Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  “He’s wearing a bow tie, Miles.”

  Oh god. Even worse. Evan had come here in person. Probably after reading the email. He was definitely here to commit a murder on the parts of Miles that weren’t already dead, and he wasn’t sure his friends would be inclined to stop him.

  Then Miles remembered the kiss, and wondered if he could stay in here forever. He didn’t know if he could face Evan, considering what he’d done and then what he’d said.

  But Miles knew he should drag himself off the floor and give Evan an opportunity for the murdering to begin.

  It was a several-minutes-long process, gently and carefully unfolding his aching body from the position over the toilet, and then hefting himself up using the counter. He flipped on the light and only screamed a little bit, either at the brightness or the horrible image the mirror confronted him with.

  He stole Xander’s toothbrush and splashed some water on his face, and tried to fix his hair. It was a useless exercise, but Miles guessed it didn’t really matter anyway. Nobody would care what his hair looked like when he was dead.

  Unlocking the door, Miles braced himself, but it was only Kian standing outside, a worried crease between his brows. “What are you doing?” Kian hissed.

  “I wish I knew,” he admitted.

  “Well, figure your shit out. Your partner you just insulted ten ways from Sunday is here.”

  “How did he even get here so fast?” Miles wondered, even though the thinking hurt his brain. It could only be mid-morning because Kian hadn’t left for Terroir yet.

  Kian just shrugged. “He’s in the kitchen.”

  Miles gingerly felt his way to the kitchen, and when he arrived, was ironically confronted by a vision of what he’d just insulted—or praised. He wasn’t sure. But there Evan was, back to him, in another pair of those tight khakis.

  It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.

  “So this is where the magic all began,” Evan said without turning. Miles didn’t think he was a particularly heavy breather, but maybe Evan had sold his soul for magic powers so he could kill Miles and get away with it.

  “I’m not sure it was very magical,” Miles said, and all of a sudden he didn’t know if they were talking about Pastry by Miles or their kiss. He took a breath and tried to steady himself. He wanted to cry and apologize and tell Evan just how sorry he was, but there was something deep inside holding it all back. Pride? Ego? Shame? “How did you even know I was here?”

  “You used your corporate credit card, it wasn’t very hard to track you,” Evan said, and there was a hint of a sneer in his tone. Like Miles must be incredibly stupid to not be able to keep his credit cards straight—and Miles thought he was probably right. It was stupid and would have topped his most embarrassing list, if not for the email.

  That was going to win for a very long time. Possibly forever.

  Evan turned around. “God,” he said, and there was definitely an audible sneer now, “you look even worse than you smell.”

  “Thanks,” Miles said stiffly.

  If he had any embarrassment left, he'd be cringing right now.

  "I guess Reed sent you up to fire me," Miles said, uncomfortable with even vaguely referring to the email. He'd already been rightly accused of being unprofessional; he didn’t even know what this behavior was. A complete aberration. A panic-induced, ego-driven freak-out. But no, that wasn't even right, because if his ego was where it was supposed to be, he would have spent this morning working to contradict Evan's words, not support them.

  Evan ignored the reference. "I came here to get you, not to fire you," he said. "We have work to do, and you're not where you're supposed to be."

  It was even tougher to face Evan, knowing he was right. Maybe not on every count, but on every count that mattered. Sure Evan shouldn't have gone blabbing to Reed, and maybe he should have shared his plans in a less autocratic way, but he'd at least been trying to work out some sort of compromise.

  What had Miles been trying to do? Get drunk and write an ode to how much he hated Evan's face but loved his ass?

  "Okay," Miles said.

  Evan looked skeptical. "Just . . . okay? No arguments?"

  "Some . . . discussion can be good for creativity. But you're right, I'm not where I'm supposed to be." Miles had definitely learned that during this little unplanned trip. He was done in Napa, at least for now. He still wasn't a hundred percent convinced he was supposed to be at Five Points either, but he'd given his word, and that had used to mean something to Miles.

  So he'd go back and no matter how daunting it was for Miles to try to live up to Evan's Joan of Arc Julia Child label, he'd give it his best shot. Basic cooperation was the least he could do after how he'd just insulted Evan.

  * * *

  It turned out part of how Evan had gotten here so quickly was that he hadn't driven.

  "What's this?" Miles asked, as the black Lincoln pulled into one of the side private airstrips by the Napa airport.

  With a quick phone call, Evan had efficiently arranged for Miles' rental to be picked up and for their travel arrangements. Miles hadn't been listening because he'd still been trying not to vomit. He'd sort of assumed Evan had come up overnight using the car service so he could grab a few hours of sleep.

  Apparently not. Miles knew that he had to stop assuming things when it came to Evan, because each wrong assumption was growing more embarrassing, and he didn't have any extra to spare.

  "A favor," Evan said succinctly as the car stopped in front of a small white jet.

  The driver grabbed their bags from the trunk and followed Evan and Miles to the small set of stairs leading to the aircraft.

  "What, no check-in? No ticketing gate?" Miles knew he sounded stupid, but Evan's calm silence, which had lasted from their departure from the rental house to the present was nerve-wracking. He couldn't tell when Evan was going to finally explode and tell him off for the things he'd said.

