CHAPTER ONE

The crash woke Miles up, the sharp metallic clang of stainless steel against the deeper, resonating thud of the wood floor.

Almost certain dents in his favorite copper pot—check.

Scratches in the hardwood floor their landlord would definitely freak about—check.

Bruises his roommates would inevitably punish him for? Still in question, though if Xander’s exaggerated howl of pain was any indication, Miles Costa thought those were inevitable.

“Goddamn it, Miles,” Xander exclaimed loudly, as Miles dragged his head up from where it had landed in a slump of exhaustion only a few hours before on his marble pastry slab. If he was a betting man, he’d definitely bet that the fine grain of the marble was imprinted on his cheek.

He probably shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the kitchen after filming the video, and he definitely shouldn’t have piled those pans in such a precarious pile to dry after washing them. Inspiration had struck midway through the dinner service last night, and he’d been in too much of a rush to work out the intricacies of the recipe in his head to care much about the consequences of yet another late-night/early-morning filming marathon.

“At least I washed the pans out?” Through his tired squint, Miles could just make out Xander’s disgruntled expression. He was annoyed, not pissed off, which boded well for Miles. He was also pretty sure that Xander had a few crumbs clinging to his chin, which meant that he’d already sampled some of last night’s experiments.

Having eaten one over the sink just past 4 a.m., Miles knew just how fantastic those tarts were. Xander’s forgiveness was no longer an uncertainty, but an inevitability.

“Good, huh?” Miles asked with a grin. After culinary school, working in many good kitchens, before finally moving to the great kitchen at Terroir, and then ending up with three chefs as roommates, he knew all about the culinary ego. Sure, he had one, but constantly crowing about how talented he was got exhausting. He normally preferred the food to do the talking for him—but in this case, distracting Xander from the fact that he’d used the kitchen until 4 a.m. again, was way more important.

“You film these too?” Xander asked ruefully. He reached for another tart, not even trying to be subtle.

Miles remembered when they’d first met, and Xander, all that ego barely restrained, had looked down his nose at pastry. He’d claimed to not even like sweets, but now he was chowing down on Miles’ tarts like there weren’t about a hundred more packed away in neatly stacked Tupperware.

It was particularly sweet to convert someone who didn’t appreciate his craft, just like he enjoyed bringing the skill of his craft to the masses. Even the masses who didn’t necessarily appreciate it, but watched his videos anyway.

“Of course I did.”

Xander might have been converted to liking Miles’ tarts, but Miles knew he probably wasn’t ever going to understand why he filmed himself making them, and posted them to social media. For Xander, it felt too much like a magician giving away his secrets for free.

Xander might want the cultured and erudite to enjoy his food, but he didn’t want to teach them how to make it.

He shook his head. “You’re wasting your time,” he said.

Miles was tired. It couldn’t be any later than 8 a.m.—because that was when Xander took his run every day—and that meant he’d gotten only a handful of hours of sleep on a marble slab that wasn’t quite the same as his feather pillow. He had a fierce crick in his neck, and he had to be at work in two hours for prep.

Which was why he nicked the tart from Xander’s fingers, and popped the remains in his own mouth. “But it’s my time,” Miles said, and made a shooing motion. “Now go jog like a good boy.”

Xander made a face, shrugged, and then turned away, shutting the door behind him a little louder than normal. Miles might be worried things would be weird between them, but they worked fourteen-hour days at one of the most exacting restaurants in the world, and after going through Chef’s bullshit each shift, nothing ever seemed weird for long.

Miles bent down and started gathering his pots. Yes, there was definitely a dent in his favorite copper sugar pan. Damnit. He’d just got the sink filled with soapy water so he could wash them again when his other roommate wandered in.

Wyatt was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, but they lit up when they saw the Tupperware containers. “You filmed last night?” he asked, popping the lid off. “Oh, these are pretty. Raspberry and strawberry?”

Wyatt’s nose was legendary. He could sometimes tell the separate ingredients in a dish just from the aroma, and always by taste. Sometimes Miles enjoyed trying to stump him, but today, he just nodded, then turned back to his sink full of pots.

