Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  “I don’t know,” Kian said. “Bastian said they’d have me doing dishes for a year.”

  “At least,” Wyatt said with a chuckle, then his voice grew serious. “You didn’t waste your time at Terroir. Bastian was a good mentor to you. He taught you an enormous amount, and you were already talented. It wasn’t a waste, because you got to do more in two years than anyone in Europe would do in five.”

  “Swear to god?” Kian demanded.

  “Swear to god.” Wyatt laughed again. “Seriously, go work for Xander while you figure it out. You could do it in your sleep and it’ll keep you occupied and sane. Somewhat, anyway. It is still Xander’s restaurant.”

  Kian had considered that too. Working for Xander at the Barrel House might hurt the least, out of all the options available to him. Was that a pussy move? He wasn’t sure anymore. Self-preservation, while not something that Bastian had ever encouraged or cultivated in himself, wasn’t so bad.

  “I’ll think about it,” Kian promised. “I’m not ready to be chef de cuisine and I’m done doing dishes. I’m not sure where I belong anymore.”

  “Somewhere in between. But I know you’ll figure it out, you’re the smartest guy I know,” Wyatt said.

  Kian scoffed. “That’s bullshit. I went to my boss’ house and took my clothes off.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. So Xander hadn’t told Wyatt everything.

  “I reserve the right to take back that statement,” Wyatt said. “Nobody ever said you didn’t have balls, though. Wow.”

  “Love makes you do really stupid things,” Kian pointed out and Wyatt agreed.

  “You know you can text me anytime,” Wyatt stated. “I have to go make sure Tony doesn’t blow up our food truck. He’s deep frying a turkey or . . . maybe a whole ham. Or something.”

  “Go save your truck,” Kian said. “And yes, I do.”

  Wyatt was right, Kian realized after he’d set the phone down and had continued scrubbing the living room wall. He hadn’t wasted the time. It helped alleviate some of the humiliating sting, but the yawning chasm of pain was still right there, hovering on the edge of Kian’s consciousness. Not thinking he’d wasted his time wasn’t the same as not missing Bastian so much he could barely breathe sometimes.

  Maybe Wyatt was right about something else too. Working for Xander wouldn’t be so bad; it would at least be better than continuing to scrub this wall.

  * * *

  Bastian didn’t know how it happened, but his whole life had suddenly become a fucking disaster. Wyatt and Xander were long gone. Kian was gone. That worm Mark was gone. He was left with a bare bones staff, not nearly enough to run a restaurant the size of Terroir. Also spring and the tourists were coming and they’d be able to open up the patio in a few weeks. That meant even more tables to service, and not nearly enough people to service them.

  He’d considered begging Kian to come back, not just because things were bad on the staffing front, but because every time he thought so much as his name, Bastian felt like throwing up. And since he thought about him all the damn time, that was a problem.

  Terroir needed Bastian to be leading it, not hiding in the bathroom, curled inwards around his traitorous stomach. He never actually threw up, he just wanted to, constantly.

  After the second day without Kian, Bastian finally assumed that this horrible feeling must be what a broken heart felt like and stopped going to the bathroom to hunch over the toilet in vain.

  He was a master at ignoring things that might have bothered others: sickness, exhaustion, injuries, personal problems. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually had a personal problem, but he’d always assumed he could push those petty hurts away, like he did everything else.

  But Kian wasn’t a petty hurt, he was a gaping hole in Bastian’s chest, a maelstrom of regret and guilt.

  On the third day, his mother called, and he’d ignored it. She called again, and then again, and then again. Biting off a whole string of bad words, he left the prep station, hoping that Derek wouldn’t fuck anything up in the five minutes he was gone.

  He exited out the back door, and leaned on the brick wall, taking a deep breath of fresh air. He’d been working almost nonstop since Kian had walked out, and somehow, even though two years ago, Bastian had done everything without Kian, it turned out that he’d come to rely on him so much that now the burden felt too heavy to bear.

  Not a realization that Bastian was particularly happy to come to.

  “What is it, maman?” he asked when she picked up the phone on the second ring. “I’m very busy, the restaurant is swamped, and we’ve had some . . .” Bastian paused, he didn’t want to tell her about Kian in the context of complaining they didn’t have enough staff, but what else was there? He wasn’t going to sit at her knee and cry into her lap. He’d never been that child, and he certainly wasn’t that child now. “We’ve had some staffing problems.”

  It was foolish to hope she’d let it go at that vague statement, but he’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Yet another painful inevitability he’d need to face; admitting to his mother that he’d fucked up everything with the love of his life.

  “Bastian,” she staid sternly, “I am hearing the strangest rumors.”

  Sighing, Bastian scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept. Probably before Kian had quit. “I wish you wouldn’t listen to those.”

  “I went to Barrel House last night,” she continued, like he hadn’t said a word. “And for once the rumors were correct. Kian, he is not working for you anymore? He was working at Xander Bridges’ restaurant? What has happened?”

  It was inevitable that Kian would go to work for Xander. Bastian had theoretically prepared himself for that eventuality, but it stung so much more than he’d ever imagined it would. Salt on an open wound, sprinkled liberally.