  Evan stayed quiet, and climbed the stairs. The captain was waiting for them at the top, dressed in a navy-blue uniform. It was only then that Miles glimpsed an insignia featuring a fish with particularly nasty teeth on his breast pocket. And he realized whose jet this must be.

  Embarrassment felt like a mild word in comparison to what he felt now. He'd heard rumors that someone in the upper management of Five Points was married to Colin O'Connor, the famous Miami Piranhas quarterback, but since he didn't really follow sports, he'd assumed those were just rumors.

  He'd been so wrong. He and Evan were currently ensconced in comfortable blue-and-white-striped seats with tiny light-blue piranhas woven right into the fabric.

  "None of the above," Evan finally said with satisfaction as he took in Miles' stupefied expression. "First class all the way."

  Even calling this first class was being modest, and even though they’d only met a few days before, Miles didn’t think Evan tended towards humility.

  He could only think that this was yet another way for Evan to put him, subtly or firmly, back in his place. A little flare of anger that he knew he had no right to feel burned through him.

  He’d been puking less than an hour ago, and his mouth still vaguely tasted like rotten oranges. It was enough of a reminder to swallow back down the retort he’d just been about to dish back. Back at the rental house, he’d made himself a vow that he’d be professional, no matter what, even if Evan pushed his buttons.

  How could Miles have forgotten how good Evan was at pushing them?

  It didn’t matter, he told himself resolutely, he was going to be a professional. After the email, he owed Evan at least that much.

  “I guess I should be grateful you came to get me then,” Miles said, leaning back into the soft leather captain’s chair, trying to act like it was something he did every day.

  Evan just rolled his eyes and got to his feet, walking over to a little cleverly disguised refrigerator under one of the gleaming wood accents. Clearly he’d been on this plane before, and that stung even more.
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  He turned back towards Miles and he had two bottles of water in his hands. He tossed one in Miles’ direction. “Thought you might still be feeling it,” Evan said. “We’re about to take off soon. This might help.”

  His voice was blunt, but his message was at least semi-sympathetic. It confused Miles, whose head was still pounding. “I wouldn’t expect you to care much,” he said. He kept expecting Evan to mention the email. Or the kiss. Or both, together, as two actions that didn’t make any sense put together.

  “I don’t,” Evan said, with an even blunter delivery. “But Mr. Wheeler will skin me alive if you puke all over his plane.”

  Miles took a sip of water, grateful even though the anger he kept trying to tamp down kept cropping up. “Trust me, it’s all gone. You can keep your skin intact.” He ignored the voice inside his head that decided this was a great time to mention what gorgeous skin it was. And that it might be soft if Miles was ever allowed to touch it.

  “What a relief,” Evan retorted disdainfully.

  The desire fizzled. Dealing with Evan was confusing and exhausting and he was already worn out.

  He heard Evan rustling around and then the all too familiar staccato punch of fingertips on a keyboard. He was working again, even though they were on a private plane. Miles was grateful though, because that meant he might have more time to gather himself for the apology he still needed to make.

  Too many damn things were floating in the air around them and until they addressed them, he didn’t know how they would ever get anything done.

  I really hate your face. It’s a big fat fucking lie.

  He’d just close his eyes for a minute, to collect himself, and then he’d figure out his apology. It wouldn’t be as complicated as a Napoleon or his famous Paris-Brest even. Pastry was difficult, people were easy—usually, anyway.

  * * *

  “Rise and shine, sweetheart.” The voice, edged with derision, could only belong to one person.

  Miles’ eyes snapped open and Evan’s face swam into view.

  I really hate your face.

  What a joke his little drunken charade was turning out to be.

  “Are we back?” Miles asked groggily as he pulled himself upright. The chairs were so cushy it felt like they were sinking their padded claws into you.

  “We’re back.” Evan was already facing the door, bag in hand, looking so proper and together that Miles wanted to swear. No doubt his hair, already a wreck, was a rat’s nest on his head, and he didn’t want to think what his clothes smelled like.

  “Great.” Miles tried to sound enthused, but definitely didn’t pull it off.

  “Don’t worry,” Evan said, not even bothering to glance back, “we’ll drop you off at your place first, so you can wash that horrific smell off. And then you’ll be coming in. We have work to do.”

  “I would’ve come back today, I swear,” Miles said, because the apology was still an unformed, cloudy mirage in his head and he couldn’t seem to wring solid, concrete words from it.

  “Of course you would have,” Evan said in clipped tones.

  Miles knew he was lying.

  * * *

  True to his word, Miles was dropped off at his apartment. He showered, letting the hot water beat him into defeat. As he got ready, his face frosted in the foggy mirror, he told himself that he could be a professional. He’d been a complete professional every single day of his career until he’d come to Five Points. Letting fear get the best of him was stupid.

  By the time he’d walked to the office, his head was a little clearer and he’d discovered a deep-seated determination not to let Evan push any more of his buttons.

  He’d just settled in with his laptop to check the email he’d missed when Evan popped his head around the corner of his cubicle.

