NOW

RIVERSIDE GRILL
EAST BAY STREET, CHARLESTON

“Food is theater. Act One introduces the spectacle and provides a scope of things to come: a promise for the rest of the night to live up to. Tonight, that’s our chilled potato bisque—creamy, with a hint of truffle that will leave you wanting more of that rich storyline.

“Act Two holds the drama. It presents innovative tastes and unexpected combinations. The seafood becomes a noble dish reminiscent of forgotten simplicity and elegance, laid over a bed of locally produced greens. Our beef is the finest cut of organic sirloin, grilled medium-rare over hickory coals, holding court with hearts of palm and shallots, drizzled with a sherry sauce.”

“What about Act Three?” someone calls out.

Jensen swears he can hear at least half of the servers licking their lips. He’s hooked them all. They need to feel the food before they can turn around and sell the shit out of it tonight.

“The final act of our culinary performance brings closure and ensures satisfaction. Dessert arrives, and no matter the selection—a fine brandy or our praline and pomegranate tarts—we’ll reveal the meal’s last secret. It sates the palate, tempts a person back for more. Act Three can’t be overlooked or ignored. It’s as essential to cuisine as an orgasm is to great sex—”

“All right!” Miranda Carlton-Jennings stands and claps for attention. The assembled servers blink collectively, and then focus shifts away from Jensen. “I think that’s plenty for this meeting. Make sure you go over the specials again, and check your tables one more time. Everything needs to be spotless! We’ve got a full house, so no mistakes, ladies and gentlemen.”

Jensen watches the staff scurry and scatter like billiard balls after Miranda’s pointed strike. They collide with one another, looking for the fastest way to the alley so they can light up with the first of tonight’s many cigarettes.

Waiters. They all smoke like fucking chimneys.

“That was quite a speech, Jensen,” Miranda says, manicured claws curled around her wine glass. It wouldn’t do for Jensen to tell her that celebratory drinking should be done after a successful night, not before the first customer is even seated. “Not really what I had in mind for opening night.”

“You mean re-opening,” Jensen points out. “It’s the same restaurant.” Even as he says it, Jensen knows it’s a lie. Miranda had kept the restaurant and its name—along with the house on Broad Street, the Mediterranean villa, and a few million dollars in her divorce from Pierre—and a handful of Jensen’s staff, but not much else. Riverside Grill is no longer the restaurant Pierre Jennings had designed and created.

“Oh Jensen!” Miranda trills as if he’s being silly. “It’s got a new vibe, a whole different attitude.” She snaps her fingers at the outrageous new light fixtures, the modern and uncomfortable looking chairs tucked into the tables. Not to mention a new crop of servers, more cut-throat and entitled than Pierre would have been able to tolerate. But servers in Charleston are a dime-a-dozen, and Riverside had been flooded with applicants as soon as Miranda put out the word.

“We’re fresh. Can’t you see it?”

He wants to tell this new divorcee that seeing it doesn’t matter. Tasting it does. Atmosphere is nothing next to the food, and Miranda ought to know that. Tourists may flock to their ‘new vibe,’ but the locals who make or break restaurants on a weekly basis aren’t so easily impressed.

The fact that Jensen never answers doesn’t appear to bother Miranda; she breezes along regardless. He’s itching to get back to his kitchen, halfway through the frosted glass door before Miranda calls his attention back.

“Oh, one more thing, honey! Now that we’re open again, you need a new sous chef.”

Jensen sighs, recalling the stack of resumes he’d taken a nap on in the middle of prep. “Fine, I’ll start making calls tomorrow morning.”

Miranda’s expression is one of unmistakable satisfaction. “No need. I’ve already hired someone.”

“You what?” At the outburst, three busboys walking in Jensen’s direction suddenly make an about-face and retreat back into the kitchen. “Miranda—”

“And I thought he could start tonight,” she says, blunting further protest. “I have a feeling you two will get along fabulously.”



SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES
BATTERY STREET, CHARLESTON

“Can you taste how the extra spice accentuates the yellowfin tuna?”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s the wasabi mashed potatoes. The pepper relish and asparagus aren’t enough to carry the dish, and I’ve really been playing with seasoned potatoes this week.”

“Very clever of you. However—”

“Because anyone can whip up some mashed potatoes and slap them on a plate alongside meat and green beans, but I want to showcase every possible flavor when I cook.”

