by Beth Bolden
“Yourself?” Kian asked, raising an eyebrow.
Xander laughed.
“Okay, that’s fair,” he said, then hesitated. “It’s only because I’m a friend, and I care about you that I’m asking. You’re okay? Everything is okay?”
“I’m good. Really good.” He suddenly laughed. The realization that the last sixteen or so hours had actually happened was just now hitting him. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”
“What did you do?” Xander sounded amused now. “You sure seemed pissed off, heading off last night.”
“I was. I was furious. Just . . . fucking tired of him getting to dictate the terms of what we were. So I showed up at his house and just started taking my clothes off.”
Xander choked on his coffee. “You did what,” he said when he finally managed to take a breath.
“He wasn’t listening,” Kian argued. “What else do you do with someone who won’t listen to you?”
“Not take my damn clothes off,” Xander said, still laughing.
“Hey, don’t judge. It worked.” Kian flushed. “Really, really well.”
Xander shook his head. “Apparently. Just . . . be careful. Be honest with each other. I know Aquino isn’t easy to deal with, but god knows you’ve figured out the right way to do it. And for the love of god, ask him for my job. You’re already doing the work without getting the credit or the salary.”
Kian really didn’t want to confess that in the last two years, he’d gotten enough raises that he’d been making more as Bastian’s special “intern” than the sous chef at Terroir. Bastian had made sure he knew his contributions to the restaurant were appropriately valued, even if he didn’t always say it in words.
But then that was Bastian, and Xander was right, Kian had figured out the best way to deal with him.
As for the credit, it would be nice, but anyone who was already in the Terroir kitchen knew to listen to Kian when he asked for something. He got a wide berth, respect, and he realized, the chafing he’d begun to feel in the last few months hadn’t been over his position in the restaurant—it had been the rut he and Bastian had fallen into.
Now that they’d resolved that, Kian thought maybe he wouldn’t feel so stagnant. He was only twenty-three. He still had a lot to learn. He’d become sous eventually, and at some point, maybe he’d even leave Terroir. But for now, he didn’t feel like rushing the process. He was content right where he was.
Chapter Ten
After his shower, Kian had tried various methods to hide the blooming bruises on his neck, but he finally gave up because the neck kerchief looked incredibly contrived, borrowing one of Xander’s chili pepper bandanas didn’t seem right, and the makeup called more attention to them than it hid.
He was just going to have to go in and hope everyone was too busy working to examine Kian’s neck—and if they did, they wouldn’t connect it to Chef’s unexpectedly good mood.
Because that was exactly what Kian expected to walk into when he finally arrived at Terroir: Bastian not yelling and quite possibly spreading encouragement and good cheer wherever he went.
Of course when he walked in, what he heard was Bastian verbally destroying the hopes of the new young kitchen assistant.
“This is fucking garbage,” Bastian yelled, the gravelly edge of it echoing in Kian’s memories from the night before. “You want to just take the trash and dump it on a plate and serve it to our guests?”
“No, Chef. I’ll fix it.” Derek sounded a tiny bit teary, but also resolute, which was a fucking relief. Kian wasn’t going to have to coax him out of the bathroom for service—at least not this time.
Kian forced himself to take his time putting his stuff in his locker, making sure his coat was fully buttoned, not that it would do much to hide the bruises on his neck, before walking out into the prep stations.
The last thing Kian had expected to be greeted with after the night before was a glare, but Bastian definitely glared. It was almost certainly residual from Bastian’s encounter with Derek, but no matter what little white lie he told himself, it still stung.
“You’d better fix it,” Bastian growled, and then turned towards Kian. “I’ve started the soup, but you need to finish it, and you need to monitor the hell out of Derek’s prep. He’s a fucking mess.”
Bastian was all business as they walked towards the massive bank of burners, where the gigantic pot of soup was bubbling away in the corner. “It’s a take on a posole,” he said. “You know how I like that to be finished.”
“Yes, Chef,” Kian said, and ignored the thrum of arousal he felt when he said the words. He remembered this morning, crawling down Bastian’s body and sliding his cock into his mouth. Bastian’s hot gaze on his face, on his mouth, as he’d sucked him off. It was hard to even believe that man even existed in the brisk, tough, blank-faced Bastian in front of him now. Kian wouldn’t have believed it, but he’d experienced it.
Kian had been the one to say he wanted things to stay the same at Terroir, and there was definitely a part of him that was undeniably glad they had. Terroir was like a support system, always there, always morphing but still strong and stable underneath the culinary experimentation, and Bastian was absolutely an extension of his own restaurant.
But another part of him wanted to see just a sign, even the faintest hint of a smile, some sort of reassurance that everything that had happened wasn’t just in Kian’s head.
Maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing after all.
He’d believe it, except for the chain of bruises currently dotting his neck.
“When you’re done with the soup, I’d like to see you in my office,” Bastian said, surprising the hell out of Kian. “If you’re not too busy managing Derek.”
Kian didn’t think he’d imagined the sudden thaw in Bastian’s dark eyes. “I shouldn’t be.”
