Alex slung his knife bag over his shoulder and let himself into the Vesuvius. Once upon a time it had been the single most exclusive and desirable apartment building in Manhattan. Then, as buildings got taller and designs more elaborate, the apartments had been chopped up and it became just another aging rental property. Now, thanks to rising prices and a fad for historical preservation, it was once again the talk of the town. All of the rehab had been “green,” whatever that meant, and the smallest unit inside would hold six of Alex’s little studio.

Of course, someone had gone and added another thirty floors on top of it, because why leave something in decent shape when you could put a thirty-story glass hat on it?

He shook his head at himself and pressed the button for the sixth floor. No one had asked his opinion about the architecture, and he wasn’t here as a critic. He had three clients in here today, and one of them was new. He needed to get to work making things happen, or he’d be here until midnight.

The first client was a breeze. Mrs. Dahlmans was ninety-seven years old and a descendant of the ancient Knickerbocker aristocracy. Her grandson had finally drawn the line and insisted she move into a single-story residence when she turned ninety. She ate more or less the same thing every week, didn’t generally entertain, and hated surprises. Alex had been cooking for her since she moved into the Vesuvius, and he could cook for her in his sleep.

Even better, she belonged to that class of people who firmly believed that “the help” and “the family” should keep one another at a minimum safe distance. Alex liked those clients. He liked clean, distinct lines and specific, enforceable boundaries.

He got through her menu in a few hours, got it all labeled and stored with reheating instructions for her staff, and cleaned up his share of the kitchen. His last job had been working for himself, as a personal chef. Then he’d been responsible for all of the kitchen cleanup, and that had been kind of awful. Most of his clients through this organization, Below Stairs New York, had their own cleaning staff or contracted it through BSNY.

Alex took care of his equipment, of course, and he tried to keep from making a mess. But if he never had to pick up another mop again, he’d do a little dance and sing “Alleluia.”

His next client in the building had a more complicated menu plan. This was the Bonhomme family residence. Alice, the wife, tried a new fad diet every month. This month she was a radical fruitarian, so all Alex had to do was make sure she had some fruit cut up and available in portions she could enjoy. The husband, Bob, had a shellfish allergy and disliked dairy. Alex fixed him a series of wholesome stews that could be easily reheated and served with rice or bread, whichever he preferred at the moment. He had plenty of both on hand. Their son, Charles, was a student athlete. He needed carbs, and plenty of them, and he liked red meat. Pasta with meaty sauces were right up his alley.

Those took about an hour longer than Alex wanted, but it was important to him to get the flavors right. He was good at his job. Fortunately, he didn’t have to charge the client or the company extra time. He’d started the sauces early, so he was able to get them done while he worked on other things. He’d just hoped to get to the new client ahead of schedule, so he could familiarize himself with a new kitchen.

At the end of the day, though, a kitchen was a kitchen. Sometimes an oven was a little more finicky than another, but there were only so many things that could be all that different. He cleaned up after himself in the Bonhomme apartment, waved goodbye to the housekeeper, and headed upstairs.

The new client, Mystery Man Number Three, lived on the top floor of the giant glass hat part of the Vesuvius. That automatically put him into a bucket in Alex’s mind, and not a good one. The kind of guy who insisted on buying the most expensive part of the most expensive building on the block was usually a jerk. “Not our kind of people,” as Mrs. Dahlmans would say.

Well, they paid for guys like Alex to come in and cook for them, so Alex couldn’t curl his lip too much at the guy. He headed up to the top floor, where the elevator let him out directly into the apartment. Must be nice, he thought, with a little smirk. He didn’t need a penthouse like this. In his mind, guys who needed a whole floor of a building for themselves were usually compensating for something. Alex’s studio was a tiny little space but at least he had that. At Manhattan prices, he knew he was lucky.

