Chapter 8
Olivier
“Perfect,” I say, my hands on my hips. “Well, as close to perfect as we can ever get in this business.”
Lunch service wraps up smoother than silk, the final plates whisked away, the kitchen settling into that post-rush calm where everything gleams under the lights. The team disperses for their breaks, and I'm left at the pass with Lazlo and Antonio, mapping out the evening.
It's our ritual: ideas bouncing like ping-pong balls, refining the menu to keep things fresh, checking in on one another for ideas and inspiration.
Antonio leans over the counter, gesturing animatedly…
"For the mains, let's elevate the pork tenderloin—wrap it in prosciutto with a sage rub. Guests are loving the charcuterie vibes lately. Pair it with those glazed heirloom carrots we sourced from the local market."
I like it.
Lazlo nods, scrolling through reservation notes on his tablet. "Solid. And dessert? Push the chocolate torte with that sea salt caramel drizzle. It's flying out. For front of house, I'll train the new server on upselling the wine—focus on the bold Italians to match the richness."
Great work.
Antonio jumps in again, eyes alight. "Exactly. And a quick amuse-bouche to start… whipped ricotta with truffle honey on crostini. Sets the tone just right. Elegant but approachable."
I listen, arms crossed, genuinely impressed.
Antonio's not just executing anymore, he's innovating, layering flavors with confidence that rivals my own at his age. His ambition shines through—subtle risks, bold payoffs.
It hits me hard: this kid's ready for more.
Much more, in fact.
Head chef at a rival spot? His own place? It's inevitable unless I step up. Partnership equity? Creative director role? I owe him the kind of mentorship that lifts, not holds back.
My mind drifts to my early days in those brutal kitchens, scraping by, dreaming big. Chef Laurent saw the hunger in me, didn't squash it. He taught, challenged, then let me fly when the time came.
"Build them up, Olivier," he'd say. "That's how the craft survives."
I want that for Antonio—guidance without chains.
But figuring out the offer? That's tomorrow's problem.
My phone vibrates…
DANNY: Can't wait for dinner tonight. Been thinking about you all day ;)
That pulls a grin I can't suppress. The boy's straightforward, sweet—eager in a way that tugs at something deep. There’s no playing games, no standoffish bullshit that so many boys seem to do these days. Danny is salt of the earth but more special than a shooting star.
Damn, I’m falling for him.
And I’m not exactly hiding it either.
Lazlo spots it immediately, smirking over his tablet. "Ah, the smile. That's the construction hunk, isn't it? Our iron-fisted chef going all soft. Careful, Olivier, you might start comping lunches for the whole city next."
Antonio chuckles, wiping his hands on a towel.
I bark a laugh, masking the warmth. "Soft? Watch your mouth, or you'll be peeling potatoes till dawn." I fire off a few orders to the lingering prep team—"Restock the mise, rotate those stocks"—and grab my keys. "Gym. Hold everything down."
I know they see my tough guy act and don’t buy it.
We’ve been together for too long, there’s too much respect between us.
And I’m cool with it. It takes a lot to form real bonds in this industry, and in the shape of Lazlo and Antonio I know that I’ve struck gold in a way that many chefs can only dream of.
But now it’s time to leave them. I need some Olivier time.
They salute mockingly as I head out, the cold biting as I slide into the Porsche.
The drive clears my head, radio low. Gym time: essential release.
The place is quiet mid-afternoon. Perfect.
Locker room quick change, then straight to the weights. Bench press to start: warm-up sets, then heavy, plates clanging as I push, chest firing.
Squats next, bar loaded, legs driving up with controlled power.
Deadlifts finish—back tight, grip iron, each rep shedding the day's stress.
Sweat pours, muscles swell, endorphins flood my system and I’m feeling good.
By the end, I'm pumped, sharp.
The shower steams hot, and I feel ready—commanding, in control.
For the restaurant. For him.
Home by late afternoon, the apartment is welcoming as always. It's my sanctuary above the restaurant: exposed red brick walls warmed by recessed lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city skyline, now twinkling as dusk falls.
The open-plan living area flows seamlessly too. Sleek Italian kitchen with marble counters and pro-grade appliances gleaming under pendant lights, a massive leather sectional couch facing a fireplace with a modern gas insert flickering softly.
Bookshelves line one wall, stocked with cookbooks, novels, a few framed awards.
To be honest, I’m in the game for the love of food not the awards, but I can’t deny that it makes me feel proud to see what I have accomplished.