  “Marketing meeting in the conference room, you’re already five minutes late,” was all he said in clipped, straightforward tones.

  Personally, Miles thought every meeting they’d had so far could be categorized as a “marketing meeting,” but Evan just tilted his head, tempting Miles to challenge him. And Miles wasn’t stupid. If Reed knew about the email, he’d already be fired.

  Reed might preach more touchy-feely now, but he was still the same man who had run Garnet with a velvet-covered iron fist and the expectation that everyone brought their A game every single day. Which meant that Evan hadn’t told him about the email.

  Miles didn’t like blackmail, whether it was inferred or directly stated, but he couldn’t be pissed because he’d handed it to Evan on a silver platter.

  “Fine,” Miles ground out, and picked up his laptop to follow Evan.

  When Evan opened the door to the conference room, he was a little shocked to find it was full. Lots of employees, including Reed, were sitting around the table. He and Evan were able to grab two of the last free seats right before it started.

  What followed was the most interminably boring bunch of bullshit that Miles had ever sat through. There were multiple presenters, and everybody had slide decks with more charts and keywords and strategies than Miles had ever wanted to see.

  His head was still pounding behind his eyes and he’d barely gotten any sleep, but every time he even briefly considered closing his eyes, he saw Reed sitting across the table, taking attentive notes and asking questions that seemed to be relevant.

  Plus, there was Evan beside him, no doubt ready to pick up on any wavering from Miles.

  It was like being bored to death.

  When the torture was finally over, Reed stopped by and clapped Miles on the shoulder. “I couldn’t believe it when Evan said you’d expressed interest in coming to one of these. I only come because I don’t have a choice. But I guess you really meant it when you said you wanted to reach the people.”

  Miles could only nod mutely. Miserably. In acute pain and wishing he could inflict even a tiny bit of it on the man next to him.

  He couldn’t. Never mind his own vow to stay professional, he knew if he took even the tiniest step out of line, Evan would bat him right back with the email.

  Grinding his teeth together, Miles forced himself to smile. “Working in the kitchens doesn’t give me many opportunities to see stuff like this,” he said, which was all true. And he’d been one hundred percent okay with that situation.

  “I’m impressed,” Reed said, and he sounded it too, which was even worse. Normally Miles craved approbation from his bosses, but not like this. Not for something he basically loathed.

  Miles didn’t have to look over at Evan to see the smug smile on his face as Reed departed.

  “Lunch?” Miles asked, aware of how desperate he sounded. He didn’t really care about food yet, but coffee was going to be a necessity.

  “We have another meeting,” Evan said.

  “I didn’t really have to come to this one,” Miles said slowly as they walked towards one of the smaller meeting rooms. “Did I?”

  Evan just shrugged. “I thought it would be educational.”

  “If you understand what they’re saying, probably it would have been,” Miles grumbled. It was clear that Evan wasn’t going to trip up and admit that the meeting had been clear punishment for the email—or maybe for the kiss—or that he was essentially blackmailing Miles into compliance.

  Evan was too smart for that, which Miles sort of admired and definitely hated.

  “So, what’s this meeting about?” Miles said, slumping into a chair.

  “We only have a few short weeks to plan your first slate of episodes before we have to film,” Evan said, and that hard, determined edge to his voice was back. “We need a plan of attack. Now.”

  “Okay, tell me what you think Joan of Arc Julia Child would do,” Miles said, because he might as well hear the worst of it, all completely spelled out.

  Evan flipped open a folder. “I’m glad you finally asked.” Even this statement was pointed at the end, like he was insinuating Miles should have asked that right away. And frankly, Miles probably
should have. Except it wasn’t entirely Miles’ fault because he’d never really done this before. As his producer, wasn’t it Evan’s job to guide him?

  Miles watched Evan as he gathered papers and tried to bury the seething resentment that somehow Evan had wanted him to fail. But that didn’t make any sense either, because hadn’t Evan picked him? Not Reed?

  Miles didn’t know what to think anymore. So he decided that if he’d asked the question, he might as well listen.

  “Joan of Arc Julia Child, as you put it, is essentially a pastry course built into the first season. Each episode is a dessert that showcases a particular type of technique, and we work forward from there. The idea is to build on knowledge, but I’d like it to be accessible to anyone, at the same time.”

  Miles ran a hand through his hair. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, it can’t be accessible to just anyone.”

  “Why not?” Evan retorted. “Anyone who can read can follow a recipe.”

  “It’s not all about following a recipe,” Miles countered. “Or else we’d just be publishing recipes online, and not filming videos. There’s technique that you can’t teach through words.”

  “Then teach,” Evan challenged, dark eyes spiking with temper across the table. “Or . . . is that something you aren’t capable of?”

  “What I’m trying to fucking tell you is that I don’t care about people learning how to bake,” Miles said, all too aware that even though he was trying to listen, trying to understand, he was beginning to lose the control over his temper. It was funny, even Xander had never provoked it the way Evan did. Until this job, Miles would have insisted he didn’t even have a real temper.

  “Then what do you want to do?” Evan questioned, still even and calm.

  “I want to bake what I want to bake,” Miles said testily.