During the pre-shift meeting, he always writes down Chef Marco’s specials, including every ingredient, no matter how small. For most of the staff, this transcription is to ensure no food allergy mishaps arise, but for Julien, it’s also a test.
With everything he knows about wine, he considers the unique combination of flavors and spices in Chef Marco’s dishes, then goes over the wine storage and sorts through the various vintages. Of course, he’s not able to taste test all his pairings, but he has an expansive enough palate to make an educated guess that will satisfy even the most difficult customer.
Satisfying a customer is like hearing “Magnificat” performed live by the Bach Choir of Bethlehem at Christmastime—it puts him entirely at peace.
“While you think on your options, can I start you off with something from the bar?” he asks, already prepared to pop the cork on a beautiful bottle of sparkling white from Spain that will pair best with the fried calamari he suspects they’re considering.
That’s until he senses a pair of eyes on him. When he glances across the restaurant, Greg is behind the bar, looking at him. It’s an arresting gaze that confuses and excites him in equal measure.
“Did you want to write that down?” the man at the table asks Julien, whose pen is frozen above his pad. It’s as if the muscles in his fingers have turned off.
“Oh, yes. Sorry,” he says. “Would you mind repeating that?” He spares no second glance at Greg.
“Sure,” the man says. He speaks slower and louder this time for reasons beyond Julien. “I think we’re going to start with the calamari plate and two of the Getting to Know You gin and tonics.”
This is the fourth table tonight where the customers ignored the wine pairings Julien had Uncle Martinprinton the menus and instead went for one of Greg’s flashy cocktails promoted in a shiny plastic stand in the center of the table.
“That is an excellent choice,” he says, withholding any contrary words. “I’ll be back to take your entrée selections shortly.”
Turning away quickly, he hides his scowl. He’s not looking forward to having to approach Greg who is in deep conversation with a gentleman, probably in his midforties with glasses and broad shoulders. Greg leans forward on his elbows, biceps on display, enraptured by whatever the man is saying. Something about moonshine, Julien catches on his way around.
It’s bad enough Julien is jealous of whatever Braydon got up to with Greg on his first night here. His wine pairings being overshadowed by Greg’s cocktails only adds insult to injury.
“Order up,” Julien says after clearing his throat, rudely interrupting Greg’s conversation with the stately-looking man. The bar may be mostly empty, but the dining room is full, and Julien wants to leave this exchange as quickly as possible.
“Just a minute,” Greg says, writing down a list of ingredients for what Julien assumes is a cocktail recipe.
Julien doesn’t realize he’s tapping his foot impatiently until Greg’s gaze slips from the napkin in front of him down to the ground. Greg raises a discomfited eyebrow at him, and he stops.
“Why don’t you add your number while you’re at it?” the man asks Greg, barely acknowledging Julien’s presence, which irks him even more.
Greg, without missing a beat, flashes a smile, scribbles his phone number beneath the recipe, and slips it to the man he’s been chatting with.
Once again, Julien’s mind Gorilla Glues itself to something he’d rather not spend mental capital considering.
Too late. Already, he’s replaying the scene outside the staff bathroom from last week, the one where Greg caught his eyes wandering down his worked-out torso. Julien has been in a bit of a sex drought since Colin moved away, and Greg was standing there half naked with the confidence of an early 2000s Abercrombie model. It’s a perfect storm.
As of late, his sexual routine has been stymied, and the apps have been moot. Basically, he’s a bottle of young tannic red, desperate for air, and Greg is the shiny new aerator on the market. It’s natural that he wants to play with it. He’s used to wanting things he can’t have. He wanted parents who got along with each other and spent their paychecks on food instead of booze so he wasn’t hungry all the time. He wanted broader shoulders and bigger arms so he could stick up for himself when the kids at school bullied him for not having “real parents” when Uncle Martin chaperoned one of their class trips. He wanted to win the lottery so he could untie his dream for a bigger life from his sommelier studies and justenjoy themagain. But he is disciplined enough to realize when a want is unrealistic.
And wanting Greg Harlow is about as unrealistic as it gets.
Because Greg Harlow isa luxury. He is the car and the clothes and the coffees Julien doesn’t allow himself to get. The indulgences that don’t fit neatly into his precise budgeting, which means he needs to scribble them out of his mental math and move on.
When Julien spies Braydon out of the corner of his eye, unable to catch his breath under a barrage of intrusive thoughts, he slaps the drink order down in Braydon’s hand and says, “Pass this to your new friend Greg. I need some air.”
Flustered and frustrated, cheeks hot and heart rate elevated, Julien makes his way to the alley behind the restaurant, does some deep breathing, and seriously considers a cigarette even though he doesn’t have one on him nor has he smoked. Not once. Not ever.
GREG
Toward the middle of Greg’s shift, a broad-shouldered man in a pair of fetching glasses sits down at the bar and immediately hits Greg withthe eyes. A flirtatious look is a welcome reprieve from worrying about where Julien is at every nanosecond.
Greg wouldn’t say he’s been avoiding Julien tonight.
Not exactly.
Yet every time he catches sight of the sommelier, the memory of that solo orgasm that felt like jumping out of an airplane rockets back to him, and that makes his new job more complicated than he’d like it to be. Until he untethers the guilt he carries about using his coworker’s shirt as fuel for his heaving fantasy, it’s better he keeps to himself.
When he didn’t want to engage with someone in New York City, all he had to do was send a noncommittal text and stay away from certain cafés and clubs. Easy-peesy.