“Delicious,” Wyatt pronounced through a mouthful of pastry cream and flaky tart shell. “I never would have dreamt of doing just raspberry and strawberry. Mixed berry is so middle-class housewife. But you elevated it.”

Since he had his back to his roommate, Wyatt couldn’t see Miles roll his eyes. Every chef he knew believed they were as high class as the restaurant they worked with. He would be the first to tell anybody that Terroir was special, because it was. Chef Bastian Aquino had built something one of a kind deep in the heart of the Napa Valley, and then maintained it—which, Miles knew, was most of the struggle. But most of the chefs he knew also came from decidedly low or middle-class origins. And they wanted to forget them as quickly as possible.

But Miles had lots of good memories of his childhood, and the dreaded “mixed berry” had shown up lots of times in bundt cakes and muffins and as far as he was concerned, it was a classic. He’d just used a little of the technique he’d spent so many years perfecting to make it even better.

“Wish we could get marionberries here,” Miles said, because he wasn’t going to tell Wyatt, who was one of his best friends, that he was full of shit. He’d already antagonized Xander this morning, and he tried to only piss off one of his roommates per day.

“Chef could,” Wyatt said. Miles rolled his eyes again. Chef could get anything, because he was Bastian Aquino, and a god of American cuisine. Pans washed, he started drying them one at a time, because he wasn’t letting them air dry in a precarious pile again. His precious copper sugar pot might not survive another tumble.

“At the farmer’s market,” Miles clarified, which Wyatt must have known he meant. Chef was only vaguely aware of Miles’ “little internet experiment,” as his boss had termed it, and as far as Miles was concerned, it was going to stay that way. He wasn’t going to go around name-dropping Bastian Aquino to get some marionberries.

Wyatt might, but then Wyatt was a fucking idiot.

“They’re good just as they are,” Wyatt said complacently, which as far as Miles was concerned was Wyatt’s biggest drawback as a chef. He rested on his laurels. He made the vision in his head, and if it matched, declared it done and perfect.

Miles knew his own personal drawback was that no recipe was ever truly done. The tarts would be better with a single marionberry resting on the glossy surface of the pink pastry cream. They’d not only look better, they’d taste better too.

Putting the last pan away, Miles turned back to Wyatt. “I’m going in at eleven. What about you?”

“Just got a text. Bunch of artichokes came in. Lots of prep today. So I’m going in early.” Wyatt flashed him a carefree smile that belied the fact that he’d be spending approximately the next sixteen hours at the restaurant, deep in the bowels of the kitchen. “But your tarts were a great start. Breakfast of champions.”

“You’re welcome,” Miles said, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Go get some sleep. You look like the walking dead. And not that hot one with the bow and arrows either.”

Miles didn’t look in the mirror when he walked back to his room, but he considered it for a brief moment. He probably did look like hell, nothing like that admittedly very hot man from The Walking Dead. He should go take another catnap, but he wanted to get the tart video posted before his shift started.

He spent the next two hours editing his footage, and without even watching it all the way through, posted it to his page, Pastry by Miles. He took a lightning-quick shower, jumped on his bike, and was walking through the back door to the kitchens at Terroir right on time for his prep shift to start.

Part of the beauty of posting a video before a shift began was that there was no time to check hits or views or comments or anything at all. He was deep in prep, waist-high in white chocolate lemon mousse pyramids when René, the head pastry chef, stopped in front of his station.

René was sort of a dick, but almost all the chefs that reached his level were, so Miles mostly didn’t hold it against him.

“Did you put the rosemary in the cream while it steeped?” René asked, like Miles hadn’t been making these all summer. Terroir was considered one of the best restaurants in the world, and René wasn’t a terrible innovator—it wasn’t like they were making hot fudge lava cake or anything—but sometimes his desserts were a little obvious. Miles had also discovered the hard way that René wasn’t a huge fan of anyone having an idea other than him. If this wasn’t Terroir and the best job anyone at his level could hope to have, Miles would have left long ago, but here he still was, fielding René’s stupid questions and creating white chocolate lemon mousse pyramids.

And it should have been thyme, not rosemary, as far as he was concerned. But nobody had ever asked Miles and that wasn’t about to change.

