TWO WEEKS LATER

RIVERSIDE GRILL

“I’m telling you, butternut squash is a fall flavor.”

“And we already have ravioli on the menu,” Dom adds to back Jensen up.

Dawson stares at them from the other side of the bar. Next to him, Miranda’s eating her raviolo with gusto, pulling apart the carrot-colored pasta with her fork.

It’s Saturday night, forty-five minutes away from opening, and the dining room is empty of all but the staff. Philipa and Tara are at the host desk, both with long legs and wavy hair on display as they discuss bookings. Julie’s trying to get the bar set up, conveying frustration to Jensen with her eyes every time she has to nudge past Dawson and Miranda.

“I think it’s wonderfully inventive,” Miranda says, licking butter from the corner of her mouth. “We’ll run it as a special, see what kinds of reactions we get.”

“We have a special—” Jensen tries to say, but Miranda cuts him off with a haughty, “There’s no reason we can’t add another one.”

Dawson leans down and kisses her on the cheek, eyes never leaving Jensen’s face, and Jensen feels as if he’s been dunked in an ice bucket like a bottle of white wine.

“Fine,” Jensen growls. “Give everyone the details, and make sure they get it right. I don’t want any mystery pasta coming out of my kitchen.” With that, he pushes off his barstool and makes for the kitchen, unwilling to stick around and listen to Dawson’s reaction. Jensen has better things to do.

Putting Dawson out of his mind, Jensen finishes his prep and puts his station in order, ready for a fully booked dinner. He’s in the walk-in grabbing more pecorino pepato from among a first-class selection of rich, gourmet cheeses when his night takes a scalding. Dawson enters the refrigerator behind him and closes the door, blocking Jensen’s way out.

“Shouldn’t you be ramming your butternuts down Miranda’s throat?”

“She enjoyed that, didn’t she?”

Jensen ignores his sous chef, taking stock of the shelves in front of him. His breath clouds in front of his nose, chill creeping in under his crisp white jacket. Smells drift around him, mixed by the push of the fans and the air exchange: shallots and kale, apples and cranberries, whipped goat cheese and soft Havarti.

“I’ve got a theory, you know.”

“On your absolute failure as a chef?” Jensen sneers. “Oh, do tell.”

“On why you don’t want me in your kitchen.”

Jensen scoffs. “Just one? I’ve got a dozen.”

Before he can blink, Dawson’s pressing into Jensen’s space, wedging him back against a metal rack. Jensen’s muscles are coiled tight, ready to force Dawson away, but what he says shocks the momentum out of Jensen’s body.

“You’re so cold towards me, Jensen,” he mutters, warm breath smacking Jensen on the cheek. Smells like pesto left to simmer for too long, burnt oil and basil. “But I think I can change that.” Angling his hips, Dawson rubs his thigh against the front of Jensen’s pants, and to his utter disgust, he feels Dawson growing hard through the friction. In no way does Jensen sense any kind of attraction or desire in Dawson’s assault—it’s spite, pure and simiple.

Dawson keeps his voice low when he says, “Maybe a little bit of this’ll warm you up.”

Jensen’s repulsion manifests physically —a wave of disgust rolling through his body at the same time his brain is flipped to the raw side. His instincts fire up and he shoves Dawson away.

“What the fuck?” Jensen shouts, but to anyone outside the refrigerator it would sound muted and dull, silent behind the rest of the kitchen noise.

Dawson throws his hands up. “Hey, I’m just trying to make an offer here.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Jensen hisses, anger replacing nausea.

“Oh come on, Jensen,” the sous chef argues, continuing to block the door. His irritation is hideous, mauling his features until they’re too sharp. “Don’t act so surprised. I’ve heard all about you and what goes on in your walk-ins,” he adds, turning words into weapons.

So much for Jensen’s fond memories of making out with Renner in this very walk-in.

Red seeps into Jensen’s vision. This goes beyond the jokes and lewd comments he’s used to his crew pulling (because even the best kitchens devolve into frat houses from time to time). Cornered, sick, and with a sizzling temper, Jensen pushes back with an ‘offer’ of his own.

“Get the hell out of my way—”

Dawson reaches out. “This way we both get something we want.”

“—before you lose your fucking job and the use of your hands,” Jensen finishes the threat, words so cold his breath turns to ice.

