Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  Kian blushed, and then flushed even redder when a young woman exited the coffee shop, bearing two cups of coffee. Bastian rolled down the window, took the cups, and gave her a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Keep the change,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes lingered over him, nearly completely undressed in the passenger seat of the car, and he wondered if he’d hear through the rumor mill next week that Bastian was driving his young hookups around.

  It’s not like that, but I wish it was, Kian couldn’t help but think.

  “Drink your coffee,” Bastian said brusquely. “We have a long day.”

  Oh yeah. No Xander. No kitchen assistant.

  “I called the temp agency, they’re sending over someone, but I’m sure they’ll be useless,” Bastian grumbled.

  “Is the Hess deal why you offered Xander chef de cuisine?” Kian asked between sips.

  Bastian’s expression was locked up so tightly Kian couldn’t decipher it. “I offered him chef de cuisine because I knew he wouldn’t take it.”

  It shouldn’t have made sense, but in a strange, fucked-up sort of way, it did. Bastian had known it was useless, had known that Xander was done with Terroir, but he’d wanted to salvage his pride, to at least make an effort to win him back, even if it was a fool’s errand.

  “Someday,” Kian said seriously, “your pride and your ego are going to get you into big trouble.”

  Bastian laughed—rich and full and hearty. Kian wanted to lean over and lick the tiny speck of milk foam off his upper lip.

  “Someday, huh?” he asked.

  “You’ve done okay for yourself so far,” Kian said with a shrug.

  “High praise, coming from you,” Bastian retorted dryly.

  “I learned my expectations from the best.” Kian looked over at him. Bastian’s hands were clenched on the wheel.

  There was silence for a minute. Kian thought he could fill in what Bastian was going to say next. We can’t do this. This is dangerous. This is impossible.

  It was all of those things, and inevitable, too.

  Bastian cleared his throat. “I should get you home. Like I said, it’s going to be a long day.”

  It almost didn’t matter that Bastian hadn’t actually said those things, because he’d thought them, and Kian had known he’d thought them—that was almost enough.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “I’ll need to give the rundown to the new temp.”

  “Right, yes,” Bastian agreed. He started the car and drove them in silence back to Kian’s house.

  Kian knew he should ask who was going to take over Xander’s role as sous chef. He should remind Bastian what he’d said just yesterday—that it should have been Kian’s job, all along. But he didn’t ask, because, he realized as he got out of the car, he was afraid of what he’d do if Bastian said no.

  Chapter Seven

  “Chef!”

  Bastian looked up from the soup he was stirring. Derek, the new kitchen assistant that Kian had been training, was standing in front of him with a panicked expression on his face.

  “What is it?” Bastian asked. He halfheartedly wondered why Kian wasn’t taking care of Derek, who liked to freak out over every little thing. Bastian would have fired him weeks ago, but Kian kept insisting he could cure him of his dramatic streak.

  But Kian wasn’t here, and he definitely wasn’t controlling Derek’s melodrama, which seemed to be more developed than ever.

  Derek wrung his hands, and Bastian suddenly noticed the bright red streaks across his white apron. He didn’t think they were prepping beets today, and the color was wrong, anyway. The only thing that was that color was . . .

  Bastian dropped the ladle into the pot. He knew he should be fishing it out, but instead he tuned into what Derek was currently stammering about: “. . . and I told him he was going to need to get it stitched, there’s blood everywhere, and I think Jorge fainted . . .”

  “What.” Bastian interrupted him flatly. “Who cut themselves?”

  Derek had the nerve to look impatient, like Bastian should have been paying attention this whole time. “I told you. Kian cut himself on the Japanese mandolin.”

  “Oh fuck,” Bastian said and skirted around Derek, walking back to the prep stations, where most of the commotion was centered.

  Kian was in the middle of a crowd of white-coated chefs, and Bastian caught a glimpse of his pale face. Far too pale.

  He knew Kian liked using the Japanese mandolin without gloves because he could get through the prep work faster that way—and he probably cared about speed more than safety because Bastian kept piling more and more shit onto his plate. His stomach lurched sickeningly.