“Which is why you’re one of the best sculptors of fine cuisine in the city, but Jensen—”

“And you noticed the presentation, right? It’s not simple aesthetics. I wanted to make sure that the flavors were represented in each bite. First the parsley, then the cool relish laid over the tuna—”

“Jensen!” Dr. Roché‘s voice, which had steadily grown more frustrated as Jensen paced, rises and cuts him off. “I think we ought to discuss how Miranda’s machinations are affecting you. Please, have a seat.”

“But you haven’t finished your tuna.”

“As much as I appreciate the reprieve from my girlfriend’s cooking, we’re actually here to talk about you, not your cuisine.”

The doctor indicates the empty armchair beside his desk. Jensen sits, tapping at his forearm and looking at the remains of the yellowfin tuna. Room temperature won’t do the dish any favors.

Sebastian Roché is a handsome Frenchman with icy eyes, designer hair, and a jawline that could slice cheese. He’s also straight—or perhaps flexible given the way he has complimented Jensen’s ass—but Jensen enjoys checking him out during their sessions.

Looking is the only action he’s getting these days, anyway. The last time he’d gotten off with someone else was during his brief fling with Jeremy Renner, a chiseled blond working at Riverside. Renner was a career waiter who banked serious tips on a nightly basis. They’d hooked up inside and out of Riverside Grill, the most memorable occasion being when Renner sucked him off in the walk-in refrigerator—who knew cold was such a kink?—but he hadn’t survived Miranda’s transition.

As far as Jensen remembers, Renner had moved up to D.C. to get back together with his ex-boyfriend shortly after Miranda let him go.

“Jensen.” Sebastian’s voice pops the bubble of his thoughts. “You look a bit lost. What are you thinking about?”

He has a feeling Sebastian wouldn’t mind if he started detailing his sub-zero blowjob, but he answers with, “Miranda, I guess.”

“Ah, yes. You were telling me about last night’s opening.”

“Re-opening,” Jensen corrects, and the doctor’s eyes light up as he latches onto the surly tone.

“How did that go?”

Jensen sighs. “It was fine. I wanted Beaufort oysters to go with my Bourbon Maple Vinaigrette, but they delivered a batch from further north instead. The flavor was a little off, but I don’t think anyone noticed.”

“Your palate is remarkably refined.” Jensen can’t shake the notion that Sebastian is humoring him. Are therapists allowed to mock their clients? “I meant, how did you feel about Miranda going behind your back?”

“She had no right,” Jensen says, while thinking it should be obvious. “I staff the kitchen, and there are certain things that I have to consider before bringing in someone new.” Like making sure the ego doesn’t outshine the resume. “Pierre never would have hired someone without talking to me first.”

Sebastian makes a note in his book. “Is this new chef a good fit?”

“Of course not!” Jensen crosses his arms over his chest. “He comes from an Italian restaurant. I mean, come on. I need someone with experience in fine dining, not drowning tasteless pasta in barely edible marinara sauce and baking cheesy bread.”

Roché makes another note, and Jensen wishes he could crane his neck enough to read it.

Therapy had been Josh’s idea. Thousands of miles away, on the other side of the world, and he was still playing ‘big brother’. Sebastian was a therapist often called upon by Josh’s firm, and by pulling a few strings he’d secured Jensen a standing appointment.

That had been three months ago, and Jensen’s not solid on what he’s supposed to be getting out of his weekly sessions. He understands why Josh wanted him to go in the first place: Pierre and Miranda’s divorce had thrown Riverside Grill into complete chaos, and Jensen had been torn between his mentor and the kitchen he dreamed of making his own. Pierre made the decision for him; he’d disappeared with an Argentinian mistress as soon as the ink dried on the divorce settlement, leaving Jensen to deal with Miranda’s aspirations for the restaurant.

After that, Jensen was strung along throughout Miranda’s redesign project. He endured weeks of the restaurant being closed with no one to serve, and he’d abused Josh’s kitchen in the meantime, creating dishes that Miranda would never allow. That was the kind of therapy Jensen got by with before Josh got involved.

Sebastian gives wonderful feedback on the dishes Jensen brings for him to sample, but Jensen always leaves the office with a jumbled head. He’s almost positive that’s not how therapy’s supposed to work.

“Maybe this chef—remind me again what his name is?”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Paul, but he insists on going by his last name, Dawson. It’s unbelievable.”

