Chapter 10
Olivier
“This is the dream,” I say as I take a deep breath and survey my surroundings. “Or a big part of it at least…”
The food supplier's warehouse sprawls like a cavernous market from some industrial dream—rows upon rows of towering shelves stacked with crates, the air thick with the earthy scent of soil and ripening produce.
It's early morning, the kind where the fluorescent lights buzz overhead like artificial suns, illuminating the vast space that could easily swallow a small supermarket whole.
Forklifts hum in the distance, beeping as they maneuver pallets loaded with vibrant colors: ruby-red tomatoes piled high in wooden bins, leafy greens like kale and spinach bundled in misty freshness, crates of oranges glowing like captured sunlight.
The vegetable section alone is a spectacle—enormous heads of broccoli florets as big as fists, cauliflowers pristine and white, carrots in earthy bunches with their feathery tops still attached, and potatoes in every variety tumbling out of burlap sacks.
Fruits dominate another aisle: apples in shades from Granny Smith green to Honeycrisp blush, bananas hanging in yellow clusters, exotic imports like dragon fruit and starfruit adding pops of pink and yellow.
The air is cool, humidity-controlled to keep everything crisp, with the faint drip of condensation from overhead misters keeping the greens perky. Vendors shout orders across the floor, haggling over prices, while workers in high-vis vests dart about, checking manifests.
It's chaos, but organized—my kind of place.
Antonio and I weave through the aisles, our cart already half-full. I pick up a bunch of asparagus, feeling the firm snap of the spears, inhaling that fresh, green aroma.
"These will do for the special tonight,” I say. “Grilled with a lemon beurre blanc."
Antonio nods absently, tossing in a crate of bell peppers without his usual scrutiny.
Normally, Antonio thrives here—eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store, debating ripeness, negotiating deals with the suppliers he's built relationships with over the years.
He'd haggle for that extra discount on heirloom tomatoes or spot the perfect zucchini hidden in a pile.
But today?
Not so much.
Something's off. Antonio’s movements are mechanical, his chatter minimal. No jokes about the "ugly" produce we could turn into gold, no excitement over the new shipment of exotic mushrooms. He's distant, gaze unfocused, like his mind's a thousand miles away.
And it’s got me worried.
I glance at him sidelong as we approach the herb section—basil, mint, cilantro in fragrant bundles, their leaves dewy and aromatic.
"You okay, Antonio? You're quiet today," I enquire, my tone even.
He shrugs, grabbing a handful of rosemary without checking for wilt.
"Fine, chef,” Antonio replies. “Just... thinking."
Thinking.
Right.
I let it slide for now, but it nags at me.
As we load up on onions—sweet Vidalia in mesh bags, red ones glossy and firm—I can't help but drift into my own thoughts…
This warehouse always takes me back to my days with Laurent.
Hell, that man was a force. The suppliers back home were similar—vast halls echoing with curses and the thud of crates.
Laurent would drag me along at dawn, half-asleep and hungover from the night before, teaching me not just to pick produce but to feel it, smell it, understand its story.
"The best dishes start here, Olivier," he'd growl, squeezing a melon for ripeness.
"Not in your fancy pans. Learn the source, respect it. "
We'd spend hours: him quizzing me on varieties, me fumbling through explanations until I got it right. So much of my education happened in places like this—away from the heat of the kitchen, in the raw heart of ingredients.
Laurent wasn't just a mentor, he was a guide, pushing me without possessing me. When I finally branched out, he didn't resent it—he celebrated. "Go make your mark, boy. But remember where you started."
Antonio's like that young me—hungry, talented, on the cusp.
I've tried to be his Laurent, fostering that fire. But if he's distant today, maybe the cusp is closer than I thought. And that’s a scary thought if I’m being honest with myself.
There aren’t many Antonio’s in the world, and I know that my restaurant would suffer in his absence.
Who is to say that I would ever find a number two as talented and committed as him?
We finish up, cart groaning under the weight: eggplant sleek and purple, zucchini in shades of green, lemons zesty and bright. The supplier, old Marco, gives us the usual deal—extra herbs thrown in for loyalty.
Antonio barely engages, just a curt nod.
