Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  “Did you have sex?” Miles demanded quietly. “Is that what this obnoxious cheerfulness is about?”

  Xander just laughed. “You look tired. You should get some sleep, Costa.” He sauntered away without ever answering Miles’ question.

  “You shouldn’t let him get to you,” Kian said. Kian was Miles’ third roommate—Napa was insanely expensive and the only way Miles could afford a halfway decent kitchen with halfway decent light was to split the rent four ways.

  “Easy for you to say,” Miles retorted.

  “I had a tart. Actually two,” Kian confessed. “They were awesome.”

  Miles had a soft spot for Kian. He reminded him a lot of his little sister, Gina. Except that Kian was male and tough as nails because he was the bottom of the food chain in Terroir’s kitchen. Miles had no idea how Kian even survived the diabolical tasks Chef Aquino put on his plate. Miles usually thought women were usually way tougher than men, but what Kian put up with put Gina to shame regularly. And Gina was a freshman in college.

  “Thank you,” Miles acknowledged. Kian was way more respectful than Xander, and had kept his distance so Miles could pick his brush up and get back to his careful, artful dusting of the pyramids. Chef René might not make crazily innovative desserts, but he was a stickler for presentation. Every single one of his desserts was a work of art.

  “Xander’s just jealous, you know. He has a secret, desperate yearning to be famous.”

  “It’s not so secret,” Miles said darkly. “In fact, it’s hard to miss.”

  Kian burst out laughing. “True.”

  “You’re too nice to him.”

  “I’m too nice to everyone,” Kian said, which was also true. “I’ll leave you alone to your geometric wonders.”

  When Miles finally finished the dinner service, he had gold dust under his fingernails and a shit ton of sleepy grit in his eyes. He tossed his bike into the back of Kian’s little hatchback, and barely remembered his head hitting the pillow.

  * * *

  His phone blared shrilly, interrupting Miles’ deep dreamless sleep.

  His hand shot out of the covers and grabbed what he thought might be the shape of his phone. Not bothering to look at the screen, he blindly pressed the answer button.

  “What,” he barked. It better not be Xander, waking him up to go for a jog. Or Kian, trying to be cute and failing.

  “You’re famous!” his little sister Gina sang into the speaker, sounding even brighter than she normally did.

  Miles groaned and fell back to his pillow. “What time is it?”

  “I waited until nine, at least,” Gina said. “I’ve got a class in five, I just wanted to tell you that you’re famous, in case you missed it somehow.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Miles told her wryly, because he’d pulled an extra-long shift and then fallen asleep. He hadn’t exactly had time in the last twenty-four hours to wrap his head around his sudden, inexplicable fame.

  “What class?” he asked before she could tell him the breadth of what he’d neglected by choosing sleep. He didn’t get a lot of time to talk to Gina since she’d started at Cal in the fall, and he’d missed their chats.

  “Philosophy 101,” Gina said, and he could hear her eye roll.

  “Not enjoying it?” he asked. He’d chosen to go to culinary school instead of college, and it had absolutely been the right choice for him, but he was thrilled at the brave step Gina was taking. She was one of his favorite people—smart and funny and bright as the sun—and she was the first of his family to go to college. He couldn’t think of anyone better suited to fight for what she deserved.

  “Oh, it’s plenty dumb at points,” Gina said. “Like whether we’re actually not here, but figments of someone’s imagination. Of course we’re actually here. It’s just . . .”

  Miles heard her pause, and he was still wiping the sleepy cobwebs from his brain so it took him a long second to catch up to why she was hesitating. “What is it?” he finally asked. “What happened?” He was still, and would always be, a big brother.

  “There’s this guy,” she said, frustration evident in her voice. “He argues with everything I say. I’m not sure he even agrees with what he’s saying, but it doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “He sounds like an ass.” What he sounded like was a guy with a crush on Miles’ baby sister, and no idea how to go about getting her attention like an adult. Miles wanted to punch him in the face.

