Chapter Thirteen
Kian would have told him if something was wrong.
Kian wouldn’t lie to him by omission.
Kian still trusted him.
Bastian repeated these three things over and over as he paced through his kitchen.
He wouldn’t let himself look over at the dining room, where he’d actually set the table for their evening meal.
Kian had really enjoyed the bath he’d had the other night, so Bastian had decided that putting out his nice dishes and buying a few additional candles wouldn’t be too much.
But then Kian had texted and claimed to be too tired to come by.
It was the first night he hadn’t come over since their relationship had begun.
Bastian’s first instinct was to, of course, believe him.
After all, he knew better than anyone how exhausting managing the reins of Terroir was, night after night—and he was used to doing it.
But after a few minutes, doubt had started to creep in. He’d texted Michelle, and asked her how the night had gone, something he’d really tried not to do. Everything he found out about Terroir, he wanted to find out from Kian.
The annoying niggling worry he was hiding something still bothered Bastian.
Michelle’s reply hadn’t reassured him. She’d been deliberately vague, giving no details, merely telling him everything was fine.
It immediately made Bastian believe that nothing was fine.
For five interminable minutes he resisted the urge to drive down to Terroir and make sure it was still standing.
He was lucky to have lasted five minutes, he told himself as he drove down the hill towards the restaurant. After he parked in his normal spot and got out of the car, he looked over the lot and it was quiet and empty, everything as it should be. He typed in his code at the door and walked inside.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been anticipating finding here.
Stainless steel gleamed in the dim light of the emergency lights, and he ran a hand along one prep counter.
It was weird, not knowing what had happened on it today, depending instead on little snippets of what other people told him.
They weren’t ever detailed enough for his comfort.
That, Bastian knew, was the main problem. He wanted to be here every night. He wanted to watch it all, his control freak side comforted by knowledge that nothing happened he wasn’t aware of.
Taking over as chef de cuisine at the restaurant was a huge job—Bastian wasn’t going to discount the enormous effort that Kian had put forth to reach that position and to maintain it.
But sitting back and trying not to strangle Nathan Hess?
Letting someone else, even someone else as beloved as Kian, step forward and run his restaurant? It felt impossible sometimes.
“Just because it’s not easy doesn’t mean it’s not right,” Bastian said out loud, the words echoing through the empty room.
But he’d been followed around by an unassailable belief that his chosen path was the right one for the last twenty years.
Not once had he ever felt even a tiniest bit of uncertainty, and now he was plagued by it.
Surely that meant something? But what it was, Bastian didn’t know, and that was even worse.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Bastian weighed it in his hand for a long moment. Finally, he dialed the number he’d selected.
His mother picked up on the fourth ring, just when he was afraid she’d gone to sleep already.
“Bastian,” she exclaimed, “is everything alright?”
He didn’t know what to say. Was everything alright? It sure didn’t fucking feel like it.
“I just drove down to the restaurant in the middle of the night, to make sure it was still standing. And I resent Kian for knowing what happened tonight when I don’t.” Bastian figured this would answer the question much better than he could.
“You’re there, at the restaurant now?” his mother asked.
“Yeah.”
“Hang on for a few minutes,” Celeste ordered. “I’m coming down there.”
It was late, the roads were dark, and a little bit slick from the rain they’d had earlier in the Valley. He opened his mouth to tell her that she shouldn’t, but she interrupted him.
“Bastian, I am still your mother,” she said and hung up the phone.
Bastian went into his office, flipping on his computer but instead of doing any actual work, merely stared mindlessly at the screen, waiting for her to show up.
The knock on the back door came much sooner than he’d anticipated. Jumping up, he made his way to the door and opened it.
Celeste had a scarf tied around her head and made her leggings and wrap sweater look like high-end fashion, like she wasn’t his mother at all but a retired model.
“Goodness,” she said as he opened the door wider, “it is empty in here during off-hours.”
Bastian frowned, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I wouldn’t turn down a nice nightcap, if you could find one.”
They took one of the service elevators and he led Celeste to the bar, settling her in one of the high stools before ducking behind the bar.
“Any preference?” he asked.
“Something that will loosen your tongue,” Celeste said primly.
