Chapter Seven
Damon had been telling himself all afternoon not to get his hopes up but he was still inevitably crushed when Xander texted him about five to say he was coming over in a few hours and that he was bringing his friend and roommate, Kian.
Of course, he’d responded in the affirmative, confirming that Xander was free to bring whoever he wished, but Damon couldn’t help but think that Xander was bringing a friend to make sure the atmosphere didn’t feel too date-like.
Damon reminded himself that the dinner they’d shared the other night had felt plenty date-like and Xander had barely batted an eyelash, but then, besides practically inviting him to sit on his lap to sign the contract, he’d not exactly made any overtures either.
This would all be a little easier—and a little harder, too—if Xander wasn’t interested in him.
But then Xander’s car pulled up to the house, and he stepped out. His grin was wide, and it took a second, but Damon realized that smile was for him.
It wasn’t for Kian, who must be the guy getting out of the passenger side of the car. Or food. Or a job offer. Or the Barrel House. It was for Damon.
Xander slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a half hug. “Wait until you taste these marshmallows I made,” he said. “I think pastry might be my second calling. Maybe we won’t even need to hire a pastry chef.”
Damon snorted, soft and amused, both from Xander’s clear affection and also from his ego. “If you want to work yourself to death, that’s on you.”
“It’s ambition. Just ambition,” Xander said, laughing. “By the way, this is my friend, Kian. Kian, this is my new partner, Damon Hess.”
As he shook Kian’s hand, there was definitely a part of him that liked Xander’s introduction. Partner sounded so much better than boss. Probably to Xander too, after so long under Bastian Aquino’s thumb.
Kian was a few inches shorter than Xander, and had that look like he was just coming into his adult muscles. Still slender and a bit slight, with a mop of blond hair and a pair of baby blue eyes.
Damon nearly made the crack about Aquino out loud, but then he remembered that Xander had mentioned the other day that his friend had an unfortunate crush on the man.
He hadn’t been lying. It was definitely unfortunate. Bastian looked like he could eat Kian for lunch and then spit him back out again for dinner.
“So you still work at Terroir?” Damon asked, as they headed back toward where he’d set up the wood and debris for the bonfire.
“I do,” Kian said, and shooting Xander sort of a half-hearted glare. “But I got the night off.”
“What he means to tell you,” Xander said conspiratorially, “is that he nearly chopped his finger off with a Japanese mandolin.”
Damon glanced down at Kian’s hand, and sure enough, it was wrapped in a thick white bandage. He’d been so busy staring at Xander, appreciating the tan of his skin against his white t-shirt, that he’d barely spared Kian a glance.
“That sounds . . . dangerous,” Damon said.
They stopped in front of the enormous pile they were about to set on fire.
“This also looks dangerous,” Xander said, with a gleam in his eye that Damon knew meant both terrible and wonderful things.
“You say that with such relish,” Kian complained. “You’re going to make Damon think you’re a sort of pyro creep.”
Damon definitely did not think Xander was a pyro creep. Far from it, in fact. But the problem was to explain this without sounding like he had a real serious crush. Which he definitely did.
“Uh, um,” Damon hesitated.
“See?” Kian said triumphantly, and Xander frowned.
“No,” Damon said firmly. “Definitely not a creep. Nothing like a creep.” If anything was creepy, it was probably his own smile as he gazed longingly over at Xander, trying to communicate just how wrong Kian was.
The frown disappeared, which wasn’t all Damon wanted, but he’d take it. “So where are these fantastic marshmallows?” Damon asked, trying to change the subject and very aware that he was doing so clunkily.
Xander pulled a Tupperware container out of the paper bag he was carrying. “Right here. I thought it wouldn’t do to get too gourmet, and stopped by the store for regular old graham crackers and Hershey’s milk chocolate bars to go with them.”
“Should have gone for the Valrhona,” Kian muttered.
“Don’t mind him,” Xander said, leaning closer to Damon, his shoulder brushing Damon’s arm and making his heart skitter like a teenager again, “his pain meds are wearing off, and he can’t take any more until tomorrow morning.”
“Should he be here? With his injury?" Damon asked in a low voice, hopefully out of Kian's hearing. He was also hoping his question looked like friendly concern and not annoyance that Kian was crashing their non-date.
"Socializing is good for him." Xander tipped his head up toward Damon's, grinning, and his stomach fluttered. "He's never able to leave that damn restaurant."
