by Beth Bolden
Plain and simple, he just couldn’t.
“So you’re going to go back tomorrow and just . . . keep throwing plates?” Xander asked skeptically. “And hope that eventually Mark gets sick of dodging them and quits?”
Kian couldn’t tell him that he hadn’t even thought that far ahead. “Yeah, sure,” he said.
Xander laughed humorlessly. “You are so fucked. I . . . I wish there was something I could do. You know, right, that if you ever leave Terroir, you can always work for me?”
Truthfully, Kian had never even considered it. He’d never considered what would happen to make him leave Terroir—by choice or not.
“Yeah, of course. Thanks.”
Xander stood up and put a reassuring hand on Kian’s shoulder. “Just remember that, okay? I’ve got to go, Damon’s picking me up.”
Kian watched him go inside. He didn’t move. Working for Xander wouldn’t be that bad, he assumed. Xander would be a good boss. But he wasn’t Bastian. Nobody was Bastian, except Bastian himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Kian would have told him if something was wrong.
Kian wouldn’t lie to him by omission.
Kian still trusted him.
Bastian repeated these three things over and over as he paced through his kitchen. He wouldn’t let himself look over at the dining room, where he’d actually set the table for their evening meal. Kian had really enjoyed the bath he’d had the other night, so Bastian had decided that putting out his nice dishes and buying a few additional candles wouldn’t be too much.
But then Kian had texted and claimed to be too tired to come by. It was the first night he hadn’t come over since their relationship had begun. Bastian’s first instinct was to, of course, believe him. After all, he knew better than anyone how exhausting managing the reins of Terroir was, night after night—and he was used to doing it.
But after a few minutes, doubt had started to creep in. He’d texted Michelle, and asked her how the night had gone, something he’d really tried not to do. Everything he found out about Terroir, he wanted to find out from Kian.
The annoying niggling worry he was hiding something still bothered Bastian.
Michelle’s reply hadn’t reassured him. She’d been deliberately vague, giving no details, merely telling him everything was fine.
It immediately made Bastian believe that nothing was fine.
For five interminable minutes he resisted the urge to drive down to Terroir and make sure it was still standing.
He was lucky to have lasted five minutes, he told himself as he drove down the hill towards the restaurant. After he parked in his normal spot and got out of the car, he looked over the lot and it was quiet and empty, everything as it should be. He typed in his code at the door and walked inside.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been anticipating finding here. Stainless steel gleamed in the dim light of the emergency lights, and he ran a hand along one prep counter. It was weird, not knowing what had happened on it today, depending instead on little snippets of what other people told him. They weren’t ever detailed enough for his comfort.
That, Bastian knew, was the main problem. He wanted to be here every night. He wanted to watch it all, his control freak side comforted by knowledge that nothing happened he wasn’t aware of.
Taking over as chef de cuisine at the restaurant was a huge job—Bastian wasn’t going to discount the enormous effort that Kian had put forth to reach that position and to maintain it. But sitting back and trying not to strangle Nathan Hess? Letting someone else, even someone else as beloved as Kian, step forward and run his restaurant? It felt impossible sometimes.
“Just because it’s not easy doesn’t mean it’s not right,” Bastian said out loud, the words echoing through the empty room.
But he’d been followed around by an unassailable belief that his chosen path was the right one for the last twenty years. Not once had he ever felt even a tiniest bit of uncertainty, and now he was plagued by it. Surely that meant something? But what it was, Bastian didn’t know, and that was even worse.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Bastian weighed it in his hand for a long moment. Finally, he dialed the number he’d selected.
His mother picked up on the fourth ring, just when he was afraid she’d gone to sleep already.
“Bastian,” she exclaimed, “is everything alright?”
He didn’t know what to say. Was everything alright? It sure didn’t fucking feel like it.
“I just drove down to the restaurant in the middle of the night, to make sure it was still standing. And I resent Kian for knowing what happened tonight when I don’t.” Bastian figured this would answer the question much better than he could.
“You’re there, at the restaurant now?” his mother asked.
“Yeah.”
“Hang on for a few minutes,” Celeste ordered. “I’m coming down there.”
It was late, the roads were dark, and a little bit slick from the rain they’d had earlier in the Valley. He opened his mouth to tell her that she shouldn’t, but she interrupted him.
“Bastian, I am still your mother,” she said and hung up the phone.
Bastian went into his office, flipping on his computer but instead of doing any actual work, merely stared mindlessly at the screen, waiting for her to show up.
The knock on the back door came much sooner than he’d anticipated. Jumping up, he made his way to the door and opened it.
Celeste had a scarf tied around her head and made her leggings and wrap sweater look like high-end fashion, like she wasn’t his mother at all but a retired model.
“Goodness,” she said as he opened the door wider, “it is empty in here during off-hours.”
Bastian frowned, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I wouldn’t turn down a nice nightcap, if you could find one.”
They took one of the service elevators and he led Celeste to the bar, settling her in one of the high stools before ducking behind the bar.
“Any preference?” he asked.