“I called you, didn’t I?” Bastian argued as he set out glasses, and pulled ingredients from one of the under-counter fridges.
“That means you know you should tell me what’s bothering you, not that you actually will.”
Deftly, Bastian peeled an orange, rubbing the edges of each glass with the oils.
He dropped a piece of peel in, added a few dashes of bitters, and then poured in a measure of cognac into each glass.
A brandied cherry completed each drink, and he placed one in front of Celeste, and the other at the place next to her.
“I’d be concerned your bartenders will be upset, as I’m sure they account for every orange, for every ounce of alcohol,” Celeste offered as he sat down, “but it’s difficult to imagine anyone being upset with you and actually daring to express it.”
“You’ll need to meet Kian,” Bastian said ruefully. “As for the drinks, you’re not wrong, but I’ll leave them a note.”
“The man you love,” Celeste said. “Yes, I would very much like to meet him.”
It was foolish but Bastian spluttered anyway. Of course he loved Kian, but he hadn’t anticipated his mother calling him out on his feelings. Was he so obvious? Or maybe he was just obvious to her.
Celeste took a sip and hummed approvingly. “Very good,” she said, “but then I would not expect any less. As for you being in love with Kian, of course you are. You gave him the most precious part of you.”
He was quiet for a long moment. He took a drink, but the alcohol didn’t help.
“I see the best version of myself reflected in his eyes. But I don’t want to be that version.
I don’t want it. I want to love him, but I don’t want that.
” He was all too aware of how miserable he sounded.
“I thought this deal with Hess would feel differently, like I was growing and changing and adapting. Learning how to let go. But I don’t want to let go. ”
Her laugh startled him. “Oh, darling, you are your father’s son.”
It was impossible to hear that pronouncement and not tense from the very ends of his hair to the tips of his toes.
“He was an asshole, vraiment,” Celeste continued, her words doing nothing to alleviate Bastian’s edginess, “but some of the things that made me hate him, make me love you more. You’re both stubborn to a fault, and feel intensely, both your likes and dislikes.
You do nothing by half measures. That dedication is why we are sitting here now, at your beautiful restaurant. ”
“I know all that,” Bastian said, though he hadn’t quite come to terms with some of it. Anything remotely familiar to his father was abhorrent and to be rejected, always, no matter what his maman claimed.
“Of course you can’t let go. The best version of yourself isn’t a man who does, it’s a man who doesn’t.”
That was a concept that had somehow never occurred to Bastian. “A man who doesn’t?”
“You’ve convinced yourself that to be better, to be a partner worthy of your Kian, you need to let go.” Celeste shook her head. “Your greatest asset is your ability to never let go. I would guess that is one of the reasons he loves you.”
“I can’t, I can’t just come back here, and upset the structure,” Bastian argued. “Kian would hate me for doing that. For dividing the loyalty he’s trying to earn.”
“Why would you being here divide his loyalty? Would he manage things differently than you? Give different direction?”
It wasn’t difficult at all to shake his head.
He’d trained Kian meticulously himself, and if Kian had ever given him a moment of concern about the direction of his management at Terroir, Bastian never would have promoted him in the first place.
He trusted Kian implicitly, but he worried that the trust was not reciprocated.
“Then, why can you not be here during service?” Celeste asked simply. “You don’t need to completely absent yourself. You’ve made yourself miserable, trying to deny something that is part of who you are.”
“Oui, I am so stupid,” Bastian murmured. Every inch of carpet, every ladle, every chair, every cocktail on the menu, bottle of wine in the cellar, onion in the storeroom—they were all an extension of who he was. He was nothing without Terroir and Terroir was nothing without him.
Celeste placed a hand on his arm. “You are a man. It is to be expected.”
Bastian laughed, the tone rough with emotion. “You’re too good to me.”
“My lot in life,” she said sweetly. “As is Kian’s. He knows what you are, Bastian, better than anyone else. He worked for you for years. He knows what you are, what you need. He has never fought against that.”
“Once,” Bastian said ruefully. “Once, and he was right. Right while being wrong at the same time.”
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Do I wish to know what happened?”
This time Bastian’s laugh felt less torn out of him, and more a product of genuine amusement. “No. No. Definitely not.”