by Beth Bolden
It sure made it a lot easier to trudge back to the dirty work he and Jorge had for the evening. It was hot, back-breaking work, but as they scraped, Kian began to think of some ways it could be less hot and maybe even less back-breaking.
At the end of the service, Xander had come in personally to check on him, which Kian felt sort of went against all that world-weary bitterness he carried with him all the time. And Kian, who didn’t speak enough Spanish to communicate to Jorge what they could change to make the work easier on both of them, employed Xander as a temporary go-between slash translator.
Jorge—and Xander, as well—were skeptical of Kian’s ideas. It seemed the way things had always been done at Terroir was the way things always had to be done at Terroir.
“My advice,” Xander had said, when they were on their way out an hour later, “is if you really think this will work, just do it. Don’t ask for permission. Ask for forgiveness later.”
Wyatt, the blond chef, had frowned at his friend. “Aquino is going to chew him up and spit him out, once he discovers what he’s done.”
“Maybe,” Xander said. “But maybe not.”
It was a risk Kian felt he needed to take. He had to show Chef Aquino that he was different, that he was better. And Jorge, who had been employed at Terroir for years, seemed willing to go along with Kian’s ideas, as long as they stayed Kian’s ideas.
Kian had stayed up too late finalizing the plans, and then was up even earlier than the day before, determined to get a head start before the dishes began in earnest.
Of course, that was when he was dumb enough to not only run into Chef Aquino himself, squinting and vibrant in the early morning sun, smelling of freshly roasted espresso, but to accidentally confess his entire plan.
Still, Chef Aquino hadn’t said not to do it. That was practically permission, right? Kian thought Xander might have agreed with him, if he’d been here already. But he wasn’t, so he was on his own.
Sink or swim, Kian told himself, and he knew which one he needed to do. He rolled up the sleeves of his chef’s jacket and got to work.
Chapter Three
Bastian had known Kian had something indefinably special from their first meeting. But he was sure of it, beyond a doubt, when early one morning—he’d had to set his alarm twenty minutes earlier to actually avoid running into him in the parking lot—he’d gone into the dish room and seen what Kian had changed.
It was a lot more efficient, so efficient, in fact, that Bastian felt a tiny pulse of shame for never trying to improve Jorge’s situation. Jorge was a silent, diligent, reliable worker, and he wouldn’t have ever considered changing anything because he was so grateful for the job Bastian had given him ages ago. But Kian wasn’t just trying to prove his loyalty. For some reason, he was trying to prove that he deserved to be promoted from the dish room.
It wasn’t like Bastian didn’t have every intention of doing that. What was the point of going to all the trouble of hiring an intern if you kept him scraping plates? But he liked the hunger and the tenacity and the risk Kian had taken. It reminded him, if he was being very honest, of himself, a very long time ago.
That was both good and, frankly, sort of terrifying. Bastian knew what sort of hell he’d raised and how difficult he’d been in every kitchen he’d ever set foot in—including his own.
Definitely his own.
When Xander showed up, they consulted about the soup. He liked Xander, even though he didn’t have a lot of respect for anyone else’s culinary skill, including Bastian’s own. There was a healthy ego brewing in that chili pepper-bedecked head of his, and someday, he wouldn’t be content with making all the sauces and the soup three times a week.
Someday, Xander was going to demand more, probably chef de cuisine or a position as sous that wasn’t essentially meaningless. Bastian was going to have to give it to him or lose him, and that stung. But Bastian knew it was the price of wanting to work with the best. Each of them were hungry and ambitious, and Xander was hardly an exception to this rule.
Someday, Xander would make a great head chef, but today was not that day, and to keep his ego somewhat in check, he shot down the first two of Xander’s ideas for the soup, forcing him to dig deeper into his well of inspiration and find something that was really good. He looked about five seconds away from beating Bastian with the huge stainless steel soup ladle, but Bastian was fairly certain that he wouldn’t resort to assault—at least not yet. At least not until Xander had gotten what he wanted out of his employment at Terroir.
