by Beth Bolden
“Yeah,” Mark said indulgently, after Derek had already departed, “maybe you could slice my eggplants for me. On the Japanese mandolin, right?”
Kian gritted his teeth. So he’d heard that story too, had he?
“Correct, and I’d be happy to,” was all Kian said. Maybe if he didn’t engage Mark, then eventually he’d lose interest in pursuing whatever story he’d concocted in his head.
Of course, it just so happened to be a true story, but Mark couldn’t ever figure that out.
Kian whipped through the eggplants, being careful and also not putting the gloves on, because he didn’t want to give Mark any more reasons to believe the story he’d heard was the truth. His finger had long since healed, leaving only a thin, nearly invisible scar.
The rest of the chefs piled in for the service, and Kian directed them as necessary—but they’d all been at Terroir long enough that they knew exactly what to do, and how to do it. And Kian, to his own surprise, realized that he’d been telling them what to do a lot longer than his official promotion. Maybe, Kian thought as they sat down to family dinner, Bastian was right. Maybe he did in fact deserve this position. But no matter how many times he told himself that, he still felt over his head.
He wished he could’ve confided in Bastian and talked it through with him—wasn’t that what you did with a partner?—but the thought of admitting any weakness to Bastian was terrifying. He was relentless and inexorable. Weakness was denied until it didn’t exist. Mistakes happened once and only once. Kian had become very good at sticking to Bastian’s personal rules, but he’d never been this far out of his depth before.
Kian put himself on the pass-through, adding garnish and inspecting each plate as they left the kitchen, and assigned Mark to one of the three sauté stations on the enormous stove. Sauté was easily the most grueling station, other than the grill, but Wyatt’s replacement was so good that Kian wasn’t going to tempt fate by testing Mark there.
As he started calling out orders for starters, Kian watched Mark at his station. He was just learning the recipes, so it was not surprising that his movements weren’t as confident or as innate. Or as quick, Kian thought as the starters went out, and more entrée orders poured in.
It was still early, and they were by no means at capacity yet, though Michelle, the front of house manager, had dropped by during family meal to grab a bite and to tell Kian they were totally booked up tonight. Which meant that as busy as it seemed now, this was still quiet compared to how many orders they were going to have in an hour.
“Keeping up?” Kian asked, keeping his tone light as he swung by Mark at his sauté station.
“Yes, Chef,” Mark said in a strained voice.
He was only just keeping up, but that was still keeping up, so Kian let it go. And then Mark sent some scallops up to the pass that were definitely not quite done.
Overdone scallops were a criminal offense in the Terroir kitchen, usually causing Bastian to throw the plate, or worse, a whole stack of plates. Underdone, that was just a rookie mistake, but Mark and Kian had been working in professional kitchens for exactly the same time. Just as Kian was too experienced to make a rookie mistake—Mark should have been as well.
Kian dumped the dish in the trash can and set the plate onto the stainless steel counter with a click that resonated through the kitchen, despite that there was the normal loud chatter that accompanied every service.
“Chef?” Michel, Wyatt’s replacement on the grill, asked, the expression on his face hopeful that the offender wasn’t him, while he clearly believed that it wasn’t.
“Are we trying to poison our guests?” Kian asked, raising his voice just enough to cut through the normal kitchen noise. “Are we trying to make them ill? Five hundred bucks for a night of food poisoning doesn’t sound like a very good tradeoff.”
Everyone stilled, and Kian continued. “Those scallops were raw, Johnson. Make them again and make them right this time.”
“I plated the wrong pan,” Mark said mulishly, pushing another towards Kian.
But it had been a good minute and a half since Kian had first spied the nearly raw scallops. Ninety additional seconds for a pan of perfectly cooked scallops would mean that this batch was now overcooked. He glanced down at the plate, not taking it, just looking. And he could tell, without even touching a single fingertip to them, that they would be tough and nearly inedible.
“You plated the wrong one again, Johnson,” Kian said. “These are overdone. Start over.”
