by Beth Bolden
Falling for someone so far above him might be agonizing, but at least his feelings aren’t unrequited. Bastian fell in love right alongside him, but at the very beginning, they made the choice to abstain for logical, smart, professional reasons.
But love isn’t logical, it isn’t smart, and it definitely isn’t professional. It defies containment, even by Bastian. While he watches Bastian struggle with their attraction, Kian finally comes to the conclusion that he’s done.
He’s done standing off the side, done not getting any of the credit, done letting Bastian define the boundaries of their relationship. Most of all, he’s done waiting.
Chapter One
“Did you hear who’s coming in today?”
Kian Reynolds barely glanced up from the reduction he was stirring on the enormous industrial stove. He’d let his sauce scorch in the last class because he’d let himself indulge in some of the gossipy chatter, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He wasn’t here to make friends; he was here to learn to cook.
“It’s Aquino. Bastian Aquino.”
Kian’s gaze drifted up for a split second before he could stop himself. “It’s Chef Aquino,” he corrected. “Isn’t he the head chef at Terroir?”
Mark, one of the mouthier guys in Kian’s class, snorted. “Isn’t he? Don’t you know, Reynolds?”
What Kian knew was that almost every student at their culinary academy was desperate to get the internship Chef Aquino was offering to their graduating class. As for Kian, he had already set his sights a lot higher. Napa was all well and good—Terroir, Chef Aquino’s restaurant, even had a few of the coveted Michelin stars. New York City was absolutely aspirational. Chicago and San Francisco were definitely the homes of great culinary minds. But Kian knew how good he was, and he was going to accept nothing less than an apprenticeship in London or Paris.
Graduation was only a month away, and he’d sent off his applications, and now all he had left was waiting for the replies—and, he added, stir this reduction and try to fend off some of the nastier gossip.
Kian had figured out very early in their three years of training that not many of his fellow students liked him. His mom claimed their dislike was based entirely in jealousy, and while Kian could definitely see that point of view, it didn’t make him feel any better when the snide comments and sideways glares started.
“I know who Chef Aquino is,” Kian finally said, keeping his voice steady and calm. It was hard to live in Napa and avoid Bastian Aquino’s existence.
“Funny, considering you’re the only student in our class who didn’t apply for Terroir’s internship,” Mark sneered.
“You’re not even supposed to know that,” Kian said. “Recommendation letters are private.”
“Hey!” Mark held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sue me, I overheard two chefs discussing how weird it was that such an . . . exemplary student didn’t apply.”
He’s just jealous, Kian told himself, but it didn’t really help take the sting out of Mark’s words. Maybe he was dumb. Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped every job opportunity on this continent in a fit of artistic superiority. Except he knew he had exceptional natural skill that the instructors here had taken the opportunity to hone. Over half the teachers had personally suggested some of the restaurants he’d applied to in Europe. He stirred his reduction, eyes focused on the velvety texture, waiting until it was precisely the right consistency. Was he being obnoxiously cocky if it was true?
“Maybe you’re just worried you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands to yourself. He might be old, but Aquino’s still pretty damn hot.”
Kian knew Mark was gay, and it was no big secret how attractive he thought Chef Aquino was. He’d also made no secret out of the fact that he’d wanted Kian to suck his dick, but Kian had put a very quick end to that possibility.
He wasn’t going to tell his mom that, but Kian believed that jealousy probably accurately characterized both problems Mark had with him.
“If you want to follow Chef Aquino around like a puppy dog, picking up his laundry and picking up the dishes he breaks every service, why should I stand in your way?”
Kian wasn’t proud of losing his temper, but after three years of listening to that asswipe Mark, sometimes it was hard to reel it in. Today was apparently one of those times. Still, he’d assiduously watched his reduction the whole time, unlike the last time when he’d very vaguely scorched it during another “discussion” with Mark. Plus, Mark was still speechless, which Kian was definitely going to count as a win.
“I’d like to think the job is a little more than just kissing my ass,” a deep voice announced, and Kian glanced up from his reduction and nearly dropped his wooden spoon right into the pot.
It was Chef Bastian Aquino in the flesh, and he was so much more than Kian had ever imagined.
He’d gone to a very small combination junior and senior high school in southern Oregon. His town had less than two thousand people in it. Even Napa could be small, especially when you were like Kian and kept to a strict routine of school and then the tiny studio apartment he was renting. He hardly ever did anything, ostensibly to save money for Europe, but mostly because nobody ever invited him out.
The result of all work, no play was that Kian had never met anyone who walked into a room and sucked every bit of air out of it.
Chef Aquino was magnetic, his dark eyes intense and his features generous but delicate, like they’d been sculpted by a master. He wore a simple blue blazer and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt with his jeans and made them look like high fashion. Kian could barely tear his eyes off of him, but he had to know if he was alone in wanting to drop to his knees. When he glanced around, it turned out that he definitely was not the only one. Even Marta, who made no secret about being asexual, looked fairly shell-shocked.
The man in front of him exuded mastery. You’d trust him to roast the most perfect duck breast, and you’d trust him to take you to bed and demolish you in the best way. Kian gulped air, but his lungs still felt empty. Like Bastian Aquino had command over even the elements.