“Yes, Chef,” Miles answered respectfully, but didn’t glance up from his work.

“Good,” René said, and then lingered in front of his station, which made Miles nervous. René lingering didn’t usually mean good things; it usually meant a great deal of unexpected work, and Miles was already tired.

“Your new video,” René said, and Miles couldn’t help but tense. René knew about the videos but he’d never imagined René might watch one.

He’d had to tell René, and René’s boss, Chef Aquino, what he was doing with Pastry by Miles, because he figured it was better to beg permission now than to be fired later. Chef Aquino hadn’t cared, because it wasn’t about him, and René had only insisted that the desserts he created be Miles’ ideas and Miles’ ideas alone.

That was perfectly fine by him, because the site had originally been created because he’d been creatively stymied at work, so he had zero intention of ever posting a white chocolate lemon mousse pyramid to Pastry by Miles.

“Yes, Chef?” Miles said, glancing up when René didn’t spit it out right away. His dark beady eyes seemed to grow even beadier. Or maybe Miles had just been up three quarters of the night baking. It was hard to say exactly.

“It was good.” René’s voice was gruff, like he could barely bring himself to say anything positive. “An innovative concept.”

So much of his job was biting his tongue, and Miles kept right on biting it. “Thank you.”

“I might mention to Chef Aquino that we could use it as a special next weekend.”

Miles had to tamp down his excitement so it wouldn’t show. It wouldn’t be a surprise to see Chef taking some poor sous apart for not cooking the scallops to perfection, but celebrating in the Terroir kitchen? Out of the question.

“That would be good,” Miles said, and because he was too tired not to, took a risk. “I didn’t even realize you watched the videos, sir.”

René had turned to move on, but looked back at Miles’ question. “I don’t,” he said. “Chef Aquino recommended I watch it. Apparently he really enjoyed it. He said he was seeing it all over his Twitter feed.”

Miles couldn’t hold back his smile at that. He might not enjoy the reign of Chef René but he very much respected Chef Aquino. And all over Chef’s Twitter feed? He knew his videos were popular, but he’d never heard of them spreading that quickly before. He wished he could put his pastry bag down and look at his phone, but he still had a good hour left and these pyramids needed to chill before the dinner service started.

He’d check his phone on his break.

When he finally finished the white chocolate lemon mousse pyramids, and they were nestled in the blast chiller, the crick in his neck was much worse than it had been that morning. Trying to stretch it out, he detoured into the tiny locker room next to the dishwashers. Grabbing his phone out of his locker, he was floored by how many notifications he had—and he’d anticipated having a ton.

Chef Aquino hearing about his video and seeing it on his timeline had been a pretty good hint that his video had gone viral. The avalanche of notifications he was trying to sort through proved it.

After fifteen minutes, Miles felt overwhelmed and for the first time ever, he was relieved his break was over. It felt like he’d barely touched the growing mountain of comments and shares and likes.

He couldn’t put his finger on why the sudden flash of white hot popularity bothered him, but as he was dusting the mousse pyramids with edible gold, it hit him.

Pastry by Miles had never been about becoming popular. It had been an expression of his creative side that had been stifled at Terroir—a necessary outlet that he paid attention to in fits and starts. He didn’t post videos weekly, or even regularly, but he must have hit a nerve because each video he posted seemed to exponentially increase his social media reach.

It was, Miles decided, a serendipitous symptom of something he enjoyed doing. He’d still record the videos if nobody but his little sister watched them.

“Costa,” a voice bellowed across the kitchen. Miles glanced up and tensed. It was Xander, his short brown hair covered by a bandana festooned with chili peppers, and he had his phone in his hand.

“What do you want?” he asked shortly, and far more quietly than Xander. It was just like Xander to believe that even in another chef’s kitchen—even in Chef Aquino’s kitchen—he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Sometimes Xander pushed his buttons, and all Miles wanted to do was push them back. But Miles always remembered he was a roommate and a friend, and even worse a co-worker, before he punched Xander in the face.

“You didn’t tell me you were famous,” he said, coming to stand over by the tray of pyramids. Miles set his brush on the lid of the gold dust with a steady hand.

