Chapter Two #3
He'd gone to LA seeking the first, but never imagining he'd find the second.
“The interview was for a position as a private chef, for a high-profile athlete,” Wyatt finally admitted.
“Who?” Kian asked, finally tearing his attention away from the fish butchering on Iron Chef.
“He doesn’t want to tell us,” Xander said, voice sneering just the tiniest bit.
“It’s Ryan Flores, okay?” Wyatt snapped. He must really be torn up if Xander was managing to push his buttons. Usually he was able to steer clear of his friend and roommate’s bad moods. But today, he’d drove right into the middle of one, and masochistically, he hadn’t just walked away.
He did feel responsible for leaving them without a third roommate to split costs with, and forcing Xander to either accept a stranger or offer Wyatt’s room to Nate.
“Oh, he’s that cute baseball player,” Kian said.
Xander said nothing, just stared moodily at the screen.
“It’s a good job,” Wyatt said. “He’s going to be a good boss, I think.”
“A lot different than Chef Aquino, that’s for sure,” Kian said, that worshipfulness edge appearing in his voice on cue, like it did every single damn time he talked about their illustrious boss and the owner of Terroir.
“Sometimes I think you like it when the Bastard tortures you,” Xander said. And Wyatt was selfishly glad that Xander’s bad mood had transferred from him to Kian. And he loved Kian. Kian was the sweetest of puppy dogs, and definitely did not deserve Xander’s frustration.
Except that he totally enjoyed it when Bastian Aquino tortured him. And Wyatt knew that fact worried the hell out of both him and Xander.
“Don’t call him that,” Kian said automatically, and that was Wyatt’s cue to check out.
Go back to his room, and throw his shit in a duffel bag, donate the furniture to Nate who had picked out most of it anyway, and call it a night.
He didn’t have any doubts that he wouldn’t make it through the dinner service tomorrow.
He probably wouldn’t make it through giving his notice unscathed. Bastian Aquino’s nickname was the Bastard for a reason.
“I’m going to pack,” Wyatt announced to his friends, who were now glowering at each other.
He didn’t need any problems to add to his teetering pile, but he felt personally responsible for the fact that Kian and Xander were going to bicker all the time without him to intervene or distract, and Nate sure as hell wouldn’t help out.
He wasn’t completely self-centered, but he was pretty damn close to it.
“Do you think Chef Aquino will let you work the two weeks?” Kian asked, even though they all knew the answer.
Chef Aquino never let anyone finish their two weeks, except Miles, who had gone to professionally film his video blog series, Pastry by Miles.
And the only reason Miles had gotten an exemption was because Aquino never cut his nose off to spite his face.
If Miles made it onto the Cooking Channel or some shit, which he and his boyfriend and producer, Evan, were always chattering about, then Aquino was going to want a piece of that action, and he was going to want to say that he’d groomed Miles and then kindly wished him on his way.
Wyatt was abandoning Terroir for a private chef job. Basically, for money, and Aquino, who despite having plenty of money of his own, hated that.
It should have bothered him. It should have made him even a little sad. But Wyatt found he couldn’t wait to leave and head south.
To stability, and to Ryan.
Wyatt had known tying up all his loose ends in Napa would be easy.
For someone who loved stability, he lived a surprisingly simple existence.
His belongings—clothes, laptop, books, knives, his sous-vide—they all fit in two duffels and a handful of boxes.
His furniture he donated to Xander and Kian to keep for Nate.
If he knew Nate at all, he would refuse to argue with Rage or Rake or whatever the fuck he was called to get any of his own furniture back.
All Nate really cared about was his clothes and his shoes and his fucking wine, anyway.
He typed out probably the shortest letter in the history of the world, giving his notice. One line, and it probably wasn’t even a complete sentence. But he didn’t believe Aquino would even waste time reading it, and he certainly wasn’t going to reminisce fondly over the job he was leaving.
Someday, Wyatt let himself think, someday, I’m going to have a job where I respect people and they respect me back, and maybe I even get to call the shots. A job where I get to make the big decisions and when people love the food, it’ll be because of me.
He wasn’t na?ve enough to think the job with Ryan was going to be like that.
He was technically free of the Bastard’s iron fist, but he was really only changing one controlling boss for another, slightly less controlling one.