  “He definitely is,” Gina said, and though she didn’t say it, Miles could hear the hesitation in her tone. She didn’t think he was an ass at all. And just like that, Miles realized that she probably wouldn’t be his baby sister for much longer. At least not in her mind. She was eighteen and in college and discovering the world.

  “I’ve got to go,” Gina continued, “but don’t think I didn’t notice you changed the subject. We still need to talk about you, big bro.”

  “Someday,” Miles said.

  “Sooner rather than later,” Gina insisted.

  After she hung up, Miles hesitated before unlocking his phone again. Did he even want to look? When he finally did, he grimaced. If the avalanche of notifications yesterday had been daunting, the pile this morning was insurmountable.

  He wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing that René had told him he wouldn’t need to be in until four today.

  He debated whether he wanted coffee or not—not a real debate, more like whether Miles wanted to pull on pants and stumble into the kitchen—and he’d just about made up his mind that coffee was required if he was going to slog through his phone when there was a knock on the door.

  Miles pushed his hair back and grabbed a pair of loose sweats on the floor by the bed. Pulling them on, he opened the door to Kian’s way too bright smile.

  It was hard to scowl at all that cheerfulness, but Miles was a pro and managed it just fine.

  “I brought you coffee,” Kian said, extending a cup filled to the brim. “Two sugars, dark as sludge.”

  Miles eyed his roommate suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “I’m always nice.” This was partly true. Kian was definitely the nicest of his roommates. Xander and Wyatt could be assholes on a good day. But Kian had a sort of apprehensive puppy dog thing going on this morning, and Miles was naturally suspicious, but he wasn’t usually wrong.

  “Have you looked at your phone?” Kian asked, sounding way too much like Gina for Miles’ peace of mind. If Kian hadn’t emphatically expressed his preference for the male sex, Miles might have thought about introducing them.

  “Sort of.”

  Kian shot him a frank look. “Take a closer look,” was all he said. “Last I saw, Martha Stewart retweeted it, and then Snoop Dogg picked it up too.”

  Miles’ jaw dropped open. “Snoop Dogg retweeted my video?”

  “I mean, have you even watched that cooking show he hosts with Martha?” Kian rambled, as Miles clumsily unlocked his phone after three tries and sat down on the bed, coffee abandoned to the bedside table as he scrolled through some of his notifications.

  “I don’t get it,” Miles finally said, looking up and realizing that Kian was still expectantly standing in the doorway. “Most viral stuff has a good hook. This was a video of me . . . baking tarts.”

  “But you’ve never showed yourself as much as you did in this one,” Kian pointed out. “And, honestly, you looked pretty cute and intense, hair falling in your face, and I think at one point you might’ve had some raspberry puree smeared across your cheek.”

  Miles stared at his friend.

  “You did watch it before you posted it, didn’t you?” Kian asked awkwardly. He was so young—okay, not that much younger than Miles, but in your twenties, sometimes three years felt like an eternity—and sort of naïve. Very naïve, depending on the moment.

  “Technically yes.” Miles thought back to the morning two days ago when he’d gotten approximately three hours of sleep on a marble slab and decided he might
not have been entirely coherent enough to do the editing justice. “But I was a little tired at the time. I probably thought the raspberry puree gave me a sort of rakish charm.”

  “It totally did,” Kian said, very loyally. Kian was much nicer than Xander. Since Xander had yet to give him shit over the puree that must mean he hadn’t seen it yet. Miles hoped that state continued for a long time, though considering the way the video was spreading, he probably wouldn’t get that lucky.

  “So I looked . . . funny?” Miles asked, unable to keep the desperation out of his tone.

  “No, no,” Kian corrected quickly. “You just look really intense and cute and driven. It’s a good video, and people like it for the right reasons, I promise. Plus, the tarts look delicious—and they tasted even better, by the way.”

  “Okay.” Miles took a deep breath. “Is it totally weird if I didn’t want this to happen?”

  Kian’s gaze grew sympathetic. “Uh, no. It’s a lot of scrutiny. I’m not sure Chef Aquino will like it, if I’m being totally honest.”