“I’m not famous,” Miles said, even though the notifications blowing up his phone might argue otherwise.

“I don’t know,” Xander said skeptically, “when my aunt in New Jersey texts me to say she thinks our kitchen is a pit, I sorta feel like you are.”

Miles stared at his friend. “You don’t have an aunt in New Jersey.”

“But I could,” Xander said blithely.

“You’re an asshole,” Miles said, scowling as he picked his brush back up. “Now go away, I have to finish these. Don’t you have about a thousand artichokes to break down?”

“Roughly two thousand,” Xander announced cheerfully.

Miles shook his head in disbelief. Not at the artichokes—that didn’t surprise him at all because Chef Aquino was a famous perfectionist and a closet sadist—but at how happy Xander seemed to be about them.

“Did you have sex?” Miles demanded quietly. “Is that what this obnoxious cheerfulness is about?”

Xander just laughed. “You look tired. You should get some sleep, Costa.” He sauntered away without ever answering Miles’ question.

“You shouldn’t let him get to you,” Kian said. Kian was Miles’ third roommate—Napa was insanely expensive and the only way Miles could afford a halfway decent kitchen with halfway decent light was to split the rent four ways.

“Easy for you to say,” Miles retorted.

“I had a tart. Actually two,” Kian confessed. “They were awesome.”

Miles had a soft spot for Kian. He reminded him a lot of his little sister, Gina. Except that Kian was male and tough as nails because he was the bottom of the food chain in Terroir’s kitchen. Miles had no idea how Kian even survived the diabolical tasks Chef Aquino put on his plate. Miles usually thought women were usually way tougher than men, but what Kian put up with put Gina to shame regularly. And Gina was a freshman in college.

“Thank you,” Miles acknowledged. Kian was way more respectful than Xander, and had kept his distance so Miles could pick his brush up and get back to his careful, artful dusting of the pyramids. Chef René might not make crazily innovative desserts, but he was a stickler for presentation. Every single one of his desserts was a work of art.

“Xander’s just jealous, you know. He has a secret, desperate yearning to be famous.”

“It’s not so secret,” Miles said darkly. “In fact, it’s hard to miss.”

Kian burst out laughing. “True.”

“You’re too nice to him.”

“I’m too nice to everyone,” Kian said, which was also true. “I’ll leave you alone to your geometric wonders.”

When Miles finally finished the dinner service, he had gold dust under his fingernails and a shit ton of sleepy grit in his eyes. He tossed his bike into the back of Kian’s little hatchback, and barely remembered his head hitting the pillow.

His phone blared shrilly, interrupting Miles’ deep dreamless sleep.

His hand shot out of the covers and grabbed what he thought might be the shape of his phone. Not bothering to look at the screen, he blindly pressed the answer button.

“What,” he barked. It better not be Xander, waking him up to go for a jog. Or Kian, trying to be cute and failing.

“You’re famous!” his little sister Gina sang into the speaker, sounding even brighter than she normally did.

Miles groaned and fell back to his pillow. “What time is it?”

“I waited until nine, at least,” Gina said. “I’ve got a class in five, I just wanted to tell you that you’re famous, in case you missed it somehow.”

“You’d be surprised,” Miles told her wryly, because he’d pulled an extra-long shift and then fallen asleep. He hadn’t exactly had time in the last twenty-four hours to wrap his head around his sudden, inexplicable fame.

“What class?” he asked before she could tell him the breadth of what he’d neglected by choosing sleep. He didn’t get a lot of time to talk to Gina since she’d started at Cal in the fall, and he’d missed their chats.

“Philosophy 101,” Gina said, and he could hear her eye roll.

“Not enjoying it?” he asked. He’d chosen to go to culinary school instead of college, and it had absolutely been the right choice for him, but he was thrilled at the brave step Gina was taking. She was one of his favorite people—smart and funny and bright as the sun—and she was the first of his family to go to college. He couldn’t think of anyone better suited to fight for what she deserved.

“Oh, it’s plenty dumb at points,” Gina said. “Like whether we’re actually not here, but figments of someone’s imagination. Of course we’re actually here. It’s just . . .”