Bastian would have been throwing things by now, and Kian told himself he was proud that his voice was steady, but still calm. Relentless, because perfection was a difficult journey yet a possible one. They were here at Terroir to achieve perfection. It didn’t even matter that Kian loved Bastian and never wanted to serve a plate that wasn’t perfect in his restaurant; he would have striven for that no matter what his personal feelings were.
But he knew, the hard realization lodging in his gut, that he could not let him down. Not now. Especially now.
“But, Chef,” Mark dared to argue, “I have . . .” and he signaled to the six other pans he had on the stove in various states of cooking.
Kian knew the glint in his eyes was dangerous, and for the first time Mark seemed at least partially chastened. “Are you telling me that you are unable to handle your station?”
“No, Chef,” Mark finally said.
“Then get me another plate of fucking scallops. And tomorrow, we’ll have a one-on-one lesson on how to cook them properly so this doesn’t ever happen again.”
It was a lot for a chef like Mark to swallow; he had his ego, like they all did. But he’d also fucked up and knew it, and so he turned back to the stove and began another pan of scallops.
Michelle, watching the entire exchange, gave him a smile, just reassuring enough, but not patronizing. She’d worked for Bastian too long to ever do that.
Two minutes later he handed her the plate, after checking it carefully himself. The scallops were cooked perfectly. Kian couldn’t have done any better himself.
And that, Kian told himself later, as the kitchen was being scrubbed down, and he was sitting in Bastian’s office, feeling like half-an-imposter in the big leather chair behind the desk, was why he couldn’t just give up on Mark. He knew better. He had potential. He had all the tools needed to succeed. Bastian was right. He just needed . . . fine tuning. Kian wasn’t sure he was the right person for the job, but he’d made it through tonight, hadn’t he?
He also hadn’t yelled once, and that, too, felt like an accomplishment.
Mark poked his head in the open doorway. “Chef,” he said, and the challenging note in his voice was not entirely gone, but it was diminished. Enough that Kian couldn’t help but still feel optimistic about this working out.
“Is it done?” Kian asked.
Nodding, Mark didn’t move. Kian waited for him to speak, because clearly something was on his mind.
“Michael Mina was a lot smaller,” Mark said, repeating his excuse from the morning.
“And Terroir is not,” Kian responded back smoothly. “You need to up your game. I expect your best effort tomorrow.”
“Derek was right,” Mark mumbled, as he turned, “you’ve turned into a copy of that bastard.”
Clearly he hadn’t meant for Kian to hear him, but he also hadn’t really gone out of his way to muffle his voice enough. Kian’s temper spiked, because not only wasn’t he a copy of Bastian, it was the sort of comment that only a few weeks ago would have been something he’d have taken as a compliment.
And now, with the sneer of Mark’s voice still ripe in the air, he couldn’t anymore, and that really, really pissed him off.
When he heard another set of footsteps outside the door, he didn’t even look up. “I’ll be there in a moment to lock up,” Kian bit out sharply. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to Mark anymore today—and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could actually tell Bastian about what had happened.
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“I already locked up.”
Kian glanced up in surprise because that wasn’t Mark’s voice at all.
“It’s still weird for me to see you in that chair,” Bastian said softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
It was undeniable that he was in a bad mood, and Kian’s gut reaction was to demand to know why he was here. Was he here to check up on him after his first shift as chef de cuisine without Bastian there as support?
“You didn’t.” Kian sighed, and sat back. “It was just a long day.”
Bastian sat down on one of the opposite chairs, and he was right, it was weird to see him like this, their normal roles reversed. “Michelle texted me and said it was a good service.”
It was impossible not to hope that Michelle, who’d witnessed the entire scallop incident, hadn’t told him that part of it. But whether Bastian knew about it or not, he didn’t say another word.
“I thought you could use a hot bath and a little food,” Bastian said. “And maybe a drive home.”
