Chapter Five
Nothing , Bastian reminded himself as he pulled into the valet parking station at the downtown San Francisco hotel, you will do nothing.
Kian was next to him, eyes wide as he took in the huge buildings and the crowds of people on the streets around them.
He absorbed sights and sounds and flavors like a sponge, regurgitating them in the most unusual ways.
Bastian had been sure that with time, his desire would fade, and they could settle into a more normal mentor-student relationship, but he discovered that he was more drawn to Kian than ever.
Not just his body or his physical attributes, but his mind—and his heart.
He was incomprehensibly loyal, and believed, even after being let down enough times to turn other people bitter, in the best of everyone.
There had been part of him who believed it was a mistake to take Kian on this short trip to the city for the culinary demonstration, but he needed an assistant, and Kian had become essential to him. So he’d booked them two separate rooms, even though the temptation burned in him.
Nobody at Terroir would know what happened this weekend.
Nobody would ever know if they didn’t use the second room—the only witnesses would be the two of them.
But Bastian knew, just as he’d known a year and a half ago, that it still couldn’t happen.
He was still Kian’s mentor, and what a student he was turning out to be.
He could comfortably sub at any station on the line, even somehow, inconceivably, pastry, and he had made Bastian’s life both easier and fuller, more complete.
When he came home, he didn’t feel as alone as he had.
Technically he still ate alone, showered alone, went to bed alone, but Kian was a ghost next to him, his faithful shadow, the memory of who he was keeping Bastian company always.
It was still hard, to work together every day, and keep the feelings in the tightly-lidded box.
But other than a handful of slips when he’d admitted to Kian just how tough it was, he’d done it because it needed to be done.
He’d known at the very beginning that Kian was going to be a special kind of chef, and in the last eighteen months, he’d fulfilled all that promise and more.
Bastian shouldn’t feel dissatisfied—he’d accomplished exactly what he’d set out to do, which was keep his hands off Kian, and make sure he learned everything Bastian could teach—but the feeling followed him around anyway.
It reminded him, far too often, that he didn’t need to be alone when he ate, when he showered, when he slept. That as gratifying as the shadow of Kian was, real flesh and blood would be exponentially more satisfying.
Shaking the thoughts away, Bastian got out of the car, tossing the keys to the approaching valet, and grabbed their bags from the trunk.
Kian trailed a few steps behind as they walked into the lobby, eyes wide and growing wider, at the spectacularly massive Dale Chihuly glass chandelier, executed in metallic gold and a progression of bloody reds.
On the drive down, Kian had asked him if he did these sorts of demonstrations often. Bastian had nearly told him that he should already know this, because he’d been working for him for eighteen months already, and he hadn’t left the restaurant once. Not a day off in eighteen months.
That’s what the old Bastian would have said anyway—with a bark and a bite in his voice. But even though his employees ignored it, he knew he’d grown softer. Less frustrated with things like social niceties. More apt to answer questions about himself, especially when posed to him by Kian.
“No,” he’d answered simply. “I hate doing them.”
“Then why are you doing this one?” Kian had asked.
“A favor,” was all Bastian had said, but he had a feeling that the favor would show himself soon enough and all Kian’s questions would be answered.
It turned out the favor was hovering near the enormous carved mahogany desk that doubled as the hotel concierge.
“It is so good to see you, mon cher,” Luc said, approaching Bastian with open arms.
“This is a surprise,” Bastian muttered, managing to duck a little and avoid his embrace full-on, relegating him to a sort of half hug. He deliberately set the bags on the floor, also avoiding Luc attempting any cheek kisses.
He wasn’t going to do that. Definitely not with Luc. And somehow, surprisingly, the thought of Kian witnessing it wrenched his stomach.
“They said you wouldn’t come but I told them otherwise,” Luc announced cheerfully. “Even the great Bastian Aquino can leave the enclave of Napa for a weekend.”
There were many times Bastian had been tempted to punch Luc in the face, but none more than right now.
“I gave my word,” Bastian ground out, “so naturally, I am here.”
“Of course, of course,” Luc said. “Shall I show you the setup now or . . .”
Bastian had known Luc would be here. He had fully expected that Luc would want to avoid him as much as Bastian wanted to avoid Luc. However that did not seem to be the case.