Miles heard her pause, and he was still wiping the sleepy cobwebs from his brain so it took him a long second to catch up to why she was hesitating. “What is it?” he finally asked. “What happened?” He was still, and would always be, a big brother.

“There’s this guy,” she said, frustration evident in her voice. “He argues with everything I say. I’m not sure he even agrees with what he’s saying, but it doesn’t seem to matter.”

“He sounds like an ass.” What he sounded like was a guy with a crush on Miles’ baby sister, and no idea how to go about getting her attention like an adult. Miles wanted to punch him in the face.

“He definitely is,” Gina said, and though she didn’t say it, Miles could hear the hesitation in her tone. She didn’t think he was an ass at all. And just like that, Miles realized that she probably wouldn’t be his baby sister for much longer. At least not in her mind. She was eighteen and in college and discovering the world.

“I’ve got to go,” Gina continued, “but don’t think I didn’t notice you changed the subject. We still need to talk about you, big bro.”

“Someday,” Miles said.

“Sooner rather than later,” Gina insisted.

After she hung up, Miles hesitated before unlocking his phone again. Did he even want to look? When he finally did, he grimaced. If the avalanche of notifications yesterday had been daunting, the pile this morning was insurmountable.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing that René had told him he wouldn’t need to be in until four today.

He debated whether he wanted coffee or not—not a real debate, more like whether Miles wanted to pull on pants and stumble into the kitchen—and he’d just about made up his mind that coffee was required if he was going to slog through his phone when there was a knock on the door.

Miles pushed his hair back and grabbed a pair of loose sweats on the floor by the bed. Pulling them on, he opened the door to Kian’s way too bright smile.

It was hard to scowl at all that cheerfulness, but Miles was a pro and managed it just fine.

“I brought you coffee,” Kian said, extending a cup filled to the brim. “Two sugars, dark as sludge.”

Miles eyed his roommate suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m always nice.” This was partly true. Kian was definitely the nicest of his roommates. Xander and Wyatt could be assholes on a good day. But Kian had a sort of apprehensive puppy dog thing going on this morning, and Miles was naturally suspicious, but he wasn’t usually wrong.

“Have you looked at your phone?” Kian asked, sounding way too much like Gina for Miles’ peace of mind. If Kian hadn’t emphatically expressed his preference for the male sex, Miles might have thought about introducing them.

“Sort of.”

Kian shot him a frank look. “Take a closer look,” was all he said. “Last I saw, Martha Stewart retweeted it, and then Snoop Dogg picked it up too.”

Miles’ jaw dropped open. “Snoop Dogg retweeted my video?”

“I mean, have you even watched that cooking show he hosts with Martha?” Kian rambled, as Miles clumsily unlocked his phone after three tries and sat down on the bed, coffee abandoned to the bedside table as he scrolled through some of his notifications.

“I don’t get it,” Miles finally said, looking up and realizing that Kian was still expectantly standing in the doorway. “Most viral stuff has a good hook. This was a video of me . . . baking tarts.”

“But you’ve never showed yourself as much as you did in this one,” Kian pointed out. “And, honestly, you looked pretty cute and intense, hair falling in your face, and I think at one point you might’ve had some raspberry puree smeared across your cheek.”

Miles stared at his friend.

“You did watch it before you posted it, didn’t you?” Kian asked awkwardly. He was so young—okay, not that much younger than Miles, but in your twenties, sometimes three years felt like an eternity—and sort of naïve. Very naïve, depending on the moment.

“Technically yes.” Miles thought back to the morning two days ago when he’d gotten approximately three hours of sleep on a marble slab and decided he might not have been entirely coherent enough to do the editing justice. “But I was a little tired at the time. I probably thought the raspberry puree gave me a sort of rakish charm.”

“It totally did,” Kian said, very loyally. Kian was much nicer than Xander. Since Xander had yet to give him shit over the puree that must mean he hadn’t seen it yet. Miles hoped that state continued for a long time, though considering the way the video was spreading, he probably wouldn’t get that lucky.

“So I looked . . . funny?” Miles asked, unable to keep the desperation out of his tone.

