His mom rolled her eyes and pushed her flute back toward David. “I do not have enough mimosa for that.”
David laughed and topped her up.
“Which of these rosés is sweetest?” The patron asking was young and white—maybe midtwenties—with a cut-off jean jacket covered in transpride enamel pins and a dyed-black bowl cut that belonged in an anime. David wondered who their stylist was.
The patron laid their hand on the table and pinned him with a wide-eyed gaze. “I literally just want to drink candy.”
David laughed. He found sweet rosés borderline offensive, but to each their own, and it was his job to be knowledgeable about all types of wine, even the nasty ones.
“The Paso Robles is probably the sweetest, but if you’re looking for candy, I’ve got a Moscato-Brachetto blend, a sparkling sweet rosé.”
The patron’s eyes lit up. “Fuck yeah. I’ll do that.”
“Me too,” their friend, fatter and browner and a bit more femme, with long brown hair in a braid, said.
“Gotcha.”
David retreated to the bar, poured out two glasses of Bigarò, delivered them and basked in the smiles of a perfect selection.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
He turned to head back to the bar and stopped in his tracks, blinking a few times just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
Because there, at the end of the bar, looking a little nervous and a little tired and still deliciously sexy, was Farzan.
Before David could react, Farzan locked eyes with him. Gave a little smile and a wave.
David smiled back, stepped up next to him at the bar.
“Hey. You came back.”
“Yeah.” Farzan swallowed, the motion of his Adam’s apple impossibly tantalizing. “Can we talk?”
sixteen
Farzan
Farzan sat at the bar, drumming his fingertips against the counter, jiggling his leg against the barstool. What the fuck was he doing here?
It made perfect sense. Except the part where it was completely fucking ridiculous.
He’d spent the last three days alternating between panic (at his impulsive decision), anger (at his parents’ doubt), frustration (at the state of the restaurant’s bookkeeping), and, occasionally, this fluttery feeling it had taken him a while to identify as pride (as he talked to the kitchen staff, who seemed to trust him).
He was taking over Shiraz Bistro. His parents would finish out the month, help him get up and running, but then it would be his.
Well. It would still be in their names, technically; he wouldn’t own it outright. He didn’t have that kind of liquidity. Who did?
But he’d be the head chefandthe general manager. He’d be in charge.
What the fuck did he know about running a restaurant?
When he’d told Ramin and Arya, they’d both promised to do whatever they could to help. But seriously, what were they supposed to do?Ramin was a marketing executive, and Arya was an event planner. Neither knew anything more than him about running a restaurant.
They’d stayed up late into the night talking in circles, until Arya dropped his phone on his face, which seemed to signal it was time to go to bed. Farzan said good night, but then he’d stayed awake on the couch, nursing another glass of Malbec. Staring into the inky red liquid, wishing it would tell him what to do. It was another bottle of the wine he’d shared with David, and that made him think of David, of the amazing sex, of the even more amazing cuddling after, the sweet relaxation of watching a movie together and feeling just right.
David. Who helped run a restaurant.
It had taken Farzan a couple days to work up the courage. That, and he slept most of Saturday, after taking a high school sub call on Friday after only two hours of sleep. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore, and if he didn’t get eight hours (or at least six, for the love of god), he always paid for it.