“Then, I’ll see you in a bit,” Bastian said, and walked back to his office.
Sighing, Kian went to check the soup and then to go find Derek, who had better not have retreated to the bathroom again.
* * *
The blinds were up on Bastian’s glass walls when Kian approached his office, so he didn’t think Bastian had asked to see him for anything non-Terroir related.
Last night had been a revelation, a reveal of all the soft, sexy inner parts of Bastian, but Kian knew, as surely as the sun setting and rising, that he wouldn’t reveal any of that in the heart of his empire.
Kian didn’t even want him to. Those parts were for Kian and Kian alone to enjoy.
He knocked on the glass and Bastian glanced up from his computer monitor.
“Oh, that was quick,” Bastian said.
Kian fought back against the urge to apologize and explain that he had done everything to a quality level Bastian would approve of. He didn’t need to apologize or explain. Bastian trusted him, he believed that, so instead of answering, he merely took the seat.
A year ago, he’d used the corporate credit card Bastian had given him to buy more comfortable chairs for the office, and Bastian had given him a look when he’d brought them in but he hadn’t said a word. Kian figured that he was willing to sit here and take whatever shit came out of Bastian’s mouth, but he didn’t need to do that and be uncomfortable at the same damn time.
“Xander has been gone three months,” Bastian said. “I think it’s high time I promoted someone to sous chef, and I can’t think of anyone more qualified or that deserves it more than you do.”
Kian couldn’t help himself. He gaped.
Of course, the moment Kian decided he was perfectly fine not being promoted to sous, Bastian decided that the time was finally right.
But Bastian wasn’t even done. “But the more I thought about it,” he continued, “I realized that if I want to partner with Nathan Hess, I’ll be relying on you more and more. And that’s why I want to offer you the chef de cuisine position.”
Kian shot to his feet. “You want to do what?”
“Don’t
tell me you’re surprised by this,” Bastian said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve wanted this.”
He wasn’t going to apologize for being ambitious. Yes, he’d wanted it. Specifically he’d wanted Xander’s job, the sous chef job, but only if he was qualified for it and Bastian believed that he’d earned it.
While he desperately wanted to find some sort of equal footing with Bastian, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that extended to culinary knowledge, experience, or Terroir.
“Of course I want the job,” Kian said. “I’m just not sure I wanted it like this.”
“Like how?” Bastian challenged.
Kian rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to say it, but they were both thinking it. Last night had been momentous. He didn’t want Bastian to ruin it by making him think he’d gotten the job because he was good in bed, not good in the kitchen.
“I told you when Xander quit,” Bastian added, his voice softening, “I told you that I should have promoted you instead.”
He’d been so fed up—angry and frustrated—when Bastian had confessed that particular tidbit, but later he’d thought about it. And he wasn’t sure he really agreed with Bastian, which was blowing his mind.
“I knew this kitchen better than Xander did, but he had five more years of experience than I did—that means he had more than double the experience I do. That’s not insignificant,” Kian pointed out.
Bastian made a frustrated sound. “Would it be too much to ask for you to just say, thank you, Chef, and take the goddamned job?”
Yes, it probably would, and if Bastian had only wanted a sycophant in his kitchen and in his bed, Kian wouldn’t be here right now. He definitely wouldn’t have been curled up with Bastian the night before. Bastian wanted someone to challenge him. Someone to call him out on his bullshit.
But he also really wanted this job. He’d wanted it before he’d even known what it was, and long before Bastian had ever offered it to Xander. If Bastian thought he was ready, maybe Kian should defer to him. After all, he was always claiming to know everything.
“I’ll take it,” Kian said after a long moment. “But I think your timing continues to suck.”
First the Xander promotion right after they’d gotten back from San Francisco and now this. It was only two instances, but it felt like a pattern of their personal lives influencing the decisions Bastian was making in the restaurant. That didn’t only feel wrong, it felt completely unlike the Bastian that Kian believed he knew.
Bastian laughed, and it broke up the tension that had built up between them. “I’ll give you that,” he said, and even though he didn’t offer another apology in words, the tone was there, in his voice. “I’m not very good at this. I’m rather . . . inexperienced, if you’d believe it.”
Not sexually, clearly, but with being in a relationship with someone he cared about? Kian could see that. “Just tell me this has nothing to do with last night.” Kian dropped his voice towards the end, as the door was still open. He didn’t think anyone would eavesdrop, but this industry was also cutthroat and god knew what people would do to get ahead.
There were absolutely people in the world who might find out about last night and believe that Kian had only done it to get this promotion, and Bastian had let it happen because that was his right as Kian’s superior.
Those people were fucked up, but they existed, and while Kian might be naïve, he wasn’t that naïve.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Bastian said. “Do you really think I would promote you because of that?”
Kian shrugged, because the timing remained suspicious.
