Chapter One
“Did you hear who’s coming in today?”
Kian Reynolds barely glanced up from the reduction he was stirring on the enormous industrial stove.
He’d let his sauce scorch in the last class because he’d let himself indulge in some of the gossipy chatter, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
He wasn’t here to make friends; he was here to learn to cook.
“It’s Aquino. Bastian Aquino.”
Kian’s gaze drifted up for a split second before he could stop himself. “It’s Chef Aquino,” he corrected. “Isn’t he the head chef at Terroir?”Mark, one of the mouthier guys in Kian’s class, snorted. “Isn’t he? Don’t you know, Reynolds?”
What Kian knew was that almost every student at their culinary academy was desperate to get the internship Chef Aquino was offering to their graduating class.
As for Kian, he had already set his sights a lot higher.
Napa was all well and good—Terroir, Chef Aquino’s restaurant, even had a few of the coveted Michelin stars.
New York City was absolutely aspirational.
Chicago and San Francisco were definitely the homes of great culinary minds.
But Kian knew how good he was, and he was going to accept nothing less than an apprenticeship in London or Paris.
Graduation was only a month away, and he’d sent off his applications, and now all he had left was waiting for the replies—and, he added, stir this reduction and try to fend off some of the nastier gossip.
Kian had figured out very early in their three years of training that not many of his fellow students liked him.
His mom claimed their dislike was based entirely in jealousy, and while Kian could definitely see that point of view, it didn’t make him feel any better when the snide comments and sideways glares started.
“I know who Chef Aquino is,” Kian finally said, keeping his voice steady and calm. It was hard to live in Napa and avoid Bastian Aquino’s existence.
“Funny, considering you’re the only student in our class who didn’t apply for Terroir’s internship,” Mark sneered.
“You’re not even supposed to know that,” Kian said. “Recommendation letters are private.”
“Hey!” Mark held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sue me, I overheard two chefs discussing how weird it was that such an . . . exemplary student didn’t apply.”
He’s just jealous, Kian told himself, but it didn’t really help take the sting out of Mark’s words.
Maybe he was dumb. Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped every job opportunity on this continent in a fit of artistic superiority.
Except he knew he had exceptional natural skill that the instructors here had taken the opportunity to hone.
Over half the teachers had personally suggested some of the restaurants he’d applied to in Europe.
He stirred his reduction, eyes focused on the velvety texture, waiting until it was precisely the right consistency.
Was he being obnoxiously cocky if it was true?
“Maybe you’re just worried you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands to yourself. He might be old, but Aquino’s still pretty damn hot.”
Kian knew Mark was gay, and it was no big secret how attractive he thought Chef Aquino was. He’d also made no secret out of the fact that he’d wanted Kian to suck his dick, but Kian had put a very quick end to that possibility.
He wasn’t going to tell his mom that, but Kian believed that jealousy probably accurately characterized both problems Mark had with him.
“If you want to follow Chef Aquino around like a puppy dog, picking up his laundry and picking up the dishes he breaks every service, why should I stand in your way?”
Kian wasn’t proud of losing his temper, but after three years of listening to that asswipe Mark, sometimes it was hard to reel it in.
Today was apparently one of those times.
Still, he’d assiduously watched his reduction the whole time, unlike the last time when he’d very vaguely scorched it during another “discussion” with Mark.
Plus, Mark was still speechless, which Kian was definitely going to count as a win.
“I’d like to think the job is a little more than just kissing my ass,” a deep voice announced, and Kian glanced up from his reduction and nearly dropped his wooden spoon right into the pot.
It was Chef Bastian Aquino in the flesh, and he was so much more than Kian had ever imagined.
He’d gone to a very small combination junior and senior high school in southern Oregon.
His town had less than two thousand people in it.
Even Napa could be small, especially when you were like Kian and kept to a strict routine of school and then the tiny studio apartment he was renting.
He hardly ever did anything, ostensibly to save money for Europe, but mostly because nobody ever invited him out.
The result of all work, no play was that Kian had never met anyone who walked into a room and sucked every bit of air out of it.
Chef Aquino was magnetic, his dark eyes intense and his features generous but delicate, like they’d been sculpted by a master.