  “I really don’t have time for this right now, maman,” he said, trying with one last ditch effort to dodge the question.

  “Bastian Pierre Aquino,” Celeste said sternly. “Do I need to come down there and harass you until you tell me?”

  Bastian laughed because otherwise he was going to cry, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever cried in front of someone. Frankly, before this week, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried at all, but he’d passed that milestone the first night without Kian beside him.

  It was shameful, but at least it was honest, Bastian thought bleakly. He deserved the misery; he’d fucked this whole thing up, and he didn’t really blame Kian for quitting.

  For leaving him too, maybe. But Kian was almost certainly right, their personal relationship would never have survived their professional one imploding.

  That didn’t mean Bastian had forgiven him for it, or himself.

  “He quit,” he finally admitted quietly, “probably because I drove him to it. I set him up in a position where he was doomed to fail.” Deep ragged breath, to try to suppress the tears that threatened. He had yet to cry at Terroir and he was determined that it would not happen. “I don’t even blame him for being pissed off at me. I was very stupid.”

  “Oh, Bastian,” Celeste said softly. “I am so sorry. Will he not forgive you?”

  Bastian thought of all the times he’d seen himself reflected in Kian. “I doubt it.” He hadn’t tried, because he didn’t know what to say, and he definitely didn’t know how to fix the situation. Kian would chafe as sous, that was something Bastian believed fully, and he wasn’t ready to be chef de cuisine. What else was there?

  “You haven’t even tried,” Celeste said with damning judgement in her voice. “Bastian.”

  “There is no way to fix this,” Bastian swore. “If there was, I would have thought of it. I would have done it already. I’m dying here.”

  “I’m sure you are, my darling. Go back to work, and I will think on it.”

  “Maman,” Bastian argued, because the last thing this fucked-up situation need
ed was interference. But she had already hung up, and checking his watch, there really wasn’t time to call her back. Frankly, there hadn’t really been time to talk to her in the first place. He took one last breath of fresh air, and then went back inside.

  He had a lot of work to do.

  * * *

  Working for Xander was like slipping back into a familiar position that he recognized—but the edges didn’t quite fit properly and they chafed. The kitchen was too small. The fact that the diners could see everything they were doing in the kitchen was weird, and Kian didn’t like it. He didn’t know how Xander stood it. He did understand why Xander had designed it that way; the chefs were held accountable for their behavior with so many eyes watching, and he could never lose his temper the way that Bastian did frequently.

  The same devastating wave of pain swept over him the same as it did every time he thought of Bastian, but a week had gone by now. It didn’t hurt any less, but he was starting to get used to it.

  “Chicken special,” Xander called out. “Three top.”

  Xander ran a good kitchen. The food was delicious and high quality but a little more relaxed than Terroir had been. It was a good fit for Kian, but he already knew this was temporary. He didn’t really want to stay forever.

  Xander kept telling him that eventually he’d feel differently, that when he finally got Bastian out of his system, he’d see how good it was to work for someone else.

  He’d sounded so sure of this theory that Kian hadn’t wanted to contradict him. But he was never going to get Bastian out of his system. Even when he hated him—and there had been one or two or ten moments of that—he still loved him. He didn’t believe that was going to change anytime soon, no matter what Xander claimed.

  One of the waiters approached the pass-through as Kian put on three sauté pans, starting the chicken.

  “There is a lady that wanted to send compliments to the chef,” he said, smile glimmering in the corners of his mouth.

  Kian frowned. “She wants to send compliments to Xander, you mean.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She was very specific about sending compliments to you. Kian Reynolds. She said you have a mutual acquaintance you both care about.”

  Kian’s hand froze on one of the sauté pans. “How old was she?”

  “Oh, maybe sixty? Beautiful. Distinguished.”

  It had to be Bastian’s mother. The age was right. The description was right.

  “Did she speak with an accent?”

  “Yeah,” the waiter said. “How did you know? She’s French.”

  Something everyone learned about Bastian Aquino at some point—his mother was French, his father Spanish. A conflagration of hot temperaments swirling inside him, fighting containment.

  “Xander,” Kian said, “come take over these pans.”

  Xander didn’t look happy but he came over anyway. “You already took a break,” he objected, but there was something to be said for working for your best friend.

  “Yeah, and I’m sorry, but I need another. I just need . . . five minutes, if that’s okay?”

  Muttering under his breath, Xander didn’t respond, but bumped Kian out of the way with a hip check.

  “I’ll be quick,” Kian promised, and wiped his hands on a towel, unwinding his apron and hanging it on a hook before walking into the dining room.

  Bastian’s mother was everything he’d been told, and sitting alone at a corner table, a half-drunk glass of one of Xander’s creative mocktails at her elbow.

  “Hello,” Kian said, and she looked up. He could see hints of Bastian in her face, her dark hair, streaked with gray.

  “You are Kian,” she said, clearly delighted, starting to stand up.

  “No, no, please,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite her. “I only have a minute. I just . . . I wanted to meet you.”