Seconds before Jensen’s rage erupts into violence, Dawson steps back. His voice is runny as he tries to placate Jensen. “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Jensen smiles maliciously. “You bet I can.”

As much as he craves the privacy of his office, Jensen refuses to hide. He slams the walk-in door—with Dawson still inside—and stalks over to the line. Thoughts a mess, he fans the flames of his anger so as not to lose himself to humiliation.

If Jensen closes his eyes he can feel phantom snakes slithering up his legs, leaving cold slime on his skin. Mortification turns him sick and green, skins him down. The anger is easier to endure.

God help Dawson if he breathes a word of this to anyone.

Jensen stares at the printer, more than ready for the first order. He’s desperate to lose himself in the rush, the chaos of fine dining. If he can focus on the food, he won’t lose his mind; it’s a technique Jensen’s applied far too many times in his life. One madness to replace another.

Dom’s just coming back from the dishwasher with an armful of sauté pans, dropping them with a clatter when he sees Jensen’s expression.

“Whoa. What crawled up your ass?”

Jensen ignores the question and slings an arm around Dom’s shoulders. “How do you feel about drinking?”

“It oughta be done early and often,” Dom jokes. “Why?”

Jensen looks across the kitchen and catches Dawson watching him. His upper lip curls when he says, “I think we’re going out tonight.”



THE BLIND TIGER PUB
BROAD STREET, CHARLESON

“Bottle of beer. Shot of Jack. And keep ‘em coming.”

Their first round’s gone in a flash as Dom and Jensen down their shots. Beer chasers become a full-on race as they see who can finish their bottle first. Jensen wins; he tells himself he’s got superior motivation to get wasted. Next to them at the bar, Libby’s halfway through her rum and diet while Saban’s acting all prissy with his bottle of Pellegrino. Saban’s been sober for three years, and thank God, because Jensen doesn’t like to imagine how much worse of a reprobate he’d be if he still drank—the man’s bad enough already. Just ask Libby. Mark had disappeared as soon as they walked into the Blind Tiger, but they save him a stool at the bar just in case.

Jensen welcomes the burn of his second shot. The Jack dulls his memories, and that’s exactly the side-effect Jensen’s aiming for. He washes the Tennessee medicine down with cold beer until the space between his ears is light and buzzing.

“Miranda wants me to give Dawson his own night,” Jensen says, skipping over the walk-in incident entirely and going right to what happened when Miranda approached him in his office after the rush. He’s met with a chorus of ‘no’, ‘fuck no’, and something unintelligibly vulgar from Mark—who’d mysteriously reappeared in the group like some kind of foul-mouthed wizard.

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dom points out the obvious, but Jensen drinks to it nonetheless. “I don’t even get my own shift.”

“You’d have to be screwing Miranda to get it,” Saban adds, and the rest of them take another drink just to wash away the thought.

Dom shakes his head, lips pinched. “Not worth it. Totally not worth it.”

Mark contemplates his scotch and says, “The man’s got his fist so far up Miranda’s arse—”

“Oh my god—”

“Ugh, no!”

“Dude, seriously…”

“—she might as well be a bloody ventriloquist doll. He’s doing all the talking.”

“You really think he’s sleeping with her?” Libby asks. None of them really want to think about it, Jensen especially, but their livelihoods are on the line. “I mean, I’ve done some pretty nasty things to get ahead—”

“That hurts, Lib,” Saban holds his hand to his heart.

“Oh fuck off,” she laughs, fine brown hair shaking loose from her messy ponytail.

Used to his crew’s banter, Jensen questions their theory on Dawson. Up until tonight, Jensen would have wholeheartedly agreed that his sous chef was fucking Miranda for added perks. Maybe he was stringing her along—preferential treatment in exchange for something much more personal that he has yet to pay up on. Jensen almost feels bad for Miranda, but she plays her own games. They deserve one another.

“And I hate his bloody name,” Mark’s grousing.

“Fuck Dawson!” Dom shouts, whiskey breath hitting Jensen in the face. “From now on, let’s call him Paul”

“Yeah.” Libby’s expression is flat. “Because that will show him.”

“Oh c’mon. He’ll hate it!”

Though it’ll do little to solve his problems, Jensen agrees with Dom. Dawson will loathe being called by his pedestrian first name. That alone is reason enough to do it, even if it’s a childish idea.

