Dinner for One (5 page)

“Of course,” he says, turning the burner off and bending to grab a colander. His thoughts feel scattered, his nerves distracting him. “Tell him I’ll get right on that.” He can definitely fit that in. He just has to finish this first. What should he make him? “Offer him his choice of wine, on the house. And send out a bread basket.” He wonders if he has any allergies, foods he just can’t stand. He stops Henry right as he’s about to leave the kitchen. “Ask him if there’s anything he doesn’t like.”

With Henry gone the staff around him decide it’s time to start poking.

“Brought a date, did you?” teases Renee, a petite blonde sous chef.

“I don’t know if anyone ever told you, but you’re supposed to spend the date
with
your date,” laughs John, the dishwasher.

Bastien huffs, keeping his gaze focused on the food in front of him and his mind running through the possible dinner options. Maybe he should go off menu? No, he thinks, that says too much. “This isn’t a date,” he says. He doesn’t know what it is. “Should I make
piperade
or
poulet basquaise
?”

Poulet basquaise beats out piperade and earns coos of “how fancy” from more than one of the kitchen staff.

“Totally not a date,” mocks Thomas, one of the cooks.

Bastien sticks to his guns and endeavors to ignore them. Eventually this is going to get back to Jean, and he’s never going to hear the end of it.

He’s pouring the olive oil into the pan when Henry pops his head back in to tell him he has the all clear. “No allergies or dislikes. He says he hopes you cook as good as you bake.” He waits a minute, eyebrow raised, clearly hoping Bastien is going to explain what that means. He departs when Bastien makes no effort to do so, leaving him to the mercy of the rest of his curious staff.

The chicken is browning in the pan, and he’s busy chopping tomatoes, humming along to the light French music playing in the background. He nearly takes the tip of a finger off when Jean pops up behind him and taps him on the back. He brandishes his knife at him. “Seriously?” he demands. “Do you know how stupid it is to sneak up on someone in a kitchen?”

A little bit of tomato flicks off the knife and lands on Jean’s chef whites.

Jean looks down at the faint red smear on his previously pristine whites. He brushes at it, frowning intensely as it smudges. “Do you know how stupid it is to wave a knife around?” He finally looks away from the stain, giving up on fixing it. He glances around Bastien to look at the cutting board. “I heard you have a date you’re cooking for. Thought I should come investigate.”

Bastien groans, turning back to his food. He’d bet money Henry had run back to the office to let Jean know. He works with a bunch of gossiping teenagers it seems. “Well,” he says, “you’ve come and you’ve seen. Now you can go back to your job.”

“What’re you making?” prods Jean, crowding against his side.

Hopelessly he wonders if brandishing the knife again will scare him off. He somehow doubts it. “Poulet basquaise,” he says and then, after a hesitation, “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“It’s hard to go wrong with a chicken stew,” answers Jean neutrally. “It’s a pretty safe bet, I’d say.”

Bastien breathes a sigh of relief. That’s exactly what he’d been thinking when he was trying to decide. Oftentimes French food could be a little… eccentric. He couldn’t deny it. They did eat snails after all. This is a much simpler dish ingredientwise and not likely to contain anything someone might not like.

He expects Jean to disappear now that he’s done some snooping and gotten some answers, but the crazy man moves to the empty station next to Bastien and starts pulling out pots and pans. Bastien side-eyes him. “What are you doing?” he asks, pausing in his dicing of the remaining tomatoes.

“You haven’t had a date in months. I’m going to take care of your orders so you can focus fully on this.”

“I’m a professional chef,” says Bastien incredulously. “I’m capable of cooking more than one thing at the same time.” He does so on a daily basis. It’s not that difficult. He wonders if Jean has lost his mind.

“Don’t complain,” says Jean. “If it makes you feel better, you can think of this as me being bored and needing a break from the office.”

Knowing he’s not going to get anywhere with arguing, Bastien decides to accept that and move on with his life. He pushes the tomatoes to the side and gets to dicing the onions. The chicken is just starting to brown when he glances at it, and he makes a note to remove it from the pan soon. They work in companionable silence, easily moving around each other as they reach for ingredients and move dishes.

