Chapter Three
Bastian had known Kian had something indefinably special from their first meeting.
But he was sure of it, beyond a doubt, when early one morning—he’d had to set his alarm twenty minutes earlier to actually avoid running into him in the parking lot—he’d gone into the dish room and seen what Kian had changed.
It was a lot more efficient, so efficient, in fact, that Bastian felt a tiny pulse of shame for never trying to improve Jorge’s situation.
Jorge was a silent, diligent, reliable worker, and he wouldn’t have ever considered changing anything because he was so grateful for the job Bastian had given him ages ago.
But Kian wasn’t just trying to prove his loyalty.
For some reason, he was trying to prove that he deserved to be promoted from the dish room.
It wasn’t like Bastian didn’t have every intention of doing that.
What was the point of going to all the trouble of hiring an intern if you kept him scraping plates?
But he liked the hunger and the tenacity and the risk Kian had taken.
It reminded him, if he was being very honest, of himself, a very long time ago.
That was both good and, frankly, sort of terrifying. Bastian knew what sort of hell he’d raised and how difficult he’d been in every kitchen he’d ever set foot in—including his own.
Definitely his own.
When Xander showed up, they consulted about the soup.
He liked Xander, even though he didn’t have a lot of respect for anyone else’s culinary skill, including Bastian’s own.
There was a healthy ego brewing in that chili pepper-bedecked head of his, and someday, he wouldn’t be content with making all the sauces and the soup three times a week.
Someday, Xander was going to demand more, probably chef de cuisine or a position as sous that wasn’t essentially meaningless.
Bastian was going to have to give it to him or lose him, and that stung.
But Bastian knew it was the price of wanting to work with the best. Each of them were hungry and ambitious, and Xander was hardly an exception to this rule.
Someday, Xander would make a great head chef, but today was not that day, and to keep his ego somewhat in check, he shot down the first two of Xander’s ideas for the soup, forcing him to dig deeper into his well of inspiration and find something that was really good.
He looked about five seconds away from beating Bastian with the huge stainless steel soup ladle, but Bastian was fairly certain that he wouldn’t resort to assault—at least not yet.
At least not until Xander had gotten what he wanted out of his employment at Terroir.
“When Kian comes in later,” Bastian said offhandedly, like this wasn’t the reason he’d come over here in the first place, “tell him to come see me, first thing.”
Bastian watched as Xander tamped down his temper, embers still flaring in his brown eyes. He knew Xander wanted to remind him that he was a chef, not a messenger boy, but Xander had a small dose of self-preservation, at least, and managed to keep his mouth shut. He gave Bastian a quick nod.
“Excellent,” Bastian said. It was time to teach Kian more than just how to efficiently scrape a plate.
“Before you get started, he wants to talk to you,” Xander hissed as Kian rounded the corner into the kitchen.
Xander already had a few splashes on his whites, which meant that he’d been elected to make the soup today. Usually that put Xander in a better mood, but he didn’t look like he was in a particularly good one today.
“Everything okay?” Kian asked, a gut reaction. He’d rearranged the dish room, with Jorge’s help, but he had yet to hear a peep from Chef Aquino about what they’d done.
He hadn’t been fired either, which Kian was taking as a fairly positive sign.
“He just wants to see you,” Xander said. “And watch out, he’s in a mood.”
“A mood?”
“A bad mood.” Xander grimaced. “Though that’s hardly unusual.”
Since meeting him for the first time, Kian had become more than a little obsessed with his new boss.
He’d read every magazine feature and restaurant review he could get his hands on.
He listened to every story whispered during prep that he could hear from his own dishwashing station.
He lingered over the family meal if talk turned to Bastard stories, of which there were many.
The thing was, Xander wasn’t entirely wrong.
Chef Aquino definitely had some bad moods.
He was unbelievably sensitive to even a perceived insult, easily frustrated, quickly bored, and had a zero-tolerance policy for mistakes.
But Kian wouldn’t have said that he was always in a bad mood.
His mood was mercurial, and he tended to react badly to stimulus—sometimes even if it was something good.
Kian had realized that what Chef needed was someone to be the first line of defense, to absorb whatever was going on before it could even reach Chef.