“When Kian comes in later,” Bastian said offhandedly, like this wasn’t the reason he’d come over here in the first place, “tell him to come see me, first thing.”
Bastian watched as Xander tamped down his temper, embers still flaring in his brown eyes. He knew Xander wanted to remind him that he was a chef, not a messenger boy, but Xander had a small dose of self-preservation, at least, and managed to keep his mouth shut. He gave Bastian a quick nod.
“Excellent,” Bastian said. It was time to teach Kian more than just how to efficiently scrape a plate.
* * *
“Before you get started, he wants to talk to you,” Xander hissed as Kian rounded the corner into the kitchen.
Xander already had a few splashes on his whites, which meant that he’d been elected to make the soup today. Usually that put Xander in a better mood, but he didn’t look like he was in a particularly good one today.
“Everything okay?” Kian asked, a gut reaction. He’d rearranged the dish room, with Jorge’s help, but he had yet to hear a peep from Chef Aquino about what they’d done.
He hadn’t been fired either, which Kian was taking as a fairly positive sign.
“He just wants to see you,” Xander said. “And watch out, he’s in a mood.”
“A mood?”
“A bad mood.” Xander grimaced. “Though that’s hardly unusual.”
Since meeting him for the first time, Kian had become more than a little obsessed with his new boss. He’d read every magazine feature and restaurant review he could get his hands on. He listened to every story whispered during prep that he could hear from his own dishwashing station. He lingered over the family meal if talk turned to Bastard stories, of which there were many.
The thing was, Xander wasn’t entirely wrong. Chef Aquino definitely had some bad moods. He was unbelievably sensitive to even a perceived insult, easily frustrated, quickly bored, and had a zero-tolerance policy for mistakes. But Kian wouldn’t have said that he was always in a bad mood. His mood was mercurial, and he tended to react badly to stimulus—sometimes even if it was something good.
Kian had realized that what Chef needed was someone to be the first line of defense, to absorb whatever was going on before it could even reach Chef. And that, he was convinced, was the real reason Chef had hired an intern. Chef Aquino might not understand exactly why yet, but Kian believed that was why he was at Terroir.
The kitchen was comfortably staffed, and though there was always a lot of work to be done, Kian hadn’t been able to identify one particular hole that needed filled—except protecting their commander-in-chief.
Chef would teach him everything he knew, and Kian would make Chef’s life a little easier. He’d already decided it was a good trade-off.
He approached Bastian’s office and, surprisingly, the blinds in Chef’s office were lowered for the first time in the week since Kian had started at Terroir. His heart beat a little faster with the realization. Maybe he was going to be fired after all. But he’d also heard all the horror stories. Chef wouldn’t care about privacy for something like a termination. He’d do it in the middle of service, right on the line. He didn’t care about anyone else’s pride; only his own.
Kian had been washing dishes at his house since he was seven years old and had done another healthy stint in the dish room during culinary academy. Chef wasn’t trying to teach him how to wash dishes; he was trying to teach humility. Maybe his ego had been a little inflated
after dominating so many of his classes. So instead of approaching the office like Xander might, like even he might have a week ago, Kian knocked hesitantly.
“Yes,” Chef answered immediately, and Kian walked in. Chef gestured to the chair opposite the desk. It was made of a metal base and a hard plastic sculpted seat. It was unbelievably uncomfortable, which was the complete opposite of the modern leather office chair Chef was seated in. Kian had a feeling that particular disparity was completely on purpose. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that maybe Chef was actually a closet sadist.
“You wanted to see me?” Kian asked.