Another hour in and Jensen’s starting to relax, nursing his beers instead of chain-drinking. He keeps his phone on the bar and every so often it lights up with a text from Jared. His roommate is downtown celebrating a friend’s birthday at another bar. Jensen smiles at the latest message.

Want to meet up later?

Mark is scary. Dom’s getting shit-faced, he types. Saban keeps trying 2 show Libby his dick. In the next message, he writes, Might as well stay where u are and enjoy urself. Considering the amount he’s already had to drink, Jensen quickly sends another text. Want 2 give me a ride home?

Having that much fun, huh?

I don’t shoot Jack for fun, J.

Yikes. Yeah, I’ll def give you a ride. Will let u know when I’m leaving.

Saban’s the first to abandon the festivities, followed fifteen minutes later by Libby. Mark vanishes without a word while Dom and Jensen are arguing over a game of darts where neither one of them is the obvious winner. While the last men standing are ordering another round, Stacy shows up and Dom wraps her in what looks to be a suffocating hug. He listens to Stacy’s sugary voice getting a sloppy Dom to agree to go mattress shopping the next day while he keeps track of Jared’s progress via text. Suddenly, he’s more than ready to be home with Jared and the dogs.

Not much later, Dom wobbles back from the bathroom. Stacy stands and he tucks the tall redhead under his arm like a crutch. “How ‘bout you, Jen? You’re welcome to crash on our sofa.”

“Nah, Jared said he’d give me a ride,” Jensen says, pulling out his phone and grinning when he sees another text from his roommate. “He’s on his way over from the Vendue.”

“So you’re good if we head out?” Stacy asks.

“Yeah, get him out of here,” Jensen tells her, waving at Dom. “I’m sick of lookin’ at him.”

She laughs, blush filling in the space between her light freckles. “If I had to look at him every day for as long as you do, I’d be sick of him, too.”

Dom whines, “Baby…” and they both laugh.

Left alone in a crowded room, Jensen finishes off a bottle of water before he checks his phone again.

Just leaving the garage. Be there in a few.

Jensen signals for his check, ignoring the bartender’s pout. Despite Jensen’s total lack of response, the guy’s been flirting with him all night. After his bad touching experience in the walk-in with Dawson, Jensen’s definitely not in the mood. Mr. Popped Collar will just have to turn his attention elsewhere if he’s looking to bring someone home.

Another text pops up.

Do I have to come in and get u? Fare goes up if I have to carry u out.

Paying up. Out in a few. As he’s waiting for his credit card slip, he adds, I’m so heavy you’d charge me?

$$ for emotional trauma. Hurry up.

A tapered chest wearing a green polo shirt leans into Jensen’s view. Mr. Popped Collar just can’t take a hint.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else tonight?”

“I’m good,” he says, and is surprised to find he means it.

Smiling as he hears the ding of another text arriving—it’s adorable that Jared’s impatient—Jensen takes his receipt and signs it without looking up.



HOME

Something smells divine.

Convinced it’s an ingredient in his dream, Jensen rolls over and presses his face into the pillow, trying to escape the sunlight crawling between plantation shutters. But the aroma is snuffed out by the scent of cotton, sweat, and laundry detergent.

Like a cartoon character floating along behind a smoky waft, Jensen ignores his mild hangover and follows his nose, sitting up and pulling a clean white tee over his bare chest. The trail leads him to the kitchen where Jensen has to blink several times to make sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing.

Jared’s in the middle of a kitchen hurricane, whisking his hips to a silent beat. Paisley’s dancing around his feet while Scout’s watching both from the safety of the hall rug, muzzle up in the air to catch the same smells that lured Jensen out of bed. Jensen’s eyes are stuck on his roommate’s swaying hips, apron ties swinging across the back of his thighs. There are bowls on the counter, fruit and juice on the island, and oh! Coffee already brewing. In here, that delicious smell is a full-bodied experience for Jensen’s nose.

“Cardamom?”

Jared twirls around. “Hey! You’re up.” There are powdered handprints on the apron Jared’s wearing—a gift from Jensen to his brother two Christmases ago—and his feet are bare, toes peeking out from beneath the hem of his cherry red track pants. He’s smiling at Jensen. “Figures you’d guess my secret ingredient.”

“Mmm, ingredient for what?” Jensen steps closer to investigate. His headache is waning with every inhale of that resinous fragrance.

