Dinner for One (9 page)

“Can this conversation be over?” he asks.

Jean nods. “God yes.” He stands, pats Bastien’s shoulder awkwardly, and beats a fast retreat.

This is why you don’t open businesses with friends. He loses himself in the work, and the dinner rush that night is hectic. One of their servers calls in sick, and another is still in training. They have five different large parties, one of which involves a wedding proposal, and Bastien has to deal with the fiancé-to-be sneaking back to check on the state of his proposal dessert and the ring multiple times. It’s cute at first, annoying every time after.

He also thinks it’s a waste of food.

“Can we place bets on the likelihood of her chipping her tooth when she accidently bites the ring?” asks Renee, peaking over his shoulder while he carefully inserts the ring in the center of the pastry as instructed and fills in the hole.

“Go right ahead,” says Jean. “We made the proposer sign a form saying they couldn’t sue us if she damages herself.”

Bastien snorts. “I’m not entirely sure how legally binding that is.”

Jean shrugs. “I think the odds are low enough that we don’t need to worry about it.”

Ever the shark, Renee turns to Jean. “Does that mean you’ve got five bucks on her finding the ring with no excitement?”

“Ten,” he says after a moment, looking like he’s thinking about it way too hard.

She turns to Bastien, and he shakes his head. “I’m not getting involved in this. Why don’t you bet on the odds of her saying yes to such a cliché proposal?”

Renee socks his arm. “She’s going to say yes. People love this shit.”

Bastien carefully swirls the icing into a rose. “If someone proposes to me like this, I’m going to say no and end it.”

“Such a romantic,” croons Jean.

He’d shrug, but he doesn’t want to fuck up the pink carnations he’s trying to draw around the large rose. “I want something personal. That shows they know me. If they do something like this, I’ll know they haven’t actually been paying attention.” He outlines a petal. “Proposals should have meaning.”

“Maybe it does have meaning to her,” points out Renee. “Different strokes for different folks and all that jazz.”

He laughs. “I guess.”

Of course the guy comes back yet again, led in by Henry, who’s trying very hard not to look fed up.

“It’s coming along great,” Bastien assures him, trying not to be offended when the guy stoops over the pastry and looks at it from every angle. He has to remind himself this guy is paying a small fortune for this service.

He delivers the dessert himself when it’s ready, and the kitchen grinds to a momentary halt that they really shouldn’t, to huddle around the door and look out. Even Bastien does it, ignoring the contradictory ache of want in his stomach even though he hates the idea of this proposal.

He can’t help his grimace when he watches the bride-to-be spit out the ring. Gross. She doesn’t look like she did any damage, though, and Jean crows happily, holding out his hand for his winnings.

Everyone starts to clap, and the woman has her arms thrown around the guy’s neck. She said yes, then.

Jean and he go out to wish the happy couple congratulations and offer them a complimentary bottle of champagne.

He feels worn thin by the time the night is done and they’re shutting the door behind the last group of customers. He rolls his head, sighing as his neck cracks. “Maybe we should hire on-call servers,” he says to Jean, looking at a slumped Henry. He likes having a small, personal staff, but clearly they need to be able to find backup for when a staff member can’t make it in.

They go to collect their things and head out, and Bastien shakes Henry’s shoulder, waking him from his nap. “Go home,” he says gently.

Henry blinks sleepily up at him, and then his eyes widen. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, patting down his pockets. “I meant to give it to you earlier, but I didn’t have the time, and you were so busy, and God, I’m sorry, I know how mopey you were earlier.”

Bastien blinks at the barrage of words and looks down in confusion at the paper Henry presses into his hand.

“The guy from yesterday dropped that by.”

Jean claps him on the shoulder before he can properly process that. “Aw, look at that,” he crows. “It worked out.”

His fingers shake when he unfolds the paper to find a hastily scrawled message:

Sorry, forgot to give you this.

Dinner at mine tomorrow night to make up for it?

A normal person would probably wait till they were home to put the number in their phone and text a response. They wouldn’t want to appear too eager. But Bastien doesn’t know how long James has been waiting for a reply. What if he’s been feeling as moody as Bastien? The polite thing to do is end any worry he might be feeling.

