Chapter Seven #2
“Good,” he replied, and after giving Kian some final cleaning instructions, and when to expect the stitches to disintegrate, and what to do if they didn’t, he left.
Kian’s eyes had grown wide and dazed with the pain medication. He looked down at their hands.
“You didn’t need to do this,” he said. “It’ll make you late for service.”
It probably would. But in the last few hours, Bastian had discovered something more important than a service at Terroir. The realization was still blowing his mind.
“This is my fault,” Bastian said brusquely, “so yes, I should be here.”
“Not your fault,” Kian said, still staring at their hands. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “You tell us to use the protective gloves, and I don’t.”
“Yeah, because you’re too busy to use them,” Bastian said.
Kian smiled. “No, because I like to impress you.”
It was almost impossible not to groan in frustration. “Yeah, exactly,” Bastian insisted, the edge of his voice growing rough. “I let you do it. I like it when you try to impress me. I’m a terrible boss, and a terrible person.”
“No,” Kian said dreamily, “you’re wonderful and I love you.”
It wasn’t as if Bastian didn’t know. The way Kian looked at him, hot and possessive and adoring, when nobody else was watching made it difficult to deny. But it was one thing to wonder about it, far too late at night when Bastian should be sleeping, and it was another to hear Kian say it.
There were a million things he wanted to say. I’m too old and too grumpy and too egotistical for you. I’d just ruin you. I’d ruin your future, which is going to be spectacular. I’ll only slow you down.
But most of all, I love you too.
But before he could make the choice, the nurse bustled in with the release paperwork, and when they made it to the car, it felt too late. And maybe, Bastian thought morosely, Kian hadn’t meant it after all. He was hopped up on drugs. He probably wouldn’t even remember this in a few hours.
Bastian hoped he wouldn’t remember this in a few hours. They hadn’t exactly been great at keeping the status quo—the kiss still loomed large, and he thought about it all the time—but Kian’s confession might destroy the line forever.
The kitchen was nearly clean from the night’s service—it hadn’t been the smoothest dinner they’d ever served at Terroir, but it hadn’t been a disaster either—when Bastian’s phone rang.
He usually kept his phone in his office when he was on the line, but tonight he’d kept it in his pocket—just in case Kian needed him.
It had stayed quiet all service, but now Kian was calling him.
“What?” he asked quietly, ducking outside, hoping nobody was outside for their post-service cigarette. “Are you okay? Is everything okay?”
Kian laughed, and Bastian still heard the drugs in his voice. “I’m fine. I’m at Damon Hess’ with Xander.”
Bastian frowned. “You’re what?”
“I’m at Damon Hess’ with Xander,” Kian repeated again, like it was no big deal. “But you need to come get me. I think they want to start making out and I’m sort of in the way.”
Leaning against the building, Bastian looked up to the sky, wishing and despairing all at once.
“You didn’t drive?” he asked, before he remembered that with the meds he was on, driving was a bad idea.
“Silly, Bastian, I can’t drive. Xander drove.” Bastian’s heart skipped a beat. Kian had only ever called him Chef, or Chef Aquino to his face. He’d always imagined that Kian thought of him differently, maybe even by his first name, but hearing it was so much different than just imagining it.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Bastian said. It was a monumentally terrible idea. Considering Kian’s weakened brain-to-mouth filter and Bastian’s own dangerously shaky line between what was right and what he really wanted—this felt like an even worse idea than San Francisco had been.
And San Francisco had been a certifiable disaster.
Still, twenty-four minutes later, Bastian pulled up to Damon’s farm. He could see smoke and light coming from the property behind the small ranch-style house and debated whether he should get out of the car or if he should just text Kian to say he’d arrived.
But this was Damon Hess’ property, and there was a part of Bastian that wanted to show both him and Xander exactly where Kian’s loyalties lay.
Just in case they had any insane thoughts about poaching him.
Kian was his, and there was a barbaric, caveman-esque part of Bastian that wanted everyone to know it.
Even though everyone probably already did. They’d both attempted subtlety, but that wasn’t really Kian’s strong suit, and it definitely wasn’t Bastian’s.
He got out of the car, and stripped off his chef jacket, tossing it in the back seat, leaving him just in his white tank. He’d already swapped his working clogs for the sneakers he usually kept in his office.