The BSNY case manager greeted him at the door. He’d been friends with Jenny for years. She grinned when she saw him. “Alex, it’s so good to see you! I’m glad they put you on this client. He’s new in town—sort of. He’s local, but he moved away a long time ago. He just came back recently.”

Alex nodded as he followed Jenny into the enormous kitchen. He could have fit four of his apartment into the kitchen. Who needed this much kitchen? Seriously? What was someone going to do, run laps around that monstrosity of an island? He didn’t care about the client’s tragic backstory. He didn’t even really need to know their name. All he needed to know was how many people he’d be feeding and what their dietary restrictions and preferences were. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t have some theories about folks who needed this much show in a room they didn’t use, but he kept them to himself.

Jenny, though, she was a chatty Cathy. Her job had a lot more interaction with the clients than his did, and so of course she had to know a lot more about them. “The client is single, an alpha, and has one son, age six. The boy lives with him full time. I’m not sure where the other parent fits into the picture. It says here in the notes that the boy, Carson, has a varied palate and is willing to eat anything the adults around him eat, with the exception of carrots which should never be served at the table.”

Alex nodded. He himself was not a fan of carrots, so it shouldn’t be a problem. “And the homeowner?”

“The homeowner is an entertainment industry executive. He prefers lean proteins, low fat preparations of food, and very few carbs. The carbs he does get served should be whole grain whenever possible. You’ll need to send lunches to school for the boy, of course. Oh, and the nanny will need to be fed too. She eats what the alpha eats.” Jenny looked up and met his eyes. She didn’t say anything out loud. She was far too professional for that, but her eyes widened just enough. Alex got the picture.

He shared her revulsion, but seriously, who thought he’d be any different? The kind of guy who made the sort of bank to live in a place like this was probably not the type of guy to encourage individual expression. Alex shrugged. He didn’t have to marry the guy. As long as he paid his bills on time, all he had to do was cook for him.

He took a look at the list of ingredients he had on hand. Okay, he could definitely work with this. Tonight he’d cook the salmon, since it was here and would stink if he didn’t use it. He’d make a seafood soup for later in the week with the other fish. Turkey stews, chicken stew, a frittata, and even a bean stew rounded out his meals for the rest of the week.

He got busy with prep and quickly lost track of time. That was what he loved about his job. He loved the focus food demanded. He loved the careful attention to detail every dish pulled out of him. He had to be creative but keep in mind the individual tastes of each of his clients. He had to keep an eye on the budget and still delight taste buds that had often become jaded over time.

None of his own problems or worries ever followed him into a kitchen.

He was hard at work, the bustle of Manhattan far away, when Jenny cleared her throat and broke him out of his rhythm. He looked up from the cucumber he was meticulously peeling only to realize that the sun had begun its descent, and the kitchen had acquired two more people.

The child had to be Carson, because no other six year olds were listed as being resident in the apartment. Carson looked around the kitchen with an expression of awe on his tiny, pale face. “Daddy, look!” He pointed to the massive, eight-burner range that some complete moron had ordered for the place. “The stove is on!”

“That’s usually what happens when people cook, Carsten.”

Alex froze in place. He couldn’t breathe. He knew that voice. It was a little older, a little deeper, but it was still his. Oh yeah, he remembered Sol.

He tore his gaze away from Carsten-not-Carson to examine the father. Sol couldn’t hide himself, even if he wore a George Washington mask. He looked older, and he had a goatee now. His eyes had big, dark circles around them, and he wore an expensive three-piece suit instead of the khakis and polo shirts Alex remembered. Alex hated how good Sol looked in those clothes, how they fit his strong, muscular body just right.

“Alex Cary.” Sol’s lips twisted, inside the little circle formed by his mustache and fussy little beard. “Who would have thought after all these years?”

Alex saw red. The only thing that kept him from hopping over the island and punching that smug little smirk off Sol’s face was the presence of the child. He took a deep breath. He would not, absolutely would not, give Sol the satisfaction of getting himself fired. “Yeah, well. I’m not dead in a ditch yet, so here I am.” He checked his dishes. They were done.

