Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  “Lonely without you,” Kian said, and it didn’t matter how long they’d been dating; there was still a part—an embarrassingly large one that he would never, ever admit to owning—that still quivered and then collapsed into goo every time Kian said something sweet.

  And since Kian was the sweetest man that Bastian had ever met, even though he still possessed a tough, exacting streak that could go toe-to-toe with Bastian’s own, it happened a lot.

  “Aren’t Wyatt and Miles keeping you busy?” Bastian asked, clearing his throat. No matter how he tried, the bone-meltingly sweet things that Kian said so offhandedly didn’t come quite so easily to him.

  “Busy enough.” Bastian could hear the slow, fond smile in Kian’s voice—like he knew just how much Bastian wished he could vocalize better exactly how he felt. “Wyatt is thinking of getting another food truck.”

  “Ah,” Bastian said noncommittally. Wyatt was an extraordinarily talented chef, and Bastian still wasn’t sure how he felt about his ex-employee wasting his efforts by locking himself up in a tiny little kitchen on wheels. Still, food trucks were becoming more and more popular, and more accepted by the higher echelon of chefs as a legitimate business option.

  “Bastian,” Kian teased softly. “It’s okay to be happy for him. I promise, no big bad Michelin inspector will come take your chef card away. Or your stars.”

  He didn’t even bother trying to hide his bark of laughter. With Kian, he laughed more, and like the food trucks, he realized that more of that could only be a good thing.

  “I’d like to see them try,” Bastian retorted.

  Kian laughed then, and it hit Bastian again, breaking over him like a never-ending wave of wonder: this man was going to stand up in front of every friend and family member they knew, nevermind every professional acquaintance that Bastian could think of, and promise to love and support him forever.

  It was a heady, incredible feeling, tempered only by the slight concern he was still experiencing over the food. What if it was bad? He was Bastian Aquino; he couldn’t have terrible food at his wedding. He couldn’t even have mediocre food. That might even be more egregious.

  “I miss you,” Kian repeated, and his voice had gone soft and quiet, like he meant it even more this time than he had the last. “I shouldn’t be here, hanging out with Miles and Wyatt, and trying to talk Wyatt out of letting Tony experiment on the innocent diners of Los Angeles. I should be up in Napa with you, getting ready for the wedding.” He sounded almost guilty, which was not what Bastian wanted at all when he’d convinced him to go.

  “Everything is fine,” Bastian soothed. “I’ve got everything under control. You’re clearly needed there, if Wyatt is letting Tony do anything.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Bastian did mostly have everything under control. Xander had agreed to help cater the reception, with his staff and Bastian’s own. It would be fine; it would be better than fine.

  After all, it needed to be.

  “If everything is fine, then why did Xander text me about menus?” Kian’s voice, perplexed and a little hurt, said it all.

  Merde. That little shit. Sometimes Bastian couldn’t believe that Xander had worked for him for years, and he’d managed not to kill him during all that time. Now it seemed that every time he turned around, Xander was doing something annoying and/or frustrating that pushed every single one of Bastian’s buttons. And there was no question of whether it was on purpose—Bastian knew the truth.

  He also knew Xander had never wanted Kian to end up with him, but once it had actually happened, Xander seemed mostly okay with it. Still, that didn’t apparently exempt Bastian from being continually hazed by him. Even three years into their relationship.

  “Uh,” Bastian hedged. “There may have been a slight problem with the caterer.”

  “Slight?”

  “He came in to the restaurant today and quit. Quit my wedding!”

  Kian laughed, which was a completely unfair reaction, because it wasn’t funny. Not even a little.

  “You mean our wedding?” Kian asked, not sounding annoyed or perturbed in the least. “I’m pretty sure we’re getting married to each other, last time I checked anyway.”

  “I . . .yes. We are. We definitely are.”

  “So the caterer quit and you. . .hired Xander?”

  “I know we agreed, none of your friends. But he shouldn’t have to do much on the day. He can bring his entire staff and I’ll lend him use anyone I can from Terroir. There should be plenty of help.”

