King of the Kitchen (10 page)

“You wouldn’t want your favorite celebrity cooking host to lose a finger.”

Duncan looked around. “Allen Jones is here?”

“The more you deny it, the truer it is,” Beck said smugly.

Beck held the door to the club open for Duncan, using the opportunity to discreetly check out his ass. He was wearing another pair of jeans that looked like they were held together with fairy dust and hope. The denim was soft and frayed in a way that could only come from repeated washings and age, no matter how much manufacturers tried to replicate it. He had a feeling the rips in the thighs of Duncan’s jeans hadn’t been artfully torn into the cloth by a machine; they’d been worn hard and abused.

That line of thinking wouldn’t lead him anywhere good, so it was just as well Vincent and Christian were waiting for them in the lobby. From the drawn look on Vincent’s face and the tight lines around Christian’s mouth, things had gone about as well as Beck had predicted, so far.

“Success, I assume? You wouldn’t be smiling if you hadn’t managed to get some good publicity in the bar.”

Beck flinched at Christian’s cold assessment, but he didn’t contradict him. The last thing he needed was his uncle realizing this friendship with Duncan was something Beck actually wanted. He’d find a way to use it to his advantage somehow, if he knew, and Beck didn’t need Christian interfering more than he already was.

Duncan’s smile had thinned a bit, and Beck wondered if all the good inroads they’d made in the last half hour had been trashed thanks to Christian’s comment.

“We live to serve,” Beck said tightly.

“Shall we get to the court? We only have it reserved for another forty minutes,” Christian said, his smile so fake it pained Beck to look at it.

“My boy and I hardly need that much time to thoroughly rout you and your protégé,” Vincent said with a smirk that looked eerily similar to the one Duncan had on his face half the time.

“Actually, I wondered if we ought to split the other way,” Duncan said. “I mean, this is all about us healing the so-called rift between our families, right?”

Beck gaped at Duncan, who was smiling like the cat who ate the canary. That conniving bastard. “What happened to besting me with all your Olympic prowess?” he asked.

Duncan shrugged. “As fun as the thought of handing you your ass is—and it’s a very nice one—I figured maybe it would play better in the press if Christian and Vincent teamed up and took the younger generation on. It doesn’t get more good-natured than that, right?”

Christian looked like he was going to protest, but Vincent latched onto the idea with vigor. “If you think we’ll go easy on you just because you’re younger and less experienced, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Duncan’s smile turned sharper at his father’s taunt. “It would be a hell of a time to start, wouldn’t it, Vincent?”

The zinger obviously hit home, from the way Vincent’s back straightened. Beck had never spent any time with the two Walters men together, but they weren’t anything like he’d assumed. Vincent was always so effusive in his praise when he was talking about Duncan, and Beck figured they must have a great relationship. Standing here with them and feeling the tension roll off both of them in waves had him questioning that. It seemed like every assumption he’d had about Duncan was being disproven.

“I’m used to playing against Christian, so I’m in,” Beck said, trying to draw the mood back to something more appropriate for a public place.

“We’ll meet you on the court, then,” Christian said, brushing some invisible lint off his pristine white shorts. He and Vincent were both already dressed in their racquetball clothes. He gave Duncan’s jeans a distasteful look. “Do hurry.”

Beck wondered if he and Duncan should take turns changing just to have one of them on hand to act as a buffer between Vincent and Christian, but Vincent spoke before he could suggest it.

“I’ll head to the court to make sure they don’t give our reservation to someone else,” Vincent said. He sneered in Christian’s direction, his chest puffed out like a peacock. “Perhaps you could wait in the café. I believe they’re selling that brand of glorified tap water you’ve been hawking.”

Christian’s face went puce. “I only put my name on the very best brands,” he sniffed. “Not that you’d know anything about being judicious.”

Beck grabbed his uncle’s arm when Vincent took a step toward them. “Didn’t I see Arnie in the café on my way in? When I was in last week he asked me about placing an order for some premade dinners from Brix to sell here. Maybe you should go touch base with him about that. We’ll meet you on the court in five.”

Duncan snickered. “Yeah, save it for the court, old men.”