“Pancakes, my own recipe. Well, my mom’s, but I perfected it,” Jared proudly adds. “I was gonna make breakfast anyway, but I found the cardamom when I was looking for cinnamon. You don’t mind, do you?”

Jensen’s grin is stuck in place. “Kitchens are for cooking. Especially this kitchen. Can I help?”

Jared laughs, stepping around Paisley. “The renowned chef, Jensen Ackles, is helping me?”

“Been a while since I was the apprentice.”

“In that case, do you have a crêpe pan somewhere around here?”

Jared bosses him around the kitchen, grinning every time Jensen hands something over. Jensen can just imagine the look on his crew’s faces if he ever smiled and thanked them for doing their jobs. But hey, Jared’s entitled to his own style, Jensen thinks with a silent chuckle.

Jensen’s never been creative about breakfast foods—or, God forbid, brunch—the way he is with lunch and dinner entrees, so it’s fascinating to watch Jared dance around the kitchen, talking a-mile-a-minute about the family breakfasts he grew up with. He even manages to forget about his hangover until Jared pours the first pancake.

“God, I’m starving.”

“Don’t worry, these won’t take long to cook,” Jared says, spreading the thin batter around the bottom of the pan with a smooth twirl of his wrist. “Hey, do you have any whipped cream for the fruit?”

“I’ve got the fresh stuff.” Jensen pulls a bowl out of the fridge. The cream smells wonderful; he can’t resist dipping a finger in and licking it off.

“Saw that,” Jared teases. “Give me some.”

Without stopping to think it through, Jensen scoops another dollop with his finger, holding it up for Jared. It’s not until Jared’s mouth is touching his skin that he thinks about what he’s doing. He feels smooth lips, the tiniest slip of a tongue against his nail as Jared sucks the rich topping off his finger.

That image will definitely be added to a few of Jensen’s fantasies.

“Mmm, perfect.” Jared releases his finger before Jensen’s thin pajama pants become an issue. He notes the beginnings of a blush on Jared’s high cheekbones before he turns back to the stove.

Jared rolls up each pancake and stacks them under a foil cover, smacking Jensen’s hand away when he makes a grab for one. “No samples in my kitchen,” he says with a wink.

Jensen lets Jared dish up their plates—“presentation is key,” Jared tells him, mocking one of Jensen’s serious expressions—impressed with the final results. Warm, richly scented pancakes rolled up and flattened under a mountain of sweet, fresh fruit. Jared adds a spoonful of whipped cream to each plate, blushing again, and drizzles syrup over the entire thing. Jensen is so desperate to eat it, he’s practically panting, and Jensen Ackles never pants over food made by someone in bare feet.

There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

Jared’s breakfast tastes as good as it looks, and talking is put on hold while they eat at the counter, both dogs lying on the tile at their feet. When the first serving is gone, Jared divides the rest of the pancakes between their plates, giving Jensen the extra. “You’d probably steal it off my plate if I didn’t,” he says, which Jensen acknowledges is probably the truth. He’d risk a fork to the hand for another pancake.

Existing in a comfortable bubble where his stomach is full, his taste-buds are satisfied, and his headache is reduced to a distant throb, Jensen closes his eyes and savors the moment. It’s practically perfect, and he hasn’t counted many of those lately.



“Did you have a good time last night?” Jared asks, stepping out onto the screened-in porch. Jensen hears the dishwasher humming steadily in the background. They’ve moved outside, coffees in hand, watching Paisley try to lure Scout into playing with her in the backyard. The breeze is cool, lifting the long strands of Spanish moss away from the oak branches it clings to.

“I guess. I wasn’t really drinking to have ‘a good time.’”

“You were drinking with a purpose,” Jared says. Jensen notices that it’s not a question. “I’ve had a few nights like that. So, what happened?”

“Hmm?”

“What pissed you off? I bet it had something to do with Dawson.”

Just hearing Paul’s name makes the heaviness return to Jensen’s head. He indulges in a long sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine will counter the effect. When Jared brews the coffee, it’s never as strong as the pots Jensen tends to make, and his stomach is grateful for it this morning.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay,” Jensen says, because he wants to. Maybe it’s being here, in Josh’s home, or the fact that Jared’s isn’t dissecting him with his stare, but it’s easier to talk to Jared than it is answering Sebastian’s questions.

