by Beth Bolden
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I gave Xander the sous job, not when you deserved it.”
Kian had been dying for this apology for six months, but even the tender, apologetic look Bastian swiftly shot him wasn’t enough.
He wanted more. He wanted Xander’s old job. He wanted more than just the fleeting touch of Bastian’s fingers on his cheek. He wanted another kiss. He wanted even more than that.
It didn’t matter that it was dangerous or that Bastian had said it was impossible. It didn’t even matter that a part of Kian believed Bastian was right, because there was another part of him that was actively rebelling. That part wanted more and was not going to be placated with less.
“And you’re still going to try to convince him to come back?” Kian said incredulously. He didn’t need Xander back; they both knew it. Bastian could promote Kian and the kitchen would probably run better, not worse, without Xander.
But Bastian couldn’t have looked more surprised than if Kian had been the one to walk out in the middle of prep.
“I don’t think you understand,” Bastian began, and Kian knew his mental gymnastics so well by this point that he knew exactly what he was going to say. I don’t apologize to anyone, and I’m apologizing to you. You’re special, you’re important, and you need to stay exactly where I’ve put you.
Kian had liked that place, but even at the beginning, it hadn’t quite felt like enough, and by now, two years in, Kian was tired of it and bored.
“I understand,” Kian cut him off. “More than you realize.”
Bastian’s hand dropped to his side and he flexed it, like he was trying to forget the way Kian had felt under his fingertips. Even if he never forgot, it wouldn’t be enough. Kian wanted to weasel his way under his skin, until there was nothing else between them. Until Kian didn’t know where he stopped and Bastian began. He loved him. Why had he ever thought this sort of half relationship would ever be enough?
“I guess you do,” Bastian said slowly.
“I need to check on the soup,” Kian said and walked away.
He wanted to be shocked and incredulous that, in one breath, Bastian would tell him that Kian should have had the job that was Xander’s , in the next, tell him he was getting Xander back. But the truth was, Kian wasn’t, at all.
He’d known the person Bastian was for a long time now, and he’d loved him anyway. Believing that his mother’s advice was solid, he’d loved the good and the bad parts of him, and that wasn’t going to change, at least not anytime soon. But he was done tolerating Bastian’s shit and he was done giving in.
Most of all, Kian was done being jealous of Luc for having things he never would.
* * *
The service passed in a blur of Bastian yelling and far too much work. Kian went home and crashed, passing out on his bed diagonally, with his socks still on. He didn’t know where Xander was, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
A loud, insistent series of knocks drove him from his warm blankets the next morning, until he finally gave in. He got up, not even bothering to throw a shirt on, and jerked the door open.
He’d half expected a one-night stand of Nate’s—their new roommate—or maybe even some kids selling magazines or tubs of cookie dough.
It wasn’t a one-night stand of Nate’s or a kid. It was Bastian, his aviators and a grumpy look on his face.
“Took you long enough,” Bastian grumbled. “Were you dead?”
It was too bad it hadn’t been one of those kids. Kian really wanted some cookie dough right about now. He’d scoop it right from the tub, and eat it spoonful by spoonful, unbaked.
Breakfast of champions.
“No.” Kian kept his voice neutral. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to Xander,” Bastian said, like he couldn’t believe Kian had forgotten. He hadn’t—not exactly, anyway—he’d just chosen to prioritize other things. Like making it through last night’s hellish service and then sleeping.
“I haven’t seen him.”
“His car’s outside,” Bastian said impatiently. “Go get him. I’m sure he’s sleeping off a hellacious I just quit Terroir bender.”
Bastian was probably right, but there was something imperious in his tone today that Kian didn’t like. He crossed his arms across his chest and let Bastian look at all the bare skin he had on display. Let him look and want. Maybe it would only be a fraction of how much Kian wanted, but that was better than nothing.
“Or I could go drag him out myself,” Bastian said, raising an eyebrow.
Kian rolled his eyes. “Fine. Come in and wait in the living room.” He held the door open and Bastian followed behind him. Kian couldn’t see him but he had a feeling he was eyeing everything, from the mis-matched furniture they’d picked up at Goodwill and IKEA and on the side of the road, sometimes, to the winery posters that Nate had tacked all over the walls.
It wasn’t much, it certainly wasn’t the sleek, ultra-modern house that Bastian lived in on the top of Mount Veeder. But Bastian knew what he paid his chefs, and even with three of them in this house, they weren’t buying multimillion-dollar houses anytime soon. Kian refused to feel ashamed, because he loved the house they lived in. It felt like home, not the house Bastian merely existed in between shifts.
“I’ll go get Xander,” he said shortly, and left Bastian in the living room, while he clearly debated whether to sit on the couch or not.
Fuck his snobbery, Kian thought wretchedly. There was a reason why, in all the many, many fantasies he’d had of Bastian, they’d never been at his own house. And today, that really pissed him off.
Tonight, he was going to imagine Bastian blowing him in their bathroom with the chipped tile. Fantasy Bastian’s eyes would say everything, but his mouth would be full, wouldn’t it?
