“Fine,” Beck huffed. He crossed his arms over his chest, the picture of hostility. “But there are going to be ground rules.”
“Ground rules? Like what—we only eat at five-star restaurants and can’t be seen drinking anything that wasn’t barrel aged?”
Campbell snorted at Duncan’s retort, but Beck’s stony expression didn’t change. He was clearly serious.
“Like topics that are off-limits, Duncan. I don’t care what you order or what you drink, as long as you don’t get sloppy drunk and expect me to drag you home.”
Duncan couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be drunk and draped over Beck. He wouldn’t even think about Beck taking him home—that way lay madness. Or at least a very inappropriate erection.
“That’s actually a good idea,” Campbell said, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket. “Obviously, you shouldn’t talk about Duncan’s father or Christian. I’m assuming your restaurants are off-limits too?”
Beck nodded. “Same goes for the television show.”
“And no potshots about culinary school,” Duncan said, giving Beck a pointed look.
“That’s a good start for now. I’ll e-mail this to you two. You’ll be fine if you keep to neutral topics.”
Duncan wasn’t sure what topics were left. His career was his entire life, and he was certain Beck’s was too. If they couldn’t talk about their restaurants, what did that leave? Somehow he doubted Beck would want to talk about the indie music scene Duncan loved, and Duncan sure as hell didn’t care enough about the sports Beck might follow to have a conversation about them.
“That leaves us… what? Gossiping about you?” Duncan asked, earning himself a swat from Campbell.
Beck gave him a look of disgust. “I’m sure even someone with your background could come up with something more interesting than Campbell to discuss. The nutritional value of Hot Pockets, perhaps?”
“Hey! You’re already violating the list.”
“What?” Beck sounded affronted. “I am not.”
“You are too! You took a jab at my lack of a fancy culinary education.”
“I did not! That was aimed at your general ineptitude, not your education. Besides, no self-respecting chef would wear that shirt.”
Duncan looked down at the soft cotton T-shirt he was wearing. It was one of his favorites; John had given it to him several birthdays ago. The words “I’m kind of a big dill” were superimposed over a large pickle.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?”
Beck gaped at him. “What’s wrong with your shirt? Are you five?”
They stopped bickering at the sound of Campbell’s head hitting the table.
Chapter SIX
FOR THE
third time in twenty minutes, Beck cursed the fact that Campbell had access to his personal calendar. It made scheduling sports practices and bar crawls easier for them, since Campbell usually took point on arranging anything Beck did outside of work. It was sad, when Beck really stopped to think about it. He virtually had no social life that didn’t involve Campbell. There wasn’t much time to do anything outside of work, especially since Beck essentially worked two full-time jobs. He spent his mornings prepping and filming
King of the Kitchen
and doing paperwork for Christian’s restaurants, and he spent many of his nights floating around the three Chicago-based restaurants—four, now, with Brix open—filling in wherever there was a shortage. He wondered what Duncan would have thought of him last night, when Beck had put his two years of culinary school to use to be a prep chef in Christian’s most popular fine dining restaurant. Duncan would have laughed his ass off seeing a Cordon Bleu-trained chef chopping carrots and straining sauces, but Beck had no problem rolling up his sleeves and jumping in wherever he could help.
He didn’t have an ego when it came to dinner service. He very much did have one when it came to getting stood up by Duncan on their very first PR date.
Campbell had arranged for Beck and Duncan to have the first of what Beck steadfastly refused to call a “bro-date,” no matter how insistent Duncan was, at a trendy bar near the center where Beck and Campbell had a standing monthly racquetball game with Christian and Georges Lapin, another chef on the network that aired
King of the Kitchen
. If Duncan didn’t show up soon, they weren’t going to have the chance to even have one drink together before Beck had to dash off for the game.
Then again, that might not be a horrible thing. As much as Beck hated to admit it, he was the slightest bit anxious about meeting up with Duncan without Campbell there to referee. Something about Duncan put Beck on edge; try as he might, Beck couldn’t seem to avoid putting his foot in his mouth with Duncan. Most people would describe Beck as charming. It was an image he worked hard to cultivate. Duncan, he was sure, would not be one of those people.