  That was something Miles had not even considered. Chef Aquino was notoriously driven by his gigantic ego. Where Terroir was concerned, he didn’t like anybody else stealing the spotlight. Especially a lowly pastry assistant.

  “He seemed okay with it two days ago,” Miles said.

  “Miles,” Kian said, “Snoop Dogg retweeted it. He’s probably not okay with it now.”

  Miles had difficulty wrapping his head around Chef Aquino even knowing who Snoop Dogg was, never mind caring what he thought of the video, but Kian was almost always right when it came to Chef Aquino. Chef had handpicked Kian from his culinary school’s graduating class and had taken him on as a special assistant. From what Miles could figure out, that mostly meant that Kian got to bear the brunt of their overbearing boss. But no matter how many times Chef yelled at Kian, or generally embarrassed him in front of the rest of the staff, Kian still worshipped him.

  Personally, Miles thought there might be a little more than hero worship going on there, but he wasn’t going to open that bag of worms anytime soon. If Kian was smart, he’d get over it and move on. If Kian wasn’t smart, he’d eventually get chewed up and spit out by their illustrious leader. Miles liked Kian a lot, and hoped the kid could keep his head on straight.

  “Well, I’ll find out tonight,” Miles said. “I don’t have to go in ’til four though.” He already knew what he’d be doing the rest of the day, and even though he knew he should be celebrating his success, all he felt was a mild dread. He hadn’t set out to become popular or famous, and he wasn’t sure how this video would ultimately impact his fairly simple life. A life he liked because it was simple.

  “Drink your coffee,” Kian ordered. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  * * *

  Miles slunk into the staff entrance at Terroir at fifteen minutes to four. He’d drunk three cups of Kian’s excellent coffee, almost fully cleared out his notifications, and had even had a little time to start wrapping his head around what had just happened to him.

  With a decent night’s sleep and some high-quality caffeine in him, Miles found he could actually enjoy the really positive comments to the video. Especially flattering, though bordering on creepy in some moments, were the many people who seemed to want to pick him up. Men and women both, and Miles realized that he’d never outright stated on his Pastry by Miles page that he was gay. Oh well, it wasn’t like he was taking anybody up on any of the offers—even the ones that seemed particularly attractive. And there had been more than a few of those.

  His only real concern remained Chef Aquino’s developing reaction to the video’s unexpected success. Kian hadn’t texted him any red alerts during the afternoon, so Miles could only pray that Chef Aquino was still okay with it. He was even harboring a secret hope that the popularity of the video had only made Chef more determined to feature the tart as a special dessert.

  “Costa,” Chef René barked out as he caught sight of him slinking into the break room to put his bag in his locker.

  “Yes, Chef?” Miles asked.

  “There’s someone to see you,” he said.

  “Chef Aquino?” Miles began to sweat a little under his whites.

  Chef René shook his head. “No, someone else. They’re on the terrace, waiting for you.”

  Miles definitely was sweating now. Was he going to be fired? He’d done good work here—nothing innovative, because Chef René wasn’t that kind of chef—but he’d created solid and consistent product. He’d never even explicitly stated in his videos that he worked at Terroir, though a few commenters had voiced their suspicions that he did when he’d mentioned working at a famous restaurant. He’d never confirmed anything, but even though there were a lot of top-notch restaurants in Napa, there was only one with Michelin stars, and that was Terroir.

  He walked through the empty restaurant, the tables already sparkling with glassware and silver, out the side door, and onto the terrace. Terroir overlooked some of the vineyards Napa was famous for, and the terrace was one of the most prized dining areas in California—probably in the whole United States. Trellised ivy and grapevines wound around the brick stonework of the building, and even though the terrace was technically outside, every inch was swept and pristine. Miles thought Chef Aquino probably even frightened the bugs away.

  There was a man on the end of the terrace, sampling a cheese platter, with a glass of sparkling wine at his elbow. He had dark hair, shaved close, and a broad set of muscular shoulders that his white t-shirt only seemed to emphasize. He looked up with dark, intense eyes as Miles approached.

