Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  Kian ignored the voice. “Maybe it is,” he said, trying to inject as much cheer into his voice as he could, despite his exhaustion.

  “Let’s take a bath,” Bastian said. “It seems we both had trying days. I’d frankly like to forget mine as soon as possible.”

  That was the most direct reference Bastian had made to the scallop incident yet—nearly like he wished Kian would tell him, but despite that hunch, Kian had no intention of saying a word. Bastian had tasked him with running Terroir, had given him Mark, and despite Kian’s concern, believed in him completely.

  There was no way Kian was going to tell him that he was over his head and that Mark was a nightmare, possibly developing into something even worse. It just looked bad, he told himself as Bastian took care of the dishes and Kian walked to the bathroom, because he was so tired. Everything would be better in the morning.

  He flipped on the hot water and plugged the drain, perching on the edge of the tub. He stripped off his t-shirt, toeing off his socks.

  Bastian appeared in the doorway and pulled a small lighter out of his pocket, flicking it on and lighting the vanilla-scented candles scattered around the tub. They were new, Kian realized, and he hadn’t even noticed, he was so god damned worn out.

  “I told you,” Bastian said quietly, placing his hands on Kian’s bare shoulders, “I want to take care of you.”

  Kian had never been particularly interested in being taken care of before, but he was too tired to fight it.

  He looked up, and nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Bastian asked, gesturing to the rapidly filling tub. “In you go.”

  “You’re not joining me?” Kian frowned, slipping his jeans and then his underwear down over his hips, leaving them in a pile with the rest of his clothes.

  “Sweetheart, you’re dead on your feet. I’ve been there, so I know how you feel. Get in.”

  Kian did as he requested, sliding into the water, sighing at how perfect the temperature was—just a shade cooler than too hot to stand.

  Reaching up, Bastian flipped the lights off, and then to Kian’s surprise, Bastian turned back with a few little bottles and drizzled one in the water. The scent of chamomile and vanilla filled his nostrils and he sank back against the tub edge, his head tipping back. He could fall asleep right now, just like this.

  “I’d say you work too hard, but . . . I’m still me,” Bastian said, his voice a dark rumble.

  “And I’m still me,” Kian retorted with only a little heat, “and I wouldn’t stop even if you asked me to.”

  “I don’t want you to stop, I just want to make it a little easier when you do,” Bastian murmured. He leaned against the tub deck, wetting a washcloth and reaching out for Kian’s leg.

  Never in a million years would Kian have imagined that Bastian would take such a subservient role, or would bend that everlastingly proud back to wash him, but he was doing it now, hands careful and firm on his skin.

  It was inevitable, because Kian would have to be dead to not be aroused by the feeling of Bastian’s hands on him. Lazy arousal unwound through him, the scent of the steam surrounding them lulling him to a dreamy state where even his cock thickening under the water wasn’t something to be worried about.

  He felt his blood quicken when finally Bastian closed his fingers around it, giving it a gentle but purposeful stroke. “Is this okay?” Bastian murmured, the dim light of the candles shadowing the stunning angles of his face.

  Kian found he couldn’t even reply, could only nod as Bastian continued to stroke his cock, fingers wringing the pleasure from him with a measured, even touch. His orgasm took him by surprise, but Bastian must have realized it was coming, because he was ready with the wet washcloth, and as the aftershocks faded, Kian slumped back against the lip of the tub.

  “Feel any better? Bastian asked.

  He was in a warm, cozy tunnel, so far away, so out of it, that he thought he’d answered, but maybe he didn’t at all. Maybe he fell asleep in the tub, and maybe Bastian lifted him out, as gentle as he’d ever been with anything in his whole life, dried him off, and took him to bed.

  Maybe, because in the morning, Kian still wasn’t sure how he got underneath Bastian’s soft, silky sheets.

  Chapter Twelve

  “When I said that we needed to go somewhere for brunch where we wouldn’t be recognized, I wasn’t anticipating this,” Kian hissed under his breath as they settled into the booth, the vinyl squeaking underneath them.

