over and wrapped him in a tight, not-very-quick hug. He lingered, his hands, insanely capable and talented, lingering over Damon’s shoulders. And when he finally moved away, Damon wanted to grab him back and tell him never to stop.
“It’ll be a challenge,” Xander said, and his voice was very matter-of-fact, nothing like the sudden tenderness of the hug he’d just given Damon. “And nobody can say that I’m not up for a challenge.”
“You seem very sure of all of this, no matter how many obstacles I keep throwing your way,” Damon said incredulously.
He’d planned on confessing this particular wrinkle at some later date.
Not the first night. Definitely not the night they’d signed the contract, when it would be so easy for Xander to walk back to the house and rip it up.
But it had felt wrong not to tell Xander. Not exactly a lie, but something akin to it.
“I’m a very determined person. And I’m determined to make this work,” Xander said.
“Something we have in common,” Damon pointed out.
“So . . .” Xander hesitated. “Where do we begin here?”
There were old broken-down barrels, fragments of the wooden racks that had used to hold them, and other random crap scattered around the enormous room. “Clean this up first,” Damon said. “I’m planning on starting tomorrow.”
“I suppose since I don’t have any other plans, I’ll be here,” Xander said wryly.
In his head, it was a simple answer. Yes. This was never something Damon had wanted to build alone; he’d always wanted a partner. And simply, he needed the help. But something else entirely came out of his mouth.
“If you want. You’re not obligated to help. Not with this part of the process.”
Damon didn’t imagine the incredulous look Xander shot his way.
Damon felt like shooting an even stronger look at himself.
Why did he keep self-sabotaging this way?
If Xander was less Xander—less determined, less stubborn, less committed—then he would have been out of here, running as fast as his legs would carry him.
“I’ll be here anyway,” was all Xander said. “What time?”
“Eight. Is that too early?”
“You remember that my boss used to be Bastian Aquino, right? That guy that showed up here today, in all his manipulative fuck you glory? Eight is nothing.”
“Even when you were working an evening shift?’
Xander gave a short laugh. “Like that ever mattered to him.”
“Well, it matters to me.” Damon meant it. He just hoped, even with all the stupid shit he’d said tonight, that Xander believed him.
Xander patted him on the arm. It was a far cry from both his earlier embrace and the ambiguous invitation into his personal space. Damon fought the instinct to reach out and grab his hand back.
“If I’m going to be back here at eight, I’d better get home,” Xander said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a date, but as Damon watched Xander walk out to his car, he realized that he felt gypped that he hadn’t gotten a goodnight kiss.
“You’re home at a weird time,” Nate said when Xander walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Nate was leaning against the far counter, a glass of rich red wine dangling from his fingers.