Tapping his pen on the desk, Sebastian says, “Perhaps he needs time to adjust to your kitchen. Have you considered giving him a grace period?”

Moments like this, Jensen considers dumping therapy altogether. Word wouldn’t get back to Josh for at least a week—enough time to concoct a decent excuse.

“You don’t understand how things work in the restaurant business,” he tells Sebastian. “There is no grace period. You’re tossed into the deep end and you can either swim or choke on the water and drown.”

“A hard business to break into,” Sebastian says. “And yet you moved here and became successful rather quickly, didn’t you?”

Jensen nods, recalling those first few months when he and Josh were sharing a one-bedroom apartment on the upper floor of a narrow row house. He’d researched every restaurant, knocked down doors just to be given a chance. When he finally got a job, Jensen spent more time in the kitchen than he did eating, sleeping, or socializing, and he’d moved up through the ranks from prep cook to line cook to chef’s assistant.

And then came the night when he’d filled in for a sous chef on bereavement leave and, as if by fate, created and served a new dish to Pierre Jennings. To say that ‘sparks flew’ would be hyperbole, but it was close. Jensen and Pierre had clicked on a professional level—that night, they compared visions over a bottle of wine while they sat at the end of a dimly lit bar. At that moment, Jensen had seen his future.

A future that fled the country along with Pierre.

“How did you do it?” Sebastian asks, and for once Jensen is able to give him the straight truth.

“I made damn sure I could swim.”



HOME
JAMES ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

At one o’clock in the morning, Jensen’s struggling to keep his eyes open while driving over the James Island connector; he nearly misses the exit for Harbor View Road. After living in Josh’s house for eight months, this drive ought to be routine.

The road rises above the marshland, jumping from pocket to pocket of buildable land until it crosses onto James Island. Jensen doesn’t pass another car the entire way, glad he has the Prius so he won’t disturb the nine-to-fivers already asleep as he pulls into the small neighborhood.

Josh had bought the house as a fixer-upper four years ago, only a year after Coulson & Calhoun had promoted him. Located in one of the older neighborhoods on James Island, each lot is surrounded by live oaks and the air is tinged with the scent of the Ashley River close by. Josh had loved the old island feel of it, wanting to escape the overly manicured grandeur of the newer neighborhoods.

Though he’d been too busy to help with most of the repairs, Jensen had lent his expertise to the kitchen remodel; he wouldn’t accept his brother cooking with anything less than the best, and Josh indulged him. Now that kitchen is one of the only reasons Jensen enjoys his long term house-sitting engagement. The kitchen in his downtown condo—which he’s leasing to one of the chefs at Grill 225 while Josh is out of the country—is well appointed, but small, and Jensen gets a kick out of how many things he can cook at once in a larger space.

Jensen’s already conjured up the feeling of how amazing it’s going to be to sink into bed after the day he’s had—first therapy and then walking into his kitchen to see Dawson presenting a new appetizer for Miranda’s approval—but the sight of a green SUV in the driveway brings an unexpected second wind. The front porch light is on, casting a welcoming glow over the front door. Staring up at the sky-blue paint on the porch ceiling, Jensen takes a deep breath before heading inside.

Paisley is on him first, charging into the foyer and leaping around his knees. The Boykin Spaniel wriggles excitedly until Jensen bends and scratches behind her soft, brown ears. Her big brother Scout, the laid-back golden retriever, waits his turn down the hall, sitting patiently beside the tall, handsome young man who’s watching Jensen and Paisley with a bright smile.

“Hey, Jared. I didn’t know you’d be here this late.”

“I—uh, kinda fell asleep on the couch watching the game,” Jared explains, and Jensen notices the way his brown hair is fluffed and lopsided from the sofa pillows. “I didn’t mean to stick around so long.”

Jensen waves it off. “I told you, you’re welcome to crash here whenever you need to. I know the dogs appreciate it,” he says, not adding the fact that coming home to another human presence—someone who doesn’t demand anything of him—is an unspeakable relief. He hangs his coat on the hall tree and drops his bag, rolling his shoulders to work out the weight of his day. “Guess I expected you to be out since it was a Friday night.”

“Oh man,” Jared shakes his head, laughing. At the hearty sound, Paisley abandons Jensen and dashes over to loop around Jared’s ankles. Seeing his chance, Scout trots over to take her place and lifts his muzzle for Jensen to scratch. “My roommates decided they wanted to have a few people over and, knowing them, it turned into a massive house party. I thought a night over here would be so much better than going deaf from house music and waiting for the cops to show up.”