He was really tired but he raised a questioning eyebrow anyway. “Do you think leaving my car here is a good idea?”
“I really don’t give a fuck, you’re worn out. Let me drive you back.” Bastian stood, like Kian’s agreement was a given.
Of course Bastian didn’t give a fuck if Kian’s car was seen here overnight. It wouldn’t be his reputation that would be compromised. He’d probably get high fives and the subtle admiration of everyone for finding a cute young guy to fuck. The gossip would assume that Kian had slept his way to the top, instead of the truth—that he’d worked his ass off.
If Bastian couldn’t think that through, then Kian wasn’t going to help him along.
Finally, he seemed to get it when Kian didn’t move. “You’re afraid people are going to talk.”
“People are already talking. People have been talking for two years.” Kian paused. “I don’t want to give them any evidence that they’re right.” He didn’t want to mention that Derek—already on his last chance at Terroir—had been gossiping or how intently Mark had been listening, but he would if Bastian pressed him.
“How about we park your car on the other side of the building? Where we get the deliveries?” Bastian suggested. “Michel is scheduled to receive the few we’re getting tomorrow, and he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
Kian would have agreed with him only yesterday but after catching Derek today, it was hard to trust anyone. Before today, he’d believed he had Derek’s full support and his respect because he’d personally saved Derek’s overdramatic ass more than once.
“I’m just going to follow you back,” Kian said, standing up. Today’s service had driven home the fact that he was in a far more precarious position than he’d believed, and he didn’t want Bastian trying to convince him otherwise.
“If you insist,” Bastian said as he followed him towards the locker room. “But you have the morning off, tomorrow, yes?”
Kian grabbed his coat and his bag. “You know I do.”
He flipped on the after-hours lights, and they exited the restaurant into the cool night air, the already-locked door closing behind them.
“I made brunch reservations for us tomorrow,” Bastian said as Kian stopped at his car door.
“You did what?”
Bastian shrugged, but his shoulders looked tight, and maybe he needed the hot bath as much as Kian did, after a long day dealing with Nathan Hess. Not anyone’s favorite person.
“You said sex at home, work at Terroir, but . . .” Bastian hesitated, and Kian couldn’t remember him ever looking so uneasy, so unsure of himself. “But I don’t want our options to be only limited to that.”
Kian supposed there were places they could go where they wouldn’t necessarily be recognized, but he very much doubted that Bastian had made brunch reservations at one of them. He would have called up one of his many friends, who’d offhandedly mention the incident to another friend, or even worse, they’d been seen by someone who knew them.
Bastian shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking frustrated. “This isn’t just fucking to me. I don’t want to be your dirty secret.”
“And you think I do?” Kian questioned. “You think that’s how I think about this? After two years of waiting, and wishing that we could do something about how we felt, you think I’m only here for sex?”
There was a part of Kian, vocal but somewhat drowned out by the overwhelming exhaustion he felt, that told him they needed to talk about this when he wasn’t already in such a bad mood.
The problem was that the conversation had already started and from the way Bastian’s expression had tightened, Kian knew he wasn’t just going to leave it.
“Listen,” Kian said before Bastian could say something else—probably something he’d regret later—“I’m worn out, I had a fucking long day. I’d like to take you up on the food and hot bath idea, but I don’t want to fight about this. Not now.”
Bastian surprised the hell out of him by laughing. “Are you trying to avoid a fight?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t really fucking know. I just know I don’t want this to be a secret. Not forever, anyway.” Bastian looked confused, and sounded confused, which probably confused him even more.
Kian reached up and slid a hand around Bastian’s neck, tugging him down closer. Bastian leaned in, like he’d only been waiting for the invitation. “Not forever,” he agreed. “But you just promoted me to chef de cuisine at twenty-three fucking years old. Let’s give it a little time.”
Sighing, Bastian leaned in, resting his forehead against Kian’s. “You’re right. I’ll change the reservation. We’ll go someplace else.”