He turned to Jenny. “Look. I’ve got to have my space when I’m working. It’s his house, his rules, but he can get a different chef. I’ll pack this stuff up and see myself out.” He got back to work plating the salmon he’d worked so hard on, while Sol gaped in shock.

Carsten-not-Carson crept up to the island and stared. Apparently boundaries didn’t apply to the children of rich and arrogant alphas, because no one tried to stop him. “How come the fish’s scales look like cucumbers?”

“Because they are cucumbers.” Nothing that had happened between Alex and Sol was the kid’s fault. He seemed like a good enough kid. Alex couldn’t take things out on him. “I take the skin off because it doesn’t taste very good, and I cook the fish just right. See? Then, so it looks prettier, I make it new scales out of cucumbers. Now, cucumbers and salmon taste pretty good together, so it helps make the dinner tastier too.” He forced himself to give Carsten a little smile. “If you wash your hands, I’ll let you try to put some on for yourself.”

Carsten looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. How did a guy like Sol manage to get such a sweet kid? Alex wouldn’t look at Sol; instead he grabbed a kitchen stool so Carsten would be able to reach safely to do the job.

Carsten applied the cucumber slices carefully, exactly as instructed, sticking his little tongue out the side of his mouth as he worked. It was kind of adorable. Alex tried to harden his heart, but he’d never managed to dislike a good-natured kid yet.

“Great work, Carsten! You want to sprinkle some fresh dill on, too?” He didn’t have to fake his smile this time.

“Come along, Carsten. I think Inge wants a word with you.” Sol cast an exasperated look back at Alex as he guided his son out of the room.

Alex knew Sol would be back, so he rushed through packing up faster than he’d ever done before. Jenny helped, but she leaned in whispering, “You know this client? Why didn’t you say something?”

“You didn’t send me his name before!” he hissed back. “You just sent the location, and his name’s not on the directory yet. And yeah, I know him. Knew him, I should say, back in the day.”

This time he heard the footsteps as they echoed against the hardwood floors, approaching the kitchen. The door swung open with more force, and Sol’s face had gone from smirk to scowl. “What the hell gives you the right to come in here and disrespect me in front of my son?”

Jenny slid in between Alex and Sol. “Mr. Delaney, I can assure you the kitchen policies are laid out very explicitly in your contract on page eight, subparagraph four. If you’d like to come with me, we can talk about them.” She put a hand on his arm and guided him gently out of the kitchen.

Alex sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. Then he finished packing up, cleaned up, and left the apartment.

He wasn’t going back there. He’d spent the past ten years getting over Sol Delaney, and everything that went with him. He didn’t need that man back in his life again. What he did need was a drink. He headed straight to the bar at the end of his block and settled in.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Sol had spent the past ten years, six months, and twelve days imagining the moment when he saw Alex Cary again. No, not imagining. Imagining was for dreamers, “creatives,” and suckers. Imagining was for the kind of guys Sol rescued from very bad contracts and coaxed into making actual money for themselves. Sol had spent the past ten years, six months, and twelve days planning for the moment when he got to see Alex Cary again.

That moment, when he walked into his kitchen and saw Alex standing there in a white jacket with a high collar, a look of rage on that beautiful face of his—that bore no resemblance to his careful plans. Neither did the way the housekeeper woman, Ms. Sloane, hustled Sol out of the kitchen.

Damn it, this was Sol’s house. Alex didn’t get to just stroll on in and act like he owned the place. Okay, so maybe Sol had come back to New York in the hopes of running into him again. Maybe he’d come back to New York with a vague idea of giving Alex a key, eventually. Alex didn’t have a key now, he wasn’t going to own the place, and he didn’t get to act like that. Not in front of Carsten. Sol deserved deference, damn it.