“No, no,” Kian corrected quickly. “You just look really intense and cute and driven. It’s a good video, and people like it for the right reasons, I promise. Plus, the tarts look delicious—and they tasted even better, by the way.”

“Okay.” Miles took a deep breath. “Is it totally weird if I didn’t want this to happen?”

Kian’s gaze grew sympathetic. “Uh, no. It’s a lot of scrutiny. I’m not sure Chef Aquino will like it, if I’m being totally honest.”

That was something Miles had not even considered. Chef Aquino was notoriously driven by his gigantic ego. Where Terroir was concerned, he didn’t like anybody else stealing the spotlight. Especially a lowly pastry assistant.

“He seemed okay with it two days ago,” Miles said.

“Miles,” Kian said, “Snoop Dogg retweeted it. He’s probably not okay with it now.”

Miles had difficulty wrapping his head around Chef Aquino even knowing who Snoop Dogg was, never mind caring what he thought of the video, but Kian was almost always right when it came to Chef Aquino. Chef had handpicked Kian from his culinary school’s graduating class and had taken him on as a special assistant. From what Miles could figure out, that mostly meant that Kian got to bear the brunt of their overbearing boss. But no matter how many times Chef yelled at Kian, or generally embarrassed him in front of the rest of the staff, Kian still worshipped him.

Personally, Miles thought there might be a little more than hero worship going on there, but he wasn’t going to open that bag of worms anytime soon. If Kian was smart, he’d get over it and move on. If Kian wasn’t smart, he’d eventually get chewed up and spit out by their illustrious leader. Miles liked Kian a lot, and hoped the kid could keep his head on straight.

“Well, I’ll find out tonight,” Miles said. “I don’t have to go in ’til four though.” He already knew what he’d be doing the rest of the day, and even though he knew he should be celebrating his success, all he felt was a mild dread. He hadn’t set out to become popular or famous, and he wasn’t sure how this video would ultimately impact his fairly simple life. A life he liked because it was simple.

“Drink your coffee,” Kian ordered. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Miles slunk into the staff entrance at Terroir at fifteen minutes to four. He’d drunk three cups of Kian’s excellent coffee, almost fully cleared out his notifications, and had even had a little time to start wrapping his head around what had just happened to him.

With a decent night’s sleep and some high-quality caffeine in him, Miles found he could actually enjoy the really positive comments to the video. Especially flattering, though bordering on creepy in some moments, were the many people who seemed to want to pick him up. Men and women both, and Miles realized that he’d never outright stated on his Pastry by Miles page that he was gay. Oh well, it wasn’t like he was taking anybody up on any of the offers—even the ones that seemed particularly attractive. And there had been more than a few of those.

His only real concern remained Chef Aquino’s developing reaction to the video’s unexpected success. Kian hadn’t texted him any red alerts during the afternoon, so Miles could only pray that Chef Aquino was still okay with it. He was even harboring a secret hope that the popularity of the video had only made Chef more determined to feature the tart as a special dessert.

“Costa,” Chef René barked out as he caught sight of him slinking into the break room to put his bag in his locker.

“Yes, Chef?” Miles asked.

“There’s someone to see you,” he said.

“Chef Aquino?” Miles began to sweat a little under his whites.

Chef René shook his head. “No, someone else. They’re on the terrace, waiting for you.”

Miles definitely was sweating now. Was he going to be fired? He’d done good work here—nothing innovative, because Chef René wasn’t that kind of chef—but he’d created solid and consistent product. He’d never even explicitly stated in his videos that he worked at Terroir, though a few commenters had voiced their suspicions that he did when he’d mentioned working at a famous restaurant. He’d never confirmed anything, but even though there were a lot of top-notch restaurants in Napa, there was only one with Michelin stars, and that was Terroir.

He walked through the empty restaurant, the tables already sparkling with glassware and silver, out the side door, and onto the terrace. Terroir overlooked some of the vineyards Napa was famous for, and the terrace was one of the most prized dining areas in California—probably in the whole United States. Trellised ivy and grapevines wound around the brick stonework of the building, and even though the terrace was technically outside, every inch was swept and pristine. Miles thought Chef Aquino probably even frightened the bugs away.