Outside, the parking lot is a sea of delivery vans and pickups, the cold air a sharp contrast to the warehouse's controlled humidity. We haul the crates to my SUV—sleek black, out of place among the workhorses but practical enough with the seats folded.
Antonio grabs a crate of broccoli, those deep green florets packed tight, but his grip slips. It crashes to the asphalt, a few heads rolling free. He stares at it for a second, then kicks out in frustration, boot connecting with the crate and sending more broccoli scattering.
“Fuck!” Antonio exclaims, spinning and lashing out into thin air out of pure frustration. “Bullshit.”
"Whoa, easy!" I set my load down, stepping in front of him.
His face is flushed, fists clenched—not at the produce, clearly.
"Calm down, Antonio. It's just broccoli.
We'll salvage it." I crouch, gathering the escaped florets, but my eyes stay on him.
"But this isn't about the veg, is it? Talk to me. Whatever's eating you, I'm here."
Antonio deflates, running a hand through his dark hair, leaning against the SUV.
Hesitation flickers—loyalty warring with whatever's brewing.
Finally, he sighs.
"Chef... I've been offered a head chef gig,” Antonio says, his eyes calmer but still full of passion. “In New York. Big place, Michelin potential. I’d have full creative control and a big budget to work with for a new interior and staff selection. It’s… big time."
The words land like a dropped knife—sharp, unexpected even though I could have seen it coming. I stand, crate in arms, processing.
New York.
Head chef.
Of course.
He's ready. I've known it. But hearing it? That’s a gut punch.
"That's... huge. Congratulations," I say. I mean it, but my voice tightens.
Antonio nods, but his expression is torn.
"I don't want to leave,” Antonio says. “This place, the team. I don’t even like big cities. And you've taught me everything. But... I need to challenge myself. Step out, like you did. See if I can hack it on my own."
I set the crate in the trunk, motioning for him to hand over his.
"Follow your heart, Antonio,” I say. “Do what's right for you. If New York's calling, answer it. But know this… my door's always open. Call anytime. For advice, a rant, whatever. You've got the talent to make this work. Don't ever doubt that."
He passes the crate, our eyes meeting. Gratitude mixed with regret.
"Thanks, chef,” Antonio says, clearly burdened by the whole thing. “Means a lot."
We pick up the scattered broccoli in silence, brushing off dirt, salvaging what we can. It's not ruined—tough stuff, broccoli—but the metaphor hangs heavy.
As we pack the SUV, stacking crates neatly, my mind races internally.
Losing Antonio? Catastrophic. He's my right hand, the one who anticipates my needs, pushes the menu forward. The restaurant's rhythm depends on him—the innovation, the execution.
Who replaces that?
A new hire? Promote from within?
Standards could slip, reviews dip, and suddenly I’m past it and in crisis according to the foodie world.
And personally? Antonio is like a protégé, almost family. Watching him go would sting, just like it did for Laurent with me.
But I meant what I said—better to launch him right than hold him back.
Still, a worry gnaws at me… the kitchen without his energy, the late nights solo.
Change is coming, ready or not.
We climb inside the Porsche, engine purring to life.
"Let's get this back," I say, forcing lightness. "Team's waiting."
But inside me, the what-ifs swirl.
The restaurant's future just got a whole lot more uncertain…
Despite the situation with Anontio hanging over me, not to mention him, the evening service ends on a high note… the kitchen humming like a well-oiled machine, plates flying out flawless, guests lingering over desserts with satisfied sighs.
Antonio's prosciutto-wrapped pork is a hit, the sage rub infusing every bite with that perfect balance of savory and aromatic. Reviews will be glowing tomorrow, I can feel it.
But as the last team member clocks out and the lights dim in the dining room, that earlier conversation in the parking lot weighs heavy.
Antonio's bombshell lingers like smoke after a flare-up.
I change out of my whites, slipping into a dark Henley and jeans, the fabric soft against my skin after a long shift. Danny's text earlier confirmed he's waiting—eager, sweet boy that he is. We agreed on a quick beer, something casual before I drop him at the hotel.
But after today, I need the unwind.
I need my boy.