“Thank you,” Kian murmured. “I know it sucks, I know this isn’t . . . normal.”
Bastian’s grip tightened on Kian’s hips. “I don’t give a fuck what’s normal. I love you. I just want to do right by you. Always.”
Kian reached up and kissed him then. It was just a quick little brush of his lips against Bastian’s, but that still felt like risking it. The parking lot was empty, but anyone driving by right now would see all the evidence they needed. “Let’s go home,” he said, reaching for his door handle. “Someone pretty amazing promised me a hot bath and some food, and I’m starving.”
Bastian’s smile was warm and sweet. “For the food or for something else?”
Kian risked another quick peck, this time to Bastian’s cheek. “Can’t I be hungry for both?”
“Go,” Bastian said, chuckling with amusement, “before I decide that this parking lot is private enough for what I have in mind.”
* * *
Kian didn’t know if Bastian had deliberately lured him to his house with only a promise of a bath, but once he’d suggested it, Kian wanted it. They’d spent more than a few late nights tucked up together in Bastian’s oversized tub and it was already a favorite spot of his.
“Food first or bath?” Bastian called out as Kian let himself in the front door of his house.
“Food,” Kian said, walking into the kitchen. They tended to get distracted in the bath and he had a feeling that an orgasm would be enough to finish him off completely for the evening.
“I figured,” Bastian said. He was sautéing some ingredients in a pan, and there was already a pot of water bubbling on the stove. “Pasta?”
“Works for me.” Kian slid onto one of the barstools. “This doesn’t really get old, you know.”
Bastian looked up, and the boyish smile on his face made Kian’s heart contract. “Me cooking for you? Why wouldn’t I? You’re the one who worked hard in the kitchen today. I only had the longest fucking meeting in the history of meetings.”
“That bad, huh?” Kian asked.
“I knew Nathan Hess was difficult,” Bastian admitted. “But he makes me look like a fucking saint, and that’s a problem.”
“What was the meeting about today?”
“We were supposed to b
e finalizing the contract, but instead he threw me and my lawyer for a loop. Demanded a percentage of profits as well as a monthly rent. Seemed to think I was doing him a favor, instead of the other way around.”
“You know Xander’s boyfriend is his son, right?” Kian said.
“I am well aware.” Bastian’s voice was testy as he added a pint of cherry tomatoes to the pan. “I am not going to ask Xander to intercede on my behalf.”
Kian stole a tomato from the pan, quicker than Bastian could bat his fingers away with his metal tongs. “I didn’t think he should,” he said. “I’m just saying that maybe it would be easier to do this without Hess. Xander says he made Damon’s life a living hell. Do you really want to make that your problem too?”
Whatever Bastian answered, it was clear how he felt from the expression on his face. He grunted noncommittally as he used his tongs to check the pasta.
“Get the plates,” was all he actually said, which Kian thought made it rather obvious.
They were sitting side by side on the barstools, eating their late night pasta in silence, when Bastian brought it up again. “I’m hoping my lawyer can convince his lawyer that he’s fucking insane,” Bastian said but he didn’t exactly sound confident. “If he thinks I’m paying a dime from my profits, he’d have to be.”
“Why don’t you just do this without him?” Kian asked. “You don’t need him, not really.”
“No,” Bastian sighed, pushing the food around his plate. A bad sign all around, because like everything Bastian made, it was delicious. “But it would be easier. He already has the facility, the kitchen. It needs some updating, but that would only take a few weeks. Staff wouldn’t be difficult. Menu wouldn’t either. It’s . . . a lot, honestly, building from the ground up. I was trying to avoid it. Maybe it’s unavoidable.”
There was a part of Kian—a part he’d been trying very hard to ignore these past weeks—that wanted to tell Bastian that this clearly wasn’t the right time to do this, and that even if it meant a demotion, it was okay to give up the proposed partnership with Hess. It was the same voice that wouldn’t stop whispering at him that he was ill-prepared and not experienced enough to run Terroir nearly by himself.