It takes him three tries to enter the number correctly, his stupid thumb hitting the seven instead of the eight multiple times. He fires off a quick
yes
before he realizes that he should have started with saying it was him. Jean’s laughing, reading over his shoulder, as Bastien types out
This is Bastien
and hits Send.

He’s only got one foot out the door when he feels his phone vibrate, and he glances down to see James has replied. He’s sent him an address and
It’s a date ;)
.

He smiles the whole way home, and he doesn’t even care that Jean teases him mercilessly for the half of it he walks with him.

Chapter Six

CHANGING AT
work was the easiest thing to do in terms of getting to James’s at the earliest time, but he should have known his staff wouldn’t let it go uncommented. They whistle and clap as he appears, wearing a pristine gray button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and hip- hugging black slacks.

“Someone goes all out,” laughs Renee. “Man, you clean up nice.”

Bastien pulls a face at her. He’s never not looked “cleaned up.” That doesn’t stop him from smoothing his hands nervously down his thighs and asking, “It’s not too much?” It’s just dinner at James’s house. They’re not going out somewhere fancy. The whole thing is very casual. His outfit not so much. He’d had jeans laid out on the bed and a royal blue sweater, but they hadn’t felt right.

“You look fantastic,” Renee assures him, and the rest of the staff supports her.

As he exits the kitchen, heading out for the night, they all singsong, “Someone’s getting laid tonight.” If he had to guess, he’d say Jean had them planning that since they’d come in. He’s immensely relieved he opted not to have seating near the kitchen.

He’s nervous on his way over and has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from picking at his nails. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. Things are good between them.
Really good
.

James lives on the fourth floor of a snazzy apartment complex, and Bastien pauses, staring up at it. Apparently James is a very successful writer. There’s a doorman, who asks for his name, and when he gives it, the stately older gentlemen directs him to the third elevator on the left. There aren’t any numbers to press, just an up or a down arrow. Bastien tries not to be impressed that James has his own elevator. If Bastien wanted to live in an apartment like this, he could. Somehow that doesn’t make it any less amazing to him, though.

The doors open out onto a cream-colored, short hall, and the heels of his dress shoes clack sharply on the tiled floor. The apartment door opens before he can get to it, revealing a smiling James. He’s wearing dark slim-fitting jeans, and a dark blue cardigan over a black V-neck. His feet are bare.

“Like what you see?”

Bastien flushes, jerking his gaze to meet James’s lovely green-gray eyes. “Well,” he says, “I guess it’s okay.”

James laughs, stepping out into the hall and putting his hands on Bastien’s waist. He kisses him, light and teasing, before pulling back. “And to think I made you dinner. Maybe I’ll make you watch me eat it all.”

He pouts, widening his blue eyes dramatically. “But I’m so hungry,” he says, making his tone as plaintive as possible and trying not to laugh.

It earns him an amused snort, and James takes his hand, tugging him into the apartment. “Shoes off,” he tells him. There’s a rack of shoes against the wall, designer dress shoes next to worn Nike and Adidas running shoes, and several pairs of Dr. Martens and Timberlands. There’s a lot of shoes.

“Do you live with someone else?”

James has already started to walk down the hall, presumably heading toward the delicious aromatic smell that’s filling his apartment. He turns at Bastien’s question and follows his gaze to the shoes. “No,” he laughs. “Those are all mine.”

When he rounds the corner and disappears from sight, Bastien picks up one of the dress shoes and yep, those are Louboutin. He’s dating a diva, he thinks. An expensive diva. What the hell is someone so fashion-conscious doing with Bastien? He almost feels bad leaving his seventy-dollar dress shoes next to so much class.

He finds James in the kitchen, stirring something in a big pot with one hand, while he sprinkles basil into a smaller one beside it. The kitchen is state of the art. There’s a large dark marble island in the center, with a vase doubling as a fishbowl in the middle. An emerald green beta fish swims around the large vase, matching the brightly colored rocks and plants placed at the bottom. The countertops are done in the same marble style as the island, with tiled walls linking them to the dark wooden cabinets. It’s a big room, nearly as fancy as Bastien’s own kitchen. There’s a large spice rack on one end of the counter, a block of chef knives on another. The pantry is on the far left wall, door cracked open. Sitting on top of all the cabinets are bottles, varying in color and shape, some of them filled with noodles, others with wine. All of them look beautiful.