And that, he was convinced, was the real reason Chef had hired an intern.
Chef Aquino might not understand exactly why yet, but Kian believed that was why he was at Terroir.
The kitchen was comfortably staffed, and though there was always a lot of work to be done, Kian hadn’t been able to identify one particular hole that needed filled—except protecting their commander-in-chief.
Chef would teach him everything he knew, and Kian would make Chef’s life a little easier. He’d already decided it was a good trade-off.
He approached Bastian’s office and, surprisingly, the blinds in Chef’s office were lowered for the first time in the week since Kian had started at Terroir.
His heart beat a little faster with the realization.
Maybe he was going to be fired after all.
But he’d also heard all the horror stories.
Chef wouldn’t care about privacy for something like a termination.
He’d do it in the middle of service, right on the line.
He didn’t care about anyone else’s pride; only his own.
Kian had been washing dishes at his house since he was seven years old and had done another healthy stint in the dish room during culinary academy.
Chef wasn’t trying to teach him how to wash dishes; he was trying to teach humility.
Maybe his ego had been a little inflated after dominating so many of his classes.
So instead of approaching the office like Xander might, like even he might have a week ago, Kian knocked hesitantly.
“Yes,” Chef answered immediately, and Kian walked in.
Chef gestured to the chair opposite the desk.
It was made of a metal base and a hard plastic sculpted seat.
It was unbelievably uncomfortable, which was the complete opposite of the modern leather office chair Chef was seated in.
Kian had a feeling that particular disparity was completely on purpose.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that maybe Chef was actually a closet sadist.
“You wanted to see me?” Kian asked.
Chef was already dressed for service, but he hadn’t buttoned the top few buttons of his coat, the lapels hanging open, revealing a tanned neck and even the hint of a collarbone.
Kian tried to focus on the desk instead, but Chef’s hands were there, clearly scarred and nicked, but strong and sure.
His nails were trimmed short, and he tapped one on the glass desktop.
Just the sight of those hands was enough to nearly send Kian into a fantasy spiral.
But at the last moment, the point of no return, he jerked his focus back, trying to remember that Bastian Aquino wasn’t just the sexiest man he’d ever seen, but also the most competent. And his boss.
Someone who, with one single word, could make sure that Kian was never hired to work in a kitchen ever again.
“I’ve spoken to Jorge,” Chef said. “And I’ve looked at the changes you’ve made to the dish room.” He tapped his fingers again, like he wasn’t sure how he felt about either one.
But Kian wasn’t fooled for a single moment. Chef knew exactly how he felt; he was just trying to draw out the moment so Kian would squirm, would insert something ill-advisable into the lengthening silence.
Kian might be very green, but he wasn’t stupid. He stayed quiet and waited.
Chef nodded absently, but with approval. “To my utter shock, they were actually good changes.” He paused again, and Kian curled his fingers around the plastic seat, fighting the urge to fidget. “Why did you make them?”
That was not a question that Kian had been expecting.
“Uh,” he said, and saw the reaction instantly. Chef’s dark brows slammed together, his lips curling patronizingly.
He doesn’t like it when people don’t know, Kian reminded himself. He likes it when his staff is confident, but not overly confident.
“I did it,” Kian said, starting all over again, “because I saw inefficiencies, and I know how important efficiency is to you.”
“And you didn’t bring the suggestions to me because . . . ?”
Kian took a deep breath. He knew what Chef expected him to say. Knew and had to fight against his petty machinations being exposed for exactly what they were.
“I wanted to impress you,” he admitted, “and I wasn’t sure you’d give me the opportunity to do that if I didn’t take matters into my own hands.”
Chef hummed absently, fingers resuming their tapping. “And you wanted to get out of the dish room,” he added.
“I’m here because I want to help you and because I want you to teach me. If for now that means I need to stay in the dish room and make it as good as it can be, then I’m willing to do that.”
Kian was almost one hundred percent sure that this moment was the first time he’d ever surprised Chef Aquino. His eyes grew wide for an instant.
“You really mean that,” he said, like he fully expected Kian to deny it. “You’d stay in the dish room if I told you to.”