Chef was already dressed for service, but he hadn’t buttoned the top few buttons of his coat, the lapels hanging open, revealing a tanned neck and even the hint of a collarbone. Kian tried to focus on the desk instead, but Chef’s hands were there, clearly scarred and nicked, but strong and sure. His nails were trimmed short, and he tapped one on the glass desktop. Just the sight of those hands was enough to nearly send Kian into a fantasy spiral. But at the last moment, the point of no return, he jerked his focus back, trying to remember that Bastian Aquino wasn’t just the sexiest man he’d ever seen, but also the most competent. And his boss.
Someone who, with one single word, could make sure that Kian was never hired to work in a kitchen ever again.
“I’ve spoken to Jorge,” Chef said. “And I’ve looked at the changes you’ve made to the dish room.” He tapped his fingers again, like he wasn’t sure how he felt about either one.
But Kian wasn’t fooled for a single moment. Chef knew exactly how he felt; he was just trying to draw out the moment so Kian would squirm, would insert something ill-advisable into the lengthening silence.
Kian might be very green, but he wasn’t stupid. He stayed quiet and waited.
Chef nodded absently, but with approval. “To my utter shock, they were actually good changes.” He paused again, and Kian curled his fingers around the plastic seat, fighting the urge to fidget. “Why did you make them?”
That was not a question that Kian had been expecting.
“Uh,” he said, and saw the reaction instantly. Chef’s dark brows slammed together, his lips curling patronizingly.
He doesn’t like it when people don’t know, Kian reminded himself. He likes it when his staff is confident, but not overly confident.
“I did it,” Kian said, starting all over again, “because I saw inefficiencies, and I know how important efficiency is to you.”
“And you didn’t bring the suggestions to me because . . . ?”
Kian took a deep breath. He knew what Chef expected him to say. Knew and had to fight against his petty machinations being exposed for exactly what they were.
“I wanted to impress you,” he admitted, “and I wasn’t sure you’d give me the opportunity to do that if I didn’t take matters into my own hands.”
Chef hummed absently, fingers resuming their tapping. “And you wanted to get out of the dish room,” he added.
“I’m here because I want to help you and because I want you to teach me. If for now that means I need to stay in the dish room and make it as good as it can be, then I’m willing to do that.”
Kian was almost one hundred percent sure that this moment was the first time he’d ever surprised Chef Aquino. His eyes grew wide for an instant.
“You really mean that,” he said, like he fully expected Kian to deny it. “You’d stay in the dish room if I told you to.”
“If you think that what I need to learn is how to scrape plates better, it’s not very flattering but you’re the expert. I trust you.”
Bastian leaned forward, his dark eyes mesmerizing as they searched Kian’s face. “I think you really mean that.”
It wasn’t easy, but Kian held his ground. There was undeniably a part of him that wanted to crawl across the floor and beg to be let out of the wet, humid, torturous dish room and back into the kitchen, where he belonged.
That wasn’t all he wanted to beg for. Before he could stop the thought in its tracks, he imagined crawling across the floor, to where Bastian sat, waiting for the head nod of permission, so he could feel those powerful thighs under his fingertips, and then raise up on his knees, mouth so close to the significant erection bulging in Bastian’s white and black checked pants.
“Reynolds?” Chef questioned again, and Kian couldn’t help it. He flamed bright red, making it unavoidably clear just what he’d been thinking about.
“I do mean it,” he said, hating how his voice trembled a little, at the very end. And not because he’d been caught; but because the fantasy was so real, so visceral. The blinds were closed, and Chef was staring at him like he might not actually fire him if he tried it.
“Shadow Wyatt at the grill tonight,” Chef ordered in clipped tones, and the heat of the earlier moment was doused by his sudden coldness.
Kian told himself that he shouldn’t be disappointed, because whatever he’d just been fantasizing about was an impossibility, but it was tough not to be.
He wanted the learning and the knowledge Chef Aquino wanted to teach him, and he wanted the fantasies too. It was incredibly good for his sanity that he was going to have to settle for the former, but there was a part of him, deep inside, that yearned, anyway.