  “You told me it was important to you that nobody would see us together,” Bastian said. “I can guarantee that this is the last place anyone would expect me to go for brunch.”

  Kian still looked disbelieving. “Okay,” Bastian continued, drumming his fingers on the table, “I can be a little bit of a snob.”

  “A little?”

  Bastian rolled his eyes. “I am not going to apologize for my high standards.” He looked around, taking in the cheap fixtures, the tired, haggard waitresses, and the wailing baby three tables over. “But what’s important to you is important to me.”

  “I just keep expecting you to run out of here, screaming,” Kian teased. He reached over the table and grasped Bastian’s hand in his own smaller one, his thumb rubbing one of his burn scars.

  “We haven’t even ordered yet,” Bastian said, and figured this was as good a time as any to examine the laminated menu card the waitress had set in front of him only a few moments before. It was still damp from being wiped down—from what, Bastian wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Unlike you, I’ve been here before. Many times,” Kian said, not even bothering to glance at his own menu. “You don’t seem surprised by this.”

  “You were in school. You were on an intern salary for the first six months. This place is cheap and open twenty-four hours. I might be a snob, but I’m not an idiot,” Bastian said. He paused. “Fruit Loop pancakes? Cinnamon roll pancakes?”

  Kian laughed. “Those will definitely be too sweet for you.”

  “How do you know I don’t have a secret sweet tooth?” Bastian said, pouting a little. Maybe he had been interested in the cinnamon roll pancakes, if only because he was curious what they’d be like.

  “You don’t have a secret anything, not from me,” Kian said, “though I admit that you’re sweeter than I thought you’d be.”

  “What, you believed I’d be throwing plates at home? Yelling at the TV?”

  Kian looked thoughtful as he stirred some of that awful fake creamer into his coffee. “Actually no. I just think you have a soft side that most people don’t get to see.”

  It was hard, but Bastian ordered himself not to blush. He knew what this was really about—the bath he’d given Kian last night. At the time it had felt right, to take care of him like that, but he also had no intentions of discussing it.

  “I think it’s nice,” Kian continued and Bastian gave him full bravery points for actually taking a sip of the sludge they called coffee here. “Don’t get me wrong, I really like it.”

  “I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Bastian told himself not to get defensive, but it still lingered in the edges of his voice.

  “Hey, hey,” Kian said, reaching for his hand again. “I’m trying to say thank you, you surprised me, in a super nice way, and I’m doing a bad job of it.”

  “You’d had a really hard day, some of which was my fault. What was I supposed to do? Tell you to suck it up?”

  Kian’s smile was luminous. “You’d tell just about anyone else that.”

  “Exactly.” Bastian sipped his ice water, and tried not to grimace at the metallic taste. “You’re not like everyone else.”

  The waitress appeared at their table, breaking the moment. “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Kian answered, before Bastian could argue that he’d barely glanced at the menu. “We’ll both have the grand slam breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Bacon, extra crispy. Hash browns, well done. Sourdoug
h toast. Butter on the side.”

  Just when Bastian thought Kian was done surprising him, he’d go and do something like that. Anyone else ordering for him would have gotten a full-on Bastard glare, but Kian had said he’d been here lots of times—maybe he knew better. Bastian would give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “And an order of the cinnamon roll pancakes,” Bastian added smoothly.

  When the waitress left, Kian shot him a look of disbelief. “They looked okay,” Bastian defended.

  “My advice at someplace like this is to keep it simple. It’s hard for them to fuck up eggs and hash browns,” Kian suggested. “But I guess you do have more of a sweet tooth than I thought.”

  “I usually indulge it with really good dark chocolate truffles,” Bastian admitted with a wry smile, “and I will torture you sexually for hours if you admit it to anyone, but they looked pretty good in the picture.”

  Kian raised his eyebrow. “It’s probably all marketing and a really good food stylist,” Bastian said.