Taking out his frustration—sexual and otherwise—on Xander’s door, he pounded hard on the thin wood, and then even harder when Xander didn’t open it.
“Xander, I know you’re in there,” he said loudly.
“You’re wrong,” a voice finally croaked on the other side of the door, “Xander isn’t here.”
Kian remembered that Xander’s bedroom door didn’t even have a lock, and bracing himself for whatever he might find, decided he was sick of waiting, and just opened it.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“So talk,” Xander said, rolling over in bed, his hair a mess, and his pallor pale, like he’d drunk too much last night. “Clearly nothing is stopping you.”
“You walked out last night,” Kian said.
“I quit,” Xander interrupted him. “I didn’t just walk out. I fucking quit. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”
It had been abundantly clear. Kian had never wanted to punch Xander in the face more than he did right now. And Xander could be annoying and frustrating and infuriating a good portion of the time.
“Believe me, it was clear.”
“Okay then,” Xander said, and rolled back over, leaving his back to Kian.
It was really difficult to say who Kian was more pissed off at—his friend or his boss. Maybe he should just sic them on each other and let them fight to the death.
“What I keep trying to tell you is that you don’t have to. Leave, that is. Chef is here . . . and he wants to talk to you.”
“Chef is here?” Xander finally sounded like he was paying attention, Kian thought with satisfaction. “In our house?”
“Yes.”
“What the fuck,” Xander said tiredly.
“I suggest,” Kian retorted primly, “that you get cleaned up and get out here before he gets tired of waiting and leaves.”
After a long moment, Xander finally listened and slid out of bed, staggering to stay upright.
Kian let the full force of his glare out. And he’d learned from the very best.
“Hurry up,” Kian said, and shut the door behind him.
He marched back into the living room, not even a fraction le
ss pissed than he’d been before. He didn’t sit down, though Bastian had finally managed to do it, perching on the edge of the couch.
“Is he coming?” Bastian asked shortly.
It was like he didn’t know Kian at all. How often had Kian failed to complete a task to his satisfaction? Kian couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened. He always got his shit done. And constantly questioning if he could, if he was up to it, was really beginning to get to him. Let Bastian question everyone else, the rest of the kitchen that fucked up regularly and couldn’t really be counted on. He was Kian, and he was different.
Xander finally emerged, looking slightly less like hell. “What do you want?” he barked at Bastian.
“You quit last night,” Bastian said, and despite his own current feelings, Kian was grudgingly impressed at how even his voice sounded.
“I did.” Xander also sounded surprisingly even-tempered.
Apparently the only one in this room who wanted to throw something was Kian.
“You’re not even going to give me the benefit of a two-week notice?”
Kian barely refrained from rolling his eyes. There was never a two-week notice at Terroir. Only flaming tempers and Bastian’s desk in pieces on the floor.
“No,” Xander said, still steady.
“Or an opportunity to counter what Damon Hess offered you?”
Xander instantly looked over at Kian, who felt a tiny twinge of shame. Yeah, he’d sold Xander out, but Xander hadn’t said where he was going was a secret. And who was Damon Hess anyway? That name didn’t even sound familiar, and Kian thought he knew all the Hesses in town.
“Not much is a secret,” Xander retorted bitterly, which wasn’t fair at all. If he’d said it was a secret, Kian would have at least considered not divulging it.
“Kian is worried about you,” Bastian said, which was completely untrue. Kian was worried about himself. “Worried you’re throwing your career away on someone who can’t properly support you. You know, he isn’t even really a winemaker. He’s not a restauranteur. He’s playing at growing a garden. But he’s not even a Hess—not like you think.”
Suddenly, Xander’s reticence to tell Kian more yesterday made sense. It wasn’t the Hess family that was starting this restaurant. It was some far-flung edge of the family, not connected in the same ways at all.
Maybe Kian was more worried about Xander than he’d realized. What was he thinking?
“He’s exactly what I think,” Xander said.
“There’s nothing I can offer you that might make you change your mind?” Bastian offered slyly, and Kian gritted his teeth. Here was the job offer that should have been his—the second one that Xander had been offered and he hadn’t. The first had stung, this one ached.
“What,” Bastian continued, “if I made you my chef de cuisine?”
The sous chef was typically the second-in-command of a kitchen, especially if the executive or head chef was on premises, and involved, like Bastian was. If the executive chef was distant, or less involved, there needed to be someone in the kitchen who was nominally in charge. And that was the chef de cuisine. Kian had never imagined that Bastian would consider taking that step back—or ceding the control of his kitchen to someone else.
To Xander.
Yes, it definitely ached, because in some far-flung future, when this inevitably happened, many years distant, Kian had always believed that position was his. Nobody else knew Terroir like he did. Nobody else deserved it like he did. Nobody else had worked as hard.
“You mean the job I’ve deserved for six months?” Xander demanded. “The one you already should have offered me?”
Xander was . . . wrong. There was no way around it. He was blind to what really happened at Terroir. Blind to anything but his rapidly expanding ego. Kian sighed inwardly.
“I can’t apologize for that, Xander,” Bastian cut in smoothly. And of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t apologize to anyone.
Except to you, Kian thought. Twice.