“The contract is very specific, Mr. Delaney. Chefs are to be given their space. Mr. Cary was actually unusually generous in terms of dealing with the interruption.” Ms. Sloane grimaced. “I’ve seen chefs throw down tools the moment someone under eighteen sets foot in the kitchen during their shift.”

“The house doesn’t belong to the chef,” Sol snapped. “It belongs to the homeowner. The child has more rights there than the chef.” Was everyone set on defying him today?

“It’s an insurance issue and a safety issue.” Sloane’s jaw tightened. “Our insurance won’t cover if a client’s child grabs a knife the wrong way or pulls a pot of boiling water down onto himself. It’s something I’ve seen happen, in other workplaces. We value your son’s safety, and we don’t want to put him at risk.”

Sol sucked in his cheeks and tried to remember that he was a grown-ass man, a professional, an alpha, and an attorney. As an attorney, he understood what she was saying was true. As an alpha, he wanted to knock her down and chase after Alex. “So,” he said, exhaling slowly as he tried to get control of his temper. “Where does that leave us?”

“We’ll find you another chef. BSNY was unaware of any prior association before today.”

“I have no problem with Mr. Cary staying on as chef.” Sol crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s inappropriate, Mr. Delaney. A prior relationship—of any sort—disrupts the delicate balance between staff and family. That’s the opposite of what BSNY is all about. We’re not trying to insinuate our staff into your daily lives. We just want to help make our clients’ lives easier.”

Sloane talked a good game, and she smiled nice and pretty, but she couldn’t quite lose the hooded look in her eyes. She was protecting someone, and that someone was Alex. That was Sol’s job, damn it. “Okay, let me rephrase myself. If you don’t have Alex Cary in my kitchen at the same time next week, I’m cancelling my contract with BSNY. And I’m telling everyone I know about it.”

She shook her head. “You can do that, Mr. Delaney, but we value our talent and our clients. We won’t jeopardize either. Putting our talent in a delicate position, vis-a-vis our clients, limits our ability to recruit top talent. Mr. Cary can write his own ticket. He can go back into the restaurant business tomorrow and name his price. You’d still not have Mr. Cary, and you wouldn’t have anyone to manage your household.”

He lifted his chin and met her eyes. “I can see why your services come so highly rated by the Hellion Club. Nevertheless, I’ll be cancelling my contract if I don’t have Alex Cary as my chef.”

Sloane sighed. “I’m going to have to talk to him about it. You understand this. Nothing happens without his say-so. And, of course, it’s going to cost you extra. This is a service being provided that falls outside of our typical range.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “How does that work, exactly? I’m asking for a chef. You’re providing me with a chef.”

“You’re asking for a chef who’s already said he’s not willing to work with you. He’s going to need to be paid more, and we’re going to need more money to cover the inevitable harassment suit.” She gave him a thin smile.

“Fine.” He waved a hand. She was right, of course. There would be no suit, because he’d convince Alex to come back. But she didn’t know that, not yet. And chances were that Alex didn’t know that yet either. “Send me the revised contract, and I’ll sign it, but Alex Cary must be in place next Friday.”

“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.” She stood up. “Your son is lovely. He has fantastic manners. Alex isn’t the most child-friendly of our chefs, but he seemed to be especially taken by Carsten.”

Sol smirked. “Of course he was. Carsten’s mine.” He turned around and headed back into the kitchen. He was determined to catch Alex before he snuck off and make him understand just how much he regretted listening to his father. Sol didn’t make mistakes often, but he was willing to admit to it when he did.

But Alex was gone. There were stacks of glass containers in the refrigerator, each with neatly written reheating instructions and even dates. Alex must have developed superpowers over the past ten years, because he’d gotten everything put away and cleaned up during the short amount of time Sol had been talking to Ms. Sloane.

He spun on his heel and stormed back into the other room. “Where is he?” he growled.

To her credit, Ms. Sloane held her own. She stood in the face of his wrath like he was no more than a kitten to her. “Who, exactly?”