  “Get out of the way,” he bellowed, and the crowd cleared nearly instantaneously, revealing a mess of bloody towels on the counter, with another, even bloodier, towel currently wrapped around Kian’s hand.

  “Chef,” Kian said, and nobody else might have known him enough to hear the wobble in his voice, but Bastian heard it, because he felt like he lived and died by the various subtle inflections in Kian’s voice.

  “Let me see,” he said, even though he hated to have Kian take pressure off the wound.

  One glimpse was all Bastian needed.

  Most of the time they didn’t really miss Xander, but Bastian did today. Wished, maybe for the first time in his career, that everyone who left Terroir hadn’t done so under terrible circumstances, because nobody else was taking care of Kian but him, and he didn’t want to leave the restaurant now, two hours before service. But he would.

  Pain and shock swam in Kian’s big blue eyes, and Bastian knew only half a second before he collapsed, but it was enough that he was able to stagger forward and catch him.

  Kian might have grown up in the last two years, but he was still too skinny, and Bastian was able to pick him up easily. He ignored the gaping stares of the rest of the chefs in the kitchen and hoped they wouldn’t talk—even as he knew this would be the most discussed Bastard story in the history of Bastard stories.

  “We’re going to the ER,” Bastian said in his most strident voice, even though everything inside him was collapsing into itself. “I’m going to make it back before service, but I need you to finish prep. Everything must be ready when I get back. Michel,” he called out to the man who’d taken Wyatt’s place at the grill, “please make sure the soup is ready. The ladle is probably still floating around in the pot.”

  Michel looked surprised. But Michel was still new, and hadn’t figured out that Kian was what made this whole restaurant run the way it was supposed to.

  * * *

  Bastian didn’t remember driving to the emergency room. He didn’t remember Kian groaning as he picked him up, didn’t remember carrying him through the doors, didn’t remember yelling, didn’t remember a nurse wheeling out a gurney—it only caught up to him when he sat down in the chair opposite Kian’s bed.

  He’d woken up after making it to the private room and was giving answers to the nurse for her intake paperwork.

  When she finally finished up and said the doctor would be in shortly, Kian turned to Bastian. “You couldn’t have sent me with someone else? What about prep? What if we’re not back for service?”

  “It’s fine,” Bastian soothed, even though soothing wasn’t really in his repertoire. “Prep will be fine.” He hoped. “And I’ll be back for service, but you won’t be. I’m going to drop you off at home. You’re taking the night off.”

  Kian pouted, which shouldn’t have been adorable, but was, somehow, anyway.

  “It wasn’t even that bad,” Kian insisted, which they both knew was a lie. It had been bad. Bad enough that just thinking of it made Bastian’s stomach roll nauseatingly.

  “I push you too hard,” Bastian muttered to himself, but Kian had heard him and he couldn’t take the words back.

  Like he hadn’t been able to take the kiss back, no matter how much he wished he could. He’d done everything he could to push Kian away, to kill their chemist
ry, but instead of growing fainter, all it did was grow stronger.

  In San Francisco, Kian had been angry because he’d believed Luc’s existence meant that he wasn’t special after all.

  What Kian didn’t know, and couldn’t ever realize, was that Luc’s very existence in Bastian’s life was enough to make Kian special. Kian was everything Luc hadn’t been: loyal, kind, funny, insanely self-sacrificing, but with enough ego that he respected his own skill. If he hadn’t been only twenty-three years old, with a whole brilliant future stretching out in front of him, and also Bastian’s student and employee, he’d have believed wholly and completely that Kian was the perfect man for him.

  He’d believed that, surely, that sort of bizarrely romantic thinking must have died with the disappointment of Luc, but Kian made him remember exactly why he’d believed it in the first place.

  “You push me exactly the right amount,” Kian argued. Of course he’d say that. Bastian had brainwashed him into believing that he was the best, with the best judgement. And that definitely wasn’t true. What had just happened proved that conclusively.