* * *
It had been a week since Bastian had pulled Kian from the dish room, but the conversation in his office haunted him still. He’d done his utmost to make sure that they were never alone after that, because the desire in those innocent blue eyes to be much less innocent was difficult to resist. And Bastian knew, as much of an asshole as he could be, there was no way he could ever fulfill any of the fantasies Kian was collecting.
Whatever passed between them was going to have to be strictly, completely, professional.
It stung, but Bastian had done much harder things, and it wasn’t like a lack of sex was going to kill him. He’d already been mostly going without, because being a professional chef in charge of one of the most prestigious restaurants in the country meant excessively long hours and mind- and body-numbing exhaustion. Even one-night stands deserved better.
It was entirely Kian’s fault that he’d thought about sex more in the last month than he’d thought about it in the previous six.
“What are we doing today?” Kian asked, all unvarnished eagerness.
“Do you know what the most vital part of Terroir is?” Bastian asked as they walked from his office towards the bank of large walk-in fridges.
“The line?” Kian asked, more hesitatingly than Bastian thought he normally allowed himself. He would have to be a lot stupider to not realize that Kian was trying to play the sort of chef—the sort of person—that Bastian normally admired. Confident but not overly cocky. Sure but always willing to be taught something new. Sometimes he wanted to tell Kian that you couldn’t manipulate a manipulator. And, sometimes he wanted to shake him and demand to see the real Kian. Not the Kian that he thought Bastian wanted.
What scared him the most was that it was very possible that they were one in the same.
Bastian pushed all that away, deliberately distancing himself from those embarrassing, semi-hysterical, desperate thoughts. Just because he already knew he was screwed didn’t mean he had to acknowledge it.
“Not the line,” Bastian replied patiently. “The line can’t prepare the fish special if the fish we receive is poor quality, or if the fish isn’t available at all. The most vital part of this restaurant, and any restaurant, is inventory.”
Kian looked a little disappointed, like he believed the most vital component of Terroir would be sexier. What Kian didn’t know yet was that a properly stocked kitchen was the sexiest thing in the whole god damn universe.
“I take inventory every single morning,” Bastian continued, yanking open the door to the dairy fridge. “I know you’ve been watching me in my office.” He nearly wanted to grab those words back. They were dangerous, just as it was dangerous that Kian couldn’t tear his eyes away f
rom his boss, even when he was supposed to be doing something else. “What do you think I’m doing every morning?”
“Making phone calls?” There was an element of frustration in Kian’s voice, like he didn’t appreciate being asked questions that Bastian knew he didn’t have the answers to.
“Calling our suppliers. Ordering. Verifying orders. Then when orders come in, I check every single one. I open every crate, every box. I examine every single piece of produce that comes into this restaurant. And if something isn’t right, I make a phone call.”
He held out a clipboard and a pen to Kian. “It’s time you learned how to do this.”
For a split second, Kian made a face, like he couldn’t imagine anything less enjoyable than counting and making notations on a sheet of paper. Then his expression changed, like he’d needed to remind himself that everything Bastian asked him to do was important. It was the same look he’d worn when Bastian had banished him to the dish room.
It remained to be seen whether every experiment Bastian tried would turn out like the dish room, but he hoped, like he hadn’t hoped in years. He expected all his employees to eventually let him down, some of them spectacularly, most of them by their commitment to mediocrity. Kian was the first who truly gave him hope. Bastian didn’t know if the hope was what attracted him in the first place, or if it was what might deepen this attraction into something uncontainable.
If it hadn’t been for the hope, he really would have fired Kian the first day, and then fucked him out of his system.
“I just count the boxes, and then write it down?”
“You do more than just count. You inspect. You know the menu. You know the specials. You should know the breakdown of plates that we serve every night. More meat on Fridays and Saturdays. Fish on Fridays. The reports that I put up every Monday? Study those. Memorize them. Without that knowledge, this task is impossible.”