  “I’m not.” Kian chuckled. “I’m not mad. I’m just . . .shocked, honestly, that Xander would agree.”

  Something they had in common. “Maybe he wants to make up for all the headaches he’s given me over the years,” Bastian suggested.

  “Maybe.” Kian didn’t sound convinced. Frankly, Bastian wasn’t either. He still didn’t know why Xander had agreed, but in the end, why did it matter? At least he could depend on Xander supplying food that was edible and would satisfy Bastian’s requirement for excellence. As much of a pain in the ass as he was, Xander was a talented chef.

  “What did he ask you about the menus?” Bastian asked. If Xander had questions, he should direct them to Bastian—not Kian.

  “He mentioned something about turkey.”

  Bastian’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He grabbed the glass of wine next to him and took a deep, bracing gulp. “Turkey?”

  “You know,” Bastian could picture Kian’s breezy hand wave, which he almost always did when Bastian should be truly concerned, but Kian didn’t want him to be, “Thanksgiving dinner. He had this idea to do a fall-themed dinner centered around turkey.”

  Bastian wasn’t proud that Kian (though this could all be laid directly at Xander’s door, like most things could), had shocked him into silence.

  He should have settled the menu with Xander before he’d left Barrel House, but he’d stupidly assumed that Xander would be reasonable and would comprehend, at least a little bit, the kind of food that Bastian would expect to be served at his wedding.

  Turkey was not on the list. And the list was extensive.

  “I think it’ll be great,” Kian finished. And sounded like he actually, genuinely meant it.

  They’d been dating for long enough by now that Bastian knew exactly what would happen if he expressed what he truly felt about the turkey idea. And how wretched he would feel later at Kian’s disappointed moping.

  That was the thing nobody ever told you about falling in love; suddenly your own very decisive wants and not-wants became entirely superseded by those of your lover. And you didn’t even feel bad about it. You just wanted them to be happy.

  “Turkey it is,” Bastian said, though god knew, he couldn’t fake enthusiasm about it.

  Kian laughed. “Xander will do magnificent work, I promise.”

  “I know he will, it’s the accompanying bad I always worry about,” Bastian said, and he wouldn’t realize until much, much later how portentous of a statement that truly was.

  * * *

  The day of the wedding dawned clear and perfect; the epitome of a slightly warm autumn day. The sky was an aching blue overhead, with not a single cloud to mar its perfection, and the leaves, turning their rich russet and rust and gold, complemented it flawlessly.

  Bastian couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day for him to marry the love of his life.

  And then Marcus, who was working—but not entirely succeeding—on replacing Kian as his intern, poked his head into Bastian’s office, where he would get ready for the wedding. “You need to come see this,” Marcus said, and the hysteria in his tone immediately set Bastian on edge.

  “What’s happened?” Bastian barked. The catering had seemed taken care of. Xander had come and grabbed about five cooks from the Terroir kitchen yesterday and claimed everything was under control with the turkey dinner.

  Bastian had really, really wanted to believe that was true. When he’d suggested to Xander that he could check in with the food pre
p, Xander had firmly told him that his place was getting ready for the wedding, and working on his vows.

  He’d considered telling Xander that his vows had been written for months already, that they’d been the easiest thing in the world to write because whenever he thought about committing his life to Kian for the entirety of it, his feelings about it were embarrassingly simple to verbalize. For maybe the first time ever. But he didn’t tell Xander, because his reputation would likely never recover.

  As he followed Marcus out of his office and deeper into the Terroir kitchens, Bastian realized he should have traded everything—including his stupid reputation—to see and possibly even taste the reception meal that Xander was so secretively preparing.

  Bastian rounded a corner and, honest to god, actually gasped. Sitting on one of the long stainless steel prep counters was something unholy.

  “I told you,” Marcus said grimly, but Bastian was still speechless.

  He took a step closer to the ugly aberration and confirmed that yes, somehow that was indeed a turkey, its normal gloriously burnished skin covered in . . .red fur?