“Something that will loosen your tongue,” Celeste said primly.
“I called you, didn’t I?” Bastian argued as he set out glasses, and pulled ingredients from one of the under-counter fridges.
“That means you know you should tell me what’s bothering you, not that you actually will.”
Deftly, Bastian peeled an orange, rubbing the edges of each glass with the oils. He dropped a piece of peel in, added a few dashes of bitters, and then poured in a measure of cognac into each glass. A brandied cherry completed each drink, and he placed one in front of Celeste, and the other at the place next to her.
“I’d be concerned your bartenders will be upset, as I’m sure they account for every orange, for every ounce of alcohol,” Celeste offered as he sat down, “but it’s difficult to imagine anyone being upset with you and actually daring to express it.”
“You’ll need to meet Kian,” Bastian said ruefully. “As for the drinks, you’re not wrong, but I’ll leave them a note.”
“The man you love,” Celeste said. “Yes, I would very much like to meet him.”
It was foolish but Bastian spluttered anyway. Of course he loved Kian, but he hadn’t anticipated his mother calling him out on his feelings. Was he so obvious? Or maybe he was just obvious to her.
Celeste took a sip and hummed approvingly. “Very good,” she said, “but then I would not expect any less. As for you being in love with Kian, of course you are. You gave him the most precious part of you.”
He was quiet for a long moment. He took a drink, but the alcohol didn’t help. “I see the best version of myself reflected in his eyes. But I don’t want to be that version. I don’t want it. I want to love him, but I don’t want that.” He was all too aware of how miserable he sounded. “I thought this deal with Hess would feel differently, like I was growing and changing and adapting. Learning how to let go. But I don’t want to let go.”
&
nbsp; Her laugh startled him. “Oh, darling, you are your father’s son.”
It was impossible to hear that pronouncement and not tense from the very ends of his hair to the tips of his toes.
“He was an asshole, vraiment,” Celeste continued, her words doing nothing to alleviate Bastian’s edginess, “but some of the things that made me hate him, make me love you more. You’re both stubborn to a fault, and feel intensely, both your likes and dislikes. You do nothing by half measures. That dedication is why we are sitting here now, at your beautiful restaurant.”
“I know all that,” Bastian said, though he hadn’t quite come to terms with some of it. Anything remotely familiar to his father was abhorrent and to be rejected, always, no matter what his maman claimed.
“Of course you can’t let go. The best version of yourself isn’t a man who does, it’s a man who doesn’t.”
That was a concept that had somehow never occurred to Bastian. “A man who doesn’t?”
“You’ve convinced yourself that to be better, to be a partner worthy of your Kian, you need to let go.” Celeste shook her head. “Your greatest asset is your ability to never let go. I would guess that is one of the reasons he loves you.”
“I can’t, I can’t just come back here, and upset the structure,” Bastian argued. “Kian would hate me for doing that. For dividing the loyalty he’s trying to earn.”
“Why would you being here divide his loyalty? Would he manage things differently than you? Give different direction?”
It wasn’t difficult at all to shake his head. He’d trained Kian meticulously himself, and if Kian had ever given him a moment of concern about the direction of his management at Terroir, Bastian never would have promoted him in the first place. He trusted Kian implicitly, but he worried that the trust was not reciprocated.
“Then, why can you not be here during service?” Celeste asked simply. “You don’t need to completely absent yourself. You’ve made yourself miserable, trying to deny something that is part of who you are.”
“Oui, I am so stupid,” Bastian murmured. Every inch of carpet, every ladle, every chair, every cocktail on the menu, bottle of wine in the cellar, onion in the storeroom—they were all an extension of who he was. He was nothing without Terroir and Terroir was nothing without him.
Celeste placed a hand on his arm. “You are a man. It is to be expected.”
Bastian laughed, the tone rough with emotion. “You’re too good to me.”
“My lot in life,” she said sweetly. “As is Kian’s. He knows what you are, Bastian, better than anyone else. He worked for you for years. He knows what you are, what you need. He has never fought against that.”
“Once,” Bastian said ruefully. “Once, and he was right. Right while being wrong at the same time.”
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Do I wish to know what happened?”
This time Bastian’s laugh felt less torn out of him, and more a product of genuine amusement. “No. No. Definitely not.”
“You are a good son, and a good man. I hate to see you doubt that.”
“I’ve done some . . . sometimes I’m not good. I can be cruel,” Bastian admitted, finishing his drink in one gulp.
“Your chosen profession, that is cruel though, sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” Bastian acknowledged. She wasn’t wrong. The fine dining kitchen was a place of exacting standards, and sometimes a very thick skin was needed to deal with the cutthroat atmosphere and unrelenting perfectionism.
His own behavior wasn’t always ideal, but Celeste did have a point. He knew he could be better, but she was right; his greatest advantage was that he never wanted to let go of anything.
It was why he hated it when employees left, even when there was a good reason for them to move on. It was why he’d refused to promote Kian, even when he deserved it. It was why staying home during service these last few weeks had nearly killed him—even though he’d been willing to try for Kian.