Christian glowered but held his hands up and stepped away. “I’m always happy to discuss new business ventures.”

“Expand or die, isn’t that your motto?” Vincent muttered, but he turned and headed down the corridor toward the courts when Duncan cleared his throat menacingly.

“This is such a bad idea,” Duncan said.

The photographer from the restaurant was just outside the plate-glass window, so Beck slung his arm around Duncan’s shoulders and gave him a sunny smile. “The absolute worst,” he said through gritted teeth.

Chapter SEVEN

“HE SAID
he was sorry.” Duncan even thought it was possible his father had meant the words when he’d said them. It might have been the first time Vincent apologized and actually meant it.

“He broke Christian’s nose!” Duncan had heard that level of exasperation from Beck enough in their last few interactions to be able to perfectly picture it, even without the benefit of being able to see Beck.

The racquetball game had gone poorly from the start, with both Vincent and Christian playing too aggressively. It had been funny, watching the two men work themselves up into a ridiculous frenzy, right up until Vincent’s racket had smashed into Christian’s face on a particularly hard backhand. He’d sworn it had been an accident, and Duncan even believed him. Mostly.

Duncan figured it was a good sign Beck had even bothered calling him with an update from the hospital. He wouldn’t have blamed Beck if he’d wanted nothing to do with Duncan after Vincent’s stunt.

“There are already pictures up online,” Beck said. He sounded exhausted and resigned, but that was to be expected after spending two hours in the emergency room with Christian. That man could push buttons and rile up even the calmest person under the best circumstances, and having his nose reset after it was broken by his most outspoken rival was definitely not the best circumstances.

“I’ve seen them. Campbell keeps texting me links.” The stories were all pure speculation, but that hardly mattered. The photographer who had been watching Duncan and Beck at the bar had gotten the shot of the two of them heading to the locker rooms all smiles, but apparently he’d waited around after that. The shot of Christian climbing into a car with a bloodied towel held up to his face had already been picked up by several news organizations and a score of food blogs.

“He’s released a statement saying it was an accident. I guess he and your father are going to claim they meet up for games every so often and this was the first time anyone has been injured.”

It was the same thing he and Beck were doing, but it seemed so much more disingenuous. Duncan didn’t know the story behind their feud, but he did know the animosity between Vincent and Christian was real. It was different from the playful flirting he and Beck were engaging in. Even when one of them took things too far, he and Beck tried to play by the rules. Vincent and Christian had no such boundaries.

“Why are they bothering? I didn’t think either of them minded everyone knowing they hate each other.”

Beck sighed. “That would be our fault, according to Christian. The press has taken a new interest in their so-called feud now we’re involved, and it’s starting to cast them in a poor light. So the new plan is for all of us to get along, like we’ve buried the hatchet.”

“The wrench in that plan is I don’t get along with either of them.” He didn’t point out he’d have no problem mending fences with Beck. That should be fairly obvious, and if it wasn’t, he didn’t want to press the issue. Beck seemed to run hot and cold, and Duncan didn’t want to corner him and make him choose. He had a feeling cold would win out. “So what are we supposed to do now? More bro dates?”

Beck let out a pained noise. “I’ve asked you to never call them that again.”

Duncan snickered. “But we’re bros. Going out together. A bro date.”

“I am not a bro,” Beck snapped. “And no, it’s gone too far for that. Lindsay and Campbell have come up with another plan, and unfortunately for us, Christian has already signed off on it.”

Duncan didn’t like the sound of that. “Which is?”

Beck’s silence was not a good sign. “Well?” Duncan prompted, a curl of dread growing in his stomach the longer the quiet stretched on.

“I honestly don’t know. They’re going to tell us together. You need to be at the studio tomorrow at seven. I’ll text you the address.”

“Can’t. I have a shift at Bar Rio that starts at six.” Abe’s chef would be out for a few days at the very least, leaving the kitchen scrambling to cover his shifts. Duncan had agreed to pick up a few since he was between jobs at the moment, now that Navien was back from maternity leave.

“In the morning, Duncan. Seven in the morning.”

That was just plain ridiculous. “Aren’t you working tonight?”