The thought of strangers invading his personal space sends a shudder down Jensen’s spine. “Aren’t you worried about your stuff with all those people?”

Jensen follows Jared towards the back of the house where the kitchen and living room stand at opposite ends of the high-ceilinged, open space. Jared points to a pile of bags at the end of the sofa and says, “I brought my laptop, iPod, and phone with me. I locked the rest in my room, and since Matt can only pick locks when he’s sober, I’m hoping it’ll all still be there when I go back.”

Grabbing the pitcher out of the fridge, Jensen downs an entire glass of cool water. Friday nights are always the longest, and Jensen rarely skips out early or leaves his staff to clean up without him on busy nights.

“Anyway,” Jared’s saying, leaning on the counter, “you haven’t told me how the re-opening went the other night. From what you were telling me about the menu, I would have died to be there.”

“Hey, anytime you want, just tell me and I’ll get you a table,” Jensen says with complete seriousness. Since the day he discovered his penchant for blending flavors and ingredients, there has been nothing he enjoys more than cooking for family and friends. “My treat, obviously.”

Jared’s blush hits Jensen deep in his chest. “Wow, that’s—yeah, I’ll definitely take you up on that, Jensen. Thanks. But seriously, everything went okay with the re-opening?”

Jensen kind of adores the fact that Jared’s the only person who has listened to Jensen closely enough to say ‘re-opening.’ If he was in the habit of telling his therapist anything personal, he wonders what Sebastian would make of it.

“Miranda’s new staff was all over the place, but I ironed them out pretty quickly.”

“Did you give them your ‘food is theater’ speech?”

Jensen smirks, watching Jared lean forward on his elbows. “Obviously.”

“Did anyone spontaneously combust at the end?”

“Three waiters gave me their numbers, so I think it went over well.”

“God,” Jared moans, dropping his head. “That speech makes me want to get naked, cover myself in tiramisu, and have gorgeous men lick it off.”

Jensen coughs and immediately saves that mental image in his jerk-off file. It wouldn’t be Jared’s first starring role in Jensen’s fantasies; he’s headlined one or two per week since he accepted the job as Jensen’s dog-walker almost two months ago.

Jensen had gone through five previous dog-sitters before he found Jared. Rather, before Jared found him in the park with two leashes wrapped around his calves, struggling to stay on his feet as Paisley and Scout tried to run off in different directions. He’d been functioning on less than four hours of sleep, kept late by Miranda during one of her ‘frantic’ periods as they went over the re-opening in excruciating detail. And Jared had been out with friends when he saw Jensen’s predicament and decided to help.

In two months, Jensen’s learned that Jared is more than dependable; he’s responsible and enthusiastic, spending more time with Scout and Paisley than Jensen could ever manage. Jared had initially balked at the amount Jensen was willing to pay him—“They’re great dogs, Jensen, but they’re not royalty,” he’d said—but when Jensen wouldn’t renegotiate, Jared had decided to throw in a few extra jobs to make himself worth Jensen’s money. He picked up when Jensen let sleep get in the way of cleaning (which was most of the time, actually); he mowed the lawn before the neighborhood association could come after Jensen, again, for his higher-than-regulation grass; he killed spiders and swept palmetto bugs off the front porch when Jensen refused to go near them.

Seriously, just because Jensen’s a dude, it didn’t mean he likes dealing with all those Southern crawly critters.

Jared is a godsend, and he ranks right up there with stainless steel, Quickbooks, and the Keurig—and far above therapy—as something that makes Jensen’s life easier. Not to mention, he’s easy on the eyes. Rosemary-tinted irises below an expressive forehead; narrow nose between the parentheses of Jared’s deep dimples; tall and capable, with sculpted forearms and a tapered waist.

“What about Miranda?” Jared asks. “Did she pull anything crazy last night?”

Jensen wonders what it means when he doesn’t deflect. It could be the way Jared asks it—casual, lacking the intent to dig deeper into Jensen’s psyche—but Jensen opens up in a way he can’t with Sebastian. The saga of Miranda’s scheming comes out while Jared does nothing more than provide a friendly ear.