There were still going to be rules. Cook this meal, prep this week of lunches, make this protein shake every morning, follow all these dietary guidelines.
Would a little bit more freedom really feel life-changing?
Wyatt didn’t think so. The only life-changing part of this was the stupendous starting salary. That would change his life, and alleviate much of his stress.
With that thought on his mind, Wyatt drove his bike over to the memory care facility he’d moved his nana to a few months earlier.
She had gone reluctantly, and even Wyatt could acknowledge that she might not have needed the amount of care they could provide just yet, but he was terrified of getting a phone call in the middle of the night that she’d wandered away from her house or set something on fire because she’d forgotten she was using the stove.
It was a Friday afternoon, when Wyatt was usually at work, so it was great to be able to surprise her.
She was sitting by the window in her room, book upside down in her lap, eyes drifting across the gardens behind the home.
The beautiful grounds had been one of the main reasons why Wyatt had picked this place for her—even if he couldn’t really afford to.
He’d desperately wanted to give her something beautiful, even as her life progressed further into the dark.
“Nana,” he said softly, jerking her from her daydreams. She glanced up, blue eyes still bright even at her age, and the recognition in them was immediate.
Every time he came, he dreaded the first moment, the first time she might not recognize him. So far it hadn’t happened, but the possibility was always there, twisting his stomach into knots.
“Wyatt,” she exclaimed, getting to her feet, the book sliding to the floor with a thud. She glanced down in surprise, his gaze tracking her own, and he saw the astonishment in it.
She’d forgotten the book was on her lap. It could be the sort of momentary memory lapse everyone experienced—or it could be her disease progressing. Wyatt’s stomach twisted again, but instead of letting the worry show, he smiled wide, crossing the room and wrapping her slight form in a big hug.
To him, as a boy, as a teenager, and even as a grown man, she’d always been larger than life. It was hard to feel her bony limbs under his hands as he led her to the small sofa that faced her TV.
“I didn’t expect you today,” Beatrice Blake said, her eyes shining like Wyatt had done something amazing, even though he still felt he wasn’t doing enough.
“Had the day off,” Wyatt said. He tangled his fingers in hers and held tight. Tight to anchor her to this world, and not lose her to the next. “For an interview in Los Angeles, actually.”
Her smile dimmed a little, worry clouding her gaze. He’d told her a million times not to worry about the money after he’d taken over her finances, but she did anyway. “What’s this new job? It can’t possibly be better than Terroir.”
“It’s way better than Terroir,” Wyatt said, and found that he wasn’t even lying to her, though he had been prepared to. “It’s for a really nice baseball player. He needs a private chef. It’ll be a great opportunity to run my own kitchen.”
Her pride in him radiated out of her sweet, barely wrinkled face. She’d never have admitted it to anyone, but she’d always been a little vain. And Wyatt liked to slip her the face cream she loved so much, and had always used religiously, even though it was expensive.
“He’s a baseball player?” Bea asked.
“He plays for the Dodgers,” Wyatt confirmed. “I think it’s going to be a great opportunity.”
“But you’re moving.” Her face fell a little. He already knew what she was thinking; she might not see him very much. Wyatt reminded himself to send his brothers a guilt text, trying to get them over here to see her more often, so she wouldn’t be lonely.
“I’m going to be up here at least once a week, though,” Wyatt insisted. “The nice thing about working for Ryan is that he’s going to be on the road a lot, and I won’t always be needed in LA.”
“I’m just happy you’re doing something for you,” Nana said, a fierce edge to her voice.
She might look delicate, with her spun sugar white hair in a cloud around her worn, pale face, but her blue eyes were still bright and she still wanted the very best for him.
Would fight for the very best for him. Which was why he’d never told her about the shit that went down regularly at Terroir, or that he was taking this new job for the money, so she’d be properly taken care of.
“Tell me about what you’ve done this week,” Wyatt said. He didn’t want to lie to her. He would, but he didn’t want to.
“It’s so nice here, Wyatt,” she said. “They have such nice people. And we do fun things. They take me to Mass every week. There’s an art instructor once a week and we’re working on a painting. I didn’t think I had an artistic bone in my body, but it looks okay.”
“You’ll have to show it to me when it’s done,” he said.
She blushed. “I don’t know about that. It’s not exactly fine art.”
“I don’t care,” Wyatt vowed. “I still want to see it.”