Beck made an impatient noise. “Yes.”

“So you’re going to be at Brix till God-knows-how-late and then show up across town at the studio by seven?”

“It’s what I do every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”

Duncan wondered if Beck’s mood swings were due to sleep deprivation. Beck managed most of Christian’s restaurants, and even though Duncan liked to tease him about how micromanaged he was, he knew that meant a lot of work. And now with Brix under his purview as well, Duncan doubted he finished up until well after midnight. To turn around and head back to work a few hours later was madness.

“Assuming I show up, and that’s a big assumption because do you know how early that is? Jesus. Anyway, assuming I come to your swanky studio, why does Christian want me there?”

“He didn’t say. He just told me to make sure you were there for the weekly producers’ meeting.”

Beck sounded too resigned to not have any idea, but Duncan didn’t think he was going to get any speculation out of Beck at the moment. He was obviously tired, and if he was working, his night was only beginning. Duncan didn’t want to be responsible for putting any more stress on Beck. Odd that he used to take pleasure in winding him up, and now he wanted to help wind him
down
. Maybe in front of Netflix with a bottle of wine or some good chocolate. Duncan had never wanted to do that with anyone before, and it was honestly a little bit scary.

Duncan decided not to be an asshole this once. This wasn’t Beck’s fault, so he’d let him off the hook.

“Fine. Maybe Campbell will give me a ride in. I’m not waking up at ass o’clock to take the train.”

“Lindsay said she’d send a car. Campbell and I usually go in together, and you’re all the way across town. Besides, she said Campbell told her how well you function in the morning. I wouldn’t trust you to get there on your own. Wear something professional.”

Duncan could hear the judgment in Beck’s voice, but he couldn’t protest. He hated mornings. Campbell knew that better than most, since more often than not he was to blame if Duncan was out of bed before nine. Those mornings rarely went well.

“That’s fair, actually,” Duncan said, and he heard a muffled laugh across the line. He felt a little better knowing he’d lightened Beck’s mood a bit. Still, this wasn’t something he was looking forward to. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Neither of us are.”

DUNCAN KNEW
Beck was expecting him to either miss the meeting or show up with bedhead and pillow creases on his face. The car was scheduled to pick him up at 6:30 a.m., which was only five hours after he got in after his shift at the bar. Thank God it was a weeknight. He’d have been there till the wee hours if it had been a prime weekend night. The bar’s menu was drastically reduced after 11:00 p.m. on weekends, but it still served basic tapas and other snacks until 2:00 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays.

Duncan made his car easily, with the help of three extraloud alarms and spite. Proving Beck wrong was a strong motivator, and it wasn’t until Duncan was tucked away in the back of the studio’s car with his tumbler of exceptionally strong coffee that he realized that had probably been the reason for Beck’s snarky comments in the first place.

At least he hadn’t caved to Beck’s demand that he dress up. Or rather, he had, but in his own way. He’d thrown on his nicest jeans and a tailored sports jacket over his favorite graphic T-shirt. Duncan had even scrounged through his closet to find a pair of Chucks that John hadn’t drawn all over. Beck would undoubtedly roll his eyes at them, but at least the canvas wasn’t covered in sketches of penises.

He’d even brushed his hair.

Duncan sipped at his too-hot coffee, ignoring the way it seared his tongue in favor of getting as much caffeine into his system as possible. If Christian King was anything like Vincent—and Duncan would bet good money he was after spending a very uncomfortable half hour playing racquetball with the two of them—then he was going to need it. Arguing with Beck was fun; arguing with Christian was going to be a different story.

At least Vincent wasn’t going to be there. Duncan had confirmed that with Lindsay when she’d called with information about the car. She had been as close-lipped as Beck with details about the meeting, but she’d sounded a lot more gleeful about it than Beck had. That didn’t bode well.

He’d finished most of his coffee by the time the car dropped him at the studio. A receptionist from the lobby had even escorted Duncan upstairs, which he thought was overkill. She’d greeted him by name the moment he’d walked into the building, which had been a bit freaky.

Duncan was considering going to find more caffeine when the elevator opened and Beck stepped out.