He wore a simple blue blazer and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt with his jeans and made them look like high fashion.
Kian could barely tear his eyes off of him, but he had to know if he was alone in wanting to drop to his knees.
When he glanced around, it turned out that he definitely was not the only one.
Even Marta, who made no secret about being asexual, looked fairly shell-shocked.
The man in front of him exuded mastery. You’d trust him to roast the most perfect duck breast, and you’d trust him to take you to bed and demolish you in the best way. Kian gulped air, but his lungs still felt empty. Like Bastian Aquino had command over even the elements.
He sauntered forward, casually but clearly aware that he owned the room. Kian realized as he stopped in front of him that he was completely used to owning every room—and every kitchen—he stepped into.
“Nothing to say to that?” he asked, raising a single dark eyebrow. He had a faintly exotic accent in the corners of his voice, and Kian ordered his knees not to automatically buckle.
Knowing the chef expected an answer and almost definitely an apology, Kian opened his mouth and shut it again. His mind was one long, circling litany of stupid, stupid, stupid, and he couldn’t seem to break out of it, or break free of Aquino’s spell.
That’s what it was, right? Kian thought desperately. A spell of some kind. Aquino was a culinary magician, who cast spells on anything and anyone he wanted.
“I’m sure it’s a . . . lot of work,” Kian finally managed to force out of his uncooperative mouth.
Chef Aquino nodded once, succinctly and surely. And Kian knew that he’d work you hard and long hours, and that he would be an insanely exacting boss—and that he’d adore every impossible moment.
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure he couldn’t go to Europe. Could he leave Napa and get a job in London or Paris, while knowing that a man like this existed? And that he could have worked for him?
Desperation forced another sentence out. “I’m sure you’re looking for the best, the most dedicated student for your internship, Chef,” he added. And that’s me, he added wordlessly. Maybe it should be me.
Of course he’d had no clue what Bastian Aquino was like so he’d never applied for Terroir’s internship. Michelin stars in America? He could remember saying scornfully to someone that they must be easier to earn here, anyway.
In this moment, with Bastian Aquino’s eyes taking him apart molecule by molecule, he wanted to drop to his knees and plead forgiveness for that rash comment. Because of course, even though they’d never met before and Aquino had no clue who he was, somehow he must know Kian had said it.
“I bet you know who that’d be, wouldn’t you?” Aquino didn’t even seem interested in hearing who Kian thought it was; he’d clearly meant it patronizingly and that might have stung, except that he reached out and tapped Kian reassuringly on the shoulder.
The contact was electric. Kian felt like he’d just been plugged into the closest outlet and then switched on high, like one of those gigantic commercial mixers that whirled away, fast as lightning, no matter how thick or goopy the dough was in their bowls.
Even Aquino seemed to react, which Kian couldn’t quite believe because of course it was only him that had experienced the live current between them. But Chef flinched and withdrew his hand quickly, the echo of the feeling reflected in his eyes.
“It would be me, Chef,” Kian said quietly.
But Aquino turned away without saying a word and left the room with Chef Charles.
Kian could only think that his shot had passed as quickly as it had begun.
He could go to one of the instructors and beg to apply for the Terroir internship, but after all his disdain about any job opportunities in North America, he had a feeling that was going to be pointless.
But they wouldn’t understand that the concept of leaving for Europe while Mark or another one of those useless idiots became Bastian Aquino’s personal intern was intolerable.
It shouldn’t have hurt. He’d only spent five minutes staring helplessly at the man, but somehow it meant more than that and Kian was left believing that he’d always regret not trying harder.
The smell of his reduction wafted up and hit his nose just as he realized that he’d neglected stirring it for the aforementioned five minutes.
Kian picked up his spoon and gave it an experimental stir. It was definitely dark brown in spots, nearly black in fact, and the undeniable scorched smell told him the whole story. He sighed; he was going to have to start from scratch on the three-hour process.
Mark walked over and peered into Kian’s pot. He sniffed, his exaggerated grimace making him look even uglier than his personality did. “Forget about it again?” he asked. “Told you Bastian was hot.”