By the time Jensen gets around to therapy and the way Sebastian was making excuses for Dawson’s inability to mesh with Jensen’s style, it’s past two a.m. and he and Jared are sitting at the counter sharing a cold plate of leftover paella, forks dueling for the meat hidden in the saffron rice.

Eventually Jensen sets his fork down but Jared keeps eating, shoveling the last bits of rice onto his fork with his finger. Jensen laughs and Jared looks up, red-faced.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to plow through the whole thing. Guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“What happened to dinner?”

“I grabbed a sandwich on the way over here, but that was”—Jared twists his wrist to look at his watch—“wow, a long time ago.”

“You know I keep plenty of food in the fridge,” Jensen says. “You’re welcome to any of it while you’re here. Unless it’s marked ‘Don’t Touch,’ eat whatever you want.”

Jared smiles. “Don’t touch?

“Usually an experiment,” Jensen explains, matching his grin. “Never know what you’ll get with those. Otherwise feel free.”

“I know, I’m just afraid I’m over-stepping,” Jared says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just your dog-sitter.”

He catches Jensen in the middle of a yawn. “Are you kidding? I’m one hundred percent positive the dogs like you more than they like me, and that goes for the neighbors, too. I could not be any more grateful to have you here.”

Jared takes the praise silently, but Jensen can almost feel the heat his cheeks are giving off.

Four hands turn clean-up into a two minute ordeal, Jared moving as easily around Josh’s kitchen as Jensen does. When they’re finished, Jared gathers his stuff and repacks his bags, petting Paisley when she trots over to investigate the proceedings.

“Do you want me to let them out one last time?”

“I got it,” Jensen says. No sense letting Jared think he’s completely useless. He watches Jared remove evidence of his presence: his zip-up hoodie from over the kitchen stool, cell phone and charger from the coffee table, and a pile of loose-leaf notebook paper from the hardwood floor. Jensen almost wishes he’d miss something.

“Hey, it’s supposed to be nice on Sunday,” Jared says when he’s gotten everything. It strikes Jensen as an odd comment—he’s never cared much about the weather—until Jared adds, “I could swing by and we could take the dogs to the beach.”

“The beach?”

“Yeah, you know. We’ve got a few of them around here.” Jensen can’t shake off his blank stare and Jared smacks his lips together, sighing. “It’s weird how you don’t know anything about the area,” he says without edge. “You’ve lived here twice as long as I have.”

“You’re saying we should take the dogs…together.”

“You’re razor-sharp at two in the morning,” Jared says, shy humor bringing out his dimples. “But yeah, I love going to the beach and it’d give the dogs a chance to run. Plus, I know your schedule, and you seriously need to get out of the house once in a while.”

It sounds so much like something Josh would say; Jensen embraces that familiarity. “Maybe some of your charm will rub off on me.”

Jared’s eyebrow peaks above the messy fringe of his hair. “My charm, huh?”

And Jensen lets the implication hang there for just a moment before his smirk widens into a smile. “With the dogs, Jared. I want them to like me, too.”

“I’ll give you plenty of pointers. So, you wanna go?”

All flirting aside, Jensen’s weighing the probability of a beach-trip up against his only day off. His Sundays are sacred. Still, it’s Jared.

“Can I call you on Sunday morning?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” Jared says quickly. “It’s no big deal, really, and it’s your only day off. I wouldn’t want to go traipsing around either.”

Except Jared had been the one to suggest it and, technically, Sunday is Jared’s only day off from both school and his responsibilities at the house.

“Nah, I want to go, but without knowing what tonight’s gonna be like at the restaurant, and what I’ll have to do for Monday—”

“Jensen,” Jared cuts him off mid-ramble. “It’s fine. If it doesn’t work out, maybe we can plan another day.”

“Definitely. You, me, the beach”—Jensen chuckles; he needs to sleep soon before he crosses into delirium—“and two dogs who are gonna be covered in saltwater and sand by the time we’re done.”

“You know it’ll be a great time,” Jared says, unsuccessfully trying to hide his yawn. “Anyway, I should get going.”

Jensen’s ready with the offer: “If you want to crash here—”

“Thanks, but the party has to be winding down by now,” Jared says, slinging bags over his shoulders like a high-tech nomad. “And if Matt somehow managed to pick my lock, I don’t want to get home and find someone passed out in my bed.”

“Or worse, more than one someone,” Jensen teases, walking Jared to the front door.

Jared’s nose wrinkles. “Ugh, gross.”




PART TWO