  “Oh my god.” Bastian turned and saw Kian standing there, still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Marcus said at the exact same time that Bastian echoed, “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard a rumor that Xander was doing something insane, and I had to check, because,” Kian took a deep breath, “he’s my friend, isn’t he? If he fucks this up, it’s on me.”

  “No.” Bastian took an even deeper breath. He couldn’t even look at the monstrosity sitting in front of them—it made his blood pressure raise in ways that couldn’t be medically explained—but he could look at Kian. He took him aside and gazed at his fiancé and only at his fiancé. “If Xander has . . .gone insane . . .then that is one hundred percent on him. Not on you. Never on you.”

  “But . . .” Kian hesitated.

  “No,” Bastian repeated. “I hired him for this. I should have prevented this. I will prevent this.”

  “I’m not sure it’s actually preventable at this point.” Kian’s voice was wry. “I mean that thing . . .that . . . whatever it is . . .it exists.”

  Bastian smiled grimly. “That doesn’t mean he’s going to get away with serving it. Not at our wedding.”

  “Oh, good, you’re here.” Bastian looked up then, if only because he had every intention of throttling Xander until he prepared something (anything) else.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Except that Kian was already there, in his face, pointing to the offending poultry in front of them. “What is this?”

  “Your turkey.” Xander beamed. “It’s a new recipe. I think you’ll like it.”

  “This is our wedding. Do not test me,” Bastian inserted, stalking over, glaring at the turkey. Except that from the very beginning of Xander’s career at Terroir, he had been the very best at testing Bastian. Exactly why it had been a foolish idea to ever trust Xander with a job this monumentally important.

  Marcus fled, probably because he sensed a record-setting confrontation.

  But Xander continued like Bastian wasn’t even there. He was giddy; a proposition more terrifying than the prospect of serving the cream of American culinary society that . . .that . . .thing.

  “It’s been dusted liberally with Flaming Hot Cheetos,” Xander said. “And stuffed with two pounds of Velveeta.”

  Bastian’s first instinct was to look over at Kian, who had bent over and was apparently choking on something? He rushed over and while patting his fiancé on the back, he wracked his brain, trying to figure out what Xander was even talking about. What were Cheetos? And Velveeta?

  Finally, Kian lifted his head, and it appeared he’d been laughing so hard, there were tears in his eyes. “What the ever-living fuck, Xander,” was all he could get out between bursts of unrestrained laughter.

  “Get yourself together,” Xander faux-ordered, amusement lighting his expression. “I’m going to carve it now, and you really don’t want to miss this.”

  “Wait. First.” Bastian wondered if he was taking his sanity into his own hands by asking, but he had to know. “What are . . .what are Cheetos? What is Velveeta?”

  “Oh god,” Kian got out between gasps of laughter. “Oh god, Xander, you are so dead.”

  “Cheetos are . . .well . . .” Xander rummaged around on the countertop behind him, and emerged with a metallic bag printed in eye-searing yellow and red, extending it towards Bastian. “Try one for yourself.”

  Bastian reached into the bag and dubiously eyed the bright red puff he pulled out. “I’m supposed to eat this?” he questioned.

  Xander nodded vigorously, even as Kian continued to cackle behind him. Sometimes the man he loved was not helpful.

  He cautiously popped it in his mouth. Artificial heat exploded on his tongue as he chewed, followed by hideously fake cheese taste, all wrapped up with a consistency resembling cardboard.

  Leaning over, he spat into the nearby prep sink and took a quick drink of water from the faucet directly, swishing the liquid around in his mouth to try to eliminate the taste. “You put that on turkey? Are you insane?” Bastian cried.

  Kian was still laughing. Bastian wouldn’t be surprised if he was still hysterical by the time it came to walk down the aisle.

  “As for the Velveeta, it’s better to show you,” Xander said slyly and beckoned them both closer. Bastian came only reluctantly.

  Whipping out a pair of sharp kitchen shears, Xander started cutting down the spine of the turkey, instead of carving it in the traditional way.