“We just arrived. Can we not check in to our rooms first?”
“We?” Luc pointedly looked around Bastian and then saw Kian, who was still transfixed by the Chihuly.
“My assistant and I,” Bastian said stiffly.
“Your assistant?” Luc said slyly, looking Kian over from top to bottom.
Bastian had been wrong; this was the moment he wanted to punch Luc more than any other.
“My assistant,” Bastian repeated, stressing the assistant part. But the knowing look in Luc’s eyes was unmistakable.
It was evidence of how pathetic Bastian had become that he almost wished that Luc’s sly insinuation was true.
“Well, I’ll see you two in the ballroom in a little while. I want to make sure I remembered how you like your mise at your station.”
When they were finally in the elevator, heading upstairs, Kian turned to Bastian. “Who was that?”
“An old friend,” Bastian said, hoping that the closed-book tone of his voice would strongly suggest to Kian to leave it at that.
But one of the things he adored most about the man next to him was his insatiable curiosity. He didn’t want to just try one thing with an ingredient, he wanted to cook it a hundred different ways, until he’d discovered the best possible way to prepare it.
He wasn’t ever going to leave that tantalizing glimpse into Bastian’s past alone.
“Someone you worked with?” Kian asked as Bastian handed him the keycard to his room. “He looked pretty young.”
Not as young as you, Bastian thought to himself.
“Someone I mentored a few years back,” Bastian said, “when I first opened Terroir.”
“Oh,” Kian said. “Someone like me.”
Someone who is nothing like you.
But Bastian was stupid and said, “Sure.” It wasn’t accurate, not in any way that mattered, but he believed it might stop the questions, and that was really what he was after.
He never wanted to talk about Luc, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about Luc with Kian.
“Oh,” Kian said, and the slightly wounded edge in his voice made him immediately want to take it back, but he didn’t, because what was he supposed to say?
I don’t want to hurt your feelings? Nobody is really like you?
Nobody ever, not for me? Those were things a boyfriend would say, and Bastian wasn’t Kian’s boyfriend.
Saying them would only make everything worse, and their relationship already felt constantly fraught with the tension of doing absolutely fucking nothing.
“We’ll go downstairs in an hour,” Bastian said. “So get changed. We’ll have to make sure my mise is how I like it.” It was unspoken that Kian would have to fix it if it was wrong.
Kian nodded, and they both disappeared behind their respective doors. Bastian leaned back against his, head tipped back, eyes closed, wishing that he’d refused to repay Luc’s favor by showing up today.
He should have brought Xander, not Kian, though he knew if he had, Xander’s semi-abrasive self would have scared away everyone and Kian’s wounded puppy dog eyes would have followed him around for a month.
He hadn’t really been able to refuse Luc calling in his favor and taking Xander, or another one of the less experienced chefs had never been an option.
It was fate that he was stuck here, only one wall away from what he desperately wanted, and he couldn’t stop putting his own damn foot in his mouth.
For a moment, he nearly called his mother, but he’d tried very hard not to tell her anything else about Kian. Certainly, she knew something was going on with him, and almost certainly she had guessed it was Bastian’s intern shadow, but somehow she’d refrained from pushing him.
Probably because she knew he was too much like his father in ways he didn’t like, and as a result, didn’t react well to being pushed.
He’d just showered this morning, but he took another one, because the idea of flipping on the television was abhorrent and he was not ready to work—his focus was far too fractured.
But the long hot shower quieted his concerns, and he dressed meticulously in his chef whites, like a general donning his armor for battle.
He exited the hotel room, and found Kian waiting for him patiently in the hallway.
“Ready?” Bastian asked, and Kian nodded again, uncharacteristically quiet.
Bastian recognized the mood though—before taking shifts at some of the newer-to-him stations on the line, he would often grow silent and introspective, as he prepared for the difficult task at hand.
It was a technique that Bastian admired, so he let the silence draw out as they took the elevator downstairs.
The ballroom was filled with chairs, hundreds of them in neat, tidy rows, with a large stage at the front. Luc was standing on the raised platform, directing traffic. Other chefs would be giving demonstrations today, but everyone melted out of the way as Bastian and Kian approached.