Beck looked up at the door in irritation, wishing he could somehow force Duncan to appear. He felt like an idiot sitting at the bar waiting for him, and Beck was sure the bartender was not amused that he’d been nursing the same gin and tonic the entire time he’d been taking up valuable real estate at the bar.
“I got caught up in the back, sorry!”
Beck didn’t fall off his barstool at the surprise of having Duncan come up behind him and clap him on the shoulder, but it was a near thing. He turned around, scowling when he saw Duncan standing there in an apron with a sheepish look on his face.
“I was in the area for a consultation, so I got here a little early. Abe saw me and pulled me back to the kitchen—their sous-chef has appendicitis, so they’re short tonight. I was helping them get past the happy hour rush.”
Beck hadn’t even known the bar served food, but now that Duncan had drawn his attention to it, he realized almost all of the tables tucked into alcoves around the bar were filled with people eating.
“Anyway, I’m yours now,” Duncan said. He slid onto the empty stool Beck had been guarding with his sports coat, garnering him many angry glances from his fellow patrons at the crowded bar.
Beck couldn’t hold back a disbelieving snort at that, which only served to make Duncan’s grin grow. He felt his cheeks heat, his attraction to Duncan beating out years of television and media training that had all but eradicated Beck’s tendency to blush.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Duncan drawled, and Beck’s ears started to burn as well.
He fell back on his best defense mechanism, cool arrogance. “I’ve spent most of the time I’d allotted for our appointment sitting here alone. Not much interesting about that,” Beck snapped.
His terse tone didn’t seem to affect Duncan at all, though. He sat there and smiled mildly, like Beck was talking to him about the weather or the latest trade that was sure to tank the rest of the season for the Bears.
Duncan always seemed to have him off balance, and the only way Beck knew to address that was with sarcasm and irritation. It undermined the entire plan, but it was better than letting Duncan realize Beck was attracted to him.
The bartender put a bottle of lager on the bar in front of Duncan, and the smile he gave him was much friendlier than the one he’d given Beck when Beck had arrived. Beck tried not to be jealous, but that didn’t stop a hot swirl of it from sweeping through his stomach when Duncan winked at the bartender and exchanged a complicated handshake with him.
Beck’s glare must have caught the bartender’s attention because he turned to him and motioned toward Beck’s empty glass. “Another, buddy?”
Beck shook his head. “I have to go play racquetball after this.”
Duncan snorted. “Give him a tumbler with soda water and a lime, Gage.” Before Beck could protest—who did Duncan think he was, anyway, ordering for him? And how well did he know this bartender?—Duncan leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially. “Gotta keep up appearances, don’t we? Can’t share a friendly drink together if I’m the only one drinking.”
Duncan’s breath was hot against Beck’s ear, and his loose-limbed sprawl on the barstool suggested he’d already had a few in the back. Beck was certain that was just for show because Duncan was never anything but a consummate professional in the kitchen. He’d never drink while he was working. Beck wondered why Duncan was putting on such an act.
“You’ve only got me for ten more minutes, and then you’ll have to find someone else to keep you company while you get buzzed in the afternoon,” he muttered.
Instead of reeling back in offense at the insult as Beck had expected, Duncan leaned in closer, chuckling against Beck’s neck as he wrapped him in a clumsy one-armed hug. “Smile or the guy in the corner is going to get a photo of the two of us fighting again,” he muttered.
And there was the reason for the display, apparently. Even though he’d known there had to be a reason Duncan was all over him, Beck couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed it was entirely for show.
Swallowing back his discomfort, Beck returned the awkward hug and then jovially pushed Duncan back onto his own barstool. “Seems like I have some catching up to do,” he said with a mirth he didn’t feel. He must have sold it, though, because the tight line of Duncan’s shoulders eased a bit as he resettled himself on his seat.
Beck watched out of the corner of his eye as Duncan tipped his beer back. It looked obscene—from the way his full lips wrapped around the neck to the way his throat worked as he swallowed. Beck tore his gaze away, focusing on the drink the bartender put down in front of him. Beck didn’t like the guy’s knowing grin as he nodded in Duncan’s direction, one eyebrow raised. He didn’t want to bond with the bartender over how obnoxiously hot Duncan looked drinking a beer. Hell, he didn’t want to think about Duncan like that at all. He couldn’t let in any distractions right now—it was a crucial time in his career, and getting involved with Duncan could only lead to trouble.