“Alex Cary. He’s gone. Everything’s put away, as neat as you please. Where is my omega?”

Sloane scoffed. “He’s not your omega. Trust me on this. The last person who called Alex his omega lost six teeth. Don’t do that. Don’t let anyone else do that, if you like them.” Her whole demeanor changed. She was no longer the crisp professional with a master’s degree. Now she was a girl from Harlem, used to dealing with men like Sol but not part of their world at all. “Trust me, buddy. He’s not yours.”

“He’s mine if I say he is.” Sol stepped away from her. She couldn’t know anything that had passed between them. “Where is he, right now?”

“There’s a bar in his neighborhood. It’s a place where working people go. You’ll find a lot of chefs there. You might find what you’re looking for, but my bet is no. Mr. Delaney,” she continued, shifting back into professional mode, “I strongly advise against this course of action. He’s already said no to you once today. Maybe chasing after him in his favorite bar, the same day, isn’t the best way to get your point across.”

She was right. He hated to admit it. “Fine. Just get him back here by next week.” He spun on his heel again and headed out the door. He needed to get out. He needed to find release, and the only place he was going to find it was at the Hellion Club.

The Hellion Club’s New York City branch was currently housed in an old Art Deco era hotel overlooking Central Park. The club had held the lease on the floor since the place went up in 1932. It wasn’t labeled. Members knew where to go, and no one else needed to. Once upon a time, when alphas and omegas were still considered “unnatural” despite having been part of humanity since they climbed down from the trees, that small bit of concealment had been necessary.

Now it was just fun.

Sol could walk to the Hellion Club from his place. In Los Angeles, he’d had to take a limo. He’d hated it. It felt so ostentatious, so attention-seeking. Here, a man could walk to where he needed to go, and it wouldn’t draw any attention at all.

He had only been back in New York for a few days, but he saw a few familiar faces. He recognized Bill from the record company and Sam from one of the bands under contract. He didn’t have to know the others to know they all had something important in common. Every last one of them was an alpha. Every last one of them was stinking rich. And every last one of them was immensely proud of both.

There were a few omegas present tonight. Some of them danced, in various states of undress up on the stage. One of them tended bar. Otherwise, the entire clientele consisted of alphas, alphas of all ages.

Sol made his way to the bar. The shirtless omega on duty simpered at him. “What can I get you, Alpha?”

“Whiskey,” he said. “Make it a double.”

“Right away, Alpha.”

The omega simpering at him right now probably played baseball in a beer league somewhere. He was here to play a part, nothing less and nothing more. No one was going to find his husband at the Hellion Club, and that was fine with Sol right now. He wasn’t looking for anything but scenery. His conscious mind wasn’t capable of focusing on anything but Alex.

He sipped his drink and thought about the boy he’d loved and lost and the man he’d become. Alex had grown. That was only to be expected, he’d been all of eighteen when they parted. He had impressive muscles, more than most omegas, and his eyes smoldered with resentment.

What had Sol done to earn that kind of hate? He’d gone off to California, sure. He’d broken off their engagement. At that time, Sol had been very dependent on his father. Surely Alex had understood that. If Father said no, the answer was no.

Things were different now. Everything was different now.

Maybe Alex had moved on, though. Sol hadn’t, but an outside observer wouldn’t know that. Sol had married the man his father had picked out for him, only dumping him after his third stint in rehab—and once he’d made enough money on his own to support himself and Carsten if Father wouldn’t. He was here now to try to win Alex back, in some capacity.

Maybe Alex had moved on, maybe he’d found someone else. Sol wanted to hate him for that, but it wasn’t reasonable. Sol hadn’t left him with any hope or anything at all. Sol needed to talk to him and explain what had happened. Once Alex understood, they could get back to where they’d been ten years ago.

He watched the omega dance on stage. Somehow Alex’s reactions today made him suspect it wouldn’t be that easy.