He sauntered forward, casually but clearly aware that he owned the room. Kian realized as he stopped in front of him that he was completely used to owning every room—and every kitchen—he stepped into.
“Nothing to say to that?” he asked, raising a single dark eyebrow. He had a faintly exotic accent in the corners of his voice, and Kian ordered his knees not to automatically buckle.
Knowing the chef expected an answer and almost definitely an apology, Kian opened his mouth and shut it again. His mind was one long, circling litany of stupid, stupid, stupid, and he couldn’t seem to break out of it, or break free of Aquino’s spell.
That’s what it was, right? Kian thought desperately. A spell of some kind. Aquino was a culinary magician, who cast spells on anything and anyone he wanted.
“I’m sure it’s a . . . lot of work,” Kian finally managed to force out of his uncooperative mouth.
Chef Aquino nodded once, succinctly and surely. And Kian knew that he’d work you hard and long hours, and that he would be an insanely exacting boss—and that he’d adore every impossible moment.
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure he couldn’t go to Europe. Could he leave Napa and get a job in London or Paris, while knowing that a man like this existed? And that he could have worked for him?
Desperation forced another sentence out. “I’m sure you’re looking for the best, the most dedicated student for your internship, Chef,” he added. And that’s me, he added wordlessly. Maybe it should be me.
Of course he’d had no clue what Bastian Aquino was like so he’d never applied for Terroir’s internship. Michelin stars in America? He could remember saying scornfully to someone that they must be easier to earn here, anyway.
In this moment, with Bastian Aquino’s eyes taking him apart molecule by molecule, he wanted to drop to his knees and plead forgiveness for that rash comment. Because of course, even though they’d never met b
efore and Aquino had no clue who he was, somehow he must know Kian had said it.
“I bet you know who that’d be, wouldn’t you?” Aquino didn’t even seem interested in hearing who Kian thought it was; he’d clearly meant it patronizingly and that might have stung, except that he reached out and tapped Kian reassuringly on the shoulder.
The contact was electric. Kian felt like he’d just been plugged into the closest outlet and then switched on high, like one of those gigantic commercial mixers that whirled away, fast as lightning, no matter how thick or goopy the dough was in their bowls.
Even Aquino seemed to react, which Kian couldn’t quite believe because of course it was only him that had experienced the live current between them. But Chef flinched and withdrew his hand quickly, the echo of the feeling reflected in his eyes.
“It would be me, Chef,” Kian said quietly.
But Aquino turned away without saying a word and left the room with Chef Charles. Kian could only think that his shot had passed as quickly as it had begun. He could go to one of the instructors and beg to apply for the Terroir internship, but after all his disdain about any job opportunities in North America, he had a feeling that was going to be pointless. But they wouldn’t understand that the concept of leaving for Europe while Mark or another one of those useless idiots became Bastian Aquino’s personal intern was intolerable. It shouldn’t have hurt. He’d only spent five minutes staring helplessly at the man, but somehow it meant more than that and Kian was left believing that he’d always regret not trying harder.
The smell of his reduction wafted up and hit his nose just as he realized that he’d neglected stirring it for the aforementioned five minutes.
Kian picked up his spoon and gave it an experimental stir. It was definitely dark brown in spots, nearly black in fact, and the undeniable scorched smell told him the whole story. He sighed; he was going to have to start from scratch on the three-hour process.
Mark walked over and peered into Kian’s pot. He sniffed, his exaggerated grimace making him look even uglier than his personality did. “Forget about it again?” he asked. “Told you Bastian was hot.”
“Chef Aquino,” Kian said stiffly, dumping the contents of the pot into the garbage at the end of his station. “He’s not some dudebro you’re casual acquaintances with. He’s a . . . he’s a . . . a . . .” Kian struggled to put his feelings about Chef Aquino into words—especially words that Mark couldn’t exploit later.
“He’s dreamy? He’s hot? You want to worship the ground he walks on?”
“This isn’t Grey’s Anatomy in the kitchen,” Kian retorted, trying to hide that he’d had all those thoughts. “He’s not Chef McDreamy.”
“He could be,” Mark speculated as Kian walked over to the pantry and picked out more ingredients for his reduction. Mushrooms, shallots, garlic, thyme—he dumped them all in his bin. “You want him to be, and you didn’t even want to work for him.”
It was annoying his face was so goddamned transparent. Chef Aquino had probably realized it as well, but then people probably obsessed about him all the time, so it wasn’t like Kian was alone in feeling that way.
“I still can’t believe you were the only one in our class who didn’t apply for the Terroir internship,” Mark continued, even though Kian was careful to give no sign that he was even still listening. His knife flashed over the mushrooms, decimating their flesh into tiny, even pieces.
“You’re an ass,” Marta added in, from her own station across the kitchen. “You act like you weren’t panting just the same as Kian when Aquino walked in. He’s got a way about him.”
The understatement of the century, Kian thought. He slid his mushrooms into the pot, drizzled in a little olive oil and started chopping his shallot into miniscule pieces.