Detouring around the house, he saw the beginnings of the garden as he had the last time he’d been here. It even looked as if Hess had ripped out even more priceless vines, the vineyards in the back looking thinner than they had before, in the dim light provided by the bonfire.
He could see Hess and Xander, standing close together, and to his own astonishment, he was surprised.
He didn’t generally expect romantic attachments in other people, probably because his own had been so few and far between.
But it would help explain why Xander hadn’t even been a little tempted by his counteroffer.
He’d known Xander wouldn’t take it when he’d offered it, but he hadn’t expected Xander to be so sure, so quickly.
But he had, and Damon must be the reason.
Bastian supposed he could see the attraction.
He was good-looking, if a little brooding for his own tastes.
Xander had never been particularly caught up in good-looking men before, but Bastian supposed that was what those people who believed in love at first sight were always nattering on about.
Sometimes you saw someone, and you connected with them despite everything.
Bastian approached the bonfire as he watched the light flickering off the delicate features of Kian’s face.
Two years in and he still couldn’t explain it, couldn’t quantify it.
Couldn’t fucking contain it. He knew the moment Kian saw him because his face lit up, like Bastian’s arrival flicked on a lamp inside him.
Bastian was the least humble person he knew, but the way Kian looked at him sometimes was incredibly humbling.
He knew he didn’t deserve it and wasn’t ever capable of deserving it—and Kian knew that, had been witness to so many moments that should have changed his mind, but he’d stayed steadfast and loyal and true, and Bastian couldn’t deny it any longer, in love.
“You came,” Kian said, approaching him, his voice still a little breathless.
“I said I would,” Bastian said. “How’s the finger?”
“It hurts.” Kian made a face, and Bastian chuckled in spite of himself.
“I’m sure it does,” he said sympathetically. “Let’s get you home.”
Kian glanced down at Bastian’s hand, and then at his own, the one he hadn’t tried to bisect today. He knew what Kian wanted, and the better part of him should have turned away, continued on to the car so Kian wouldn’t have a chance.
But Bastian had never pretended to be an angel, and he stayed there, waiting as Kian reached out and took his hand in his own.
There was a million things Bastian could say.
One of them definitely was, I only did that because you were hurting and scared and it made us both feel better.
But he didn’t, because even though the circumstances were different, the way Kian’s hand curled into his own still made him feel better.
Helped cleanse away a little of this wretched day.
Because he’s still hurting, Bastian told himself as they walked back to his car, but even he didn’t really believe the lie.
Kian had to let go when they reached the car, but as soon as they were back inside, Bastian took a deep breath and placed his hand on the center console, palm up. Eyes wide, Kian glanced at the offered hand, and then back up to Bastian’s face.
It was the simplest of touches—it could even be construed as platonic, but there was nothing platonic about the thrill Bastian experienced whenever Kian touched him.
Kian smiled and tucked his hand right back into Bastian’s own.
Bastian let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “We should talk about this,” he said carefully, even though the last thing he wanted to do was talk and potentially destroy the rest of the ramshackle hut currently trying to contain all his apprehension about this relationship.
Shooting him a very frank look, Kian shifted around in his seat. “If you’re going to say that you regret today, that you regret taking me to the emergency room and that you regret holding my hand, even as you’re doing it now, you might as well not bother.”
“I meant about what you said earlier,” Bastian said, and even though his voice was steady, he knew his pulse wasn’t, and it was very possible that Kian could even feel how terrified he was in the sudden dampness of his palm.
“What I said earlier?” Kian asked, and even though he’d been so green and innocent when he’d started at Terroir—and in some ways, still was—Bastian knew when he was actually clueless and when he was just pretending. He could fool other people, maybe, but not Bastian. Never Bastian.
“You know what you said earlier.” It was likely very obvious that he was trying to avoid actually saying the same words Kian had, but then Kian was also pretty damn transparent about his own memory.
“What was it?”
Bastian gnashed his teeth and pulled the car over onto the side of the road. He threw the car into park and turned his full attention onto Kian, who had the faintest smile on his lips.
“Is that it?” Bastian demanded. “You want me to say it?”
Shrugging, Kian glanced down at their intertwined hands again. And Bastian knew exactly the point he was trying to make.