Bastien hooks his chin on James’s shoulder, inhales the scent of freshly cooking tomato sauce. “Spaghetti?” he verifies.

“And meatballs,” he says, shifting so Bastien can see the tray through the window in the oven. “They’ll be done in a minute.” He holds up the spoon sticking out of the sauce. “Taste?”

Bastien moves to the side so he can taste the sauce without dripping it down James’s front. It’s good, but… “It needs a little more onion.”

James rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t hesitate to add a pinch of onions to the mix and stir them in. He bumps their hips together. “Why don’t you go find something on TV. I’ll bring everything out when it’s done. Shouldn’t be more than five or ten minutes.” He pecks an absent kiss to Bastien’s jaw and shoos him away, bending to check on the meatballs.

He’d like to be nosy, to look around the place, but the last thing he wants is for James to catch him doing that. He flicks absently through the channels, eyes not even on the screen as he takes in the living room. It’s spacious, with off-white walls and one mahogany brown one behind the entertainment system. The couch is the cushiest thing Bastien’s ever sat on, large and brown leather, with handles to make the end seats extend into lounge chairs. His coffee table is finely carved wood, sports and cooking magazines fanned out over the top. The TV is attached to the wall, a dark wood cabinet with glass doors underneath it. He can see rows and rows of DVDs through the glass. The floor is tile, but there’s a plush black rug under the coffee table, extending to the couch, so when you put your feet down it’s not cold. A black blanket is draped over the back of the couch, and when he lets his fingers run over it, he discovers it’s unbelievably soft. The wall on the right has wide sliding doors leading out onto a balcony and a nice view of the city, while the one on the left has floor-to-ceiling shelves of records. When he turns around, he sees a table against the wall, a record player sitting in the middle and candles on either side.

It’s a nice room, cozy and lived in. Unable to contain a tiny bit of curiosity, he leaves the TV playing a random car commercial and goes to browse the immense record collection. It’s an eclectic mix. There’s the Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys, and then two shelves down there’s Lady Gaga and Katy Perry. Between a Bruce Springsteen vinyl and an Arctic Monkeys vinyl is a limited edition Blink-182 album. Farther down is a row of Alkaline Trio records, tucked in next to P!nk and Maroon 5.

Apparently James likes a little bit of everything.

He’s still admiring the collection when James comes into the room, two large bowls of pasta in his hands. Bastien goes to help him, but James waves him off and sets both bowls on the coffee table. “Drink?” he asks. “We can listen to a record later if you want.” He winks ridiculously, and Bastien laughs, thinking he shouldn’t find it so endearing.

“Wine?”

“Any preference?”

“Surprise me,” Bastien says, remembering what James had done at that first dinner. By the pleased look on his face, James hasn’t forgotten either.

“I’m not going to watch an infomercial,” he says, crooking a tiny smile. “While I get the wine, please pick something else.”

Bastien turns to see the lady on the TV trying to sell them an iron that works to both dry and straighten your clothes. He can’t say he wants to watch that either. He settles on
Friends
reruns by the time James comes back and gets a nod of approval for his choice. He puts their wine glasses on the table and Bastien’s bowl in his lap. When he sits he leaves a little space, so they’re not banging elbows while they try to eat, but their legs are pressed together from the knee down thanks to the way he’s sprawling.

They chat between bites, mostly commenting on the show, and Bastien discovers that James prefers Phoebe to everyone else. “It’s cliché,” he says, “but I’m going to have to go with Monica. Us chefs have to stick together.”

“I could see you as a Monica,” says James musingly, a smirk kicking up the corners of his pink lips.

Bastien pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Are you calling me neurotic?” he demands.

“I would never,” says James, sounding completely insincere. He reaches for Bastien’s wine and hands it to him. “Here. Drink something.”

Bastien snorts but accepts the offering. “Wine isn’t going to make me forget that.” He can see the thought process flash across James’s face, the moment where he determines if he wants to say whatever cheesy line he has saved up or not. “Just spit it out.”