  “What is he doing?” Bastian asked Kian, not bothering to lower his voice.

  But Kian just shrugged. “The ultimate Bastard practical joke?”

  Bastian rolled his eyes. He understood all too well why he’d gotten that nickname. He was even proud of it, in a sort of fucked up way. To him, it meant that he pushed people to be the best they could be, and that he wouldn’t ever accept anything less. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always why ex-employees (and possibly current ones) liked to use it.

  “I would hope that Xander had grown out of practical . . .” Bastian gave a shocked screech as the top of the bird finally cracked open, and inside was a massive lake of bright yellow melted cheese, dotted with nebulous reddish chunks that might have once been Flaming Hot Cheetos.

  “That is . . .” Kian was staring open-mouthed at the abomination in front of them. “That’s . . .”

  “You are not serving this today,” Bastian said as sternly as he ever had. He’d consider pulling his usual counter-clearing technique, but then that horrid-looking turkey stuffing might get everywhere, and his stomach rebelled at the thought of all that nastiness spreading all over his pristine kitchen.

  “He’s definitely not,” Kian agreed. “But then, he already knew that, which is why I’m sure he has a handful of gorgeous roasted turkeys hiding somewhere. Don’t you, Xander?”

  Xander just chuckled. “Why would you think that?”

  Bastian was inordinately proud; Kian’s resulting glare even made the usually unflappable Xander flinch.

  “Okay, you win. You two were never really fun, and you’ve unfortunately continued that streak today.”

  “Today, you mean . . .” Bastian glanced over at Kian, who was smiling again. “Are you really surprised we weren’t interested in your little joke on our wedding day?”

  “Shocking, I know,” Xander said, and then broke into an even bigger smile. “Seriously you two, you shouldn’t even be here. I said I’d take care of the food, and I will. I promise. It’s going to be beautiful. Trust me.”

  “No turkeys with Cheetos, flaming or otherwise? Stuffed with something that isn’t . . .viscous, fake cheese?” Kian inquired hopefully.

  “I’ve got you,” Xander said confidently. Bastian still nearly asked to see the preparations because after having his emotions played with on this level, he wasn’t quite sure he trusted Xander the way
Kian did.

  Still, Kian trusted Xander—and Bastian trusted Kian completely, more than he’d ever trusted anyone else before. Maybe even more than he trusted his own maman. Or maybe he just trusted Kian differently. He’d trust Kian with Terroir, with everything he’d worked his entire life to build. When that had happened, all those years ago, he’d known that Kian was the only one for him. Because that trust didn’t come easily, and it wouldn’t fade or shift or ever break down.

  “Come on, let’s leave Xander to it,” Kian said, reaching out for Bastian’s hand. Holding hands in Terroir—that still wasn’t something they did often, but once upon a time, it would have been unheard of. Bastian never would have allowed it—and god knew, he’d spent enough time denying both of them because he was so sure that becoming emotionally involved was a mistake.

  “Marcus is right,” Bastian said, “we’re not supposed to be seeing each other today.”

  “It’s a silly superstition, like pranking the culinary-obsessed groom with the threat of a catering disaster,” Kian teased back lightly as they walked towards Bastian’s office.

  “Do you think . . .” Bastian hesitated. He’d learned a long time ago that if he didn’t want to hear the truth from Kian, he didn’t ask. Of course, he almost always ended up asking, because somehow hearing the truth from Kian was easier than hearing it from anybody else. “Do you think Xander got the caterer to quit?”

  “So he could prank you? It’s not impossible to imagine.” The corner of Kian’s mouth quirked up. “I’m sure we’ll never know.”

  “No,” Bastian said, pulling Kian closer to him despite that they were still technically in Terroir, and he tried very hard not to indulge in PDA. But it was their wedding day, and he was tired of resisting Kian’s irresistible pull.

  He leaned down and captured Kian’s mouth with his own. He still felt that jolt of adrenaline and excitement every time it happened, just like that first time—when he’d been so desperate to convince Kian that he’d never felt this way about anybody before. It was just as true now as it had been then.