Chapter Eight
Kian couldn’t believe it. Even after everything that Damon had put Xander through, they’d ended up together.
Instead of Xander sulking alone, ranging from furious to distraught that Damon had abandoned him during the opening of their restaurant, they were currently cuddled up together on the couch—like Kian didn’t even exist.
Xander probably wouldn’t be happy to hear that Kian was especially pissed off that of all the people in the world, Xander had ended up blissfully happy and blissfully in love.
Prior to meeting Damon, Xander had been bitter and lonely and downright curmudgeonly.
While Kian was happy for his best friend, it wasn’t supposed to be Xander who’d found the love of his life—it was supposed to be Kian.
But then, Kian thought morosely as he tried to avoid watching the happy couple make out, I’ve already found the love of my life.
Every single fucking time Kian believed that he and Bastian had finally managed to find a way through their situation, instead of pointlessly and endlessly spinning their wheels in the exact same damn spot, Bastian would slam on the brakes.
It wasn’t like Kian hadn’t thought this through.
He had. He’d spent the last two years, falling deeper and harder, and trying to ignore his feelings, but they weren’t going away.
The chance they would seemed slimmer than ever.
He’d weighed the pros and the cons, and he’d decided that something needed to change.
Anything had to be better than the place they were in now.
But Bastian wouldn’t even have a conversation about it.
He said, nope, it’s not happening, like he was the one who got all the say in their relationship.
As far as Kian was concerned, that was fucking bullshit.
Kian might be young and a little na?ve, not as experienced in the culinary arts, but he knew what he wanted. He knew what it might cost, and he was willing to take that chance anyway.
He couldn’t sit here anymore. As much as he liked them both, Xander and Damon were sickening together, and every second Kian did nothing, he got angrier.
And he was already really fucking angry.
You don’t know what you want! You don’t know what you’re giving away.
Bastian’s words from a month before kept echoing through his head—but he’d been so fucking wrong.
Kian knew because Kian wasn’t a fucking idiot.
It was definitely a risk, but life was a risk, and why should they settle for this hopeless half relationship when they could have more?
Possibly without sacrificing a goddamn thing?
Kian stood up suddenly.
“Where you going?” Xander asked lazily, and Kian tried to ignore that Damon was kissing a line up his neck. “You look sort of pissed off.” He sounded surprised, like Kian couldn’t possibly be pissed off.
Oh, Xander had no fucking clue how pissed off he could be.
“I am pissed off,” Kian bit off. “And it’s none of your fucking business where I’m going.”
Xander would almost definitely try to stop him, if he knew, and so Kian wasn’t going to tell him. This was something he needed to do for himself.
He grabbed his wallet and his keys and climbed into his tiny little used hatchback.
The drive to Bastian’s house didn’t take very long. He’d thought when he arrived there would be less anger and more nerves, but as he pulled into the circular driveway, he still felt pretty fucking pissed off.
He banged on the front door, and then again when Bastian didn’t come to the door. It seemed unbelievable that he wouldn’t be home, because where else could Bastian be?
Picking up another young, na?ve kid because he steadfastly refused to touch Kian?
He’d never believed that was even a remote possibility.
First, it didn’t even seem like something Bastian would do, and second, he’d never caught even the tiniest bit of gossip that Bastian was out in Napa, hooking up with random guys.
But where else would he be?
It was so late, the only thing open this late were some of the seedier bars on the outskirts of town.
And while Kian had believed at the beginning that Bastian led this incredibly glamorous life, he’d long since learned that Bastian did exactly what all his chefs did: go to the restaurant early and leave late and go straight home after.
He pounded on the door again, not because he really thought Bastian was going to answer, but because he had to get some of this goddamn frustration out somehow.
Maybe Bastian was right after all, Kian thought despairingly, maybe there really was never a right time for them.
He’d refused to believe it before—when you felt something this strongly, it needed to be for a reason—but fate was currently, very forcibly, reminding Kian of all the realities that he didn’t want to face.
He nearly pulled out his phone and called Bastian. He imagined barking into the phone, demanding to know his whereabouts, the way Bastian did when any of his employees dared to be even five minutes late.
But before he could dial, he heard tires on the gravel turnoff to Bastian’s house, then he saw lights.