He talks out Miranda’s idea—a ‘suggestion’ in name only—to give Paul his own shift, thoughts more rational than they were last night under the influence of beer and whiskey. Jared listens, steering Jensen’s words with a soft comment here and there so they don’t fall off course. The last thing Jensen wants to do is spend more time talking about Paul and Miranda than he has to.

“Man,” Jared sighs when Jensen’s said all he cares to on the subject, “that seriously sucks.”

“Now you know why I was drinking last night.”

Jared’s smile is as gentle as the breeze stirring the blades of grass. “And I don’t blame you one bit. Think Miranda’s gonna change her mind?” he asks, but Jensen’s expression must say it all. “Well, it’s still your kitchen, and I know you won’t let Miranda give away a good night. And hey, it might be a good thing.”

“How?”

“With everything you’ve told me about Dawson, he’ll probably fuck the whole night up or something. Your crew’s still gonna be there to take care of things, but if Dawson’s a total failure…”

“If I know my crew, they’ll make sure he fucks up on purpose,” Jensen says, a little viciousness back in his voice. Another reason he prefers Jared to Sebastian is that Jared doesn’t filter his responses. He’ll agree with Jensen—or strongly disagree; they’re not always reading the same recipe—without hiding his feelings behind a professional mask. Jensen prefers talking with somebody, not at them.

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. But until that happens and he totally gets fired, you’ll have one more free night to spend around here.” Jensen looks up and Jared laughs. “The dogs, man. I know they miss seeing you.”

“You’re their favorite.”

Jared’s lips quirk up at the corner. “You’ll get to hang out with me more often. I’m not all bad.”

“Nah, you’re all good,” Jensen teases in a low voice.

While Jensen continues to stock an entire inventory of misgivings about letting Miranda remove him from his own kitchen one night a week, he feels better. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, his body’s doing its best to remind him how much he drank last night, and he’s losing the battle to keep his eyes open.

And it seems Jared’s got the monopoly on energy and motivation today.

“Hey, I was gonna take Paisley and go for a run. You wanna come with us?”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Jensen groans, feeling a bit like Scout when Paisley bounces around him, a silky brown ball of energy attempting to get him to play. And just like Scout, Jensen’s tempted to roll over and go back to sleep.

“Fine, be lazy,” Jared says with a smile. “I need to get my heart going.”

He’s gone before Jensen can suggest other, more creative ways to get his pulse racing. Probably for the best—Jensen’s not sure he can muster the energy for sustained flirting. He briefly reconsiders when Jared reappears in the backyard with Paisley’s leash in his hand, a gray v-neck tee and navy blue shorts making up his running ensemble. Jensen wouldn’t mind jogging behind him for a glimpse of his ass in those shorts, but the vise around his temples squeezes at the mere thought of strenuous physical activity.

Sleep is a much better plan.



SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD, & ASSOCIATES

Jensen wakes up to the sound of barking and a heavier breeze. When he opens his eyes, Jared’s standing on the porch, his face tilted into the wind, hand wrapped around a bottle of water. Jensen traces the course of sweat as it runs from Jared’s forehead, under his jaw, and down his throat.

Suddenly, Jensen’s unbelievably thirsty.

The sweat stains on Jared’s t-shirt are painted over the shape of his muscles, but Jensen’s focused on the hollow between Jared’s collarbones, the skin slick and heated and flushed from the sun. His mouth waters at the thought of licking that skin, the flavors his tongue would find. He’s moaning before he can stop himself, and Jared looks down to where Jensen’s stretched out on the patio furniture.

“Jensen?”

“Hmm? Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

Sebastian smirks. “Contrary to your beliefs, I don’t book these appointments in order to sit here quietly and relax.” The therapist uses a friendly tone, but Jensen heeds the implied warning. “We were talking about Jared…”

“Yeah,” Jensen coughs, dispelling the rest of his daydream. Jared had come home sweaty from his Sunday run, and Jensen had obviously appreciated the sight, but that’s where the reality chopped off and became fantasy. “It’s been great, really.”

“How long has it been since you’ve had a roommate?”

Jensen whistles out a long breath, but he doesn’t need to think about it. “Since my brother and I moved into separate places, I guess. But we didn’t split up because we hated sharing our space,” he points out. “It was just the right time for us. And Jared’s pretty easy to live with. I’ve had time to get used to having him around.”