  “Seems legit.” He did not seem convinced. “But I’m definitely interested in this sexual torture thing.”

  “It isn’t as fun as it sounds.” Bastian tried to keep his voice serious, but instead the tone came out all growly sex. It wasn’t his fault; in a moment of self-sacrifice aided by a healthy helping of guilt, he’d gotten Kian off but hadn’t had any release himself. And this morning, there hadn’t been time because he’d promised Kian brunch before his shift started.

  “Yeah, I don’t buy that for a moment,” Kian said. “So, let’s get this straight. The famous Bastian Aquino has a secret soft side and a secret dessert kink. I like it.”

  Bastian shrugged. “If I can’t tell you those things, then who else?” Maybe Kian really hadn’t believed that he’d never told anyone but his mother that he loved them before. Because Kian seemed more surprised than he’d ever expected.

  “Let me guess, Luc doesn’t know about either of those,” Kian said.

  There was nothing Bastian regretted more than ever letting Kian know about the existence of his ex. If Luc could even be considered that, because of course he hadn’t known about either.

  Luc had gotten the hard-as-nails Bastian who, at that stage of his life, had wanted to believe that his softer underbelly didn’t exist at all. His father had died only a year or so before, launching Bastian into a desperate, overly ambitious race to out-work even his own entirely absent father.

  That hadn’t been Luc’s fault, but he’d never had access to any of the softness Bastian hid like it was shameful. The only person he’d ever been tempted to uncover it for was sitting in front of him.

  “Luc got the Terroir version of me, and not much else,” Bastian admitted. “So I guess I do owe him something of an apology, after all.”

  “Or not,” Kian said with a grin. “He was enough of an ass when we met. Decent payback.”

  “I doubt he would feel that way.”

  “Frankly, I don’t give a shit how he feels,” Kian said.

  It was this hard, nearly bloodthirsty attitude hiding beside the sweet, kind smiles that had ultimately convinced Bastian that Kian could handle Terroir, including a sous chef who didn’t really like him.

  “How did Mark do last night?” Bastian asked. Michelle had texted him some updates, but he’d really been hoping that Kian would tell him his own version of events. He’d anticipated not even needing to ask, but Kian had been very close-lipped about service the night before.

  “He was fine,” Kian said in a closed-off voice, making it clear he had no interest in discussing Mark.

  It was totally fine that Kian wasn’t telling him, Bastian told himself. He wanted to handle it on his own; and technically he wasn’t obligated to tell Bastian anything, since he’d handled the incident with the scallops himself.

  Maybe with a few less broken plates than Bastian himself would have, but that was also okay. Kian wasn’t his carbon copy; he might not need to throw things to get his point across.

  “Michael Mina is a lot smaller of a restaurant,” Bastian offered, despite Kian’s clear directive that he didn’t want to talk about Mark.

  “I know that,” Kian said shortly and Bastian swore inwardly, because why the fuck hadn’t he just left it alone? Because it wasn’t in his nature to leave things alone, he thought shortly, it was in his nature to pry.

  It was in his nature to control everything; even the man he loved.

  “He’ll adjust,” Bastian said, aware of just how lame and unlike himself he sounded. When he’d headed the kitchen at Terroir, adjustment was instantaneous, or bad things happened.

  He knew Kian didn’t feel that way; Derek was evidence enough of that. Bastian had allowed Kian to coax him along because he hadn’t felt like dealing with yet another new employee, but any other time, he would have been long gone, likely in a shower of pottery shards.

  Kian looked startled. “I wasn’t anticipating him doing anything else,” he said.

  “Right, right, of course,” Bastian said, and searched for another topic they could discuss that didn’t have anything to do with Terroir. But Terroir had been their primary discussion point for so long that Bastian floundered.

  The waitress arriving with their plates saved him.

  The food didn’t look . . . terrible. Bastian was willing to admit at least that.