There was a man on the end of the terrace, sampling a cheese platter, with a glass of sparkling wine at his elbow. He had dark hair, shaved close, and a broad set of muscular shoulders that his white t-shirt only seemed to emphasize. He looked up with dark, intense eyes as Miles approached.

“You’re Reed Ryan,” Miles said, before the man could introduce himself. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized him the second he’d spotted him. Xander worshipped the man something fierce, both for his incredible culinary expertise and also because he was seriously hot. Miles had teased Xander more times than he could count about hanging a poster of Reed Ryan above his bed, and now he was here, in the flesh.

Xander was going to eat his heart out when he discovered who’d come to see Miles. He’d never mock Pastry by Miles ever again, not if the site drew Reed Ryan up to Napa.

“And you’re Miles.” Reed stood and offered a firm handshake. “Sit down.” He gestured to the glass. “Would you like some wine?”

Miles shook his head. “Sorry, but no, I’m on shift tonight.”

“Right, of course,” Reed said. “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked to meet with you.”

Miles was desperately curious. He knew Reed had closed his famous Chicago restaurant, Garnet, and had disappeared for a year or so, reappearing on the West Coast, but he couldn’t remember what it was that Reed was doing now. Xander had certainly told him, probably more than once, but Miles blocked out most of the shit Xander said.

“I didn’t realize you’d opened another restaurant,” Miles said as Reed selected a chunk of brie and popped it in his mouth.

“I haven’t,” Reed said. “I’m the culinary producer at Five Points.” Five Points was a pop culture and sports website that had been recently branching into short culinary video series.

Miles now remembered all those rants Xander had subjected him to about Reed Ryan wasting all his talent by selling out.

“I’ve been following Pastry by Miles for awhile,” Reed continued, picking through the thinly sliced meats on the tray. “I had always planned to offer you a show on our site, but after the last forty-eight hours, I decided I’d better get up here and do it before someone else beat me to the punch.”

“A show on Five Points?” Miles asked skeptically. “You teach people how to bake bread out of melted ice cream. How to make edible cookie dough out of garbanzo beans. Pastry by Miles is a serious pastry blog.”

Reed shot Miles a very frank look. “I’m a serious chef, Mr. Costa. I want to make a serious pastry show. Believe it or not, I have higher ambitions than teaching the masses how to make a dessert with three ingredients or less. I want to teach them what good pastry is about. And I think you’re exactly the person to do that.”

Garnet had been legendary in the food scene. It was hard to picture a Reed Ryan who didn’t take the culinary arts very seriously. But there was still a whisper in the back of his head that he’d be selling out if he quit to film a show for Five Points. He wouldn’t be able to come back to Terroir. His job wouldn’t be waiting for him. Chef Aquino might let him go, but he’d never forgive Miles for moving on, no matter how unfair that might be.

“How much input would I have into the show?” Miles asked, because that, more than anything else, felt very important. He wasn’t going to dumb down his ideas for anybody. He wasn’t going to be subject to someone else’s vision, not if he was going to take the drastic step of walking away from employment at one of the very best restaurants in the world.

“There would be a producer. Me, maybe, or someone else. Maybe my assistant, Evan. I’ve been looking to promote him, and your show would be a great fit. But the process at Five Points is collaborative.” He paused. “I said it before, but I’ll say it again. I don’t have any intention of dumbing down your skill. I want something accessible, but elevated. I want you to teach people about pastry.”

When he’d begun Pastry by Miles, he’d wanted to share his creativity with people who weren’t just his roommates or his family. He’d wanted a way to express his vision without being constantly shut down.

“How long do I have to think about it?” Miles asked.

“As long as you need,” Reed said. “But I guarantee there will be others after me. That video was very good, Mr. Costa. I’ll email you over a sample contract with compensation attached. But everything is negotiable.”

“Thanks, I’ll be in touch,” Miles said, getting to his feet, his fingers already itching to check his email and see how much Reed was offering him to leave Terroir and everything familiar. “I’ve got to get back to my prep.”