“So you’re going to kill me, but I want you to know this wasn’t my fault,” Duncan said without preamble, pulling Beck out of his internal debate.
Beck’s fingers tightened around his glass of soda water, and he deliberately waited a beat before responding. “What have you done now?”
“I didn’t do anything. That’s what’s important for you to know,” Duncan said. He drained the last of his beer and plunked the bottle on the bar. The bartender protested when Duncan dug out his wallet and threw a twenty next to it, but Duncan waved him off. “I know mine was on the house. That’s for his and putting up with his scowl. I owe you one, man.”
Beck glowered at the two of them as Duncan stood and repeated the complicated handshake with the bartender, though this time it ended with Duncan pulling the guy in close for a hug. It should have looked ridiculous with the bar between them, but Duncan made it look graceful somehow.
“My stuff’s in the office. Come on back,” he said to Beck.
“I have to get going—”
“Yeah, I know. It’s like… what? A couple minute walk to the club?”
Despite his confusion, Beck found himself sliding off his barstool and following Duncan deeper into the restaurant. Several people called out a greeting to Duncan when they pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, but he just waved as he ushered Beck into a small office in the back.
“I figured we’d undo any good press we’d managed to get if I told you out there, but you need to know Christian called my father.” Duncan blew out a breath, his gestures agitated. “Apparently, we’re not doing enough to save face, so they’ve decided to get involved. I was summoned to play racquetball with you.”
Beck’s eyes narrowed. “Christian never plays doubles with anyone other than Georges.”
“Well, today he’s playing with you. Against me and Vincent.”
Duncan sounded about as enthused as Beck felt, but that didn’t stop Beck from lashing out at him. He hated it when Christian meddled, especially when it was with something as ill-advised as this. There was no way Vincent and Christian would be able to be in the same room together without an explosion. They were worse than him and Duncan.
“Have you ever even held a racquet?”
Duncan pulled a duffel bag out from behind the desk. There was a racquet tied to the side, and he clutched at it, wide-eyed. “You hold the big end, right?”
Beck’s lips twitched into an unwilling smile. “This is where you tell me you’re some sort of racquetball savant, isn’t it?”
Duncan’s grin turned vicious, which made Beck’s stomach swoop. “Well, I’m not on the US Olympic team or anything.”
“There is no Olympic racquetball team.”
“Exactly.” Duncan winked at him, and Beck laughed. The tension that had held his posture ramrod stiff eased, and he felt himself relaxing. Maybe he and Duncan really could be friends.
“Walked into that one,” he said ruefully.
Duncan hefted his bag and shepherded Beck back through the kitchen and out the side door. “Be still my heart. Does Beck Douglas actually have a sense of humor? I thought that was the product of good script writers.”
Beck hated it when Duncan said his name like that, like he bought into the idea Beck was an empire, not a person. It bothered him whenever anyone did it, but even more so when it was Duncan. It wouldn’t do to let Duncan know that, though, because Beck knew the teasing would only increase if Duncan knew it was getting to him.
“Is that an admission you watch my show?”
Duncan’s denial came too quickly for it to be real. “No.”
“You do!” Delight bubbled up in Beck’s chest. He hadn’t felt this light and free in a long time. People around them on the sidewalk were turning to look at the two of them as they bickered good-naturedly, and Beck could care less. For once he wasn’t thinking about his image. “You probably have them all on DVR and watch them over and over again.”
“Like I’d want to watch you making panna cotta.”
It hadn’t been Beck’s favorite dish to make by a long shot, and the recipe had been uninspired, but it didn’t change the fact that Duncan had watched the latest episode. “Ha! How would you know that if you hadn’t tuned in?”
Beck pointed an accusing finger at him, and Duncan swatted it away. “Shut up.”
“Admit it! You’re a fan!”
“Put your finger in my face again and lose it,” Duncan warned.