A moment later, Bastian pulled up, parking his very fancy car right next to Kian’s junker.
He got out, and even in the dim light, Kian could see he was frowning.
“What are you doing?” Bastian asked. “Is everything okay?”
It was Bastian’s normal MO to ask a series of fast-paced questions. The practice tended to put the other person on edge, and immediately established in any personal encounter who was in charge.
Kian had recognized the technique after being subjected to it hundreds of times, and afterwards, he’d continued to let Bastian do it. Because at Terroir, he was in charge, and Kian was supposed to be learning from him.
But they weren’t at Terroir now, and Kian had zero intention of letting Bastian just take over the way he always did.
He’d come here to flip the script, and he intended to follow through.
“Where were you?” he challenged right back.
Bastian looked gratifyingly surprised. “Where was I?”
Kian crossed his arms over his chest, and tried, despite his babyface, to look stern. “Where were you?”
“Uh,” Bastian said, pausing on the top step. “I was visiting my mom.”
Now Bastian wasn’t the only one looking surprised. “Your mom lives here?” Kian asked.
“Yeah, a few miles up that way. Sometimes I visit her when I can’t sleep.”
That was the opening Kian had been waiting for—not Bastian talking about his mother, but Bastian admitting that he was struggling just as much as Kian was.
“You can’t sleep?” Kian questioned as Bastian typed in the code to unlock the front door.
Bastian shot him an incredulous look.
“Me either,” Kian admitted, because while he’d intended to control this conversation, honesty was also important. They walked into the foyer, and then into the living room.
Bastian’s house was on the extreme end of the open-floor-plan concept. The kitchen sat to the left, with a long counter and barstools set neatly in a row. A long bank of windows, with the terrace that looked out across the valley, let in the only ambient light.
Kian assumed the bedroom lay to the right, but he’d never been in there before. Maybe tonight that would finally change.
“I came here tonight because I’m done not doing anything about it,” Kian continued, walking over to the windows. He wondered if anyone could see in, and then decided he didn’t give a fuck. If they wanted to watch, let them watch.
“What do you mean?” Bastian sounded guarded and uneasy. Not surprising, considering he was a control freak and Kian had just yanked all his control away.
“I’m done playing around,” Kian said, turning around. “We’ve played around for two years.”
Bastian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Is that what we were doing? I thought I was teaching you to become a great chef.”
“You were, you have, at least enough that I know what it takes to be one. And I intend to be one.” Kian paused, gesturing between them. “What I’m talking about is a little more personal.”
Bastian opened his mouth, no doubt to deny that anything personal between them existed, which was a huge fucking lie, and that set Kian’s determination on fire.
He was going to keep denying this as long as he could. As long as Kian let him.
“Yeah,” Kian interrupted. “About that.” And he reached behind his head and tugged his t-shirt off. “I told you I’m done fucking around, and that means I’m done fucking around.” He tossed the garment onto the arm of the couch.
Bastian laughed again, but it wasn’t quite so bitter and it wasn’t quite as controlled as before. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Toeing off his shoes, Kian kept his gaze steady on Bastian. “You know what I’m doing.”
It would have made this a hell of lot more dramatic if he’d been wearing more clothes, but he was wearing enough. He leaned down and tugged his socks off, first one and then the other. They landed next to his t-shirt.
Fists clenched at his side, Bastian looked torn—like he wasn’t sure if he should demand Kian put his clothes back on, or join him, instead.
Kian knew exactly which way he wanted Bastian to fall.
He unbuttoned his jeans and then unzipped them, but didn’t shuck them quite as quickly, just let them hang on his hip bones. Raising an eyebrow, he shot Bastian a very frank look.
“Are you going to join me?” Kian asked finally when Bastian just kept staring, like he was the angel and the devil, wrapped up in one altogether too-tempting package.
If Bastian continued to emphatically deny it, Kian wasn’t sure what else he could do. Could he stand, for an extended period of time, naked in Bastian’s living room until he made up his mind?
Fuck yes, he could.
Shoving away the last remnants of modesty, he shoved his jeans past his hips and let them fall to the floor. Bastian continued to stare; Kian wasn’t sure he’d even blinked in the last few minutes.