Sebastian steeples his fingers beneath his chin and Jensen winces at the gesture; his therapist is about to spring a deep thought on him.

“Come on,” Jensen tries to laugh when the silence carries on too long. “Just hit me with it, Doc.”

“I’m just wondering if you realize,” Sebastian says, “that you allow people into your home more easily than you do your kitchen.”

Jensen stammers. “That’s—wait, that’s a completely different set of circumstances.”

“Your sous chef and Jared were both strangers to you a few months ago.” The patience in Sebastian’s tone is misleading; his conclusions are well thought out. “Both took over some aspect of your life, and both were meant to make things easier on you, whether it was in maintaining your brother’s house or working in your kitchen.”

“I chose Jared,” Jensen stresses. “Paul was forced on me.” There’s an abundance of vinegar in his tone when he says Paul’s name for the therapist to note, but Jensen has no plans to elaborate. “There’s a huge difference between the two.” Explanations are rushing from his mind to his mouth, and Jensen refuses to look over and see Sebastian’s mouth flick upwards in self-satisfaction. “I can coexist with Jared, but Paul is a threat. Miranda’s using him to gain ground in my kitchen, and he’s taking advantage of Miranda’s need for attention to get whatever he wants!”

Sebastian consults his scribble. “Like his own shift?”

“That,” he huffs, “and new dishes that don’t fit with the menu. Soon he’ll be rearranging the schedules behind my back and ordering whatever he wants.”

As if there is steam visibly curling from Jensen’s ears, Sebastian doesn’t provoke further comment. “But,” he says instead, “now that you’ve handed Paul a less desirable weeknight shift, you can take more time for yourself.”

“Is that what you think I want?” Jensen asks, expression switching to play defense. “If I wanted time off, I could have scheduled it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Jensen’s anticipating the question. “I don’t need it. Being a chef means you don’t get a regularly scheduled week. Taking time off isn’t the point. I don’t mind putting in the long hours to make my kitchen better, and the last thing I want to do is leave it in the hands of someone less-capable. And I shouldn’t have to in order to satisfy Miranda and her pet chef.” The deep breath he takes smothers some of the burn in his lungs. “I know a dozen chefs who would say the exact same thing. We belong in the kitchen—my place is at the head of my crew.”

“I admire the devotion to your career,” Sebastian says, “but it strikes me that you could easily go mad.”

“Hey, that’s what you’re for, right?” That earns Jensen a thin, curled smile, but Sebastian’s not put off the topic for long.

“Do you work so much because you love it, or because you need to?”

Seconds tick by like audible beats in Jensen’s head. His eyes wander the room in search of the clock he knows isn’t there. “Look,” Jensen says, “it’s probably true that half of all chefs go mad and the other half fall all over themselves in order to stay ahead of the curve. I’d rather be crazy than lose my job.”

“I think there’s a part of you that needs the manic pace. You’re attracted to the work because it helps you escape from something else, and you crave that distraction.”

“I don’t”—Jensen’s mind casts about for an argument—“I mean it’s not an addiction. I don’t crave it like that, but it is my world. It’s the only thing I know how to do. And if I let go of that for one second, I’m going to lose it to Miranda’s fucking games.” His voice, which had pitched steadily upwards throughout his rant, leaves a gaping silence in the office. “Sorry,” he says, “I guess I’m just getting sick of Miranda pulling the strings.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Sebastian says thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, it is her restaurant; they’re her strings to manipulate.”

Jensen grates his teeth, jaw clenched so tightly he can almost feel the headache he’s going to have later. “Yeah, but I wish she’d stop with her games and competitions.”

“You could always remove yourself from the situation.”

“Quit?” Jensen looks up. “You’re serious.”

“You’re a talented chef,” Sebastian tells him, nodding to the empty to-go container on his desk. “Any other restaurant would be lucky to have you.”

“Riverside was my kitchen from the get-go,” Jensen insists, throwing up a wall in his mind to prevent himself from considering any other options. “I can’t leave.”

“Then I suggest you get a hobby—”

“Chefs don’t have hobbies.”

“—or find something that will take your mind off the restaurant completely. Find something—anything—that makes you happy.”

Jensen laughs but the sound carries little weight. “That’s a tall order.”

“A task you’re more than capable of handling then, I’m sure.”




PART FOUR