And even better that I know how many negative people and jealous chefs will be fuming at my success too.
Maybe I haven’t always gone about things the right way, especially in my younger years when I was cocky, loud, and a little arrogant at times.
But I always had Laurent looking out for me, guiding me—and he told me that with success would come rivalries, bitterness, and spitefulness from others.
Shit. I won’t lie. To this day I still smile sometimes at knowing how those stuck up chefs who thought all they had to do was show up can’t get over my success as a newcomer to the industry with no family ties.
Anyhoo…
The terrace beyond the glass doors overlooks the street below, strung with subtle lights for evenings out there. Minimalist but luxurious—dark woods, neutral tones, pops of color from fresh herbs on the counter and art on the walls.
But no clutter.
Everything has purpose. It's impressive without trying too hard, a reflection of discipline and good taste. But I also know that it’s missing something. Hell, a few wooden building blocks or even stuffies wouldn’t look that out of place here…
I prep dinner methodically: chicken breasts marinated in olive oil, garlic, lemon zest, and herbs; quinoa cooked fluffy; broccoli steamed crisp; a side salad with feta, tomatoes, cucumbers.
High protein, balanced.
Fuel for a hard-working boy.
And now candles ready, jazz playlist queued low.
Eight on the dot—the buzzer goes.
“Punctual,” I chuckle to myself. “Must have been the spanking.”
I open the door, and Danny stands there, towering in the frame, freshly showered, hair damp, in dark jeans and a t-shirt that strains over his chest. Nervous energy radiates from him, those fidgeting hands, quick smiles, and darting, innocent eyes.
"Right on time," I say, stepping aside. "Come in, boy."
He enters, eyes widening as he takes it in. "Holy... this place is insane. The windows, the view. It feels like a penthouse in a movie. And that kitchen? Pro level." He runs a hand along the marble island, awed. "Smells amazing already."
"Perks of the trade," I reply, closing the door. "Make yourself at home. Wine? Water?"
"Water's good," Danny says, still gawking at the terrace, the fireplace. "This is... just wowzers. You live like a king."
I chuckle, pouring him a glass. "Hard work. Now, dinner's almost ready, but I could use a hand. Ever julienne carrots?"
The boy blinks, setting his bag down—a dragon stuffie peeking out. "Uh, no. I'm more forklift than fine dining."
"Perfect,” I say, my voice gentle. “Lesson time." I hand him an apron, tying one myself. At the island, I set up boards, knives sharp as razors. "Watch."
I demo: top and tail the carrot, square it off, thin planks, then precise sticks.
Fast, fluid, precise.
"Key is grip,” I advise, noting how Danny; is making more and more eye contact with me. “Claw your hand to protect those fingers—and steady pressure. Rhythm over force."
He mimics, tentative at first, knife wobbling. "Like this?"
"Close. Relax your wrist." I step behind him—close, my chest to his back—and guide his hand, mine over his massive one. "Feel the motion. Smooth."
Together, we slice and the carrots fall uniformly.
I sense his breath hitch at the proximity, his body tensing then relaxing into me.
"Got it," Danny murmurs, voice husky. We finish the batch quick, his cuts improving. "That was... fun. You're a good teacher."
"You're a quick learner," I say, plating. "Sit."
We eat at the table overlooking the city lights. He devours it, calls it "the best post-work meal ever.” I listen as he praises the flavors, asks about techniques. Honestly, the conversation flows: his day on site, crew antics, my service stories.
But I see the fatigue—yawns creeping, eyes heavy from hauling all day.
"You're exhausted," I say, clearing plates. "Daddy's Orders. Couch. Cuddles. No arguments."
Danny’s cheeks pink, but he nods. "Yes… Daddy."
We settle on the L-shaped couch with its deep cushions, soft throw blankets. I pull him close, his head on my chest, massive frame curling into me surprisingly small.
“Here, try this, I say as I reach for a pacifier from the drawer—he takes it gratefully, sucking soft, his dragon stuffie tucked under his arm.
As Danny’s breathing deepens, drifting off, I stroke his hair.
This—him peaceful, trusting—hits different.
It’s ways more than just attraction, the physical pull.
This is care. Protection. Love, maybe brewing fast.
But as Danny begins to snore lightly, the realities of the situation loom: cities apart, my hours, his travels.
Fuck. It’s complicated as hell.
Yet holding him as he sleeps, the city humming below... I'm all in. Ready to navigate it.
For this boy? I might be ready to do whatever it takes.