Chapter Eight
It was an unexpectedly hot day for fall in Northern California, and the Barrel House didn’t have air-conditioning yet. Xander wiped off his forehead as surreptitiously as he could, hoping that Damon hadn’t seen him sweat.
It was silly and childish, but he knew he was walking on eggshells around him. A few kisses, a few promises, and he was a lovesick teenager, terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing.
He knew he was supposed to trust Damon more, but deliberately opening himself up to anybody was new for him. It had been hard enough to make the initial decision to do so, and then he’d realized it was a continuing choice every day.
Each day when he woke up, he chose Damon and all the risk he came with instead of protecting his soft, vulnerable heart. Right now the decision was hard, but ultimately lopsided. Damon won out every single time, no doubt about it. Xander wasn’t na?ve enough to believe that would always be the case.
“Are you okay?” Damon asked. Xander jerked in surprise.
He’d been so sure that Damon was absorbed in listening to the contractor talk about the plans for the restaurant remodel, which were currently spread over the temporary job site office—a pair of sawhorses and an old door Damon had taken off the hinges.
“Fine, I’m fine,” Xander said.
Damon smiled. “Sorry, it’s boring.”
“Just a whole different language,” Xander said apologetically. “If we’re talking menus, I’m here with bells on.”
When Damon had mentioned he was meeting the contractor today, and had offered for Xander to join them, he’d thought it was a good idea.
Okay, he’d actually thought it was a chance to see Damon again after they’d both been busy over the last few days. What he’d been hoping for was more making out and less mind-numbing, nitty-gritty construction details.
David, the contractor, grinned. “I’d be happy to come back to discuss menus. I really admire the work you did at Terroir.”
David was shorter than Damon, and all compact muscle, but they were in almost a similar uniform of jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt.
Damon’s was autumnal orange tones and David’s was red and blue.
Still, he had a nice smile, and seemed to know what he was doing.
Plus, Damon had known him for a long time, and Xander trusted Damon’s judgement on this sort of thing.
Now, menus? That was a whole different ballgame.
“Maybe you’d just like to come back for the tasting sessions,” Xander offered. “Once the kitchen is in.”
“Yeah, the kitchen,” David said, like Xander’s words had reminded him of something else to discuss. “Do you have a list of kitchen equipment that you need?”
There was not going to be a large amount of space in the Barrel House kitchen. Not like the gigantic Terroir kitchens that housed every wet dream professional kitchen appliance Bastian Aquino could get his hands on, times two.
Xander was going to need to be careful and conservative, and only put in exactly what he needed.
He’d been working with his hand-drawn kitchen diagrams and appliance dimensions for a few days now, in anticipation of this request, and he still hadn’t finalized everything.
“I’m still working on it,” he admitted. “The space is tricky.”
“I told you that you could have more space, if you needed it,” Damon inserted, looking worried.
Xander might have a crush but he was still determined to make this restaurant a success. “And take away from table space? No way. I can manage.”
“We might be able to build a small addition in the back for the refrigerated units,” David said, pulling out a pencil from a pocket and beginning to sketch directly on the plans. “That would give you a little more work room in the kitchen itself.”
Xander leaned over the table, looking at David’s scribbles, and tried not to jump out of his skin when Damon placed a steadying hand on his back as he leaned in too.
Tried not to internally freak out when Damon kept his hand there after they were upright again. That was definitely something not “just partners” would do, and if David didn’t know they were involved—or getting involved—before, he probably knew now. But he didn’t even act like he’d noticed.
“It might add a little more to the budget,” David said. “And we’ll have to alter the permits, but I think I can charm their way through. They’re not much different than the originals.”
Damon waved a hand, completely dismissing the extra expense as they walked outside—like somehow he’d known Xander was hot and a little miserable. “I don’t want Xander in a cramped kitchen. He’s an artist. He needs space to work his magic.”
Xander was in the middle of basking in this sweet compliment when he noticed Damon’s face change abruptly. His mouth compressed into a grim line, and his eyes hardened unmistakably.