If he detoured through the locker room and grabbed his phone to check his email, who could blame him? He scrolled through Reed’s email, and his jaw dropped open at the offering bid for fifteen episodes. That was two years of salary at Terroir, plus there were stipulations about housing and moving costs and additional bonuses if certain benchmarks were met.

Miles hadn’t gotten into the culinary business to make money—most chefs weren’t rich, or even close to rich, but he couldn’t deny the money held an attractive appeal.

Later, as he was making yet another tray of white chocolate lemon mousse pyramids, sure he would be dreaming about gold dust, Miles thought that the money paled in comparison to the opportunity to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. True creative vision. And extra bonus: no more white chocolate lemon mousse pyramids and no more gold dust.

Miles biked home because it was a gorgeous night—clear and with just the right amount of briskness in the air. He couldn’t deny he was avoiding his friends because they’d try to talk him out of leaving. Especially Xander, because he was the most vocal of the three—though Miles knew he’d get arguments from all of them. They knew just how special finding a place at Terroir was, and then how much work and determination and thick skin went into staying there.

It wouldn’t be something they’d want him to give up lightly, but Miles realized as he pulled into the drive that he’d been ready to move on for awhile now. Why else feel compelled to start Pastry by Miles at all? He shouldn’t need to come home from a long, exhausting shift, and bake. As far as Miles was concerned, he should feel creatively fulfilled at the position he’d worked his ass off for.

And if that wasn’t the case anymore, then he should move on. It was the right thing to do, Miles knew as he walked into the house, but it didn’t make telling his friends any easier.

It was after midnight, and they’d all worked at least ten hours today, but when he walked into the living room, Xander and Wyatt were on the couch, and Kian was sprawled next to them on the floor. The TV was tuned to ESPN, which meant Wyatt had picked the channel, but when Miles walked in, he muted it.

Three sets of eyes swiveled his direction.

“So Reed Ryan came to see you today?” Xander’s statement was phrased like a question, but it wasn’t like Miles could deny it. He slumped into an old chair and let his bag fall to the floor.

“Yeah, he came to see me.”

Xander scooted to the edge of the couch. “And you didn’t come get me?”

“It wasn’t that kind of visit.” Miles hesitated and then continued before Xander could reload again. “Listen, I know you’re all going to try to talk me out of it, and that’s fine, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m giving my two weeks tomorrow.”

Xander and Wyatt didn’t look all that surprised, but Kian turned to him, accusation and dismay all over his delicate features. “You’re really going to quit? I heard people talking, saying you might, and that’s why Reed Ryan came by, but I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t believe them. Miles, you’ve more than earned your place at Terroir.”

“I’ve earned it yeah, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

Sacrilege, to admit he didn’t love every chef’s dream job, but it felt so good to finally say it out loud.

“You really mean that,” Wyatt said with disbelief. “It’s not the money? I was sure Ryan threw a bunch of money at you.”

He had, and maybe Miles should have used that reason, instead of the truth. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized how all of them had been restricted and restrained by Chef Aquino’s iron-clad rule. Every single one of them had their own point of view as a chef, and none of them were expressing it.

And Miles couldn’t help but think that was just sad.

“Someday, you’re going to understand, I promise,” he said.

Kian made a scoffing noise, and Wyatt rolled his eyes.

Xander didn’t say a word. Miles supposed he should be relieved that Xander was so unusually quiet, but Xander was also one of his best friends. And for someone who loved to argue and express all his opinions, all the time, the silence was sort of galling. Like Xander had already given up on him.

“I’m sorry I’m going to leave you without a fourth roommate,” Miles added, though he knew with the addition of Kian eight months ago, it wouldn’t be as tough of a financial hardship.

“We’ll manage,” Wyatt said.

Xander scowled, and Miles just couldn’t help himself. “Aren’t you even going to attempt to change my mind?” he asked, but Xander just shrugged.

“You’ve already made up your mind. It would be a waste of breath.”

Miles got to his feet. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, I’m wiped.” And he realized as he headed towards his room, that he’d only have two more weeks of waking up and heading into the restaurant with his friends.

On the flip side, he only had two more weeks of Chef René’s insultingly obvious questions and only two more weeks of white chocolate lemon mousse pyramids.