  “You’re Reed Ryan,” Miles said, before the man could introduce himself. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized him the second he’d spotted him. Xander worshipped the man something fierce, both for his incredible culinary expertise and also because he was seriously hot. Miles had teased Xander more times than he could count about hanging a poster of Reed Ryan above his bed, and now he was here, in the flesh.

  Xander was going to eat his heart out when he discovered who’d come to see Miles. He’d never mock Pastry by Miles ever again, not if the site drew Reed Ryan up to Napa.

  “And you’re Miles.” Reed stood and offered a firm handshake. “Sit down.” He gestured to the glass. “Would you like some wine?”

  Miles shook his head. “Sorry, but no, I’m on shift tonight.”

  “Right, of course,” Reed said. “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked to meet with you.”

  Miles was desperately curious. He knew Reed had closed his famous Chicago restaurant, Garnet, and had disappeared for a year or so, reappearing on the West Coast, but he couldn’t remember what it was that Reed was doing now. Xander had certainly told him, probably more than once, but Miles blocked out most of the shit Xander said.

  “I didn’t realize you’d opened another restaurant,” Miles said as Reed selected a chunk of brie and popped it in his mouth.

  “I haven’t,” Reed said. “I’m the culinary producer at Five Points.” Five Points was a pop culture and sports website that had been recently branching into short culinary video series.

  Miles now remembered all those rants Xander had subjected him to about Reed Ryan wasting all his talent by selling out.

  “I’ve been following Pastry by Miles for awhile,” Reed continued, picking through the thinly sliced meats on the tray. “I had always planned to offer you a show on our site, but after the last forty-eight hours, I decided I’d better get up here and do it before someone else beat me to the punch.”

  “A show on Five Points?” Miles asked skeptically. “You teach people how to bake bread out of melted ice cream. How to make edible cookie dough out of garbanzo beans. Pastry by Miles is a serious pastry blog.”

  Reed shot Miles a very frank look. “I’m a serious chef, Mr. Costa. I want to make a serious pastry show. Believe it or not, I have higher ambitions than teaching the masses how to make a dessert with three ingredients or less. I want to teach t
hem what good pastry is about. And I think you’re exactly the person to do that.”

  Garnet had been legendary in the food scene. It was hard to picture a Reed Ryan who didn’t take the culinary arts very seriously. But there was still a whisper in the back of his head that he’d be selling out if he quit to film a show for Five Points. He wouldn’t be able to come back to Terroir. His job wouldn’t be waiting for him. Chef Aquino might let him go, but he’d never forgive Miles for moving on, no matter how unfair that might be.

  “How much input would I have into the show?” Miles asked, because that, more than anything else, felt very important. He wasn’t going to dumb down his ideas for anybody. He wasn’t going to be subject to someone else’s vision, not if he was going to take the drastic step of walking away from employment at one of the very best restaurants in the world.

  “There would be a producer. Me, maybe, or someone else. Maybe my assistant, Evan. I’ve been looking to promote him, and your show would be a great fit. But the process at Five Points is collaborative.” He paused. “I said it before, but I’ll say it again. I don’t have any intention of dumbing down your skill. I want something accessible, but elevated. I want you to teach people about pastry.”

  When he’d begun Pastry by Miles, he’d wanted to share his creativity with people who weren’t just his roommates or his family. He’d wanted a way to express his vision without being constantly shut down.

  “How long do I have to think about it?” Miles asked.

  “As long as you need,” Reed said. “But I guarantee there will be others after me. That video was very good, Mr. Costa. I’ll email you over a sample contract with compensation attached. But everything is negotiable.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be in touch,” Miles said, getting to his feet, his fingers already itching to check his email and see how much Reed was offering him to leave Terroir and everything familiar. “I’ve got to get back to my prep.”

  If he detoured through the locker room and grabbed his phone to check his email, who could blame him? He scrolled through Reed’s email, and his jaw dropped open at the offering bid for fifteen episodes. That was two years of salary at Terroir, plus there were stipulations about housing and moving costs and additional bonuses if certain benchmarks were met.