  Celeste was going to be pissed at him. Even more pissed than when she’d discovered he had promoted Xander to sous.

  “Merde,” she’d said to Bastian that day. “You are stupider than anyone on the planet.”

  “I know,” he’d said miserably as he sat on her porch during yet another sleepless night. It had been bad enough imagining what kissing Kian would be like, but the reality of it had blown his mind.

  His mother would have been thrilled he’d finally stepped over his self-imposed line with Kian, but he couldn’t endure her excitement when he couldn’t ever do it again.

  The doctor walked in then, jerking Bastian’s attention back to Kian and his finger.

  “It’s deep,” he finally pronounced, after an examination that had both Kian and Bastian gritting their teeth. Kian because it fucking hurt and Bastian because apparently he couldn’t stand to see Kian in pain. “You’ll definitely need stitches. Inner and outer. We’ll give you something for the pain.”

  “Something strong,” Bastian intervened, before Kian could open his mouth and insist he needed to be sharp enough for the evening’s service.

  Even if he was beginning to wonder differently, Bastian was in charge of both Kian and Terroir and his word was final.

  “Something strong,” the doctor agreed. “We’ll do a local and have him take some pills too.”

  “Good.” Bastian nodded.

  “And you are?” the doctor asked, turning towards Bastian. “His boyfriend? Husband?”

  Oh god. “His boss,” Bastian finally managed to admit between clenched teeth.

  “Ah,” the doctor said. “And I’m assuming,” he waved at Bastian’s coat, “he won’t be working tonight.”

  “Definitely not.” Bastian shot Kian a look, who surprisingly, didn’t argue. Probably because the doctor’s examination had hurt a lot, and he knew the stitching would hurt worse.

  It wasn’t like Kian wasn’t incredibly tough—he’d astounded Bastian continually with his mental and physical strength—but clearly he’d reached his limit.

  And despite that he’d just told the doctor they weren’t involved, Bastian reached out and grasped Kian’s good hand with his own. Their palms slid together, Kian’s smaller hand fitting into Bastian’s much larger one. Glancing down at their hands, Kian smiled softly.

  “I’m going to go grab the necessary supplies,” the doctor said, and he closed the door behind him. If Bastian wasn’t mistaken, he’d been smiling too.

  Boss and so much more, Bastian wished he’d had the balls to say. But no matter how strong the pull towards the man in front of him was, he still wasn’t convinced it was right to cross the line that he’d built and then reinforced. He’d done it for a reason, and that reason still felt valid, even more so when he looked back over the last two years and realized how accomplished Kian had become.

  It should feel more vital than ever, to preserve that professional distance between them, but today made Bastian feel like it was more of a fool’s errand than ever.

  * * *

  The doctor returned with the supplies and a nurse, and even though they gave him plenty of pain medication, Bastian still didn’t let go of Kian’s hand. Bastian could tell he was trying not to rely on him and not squeeze his hand too hard, but he kept tensing and then trying to relax.

  Finally, Bastian murmured to him, “Go ahead. It hurts. It’s scary. I’m here for you.”

  The doctor lifted his gaze a moment and shot their hands a single glance, but Bastian didn’t care. His boy was in pain, and that was all that mattered.

  Finally, it was over, and the doctor removed his gloves, tossing them into the trash can.

  “The nurse will be back with your release paperwork,” he said. “I’m assuming you’ll be driving him home.”

  “Yes, of course,” Bastian said.

  “Good,” he replied, and after giving Kian some final cleaning instructions, and when to expect the stitches to disintegrate, and what to do if they didn’t, he left.

  Kian’s eyes had grown wide and dazed with the pain medication. He looked down at their hands.

  “You didn’t need to do this,” he said. “It’ll make you late for service.”

  It probably would. But in the last few hours, Bastian had discovered something more important than a service at Terroir. The realization was still blowing his mind.

  “This is my fault,” Bastian said brusquely, “so yes, I should be here.”