"Is socializing good for you too?" Damon asked. He kept his tone even, but it didn't matter how it sounded, the question still sounded flirtatious.
But Xander just nodded, and didn't move away. "I'm not . . . I'm not always good at it," he confessed. "Maybe you can help me practice."
Damon remembered very well the last person who'd asked him for help “practicing" in this area—he'd eventually married her. If Kian hadn't been standing only a few feet away, maybe he even would have thrown rational thought to the wind, and kissed Xander. All in the name of practice, of course.
Maybe it was better that Kian was here. It kept Damon from doing anything he couldn’t take back tomorrow.
"I'm not either," Damon admitted. "Maybe we can practice together?" It was hard to even say it without blushing, and he wasn't sure he quite managed it.
If the way Xander glanced over at his friend, and then back to Damon, and then down to Damon's lips, not even being very subtle about it, was any indication, then he thought he'd just been given the green light.
Of course there was still the problem of Kian. He'd walked over to the other side of the big pile of debris, but he was still present.
"Are you two going to stop flirting so we can burn this down?" Kian asked.
Yep. Definitely still present.
Xander blushed a really cute shade of red, but he didn't deny it. And neither did Damon, which he hoped Xander noticed.
“Yeah, let’s get this fire started,” Damon said, and blushed himself at the double entendre he’d accidentally used.
Kian laughed, and when Damon found the courage to glance over at Xander, he was smiling too.
He figured that the nervous determination on Xander’s face was probably reflected in his own.
“How can I help?” Xander asked.
“Um, you could find some sticks to toast the marshmallows,” Damon suggested. “I’m going to go grab the matches from the house.”
“Well,” Kian said as Xander pulled some long sticks from the pile in front of them, “he sure seems interested from where I’m standing. No reconnaissance required.”
“Shhh,” Xander hissed at his friend. “He’s going to hear you.”
“And know he’s interested? Yeah, I think he knows that already.”
Xander yanked a stick out, examined and then threw it back in. “It’s not that simple. We’re business partners. Technically he pays my salary. This restaurant is something we both need. I don’t want to fuck that up.”
“You don’t know it will,” Kian said, his tone at odds with the optimism of his words. “Now you’re just making excuses.”
“I don’t know it won’t,” Xander countered. “I’m just trying to be cautious here and make a good decision.”
“Are you? Or are you just afraid of something good happening?”
Xander finally found a pair of sticks he liked, and set them aside. “Something good is happening. We’re opening a restaurant. I’m going to be head chef of my own place, finally. I don’t have to get yelled at anymore. If anyone’s yelling, it’s going to be me. That feels pretty damn good.”
Kian opened his mouth, probably to argue that Bastian was a wonderful person under all his verbal abuse, but Xander didn’t want to hear it. “I don’t care,” was all he said. “I know you and I are always going to disagree on this, but he’s a shithead.”
“Who’s a shithead?”
Damon had come back with the matches, and once he spotted Xander’s sticks, pulled a pocket knife out, and opened it, passing it to him handle-first. Like the credit card from a few days ago, the metal of the knife was also warm from his body heat.
It was old too, well-used, with nicks and scratches.
Xander absently rubbed the warm steel with his thumb as he started to trim the sticks and whittle the ends to a point.
“Aquino is a shithead,” Xander said shortly.
“No argument from me,” Damon said cautiously. Like he knew, even without being told, that this was a delicate subject between the two of them. “You got that okay?” he asked, gesturing to the sticks Xander was prepping.
Just as he asked, the knife slipped, and poked him right in the thumb.
Like all of Damon’s equipment, it was well-used but also well taken care of and the edge was sharp.
Blood welled from the tiny wound. Xander stuck it in his mouth and sucked it.
“I was fine,” he teased. “You just had to go and ask.”
Damon was by his side in a second, a hand on his back—warm and heavy and reassuring. “Sorry. It’s sharp.”
“It’s fine, I’ll live,” Xander said with a chuckle. “At least it doesn’t need twenty-four stitches.”
Still, Damon reached over and eased the knife from Xander’s grip. “I’ll just finish these up real quick,” he said apologetically. Like he’d fucked up by keeping his knife sharp and lending it to Xander.
The sticks were almost ready anyway, and it only took Damon a few more expertly aimed swipes of the knife to finish them off.
“I’ll start the fire now,” Damon said, handing the sticks over to Xander and pocketing the knife.