  “And I you. I am Celeste Aquino, but please call me Celeste,” she said warmly, reaching out for his hands. “You are just as Bastian described to me.”

  Kian thought he’d been prepared, but he really wasn’t. Bastian had described him to his mother? Sometimes it was easier for him to believe that Bastian had never really been serious, that Kian had imagined the way Bastian looked at him. But if he’d told his mother about him, then Kian hadn’t misremembered anything. It had all been real, and that hurt worse than believing that Bastian had lied to him.

  “Oh, darling, you are just as sad as he is.” She frowned. “He is devastated without you.”

  Kian cleared his throat. “Sometimes things just don’t work out. He told me that it wouldn’t, the first month I worked for him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that it all fell apart.”

  “I would like you to come to my house, for tea. When are you free?” she asked, and for a second, Kian nearly turned her down. What point was there in making this harder than it already was? Sitting in Bastian’s mother’s house, wishing that he’d introduced them before everything had gone to hell? Forming a friendship with Celeste, even though there seemed to be little point to it?

  It was a bad idea, but Kian was learning that even acknowledging that fact didn’t always stop him. It sure hadn’t stopped him with Bastian.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “I have the afternoon off. Is that too soon?”

  “No,” she said, clearly delighted. “You will come tomorrow. One o’clock.” She slid a piece of paper across the table. “My address.”

  Kian stared at the paper, realizing that she had come here tonight with the express purpose of talking to him, and not for a few minutes that he could steal from the kitchen. She wanted to get to know him and knew he wouldn’t be able to do it during service.

  His heart beat a little faster, even though he told himself firmly that he should not get his hopes up.

  But it was too late, and hope was too addictive in the face of despair.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Darling, come in,” Celeste Aquino said, opening the door to Kian.

  Bastian’s mother’s house wasn’t the soulless modern box that his own was. It was painted French blue, with charming white shutters, and a proliferation of gardens surrounding it, from the start of the drive all the way up to the house.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Kian said, hating how stiff and nervous he sounded. Since accepting the invitation the night before, the only thing that had stopped him from canceling was the fact that he didn’t know her phone number. And he couldn’t exactly call Bastian and ask him.

  “Don’t worry, he is not here. He is working, of course,” she said, leading him through the interior of the house, which was laid out just as open as Bastian’s own, but decorated in her own style. Celeste took him out onto the back terrace, and they sat at a table and chairs for two, set with delicate china and a center serving tray filled with petit fours and tea sandwiches.

  “See, isn’t this lovely?” Celeste asked and Kian nodded mutely. This shouldn’t feel like a test, but it was. He’d never imagined meeting Bastian’s mother without Bastian actually being present.

  “It’s a beautiful view,” Kian added. “And your gardens are stunning.”

  Celeste poured tea into his cup. “This ground is so fertile, I enjoy it so much,” she said. “When Bastian said he wanted me to come with him to California, of course I agreed, but I had no idea I would like it so much here.”

  She handed him the cup, and then offered him a choice of sandwiches. Like Bastian, she was clearly a perfectionist, because everything was elegant and beautifully prepared.

  “I taught him to cook, you know,” she said conspiratorially. “Though he will deny it now.”

  Kian took a bite of smoked salmon, chewed, and then swallowed. “Why would he?” He didn’t add that she was hardly the type of mother that he could ever be ashamed of.

  “You know Bastian,” she said with a little airy wave of her hand. “No doubt he wants everyone to believe he came out of the womb knowing how to cook. He lets none of that show through his
armor.”

  He’d let a little of it show, with Kian. But not much, and not, Kian had realized during the last week, enough for Kian to feel comfortable showing any of his own weakness. That was why he’d resisted telling him about Mark causing so much difficulty. Bastian’s expectations of perfectionism were difficult to face, but even tougher because his own personal standards were so high. You could hardly blame someone for expecting too much when they expected even more out of themselves.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Kian admitted softly.

  “I know it’s painful to talk about him,” she said, kindness echoing through every syllable of her words. “If you really don’t want to, I won’t blame you, but I think it would help if I told you a little of his past. I’m assuming he has never told you, non?”

  “I know what’s on his Wikipedia page,” Kian admitted wryly.

  “It would be nice for these conversations to come up naturally, for him to tell you himself, in his own time, but I think, I think he will eventually come to you, and you knowing these things will help.”

  Kian knew he was staring incredulously at her. “Why would he come to me?”

  She laughed. “Bastian, you know he does not let things go. He does not give up. He does not quit. He is searching for a solution to your professional problem, a place you will fit, a place you fit with him, and I know he will find one eventually. Because he is Bastian.”

  Kian knew him well too, obviously not as well as his mother knew him, but he wasn’t so certain.

  “I see you doubt,” she said, leaning forward a little. “But that is alright. Still, I would like to tell you, if that is alright?”

  “Yes,” Kian agreed. “it’s alright.”

  Celeste took her time, pouring more tea, popping a sugar cube into her own cup with a delicate pair of silver tongs, offering him another sandwich. Finally, she spoke. “Bastian’s father, I assume he has not told you of him.”