  “Not your fault,” Kian said, still staring at their hands. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “You tell us to use the protective gloves, and I don’t.”

  “Yeah, because you’re too busy to use them,” Bastian said.

  Kian smiled. “No, because I like to impress you.”

  It was almost impossible not to groan in frustration. “Yeah, exactly,” Bastian insisted, the edge of his voice growing rough. “I let you do it. I like it when you try to impress me. I’m a terrible boss, and a terrible person.”

  “No,” Kian said dreamily, “you’re wonderful and I love you.”

  It wasn’t as if Bastian didn’t know. The way Kian looked at him, hot and possessive and adoring, when nobody else was watching made it difficult to deny. But it was one thing to wonder about it, far too late at night when Bastian should be sleeping, and it was another to hear Kian say it.

  There were a million things he wanted to say. I’m too old and too grumpy and too egotistical for you. I’d just ruin you. I’d ruin your future, which is going to be spectacular. I’ll only slow you down.

  But most of all, I love you too.

  But before he could make the choice, the nurse bustled in with the release paperwork, and when they made it to the car, it felt too late. And maybe, Bastian thought morosely, Kian hadn’t meant it after all. He was hopped up on drugs. He probably wouldn’t even remember this in a few hours.

  Bastian hoped he wouldn’t remember this in a few hours. They hadn’t exactly been great at keeping the status quo—the kiss still loomed large, and he thought about it all the time—but Kian’s confession might destroy the line forever.

  * * *

  The kitchen was nearly clean from the night’s service—it hadn’t been the smoothest dinner they’d ever served at Terroir, but it hadn’t been a disaster either—when Bastian’s phone rang.

  He usually kept his phone in his office when he was on the line, but tonight he’d kept it in his pocket—just in case Kian needed him.

  It had stayed quiet all service, but now Kian was calling him.

  “What?” he asked quietly, ducking outside, hoping nobody was outside for their post-service cigarette. “Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

  Kian laughed, and Bastian still heard the drugs in his voice. “I’m fine. I’m at Damon Hess’ with Xander.”

  Bastian frowned. “You’re what?”

  “I’m at Damon Hess’ wit
h Xander,” Kian repeated again, like it was no big deal. “But you need to come get me. I think they want to start making out and I’m sort of in the way.”

  Leaning against the building, Bastian looked up to the sky, wishing and despairing all at once.

  “You didn’t drive?” he asked, before he remembered that with the meds he was on, driving was a bad idea.

  “Silly, Bastian, I can’t drive. Xander drove.” Bastian’s heart skipped a beat. Kian had only ever called him Chef, or Chef Aquino to his face. He’d always imagined that Kian thought of him differently, maybe even by his first name, but hearing it was so much different than just imagining it.

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Bastian said. It was a monumentally terrible idea. Considering Kian’s weakened brain-to-mouth filter and Bastian’s own dangerously shaky line between what was right and what he really wanted—this felt like an even worse idea than San Francisco had been.

  And San Francisco had been a certifiable disaster.

  Still, twenty-four minutes later, Bastian pulled up to Damon’s farm. He could see smoke and light coming from the property behind the small ranch-style house and debated whether he should get out of the car or if he should just text Kian to say he’d arrived.

  But this was Damon Hess’ property, and there was a part of Bastian that wanted to show both him and Xander exactly where Kian’s loyalties lay. Just in case they had any insane thoughts about poaching him. Kian was his, and there was a barbaric, caveman-esque part of Bastian that wanted everyone to know it.

  Even though everyone probably already did. They’d both attempted subtlety, but that wasn’t really Kian’s strong suit, and it definitely wasn’t Bastian’s.

  He got out of the car, and stripped off his chef jacket, tossing it in the back seat, leaving him just in his white tank. He’d already swapped his working clogs for the sneakers he usually kept in his office.

  Detouring around the house, he saw the beginnings of the garden as he had the last time he’d been here. It even looked as if Hess had ripped out even more priceless vines, the vineyards in the back looking thinner than they had before, in the dim light provided by the bonfire.