Clearly he’d been approaching this situation entirely the wrong way.
“Do you feel better?” Celeste asked.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Bastian thought for a long minute. Truthfully, a little of the panic he’d been feeling had died the moment he’d walked into the kitchen. It wasn’t all gone, but it had calmed considerably.
The only thing still bothering him was the text that Kian had sent him, and the niggling feeling that he was actually hiding something.
“Much,” Bastian said. “Finish your drink and I’ll drive you back home.”
“But,” Celeste tried to interrupt but Bastian shot her a hard, uncompromising look.
“Yes, you’re my mother, but it’s late, and I’m not letting you drive home without me. I’ll send someone with your car tomorrow.”
While he waited for his mother, he pulled out his phone and finally replied back to Kian’s text. I know you’re tired, but I’d like to see you.
Glancing back at the words, it was impossible to deny there wasn’t an inherent demand in them, similar to how Bastian moved through life, expecting all barriers to melt away or be conquered. But he was reminded of his mother’s words as they walked to his car.
He knows what you are, Bastian, better than anyone else.
After he dropped Celeste off at her home, giving her a quick kiss on her soft cheek, he checked his phone, and to his surprise, Kian had actually replied.
Out on the back deck was all he’d said, which Bastian assumed was an invitation of sorts.
The house was dark when he pulled up to it, and Bastian realized as he got out of the car that he’d barely ever been here. He was Kian’s boyfriend and he’d made him come to him almost every time. Yes, he wanted to avoid Xander and their other roommate, who was apparently a sommelier, but even when he’d tried to make their relationship feel equal, inequalities kept cropping up.
Kian was sitting on the back porch, a mug in his hands. When Bastian approached, he didn’t think he was being too paranoid to believe that Kian didn’t look exactly thrilled to see him. Maybe he should have given Kian the space he’d clearly been wanting. But Bastian was so terrified that a night of space might lead to even more space, not less.
“I’m sorry,” was the first thing he said when he sat down.
Kian looked surprised. “For what?”
Bastian drummed his fingers on the table. “For being myself?”
“I knew what I was getting into when I took my clothes off the first time,” Kian laughed.
He leaned over, bumping shoulders with Kian, and glanced down into his mug. There were clearly dregs of wine in it. Bastian raised an eyebrow.
“It was a night,” Kian finally confessed. “Nothing I can’t handle. But a night nonetheless.”
It was impossible not to wonder when Bastian’s first instinct had shifted from tough-as-nails to apologetic. Because he’d nearly been about to apologize again, and that wasn’t his fault. Not really. Well, he conceded, it might have been, because he’d been the one to hire Mark.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Bastian asked carefully. Not apologizing, necessarily, but trying to be supportive—the way a normal boyfriend might be. He wasn’t ever going to be a normal boyfriend, but Kian was right. He’d known what he was getting into when he’d made his feelings clear.
“Honestly?” Kian asked wryly. “No, not really.”
It was exactly what Bastian had feared. He tried not to react, but Kian knew him well, and could probably see how afraid he was.
“I already know you didn’t burn the place down,” he said, trying to make it lighthearted.
He must have failed because Kian looked startled. “You went to Terroir?”
“Not because of you. Because of me. I guess I was also having a bad night. Bad week, actually.”
Kian frowned. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s not anything to do with you. I said you’d made me the happiest I’d ever been, and I meant it,” Bastian said, reaching out and
brushing a kiss across Kian’s lips. “I love you. But letting go of the restaurant is hard for me. Impossible, actually.”
“You make it sound like something really terrible,” Kian said with amusement, “but I already knew that.”
“That’s why I went. I . . . missed it. I missed knowing everything that happened.”
“I know I’d miss it so I can hardly blame you for missing it. You created it,” Kian said simply.
“Would you be okay if I came by? Not to undermine your authority. Not to take away your decisions. To just . . . be there. Would that be okay?”
Kian laughed. “It’s your god damned restaurant, Bastian.”
“Yeah, but.” Bastian took a deep breath. “I’m trying to keep things separate.”
“You told me way back at the beginning this was going to be messy.”
“I was right,” Bastian said. “And I’d still do it, every time.”
Kian stood up, a gleam in his eyes that always boded well for Bastian and offered a hand. “Do you want to go make things messier?”
Remembering his words from earlier, Bastian hesitated. “I thought you were tired.”
“I think I’m getting a second wind,” Kian said, grinning. “Come on, we’ve got an empty house. Let’s use it.”
* * *
Kian didn’t know exactly what had driven him to his house tonight—but even though he couldn’t identify what it was didn’t mean that he couldn’t understand it.
Even when he wasn’t sure he could face Bastian, he’d still missed him, still craved his touch.
He reached out and took Bastian’s hand, the rough scars from too many cuts and burns now so familiar to him. All it took was the feel of their palms sliding together, the nearly innocent gesture a reminder of the not-so-innocent nights they’d spent wrapped up in each other.
“You’re sure there’s nobody here?” Bastian asked as Kian pulled him through the sliding door.