“I know . . . I know it looks like that,” Bastian allowed. He looked reluctant to continue, but he did anyway, like this was worth enduring the discomfort of the remaining confession. “I have a bad habit of reacting poorly when I lose control. I lost control in San Francisco. I never meant for . . . that to happen. Not with you. I’d told you we couldn’t, and I had fully intended to keep that promise, but you get under my skin, past my defenses, and what you said that night—it struck something inside me. I knew what Luc’s presence made you feel, and I didn’t want you to feel that anymore. But that didn’t change anything about our situation. I still believed it shouldn’t happen, but how could I tell you with words when words were clearly meaningless? Promoting Xander was a reminder to you, but mostly to myself, that even if I favored you, the hierarchy of the kitchen was still important. There were still vital reasons not to cross the line again. Yes, you have less experience than Xander did, but we work better together than he and I did, and that’s essential in a sous. Which is why I told you that it should have been you instead, not him.”
It wasn’t an explanation that Kian had ever expected to hear. It didn’t take the sting entirely away from that day—it had happened and nothing could change that, or the way he’d felt at the time—but hearing Bastian’s reasons helped. He hadn’t done it to be an asshole. He’d done it, like he’d done so much, because he had been trying to do what he believed was the right thing.
Kian nodded. “And today?”
“If I explain everything, am I going to lose my essential mystery?” Bastian wondered archly.
“If you explain everything, I might actually want to take this job, and then we can celebrate later. Properly.” Kian grinned.
Bastian returned the smile, definitely lighter at the edges, and it was a forcible reminder that while Bastian’s hair might be threaded with gray, he wasn’t really old. He’d just shouldered an incalculable burden with an incredible amount of accompanying pressure at a too-young age.
“I’d hate to take away the possibility of a celebration,” he said gravely. “Fine. I offered you the job today, not because of what happened last night, but because I realized I was holding you back. I was holding you with me. Not because I didn’t think you were ready, but because I didn’t want to let you go. That wasn’t right. When our relationship changed, I realized that was what kept stopping me from giving you this job you deserved. And if you deserve sous, then there’s no reason you can’t be chef de cuisine. I’m not disappearing. I’m not going to turn into Emeril or Mario and be unavailable. But I do want to take this opportunity with Nathan Hess, and I need you to take charge of things if I do.”
“Okay,” Kian said, feeling unsteady and unmoored. Chef de cuisine at a Michelin-starred restaurant at twenty-three years of age. It was practically unheard of.
“I became sous when I was twenty-three,” Bastian said. “And I know it was the making of me as a chef. I believe you can do this.”
The steady look of unflinching belief in Bastian’s eyes helped to steady Kian. He did believe in him; he wouldn’t have given Kian this promotion otherwise. Not with his life’s work, Terroir, hanging in the balance.
“Thank you, Chef,” Kian said. “I intend to make you proud.” He rose to his feet. “I need to check on the prep for the evening’s service.”
“Of course.” Bastian stood too, and hesitated. It was so different from this morning when Kian had left Bastian’s doorstep, and they’d kissed goodbye, their embrace turning heated as soon as their lips met. It was the only time they’d ever done that, but strangely, it felt odd not to repeat it now.
And from the way Bastian paused, the sudden nervous energy in his hands, Kian knew he felt the exact same way.
“I’ll make the announcement at family dinner,” Bastian said. Kian ducked his head in agreement, and then walked out the door before he did something monumentally stupid like try to kiss him.
* * *
After promoting Kian, it was readily apparent to Bastian that there was nobody even remotely suited in the kitchen to promote as sous—and Bastian wasn’t cruel enough to expect him to succeed without the proper tools he’d need, and that included a trusted and competent second-in-command.
Two days after the promotion, a resume crossed his desk that caught his attention. A fellow student with Kian at the Academy. He’d worke
d at Michael Mina since graduation but was looking to move back to the Valley. Bastian checked the references, even spoke to Michael himself, and decided this was the best congratulations, you’re promoted present he could find.
Other than giving Kian a truly spectacular blowjob the night before. Kian had claimed breathlessly that he’d never come so hard in his life, but then Bastian had bent him over the counter and fucked him like he’d wanted to do so long ago, the first time they’d ever met, and he’d come again, even harder the second time.
Bastian hadn’t lied when he’d told Kian that he’d believed he could succeed. He could—he had all the tools, most of the skill, and definitely the drive required. Watching him as he directed the line during service, Bastian was struck again by how much Kian reminded him of himself at that age. Ferocious and determined to achieve that success only because he’d truly earned it.
But Terroir was a large establishment, with the capacity for large crowds, and Kian was going to need a sous chef he trusted. That wasn’t an easy thing to find, but someone he already knew? Someone he’d gone to school with? That was a very good start.
The first sign of a problem came when the new hire walked in, and instead of looking pleased, Kian frowned.
“Mark?” he questioned. “What are you doing here?”
Bastian did not frequently rethink his decisions, but he couldn’t help but feel, looking at Kian’s displeased expression, that maybe he should have included Kian on the hiring process to find Kian’s sous chef. Which felt appallingly obvious, once Bastian thought it.
Merde.
“I’ve been hired here,” Mark said smoothly, looking over at Bastian. “I’m your new sous.”
