Chapter 6
Olivier
The kitchen hums with its usual midday rhythm—knives chopping in precise synchronicity, sauces simmering on the stoves, the faint sizzle of proteins hitting hot pans.
But today, it's all background noise to the storm brewing in my head.
I'm at the central workstation, scribbling notes on the evening's reservations and making menu tweaks with Antonio and Lazlo hovering like well-trained hawks.
Antonio's my rock in the chaos, clipboard in hand, running through inventory adjustments. Lazlo's got the front-of-house intel: who's VIP tonight, which tables need extra flair, and whether or not we have another snooty reviewer coming in to see us.
We should be locked in, fine-tuning the specials—maybe swap the seared scallops for something heartier given the cold snap outside. But my pen hovers over the paper, and I can't focus.
“Fuck,” I grumble, realizing that I’ve made an error on one of the starters.
Every few seconds, my eyes flick to the corner of the spotless stainless-steel counter where a neatly packed lunch box sits, untouched.
It's nothing fancy by my standards: a turkey club on house-baked sourdough, crisp apple slices, a thermos of fresh-pressed juice, and those damn cookies I stayed up late perfecting… chocolate chip with sea salt, because why not spoil the boy?
The boy who didn't show.
"Chef? You with us?" Antonio's voice cuts through, patient but probing. He's got that Italian lilt that makes even concern sound melodic. "The lamb shank—braise it longer for the cold weather?"
"Yeah, sure. Longer braise," I mutter, scratching a note without really thinking. My foot taps an irritable rhythm on the tile floor. Noon came and went an hour ago. No sign of Danny.
No call, no text—though, shit, I don't even have his number.
What kind of idiot promises a reward without locking down the details?
But either way, we both agreed that he would swing by and pick up the lunch box. Sure, he was drinking more than me. But that’s not my problem. You give your word, you stick to it—beers or not.
Lazlo clears his throat, his pale blue eyes darting meaningfully to the lunch box. "And the tables? We've got that critic coming in at eight. Should I comp a dessert course?"
I slam the pen down harder than intended. "Yes, comp it. Whatever. Just make sure the service is flawless." My voice comes out sharper than the Santoku knives lined up behind me.
Antonio and Lazlo exchange a quick glance— the kind that says, Chef's in a mood.
Lazlo folds his arms, leaning against the counter with that knowing smirk he's perfected over years of putting up with my bullshit.
"Something on your mind, Olivier? Or should I say... someone?" His gaze lands pointedly on the lunch box again.
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
"It's for that ungrateful boy from last night,” I grumble. “The one who was supposed to swing by at noon. We... agreed on it. Or at least, I thought we did."
The words taste bitter, like over-reduced balsamic. I can still picture Danny's flushed face at the bar, those wide eyes promising he'd be good. The way he nodded so eagerly at the mention of a reward.
And now? Nothing.
Stood up by a construction hunk who probably forgot all about me the second he sobered up.
Antonio sets his clipboard down, crossing his beefy arms. He's built like a linebacker who traded football for fine dining, and his expression is all paternal concern.
"The big guy from the crew? Danny, right? Looked like he was ready to drop to his knees when you talked to him."
"Yeah, well, apparently not ready enough to show up," I grumble. The irritation bubbles up— not just at Danny, but at myself for getting so invested so fast.
One night of flirting, one fantasy in the shower, and I'm prepping special lunches like some lovesick fool. At forty-three, I should know better.
Boys like him—young, built, full of promise— they flake.
They always do.
Lazlo and Antonio share another look, this one laced with amusement. Antonio chuckles, deep and rumbling.
"We've got lunch service covered, chef,” Antonio says. “Kitchen's prepped, the team is on point. Why don't you take that box over to the site yourself? Or even better, taken some of our pre-prepped sandwiches for the whole crew. Show the boy what happens to naughty ones who forget their lunch!"
I pause, the image flashing: Danny over my lap, those massive thighs tensing under my hand, his blush spreading as I deliver a firm reminder. Heat stirs low in my gut, cutting through the annoyance.
"You two are incorrigible." But I can't help the chuckle that escapes. "I might just do that. Teach him a lesson about keeping promises."
"Attaboy," Lazlo says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Go get your Little. And if he's half as smitten as he looked last night, he'll be begging for forgiveness."
I roll my eyes but grab my keys from the hook anyway.
"Fine. But if service tanks while I'm gone, it's on you two," I say, a look of mock threat in my eyes.
They wave me off with matching grins, and I head to the walk-in cooler. If I'm going to the site, might as well make it count. I pull out ingredients—fresh breads, cheeses, meats—and whip up a dozen more lunches in record time. Sandwiches stacked high, fruit, cookies for everyone.
An offering for the crew… and an excuse to hunt down my wayward boy.
The Porsche SUV purrs to life in the alley behind the restaurant, the engine's growl matching my mood.
It's a sleek black beast, more suited to city streets than construction zones, but it'll turn heads.
And right now, I want all eyes on me. The drive to the site is short—too short to cool my irritation—but long enough to rehearse what I'll say.
Danny better have a damn good reason for ghosting.
I pull up to the chain-link fence surrounding the build, dust kicking up under the tires. The site's a hive of activity: cranes swinging, hammers pounding, men in hard hats shouting orders.
As I step out, slamming the door with a bit more force than necessary, heads turn.
Whistles and murmurs ripple through the crew.
Yeah, a Porsche at a construction site sticks out like caviar at a barbecue. Except I’m not some rich client coming to check out the build. Oh no, I’m something else altogether.
I pop the trunk, revealing the stack of boxed lunches, each labeled with my restaurant's logo.
"Hey, Construction Boys!" I call out, voice carrying over the noise. "Free lunch on the house. Another thank-you for the good work you're doing here!"
That gets their attention.
Hungry workers swarm like bees to honey, grabbing boxes with grateful nods and "Thanks, chef!
" echoing around. Sandwiches disappear fast—roast beef on rye, veggie wraps for the vegans, all paired with those cookies.
I spot Xander in the mix, his massive frame easy to pick out.
He takes a box, clapping me on the back.
"Olivier, man, you're spoiling us. What's the occasion?" Xander asks, full of gratitude and intrigue.
I flash a tight smile. "Just showing appreciation. Where's Danny? Thought he'd be front and center for this."
Xander pauses mid-bite of his sandwich, glancing around. "Huh. He was here a second ago. Saw your ride pull up and... bolted. Probably over by his forklift on the far side. Shy type. You know."
Shy? Or avoiding?
My jaw tightens.
"Thanks. Enjoy the lunch." I grab the original box—the special one for Danny—and stride across the site, boots crunching on gravel. The crew parts like the Red Sea, curious eyes following…
No one hides from Daddy.
Not in my town.
The far side of the site is quieter, away from the main action. There's the forklift, engine idling, and there he is: Danny, kicking at the dust with his work boot, shoulders hunched, face turned away.
Even from here, I can see the blush creeping up his neck. Sheepish as a caught schoolboy. He won't meet my eyes, staring at the ground like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I stop a few feet away, lunch box in hand, letting the silence stretch.
“Danny." My voice is low, edged with that command he responded to so well last night. "Care to explain why you didn't show up for your lunch?"
The boy shifts, kicking another pebble, mumbling something I can't catch. The blush deepens, spreading to his cheeks.
God, he's adorable when he's flustered— all that muscle, all that height, reduced to a fidgeting boy.
But adorable or not, he's been naughty.
And naughty boys get reminded who's in charge…
"Look at me, boy," I command. And he does, finally, those big eyes wide and guilty.
Perfect.
Time to show him exactly what happens when you forget Daddy's promises…