  The bacon seemed adequately crispy when he tapped it with the tines of his fork, and even the eggs seemed moderately fluffy. The hash browns looked like a deep-fried slab of potato, which was not something Bastian usually found appealing. The toast was dry and too pale, but Kian slid over the caddy of packaged jams anyway.

  The pancakes were sitting at the edge of the table, the white ropes of frosting in danger of sliding unceremoniously off the top of the brown speckled pile.

  “I’m currently thinking everyone who works for me should get a raise so nobody has to suffer through this,” Bastian said.

  “Oh, stop being such a snob,” Kian said fondly, and Bastian was so glad he’d moved past the subject of Mark that he scooped up a pile of eggs onto his fork and took a bite.

  Ignoring the slick of fake margarine, they actually had a decent flavor—they were definitely real eggs and not egg substitute which Bastian had been secretly afraid of.

  “See, it’s not going to kill you,” Kian said, gesturing with his bacon. “It’s just breakfast.”

  “This isn’t really breakfast; it’s breakfast-adjacent,” Bastian sniffed, but he was eating the rest of his eggs, and even took a bite of bacon, letting the sharp saltiness linger on his palate.

  Then he watched with horror as Kian reached for the bottle of ketchup the waitress had deposited on their table and proceeded to coat his hash browns in a thick layer of red goop.

  “I don’t think I know you at all,” Bastian said, eyeing his plate dubiously.

  “It’s just ketchup, it’s not poison,” Kian said with a little giggle.

  “We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that,” Bastian said with a shudder.

  But Kian’s gaze was fond as he met Bastian’s frown. “You really are the worst, sometimes.”

  “I’m here and I’m actually eating this food,” Bastian protested. He took another bite of eggs and bacon, and eyed the pancakes out of the corner of his eye again. If he tried them, he was going to save them for last, because the unrelenting sugar was going to be overwhelming.

  “Under duress,” Kian pointed out, waving his fork. “You’ve even managed to insult ketchup.”

  “I’m not sure what else I was supposed to do with it.”

  Kian shoveled a big bite of deep-fried potato into his mouth and smiled as he chewed. “Eat it,” he said, once he’d swallowed. “Try it. I thought you were an adventurous cook.”

  He’d already finished his eggs. He only had a bite or two left of the bacon. He supposed that if he was going to try the hash browns he should prepare them as directed. “Fine,” he said, reaching for the ketchup bottle, squeez
ing a very tiny amount on the edge of the slab. “How is that?”

  Kian shook his head. “You need to be diner trained,” he said with a laugh.

  Bastian shot the offending bottle a withering glare. Any human would have run before this, but the bottle wasn’t smart enough to figure out that it had ended up on the Bastard’s shit list.

  “I was trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris,” Bastian argued. “What else would you suggest?”

  Kian rolled his eyes. “In a diner. When you order hash browns you always get them well done and you always smother them in ketchup. It’s the only way.”

  “Merde,” Bastian muttered and squeezed out some more of the slop onto his plate. It was a really fucking good thing that nobody he knew would ever be caught dead in a place like this.

  “There you go,” Kian said, sounding very satisfied. “Now eat up, darling.”

  “I think you’re enjoying this,” Bastian grumbled.

  “Oh, I am.”

  “I thought you loved me,” Bastian argued. “Why would you want to torture me?”

  “This was your idea,” Kian said with a laugh. “And I do love you, even more, if you’d believe it.”

  “I think you’re laughing at me,” Bastian said as he continued to poke with his fork at the hash browns.

  “You’re just so damn cute,” Kian pointed out. “Just eat the damn things.”

  “I feel like a Michelin inspector is going to pop out of this faux woodwork and revoke my stars,” Bastian said, but he scooped up a healthy bite and finally put it in his mouth.

  Initially, he was tempted to actually spit out the food in his mouth. Overcooked potato, somehow raw yet burned around the edges, smothered in that fake margarine, so slick and oily, Bastian nearly choked. And over the top of all of that, the bland acidity of the ketchup. Then he chewed again, and swallowed. Took another bite. Chewed that one and swallowed again.