“I think I’ll take my chances with the ‘not real’ Hess,” Xander said.
“You really mean that,” Bastian said, and he sounded surprised. Of course he’d probably believed that this offer would be the one thing that would sway Xander’s mind. “Hess said you’d say that, but I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe you’d turn down chef de cuisine to work for a part-time gardener whose restaurant is currently a ramshackle shed without a real kitchen.”
Xander frowned. “You went and talked to Damon?”
Bastian stood and began to pace, which Kian knew was a bad sign. “He poached you. In my own fucking restaurant! What else was I supposed to do?”
To salvage his prodigious pride? Kian wasn’t sure. At least he understood why Bastian had come here and why he’d offered Xander the job, even though he’d known he wouldn’t take it. He’d had to do something, so he could feel in control again.
“Fucking ask me if I wanted the job. Not my new partner. Not my friend and roommate. Me. That’s your whole problem. That’s why I left. You have to control everything, and it fucking sucks.” Kian froze. Xander was notoriously lacking in basic tact, but this was a lot, even for him.
And then it got worse. Xander pointed in Kian’s direction. “And that one,” he said, “is too nice to ever say anything to your face, but you’re a psychotic megalomaniac who desperately needs to be checked.”
It was too much. For Bastian’s temper. For his ego. For his everything. Kian held his breath as Bastian shot Xander a death glare, and then marched right out of the house.
“You’re an idiot,” Kian said, which was all he could say. “Are you really going to let someone else, some guy you don’t even know, tell Chef Aquino what you want to do?” This was completely unlike Xander, and while Kian was still undeniably pissed, that worried him. What was Xander’s deal with this Hess person? Was it serious? Because Kian saw reflected back in Xander’s eyes some of his own insanity—the determination to follow Bastian everywhere, no matter what happened, no matter what he said, no matter what he did. And that was so unlike Xander, it was sort of terrifying.
“Are we really going to do this? You and me, really?”
Kian desperately wanted to pretend that he didn’t know what Xander meant. But unlike Xander in this moment, he wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t unaware of the mistakes he kept making. “I don’t know what you mean,” he retorted through stiff lips.
“I mean, are you really going to get bent out of shape over my new partner telling Aquino to take a hike when I was going to do that anyway? When you would follow Aquino to the depths of any hell he concocted, just because you’re too in love with him to ever tell him no?”
It was such a painfully accurate assessment that Kian felt the wind knocked out of him. He’d done that. He’d done that for two years.
“No,” he finally said. “No, I guess we’re not.”
“Okay then,” Xander said and he finally sounded pissed. “I’m going back to bed, to contemplate my brief joblessness, and you can go running after Aquino because I know you’re dying to.”
Xander was right, but he was also wrong. Yes, Kian wanted to go after him, but not to apologize or try to placate him or any of the things that Xander assumed he’d do.
No, he wanted to read him the fucking riot act. Chef de cuisine, really? Xander?
Which was exactly what he said when he wrenched open the door of Bastian’s car.
Bastian had the nerve to look a tiny bit ashamed. “Get in,” he said. “Let’s get a coffee.”
Kian gave him a look, since he still hadn’t put a shirt on, and he was currently in socks, but no shoes.
“We’ll go through the drive-through,” Bastian amended, leaning back and rubbing his temples. “I didn’t sleep last night. I lose too many more good chefs and people are going to talk. They’re already fucking talking.”
“You care too much about what other people think,” Kian said, which was true, but was also an unfortunate
symptom of the restaurant business. Everyone had an opinion, and when those opinions were formed by important people, it could make or break a restaurant.
Bastian’s glare was expected. He pulled out of their drive in a spray of gravel. “You know it matters.”
Kian had heard this story before; too many good chefs would leave a restaurant, and there’d be blood in the water. For patrons, for other chefs, for critics.
They’d come in droves, hearing that Terroir’s sous was gone, to see if the standard of the food had fallen at all.
Kian didn’t need to tell Bastian that he would make sure with every fiber of his being that nothing would change, because Bastian was just as committed.
“How did you know it wasn’t a Hess restaurant?” Kian asked, changing the subject.
“I know because I know,” Bastian said, annoyingly. “Also, because Nathan Hess has been talking to me about taking over the bistro at their winery. I’d just about decided to tell him I was interested, but now there’s this wrinkle.”
“No Xander.”
“No Xander,” Bastian agreed. “He was an ass, but he was a reliable ass. I still like the bistro concept, I’ve been wanting to open a second location for awhile now, but I’m not sure I want it on Nathan Hess’ property.”
“Why not?” Kian asked as Bastian pulled the car into the parking lot of his favorite coffee shop.
Bastian pulled out his phone and dialed. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said when someone on the other end answered. “Two cappuccinos. Dry. No sugar. Double shots.”
Of course this was Bastian’s idea of a “drive-through.”
“You’re insufferable,” Kian said as he rolled his eyes.
The smile Bastian shot him was cocky and so sure of himself it made Kian’s knees weak. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he would have wobbled. As it was, his nipples tightened even in the comfortable warmth of the car, and Bastian, who noticed everything, swept his gaze across his chest.