The challenge of today’s class had been to create a reduction that tasted “meaty,” except without any meat used. Every ingredient had to be vegetarian.
After the shallot, Kian went back to the pantry and grabbed a few carrots. He diced those finely and added them to the pot.
His burned reduction had been good, but expected. And something that had always set him apart from his other classmates was his willingness to use his instincts to create something unique.
Smoked paprika was his next unusual ingredient and as he returned from the pantry, Mark’s eyes were unsurprisingly on both him and the glass jar in his hand.
“You didn’t use that last time,” Mark said.
“Maybe I decided that my reduction wasn’t very good and needed to be improved.” It was usually better not to engage Mark, but he’d been shaken by Chef Aquino and needed to get his bearings back. Even though he was undeniably thinking about the reduction challenge, because he still needed a good grade in this class before graduation, half if not more of his brain was still contemplating the Terroir internship.
Should he convince his instructors to throw his name into the ring at this late date? Could he? He could ask, of course, but he had a feeling that after he’d been so adamant about going to Europe, nobody was going to understand.
What could he say? Now that I’ve met Chef Aquino, I don’t think I can let him get away?
Marta walked over to Kian’s station. “He was something else, wasn’t he?” she asked, leaning down and resting an elbow on the stainless steel countertop.
“Mark?” Kian didn’t even look up.
Marta laughed. “Silly, you know I’m talking about Aquino. You guys had a moment there. I was afraid you were going to burst into flames for a second.”
It happened; you just couldn’t see it.
“He’s just another chef,” Kian said, and Marta shot him an indignant look. Well, Kian thought, if Marta’s caught too, at least I’m not alone.
“And Terroir is just another restaurant?” she asked pointedly.
But they both knew he was wrong. Bastian Aquino wasn’t just another chef and Terroir definitely wasn’t just another restaurant. Marta left, back to her station to watch her reduction. Kian stirred the vegetables in his pot and shook in another bit of smoked paprika. Then pepper. Then the thyme. Then, feeling like he had to be adventurous or fail—like Chef Aquino was somehow still watching him, testing him—Kian went back to the pantry and returned with a jar of turmeric.
Mark was watching him intently but hadn’t moved to copy him yet. Which was either a very good sign or a very bad one. Kian wasn’t sure yet.
He added the turmeric and continued to stir. Twenty minutes in, he added red wine, let it reduce, and then added stock, using the edge of a wooden spoon to test the flavor as it developed.
It needed something else though, a missing flavor that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that would add depth and interest. A zing. After a moment of consideration, he went back to the pantry—Mark gaping at him, Marta observing him with only a little less interest—and came back with a hunk of bittersweet, dark chocolate, cumin, and Mexican oregano.
He’d realized what he was really trying to create—a reduction that was actually more like a Mexican mole. Their instructor hadn’t said anything about the reduction needing to be traditionally French, and if he wanted to set himself apart, the only way he could do it was by making unexpected and unusual choices. Creating food that others didn’t expect.
When Chef Charles, their instructor, came around to taste their reductions, Kian’s reduction hadn’t been on the stove for nearly as long as the others or even as long as his first one had, but he stopped completely short as he tasted it.
“No meat?” he asked with a raised eyebrow as his spoon descended towards Kian’s pot for another taste. None of the other students in their class had warranted a second taste. Again, Kian figured, that was either a very good sign or a very bad one.
Sometimes you died on the hill of your own creation, but you never reached the top unless you took a risk to get there.
“No meat,” Kian confirmed.
“It’s nearly . . . a mole,” Charles said with astoni
shment. “But it’s not, is it?”
That was the fine edge; they hadn’t been asked to make a mole. They’d been asked to create a reduction. If Charles decided that he hadn’t fulfilled the assignment, it wouldn’t matter how good it was. He’d struggled with that, in their first month of school. Just because something was delicious didn’t mean it met the requirements. Creative impulses, while important, needed to be tempered by the hierarchy of the kitchen. And he, Charles had told Kian repeatedly, was going to be at the very bottom after graduation. Not exactly washing dishes, but definitely not experimenting with the kitchen’s recipes, either.
“It’s not a mole,” Kian said decisively. Sometimes, he’d discovered, confidence could be everything. That was why it stung even more that he’d been so awestruck by Chef Aquino. Eventually he’d recovered his natural confidence, but for those first few precious moments? He’d been lost. Figuratively. Literally. In every single way that mattered.
Mark had wandered over to see why it was taking Chef Charles so long to critique Kian’s reduction. “It smells like a mole,” he said, with a rotten egg look on his face. Like he already knew he’d been judged and found wanting.
“This is impressive work,” Chef Charles finally pronounced. “Extra points for creativity and not going in the traditional direction of your classmates. I’m impressed by your ability to impart significant flavor in such unique ways.”
“Thank you, Chef,” Kian said.
He’d already been wavering on his decision, but Chef Charles’ comments cemented his purpose. Tomorrow morning, before class began, he was going to ask to speak to him privately—and he was going to ask about the Terroir internship. Surely, the quality of work he was currently doing warranted a late entry into the internship sweepstakes?