When Bastien finishes preparing the dish, he stares down at it, suddenly unsure now that the easy part is done with.

“Is something wrong with it?” asks Jean, peering over his shoulder. “It looks good to me.”

“Do I take it to him or do I have Henry deliver it?” asks Bastien. “What’s the etiquette here?”

“I’m thinking a visit from the chef would be appropriate,” says Jean, only smirking a little at Bastien. “Stop overthinking this. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

“You don’t get ulcers from stress,” mutters Bastien. He’s had more than one doctor inform him of that. He takes a deep breath and shifts the bowl of stew onto a serving tray. He’s going to bring it to his guest himself.

He leaves the kitchen to low whistles and even some clapping. He can feel the blush warming his face as he lets the door swing shut behind him. At this rate it’s going to become permanent. It takes him a minute to spot his guest and when he does his breath catches. He’s seated at the table next to the fish tank, his head turned as he watches the fish do whatever it is fish do. All Bastien can see is his profile, but it’s a stunning one.

In the lighting of his restaurant, his dirty-blond hair appears almost golden, and the bone structure of his face is strikingly apparent, the soft light accentuating the hollows of his cheeks and throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief. Bastien wants to nibble his way along his razor-sharp jawline.

He pushes the stirring of warmth in his stomach away, focusing on the task of getting the stew to the table without spilling it. He doesn’t want to make an ass of himself.

His guest turns to look at him, a smile stretching across his face when Bastien comes to a stop beside his table.

“Straight from the chef,” his guest says, laughing. “I’m flattered.” His eyes are crinkling at the corner, and he looks smug. Bastien’s stomach swoops.

He carefully sets the bowl on the table and slides the tray under his arm. He smiles back, more than a little nervous. “I did tell you to ask for me,” he says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Is he supposed to sit down?

“Can you spare a minute to sit?” asks his guest, looking amused by Bastien’s indecision.

Bastien thinks of Jean in the kitchen, cooking for him, and nods, relieved to have the invitation. He slides into the opposite seat and hopes he doesn’t look too awkward. He sets the tray on the empty spot in front of him. “Thanks,” he says. He nods at the stew. “I hope you like it.”

“What is it?” asks the man, unrolling his napkin to find his spoon.

“Poulet basquaise,” says Bastien. “It’s a chicken stew.” He’s not sure what to do with his hands. He folds them in his lap.

“Did you make it yourself?”

Bastien nods. “Of course.” He must have made a face, because the guy laughs a little before taking his first bite. He watches, his breath stuck in his chest, as the spoon disappears between plush pink lips. He watches his jaw work, his throat bob as he swallows. He realizes he still doesn’t know this man’s name, and maybe he should get that if he’s going to sit there and ogle him.

He’ll ask once he can breathe again.

After what feels like hours of watching him chew and swallow—noticing the way his eyelashes flutter as his lids lower, the way he’s savoring the taste—he gets a reprieve. A chance to catch his breath and make sure his mouth isn’t hanging open.

“It’s good,” says the guy, sending him a small smile. “You cooked this perfectly.” He’s already bringing another spoonful to his mouth.

Bastien beams, can’t help it. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is unusually husky. He clears his throat. He twists his fingers together in his lap. “So I realized I didn’t get your name, and uh, I should probably… do that.”

The guy’s laughing again, but this time he’s putting the spoon down and extending one large hand in Bastien’s direction. He’s got long fingers, with neat nail beds and a scar across his right knuckle. “My friends call me James.”

“Nice to meet you, James,” he says, shaking James’s hand. His hand is slightly larger than Bastien’s, cool against Bastien’s warm palm. When he lets go, he has to resist the urge to wipe his hands nervously on his pants. He’s at a loss as to what to say next. He’s not good at these things.

Thankfully James doesn’t have the same problem. “Your religieuses were a hit with my family.” He smiles at Bastien charmingly. This one a little bit crooked. Bastien wonders if a crooked smile is different than a regular wide one. Does it mean James is joking? Or is it just random that it comes out so adorably lopsided? “It killed me to share, but I didn’t think I should hog them all to myself.”

Bastien laughs, ducking his head self-consciously, letting his hair fall over his forehead. “I’m glad you liked it so much. I’m thinking about adding it to the menu here.”