He looked up and followed Damon’s sightline to an older man getting out of a silver Mercedes sedan. He had dark hair, touched with a little silver at the temples, and could be Damon’s twin, if not for the additional lines around his eyes and mouth.
This must be Damon’s father. The famous patriarch of the Hess family.
Damon, who’d had zero issue putting his hands on Xander in front of their contractor, dropped his hand from Xander’s back like it had suddenly caught fire.
He didn’t want to listen, but as the older man strode toward them, it was impossible not to hear the tiny, niggling voice that the last few days had just begun to silence.
This is just a phase. Damon doesn’t really want you. It’s just convenient. This isn’t for real.
Xander tried silencing the annoying voice by reminding himself that while Damon might be comfortable with bisexuality, that didn’t mean he was out to his father.
“David,” Damon said, reaching out to shake the contractor’s hand, “thanks for meeting with us today. Will you get me a new quote with the changes? Go ahead and start the revised permitting process though. I know it takes a long time to push through and we’re in a rush.”
Xander hadn’t really thought about whether they were in a hurry or not—though he understood that a business’ purpose was to make money and all they were doing now was spending it. They couldn’t begin to recoup that loss until the restaurant opened.
Still, it was strange that Damon hadn’t said anything to him about opening quickly. Or about his dad not knowing about his bisexuality.
“I’ll send it over tomorrow,” David said, shaking Damon’s hand briskly and then moving onto Xander’s.
When David started to walk toward the driveway, Damon’s father had just reached them.
“Xander,” Damon said, his voice mechanical and nearly unrecognizable. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Xander wasn’t stupid. He knew he was being dismissed.
It was inevitable that despite understanding the generic reason why, it would still sting.
What really bothered him was that he didn’t really know why.
Couldn’t he stand here and be a business partner?
Wasn’t that still his most important function in Damon’s life?
Why couldn’t he meet Damon’s father under that circumstance?
Damon’s sexuality didn’t even need to come into the picture.
He’d grown up a lot since high school, since that terrible, awful crush that had decimated his heart when he’d finally realized that he was always going to be Dustin’s ugly secret.
He’d had years to separate himself from that pain, years to build a wall to prevent him from ever feeling that pain again.
And now, today, Xander realized as he turned and walked away that he hadn’t just let Damon wiggle under the fence.
He’d torn down a part and practically invited him to waltz inside.
Even as he came up with a half dozen very practical, very logical reasons why Damon might not want to introduce him to his father, Xander couldn’t help but think this was why he’d stopped letting people in.
Because they inevitably disappointed you, and worse.
Damon watched as Xander walked away. He knew he wasn’t happy with Damon’s decision to summarily dismiss him, and he couldn’t blame him.
But he couldn’t let his father dig his poisonous claws into Xander.
He’d never done anything to deserve that sort of pain.
Damon was used to it; he’d been dealing with its side effects his entire damn life.
“Not going to say hello to your father?” Nathan asked. Passive-aggressive had always been his favorite language, and clearly nothing had changed, despite Damon avoiding him as best he could the last year and a half since he’d moved back to Napa.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Damon said shortly.
“But you so politely dismissed your friends so we could talk,” Nathan pointed out. “It would be a shame not to take advantage.”
“Lots of people think you’re important and that your opinion matters. Go talk to them.”
“Maybe,” Nathan threw out, “I want to see the wreck of our family’s oldest vineyard. Are there even any grapes left, Damon, or did you destroy them all?”
This old argument again. Nathan had, of course, come to see him after that night a year ago, livid that he would dare to destroy something so precious. Damon could only retort that maybe his father should care that the vines had been destroying him.
Nathan had just shaken his head, disappointed and hurt, which was so much worse than his cutting anger, because it came with a healthy dose of guilt and that had always been tougher for Damon to shake. “Always such a drama queen,” he’d said.
Yes, Damon was definitely being overdramatic with his alcoholism. According to his father, alcohol was the golden calf that had always been so good to their family, and anyone who rejected it was rejecting the Hess name.
The day Damon went to rehab, his father had texted him to remind him that alcohol was “always a choice.” Like he’d ever had a choice in being an alcoholic.