Danny is outside when I step out the back door, bundled in a jacket against the chill, Lexi peeking from his pocket like a purple sentinel. His face lights up when he sees me, that shy grin melting some of the day's tension.
"Hey, Daddy. Good service?"
"Outstanding," I reply, pulling him into a quick hug, inhaling his clean scent of soap and faint sawdust from the site. "Ready for that beer?"
“Yup,” Danny says. He nods, falling into step beside me as we walk the quiet streets.
The city is settled into late-night mode—most shops shuttered, streetlights casting golden pools on the frost-kissed sidewalks. The air is crisp, biting at our cheeks, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the occasional laugh from a passing group.
Snow threatens in the clouds above, heavy and gray, but for now, it's just us, boots crunching softly. It feels so right, so comfortable. It’s crazy to think that we’ve know each other for such a short time because truthfully our bond seems so much deeper than that.
We walk in comfortable silence at first, my arm slung over his broad shoulders—he has to hunch to make it work, but he leans in anyway. Then we work it out much better. My arms goes around his lower back. Now we fit perfectly.
Then it spills out…
"Rough day beyond the rush," I admit, voice low. "Antonio... he's been offered head chef in New York. It’s a big opportunity."
Danny glances up, concern etching his features.
"That's... huge for him,” Danny says, seeing that this is complex. “But bad for you?"
I nod, exhaling a cloud of breath.
"I’m terrified of losing him, honestly,” I say.
“He's the best I've got. Innovative, reliable.
The restaurant runs smoother with him. But I can't hold him back.
It's what he needs. Challenge, growth. Persuading him to stay feels selfish.
Like clipping his wings." I think of Laurent again, how he let me go without guilt.
"I want to be the mentor who builds up, not the one who pushes down and kills ambition. "
Danny squeezes my hand, his massive one engulfing mine.
"You'll think of something, Daddy. You're smart like that. And me and Lexi, we'll brainstorm ideas too!" He pats his pocket where the dragon stuffie nestles, voice slipping into that adorable Little lilt. "Lexi says you're the bestest chef ever, so you'll figure it out."
I can't help but chuckle, the sound rumbling deep as I pull him closer.
"You and Lexi, huh? My secret consultants," I laugh. “You’d be better than most of those fancy ass Ivy League consultants that are constantly screwing around with restaurants.”
Danny’s optimism cuts through the worry, lightening the load.
This boy is big as a bear, with a heart pure and open.
We reach the corner outside the bar—a cozy spot with neon signs flickering "Open Late," a few patrons visible through fogged windows.
But before we step in, I stop, turning to face him.
The streetlamp catches his eyes, wide and hopeful.
Something shifts—the air charged, intimate despite the cold. I cup his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw.
"Thank you, darling boy,” I say. “For listening. For... being you."
Danny blushes, leaning in. Our lips meet—passionate, hungry. His mouth soft yet demanding, tasting faintly of mint, hands gripping my coat as I deepen it, claiming him right there on the sidewalk.
It's fire and comfort, a promise in the quiet night.
We break apart breathless, foreheads touching.
"Actually," Danny whispers, voice husky. "Instead of beer... what I really want is to spend the night. With you. For real."
My boy’s eyes search mine—vulnerable, eager.
The moment's right.
I feel it too.
No more holding back.
"Yeah," I murmur, flagging a passing cab with a sharp whistle. It pulls up curbside, yellow light glowing. "Let's go home."
We slide into the back, my hand on his thigh the whole ride—possessive, reassuring. The city's a blur outside, but inside, anticipation builds.
Back at the apartment, door barely closed before I'm on him—kissing fierce, hands roaming his broad back, peeling off layers. Danny responds with equal need, his massive frame yielding beautifully as I move and manipulate his body.
We make it to the bedroom, the king bed waiting, city lights filtering through windows. Our clothes scatter, his shirt revealing that sculpted chest, my hands tracing every ridge.
“I’ll never get tired of this view,” I say, taking a moment to admire Danny in all his strong, hulking glory.
He's breathtaking—powerful yet submissive, letting me lead.
I guide him down, exploring slow: kisses trailing his neck, nipples, abs. He gasps, arches, whispering Daddy like a prayer.
Tonight, it’s all about me and the boy…