“You’ll have people knocking down your door for it.” He says it between bites, but he looks like he means it, isn’t just trying to flatter Bastien.

Right then Bastien wishes he had some religieuses on hand for James. He doesn’t, but he asks, “Did you want me to make you a dessert?”

James shakes his head, and Bastien’s stomach drops in a not so good way. James quickly adds, “If you have to make me a dessert, then you have to get up and leave. I’d prefer the company.” His lips quirk a little, and their knees brush under the small table. “Besides, I think I can spare my waistline tonight.”

Bastien dips his gaze down, even though he can’t see James’s waist through the table. He clearly remembers his body from the bake sale. “I don’t think you have to worry about your waist,” he says without thinking.

That earns a startled laugh, and Bastien can feel himself blushing once he realizes he said that aloud. He clears his throat and nervously looks away. “Um,” he says.

“Thanks,” says James, sparing him. “I have a friend who is a personal trainer, so I take advantage of that.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “He’s doing a good job,” says Bastien. His ears feel hot. He wonders if James can see how red they must be.

James slants him a look, a pleased smile curling his lips. “When’re you off tonight?” he asks.

Oh.
“Um,” he says again, needing a minute to process. Jean’s in the kitchen cooking for him, and he could probably get him to cover till close. But could he ask that of him? He tries to remember the last time he had sex. The last time he went on a date or even had anyone make an offer. It’s been a long time.

Would he look too eager if he said now?

“In an hour?” he says. “If I… if I go back in now and finish some things.”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” James says, his dimple flashing. “Better get moving.”

BASTIEN’S SLACKS
cup his rear end in a truly indecent way, showing off the firm mounds of his butt to perfection. He’s got a confident walk, a relaxed rolling of his hips as he moves. His chef whites stretch across his shoulders, looking sexy in a way he’s never thought a chef’s top could. The ginger hair at the base of his neck is curled from the heat of the kitchen.

Honestly James hadn’t been planning on doing this. He’d been walking by and thought why not? If he’s in the area, he might as well pop in. That’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.

He’s not sure what his excuse for asking Bastien out after his shift is, though. He’d like to say he’s been body snatched and someone else has done all that flirting, but that would be a lie. He’s entirely aware of what he’s doing and doesn’t seem to be able to stop it. Doesn’t really want to stop it if he’s being truthful.

The stew is
good
. He’s pretty sure he’s taking Bastien home. It would be perfect, except for the fact he didn’t tell Bastien who he really was.

He puts another spoonful in his mouth, delighting in the texture of the chicken. He thinks it’s probably an awful idea, and he won’t keep it up for long, but for the moment he’s going to follow his brother and sister-in-law’s advice. If this didn’t work out—from natural causes—then revealing his food critic identity would be added stress for nothing.

He’s aware the logic is a little faulty there, but he’s going to go with it. That leaves him with one other problem.

The food is excellent. Much better than the first time he’d been here. Now that he has the knowledge food like this can come from Bastien’s kitchen, it feels wrong to leave his negative review standing. What if people avoid Bastien’s restaurant because of his quick opinion and miss out on food that is damn near orgasmic?

Or he could be biased. Are his taste buds being affected by his lustful feelings? Could that happen?

He pulls out his phone as he takes another bite, sending a text to one of his fellow critics. He’ll have them swing by L’amour Dans La Ville and let him know what they think. If they feel the food is excellent, then James will know he’s not letting his cock lead him astray.

Satisfied with that decision, he finishes his meal, trying to pace himself. He doesn’t want to sit aimlessly for near an hour, and as much as he’d like dessert, he has plans for the night that don’t include a food coma. For that same reason, he keeps his wine intake light. Aware that thoughts of what he’d like to do later this evening will lead to a rather inappropriate erection, he tries to steer his thoughts toward other avenues. He watches the couples in the restaurant, tries to pick out how long they’ve been dating, if they’re happy with the food and service.

He used to mind eating out alone, but it’s a part of his job, and he’s grown used to it. He’s the only person seated by himself, and he sees several people flicking him curious glances. He thinks if he’d had truly innocent plans when coming to this restaurant, he’d have brought his brother or a friend.