instinct & taste | part four
ONE WEEK LATER
RIVERSIDE GRILL
“Jensen?” Genevieve‘s petite, curvy shadow falls across the sauté station. “There’s someone at the bar asking for you.”
“Asking for the chef?”
“Asking for you personally,” she says. “Nice guy, pretty hot except for the fact he’s wearing cowboy boots.”
Surprised, Jensen nearly fumbles the plate Dom hands over. “Oh, that’s Jared.”
Genevieve gives him a coy look over her shoulder. “Is he your-”
“Roommate,” Jensen’s quick to say. “He’s my roommate.” Adding the blanc sauce to the salmon and grinding black pepper over the Strozzapreti, Jensen ignores Genevieve’s stare. He only looks at her when the plates are finished and he’s passing them into her waiting hands.
She smirks and swishes her long, dark ponytail, holding Jensen’s cuisine hostage. “So, are you coming out?”
“He’s a little busy here, doll,” Dom calls from over Jensen’s shoulder. “Tell his roommate that it might be a while.”
Not impressed with the pet name, Genevieve purses her lips while she thinks of a comeback. Jensen’s chuckling into his saucepans, glad for the lighter mood tonight. None of them notice Paul walking up to the counter, callous little eyes focused on Genevieve.
“The goal is to serve the food while it’s hot,” he sneers. “Or did no one bother to teach you that?”
Genevieve-who Jensen finds he likes more and more every shift-twists her expression as if she’s found something disgusting on the bottom of her rubber-soled shoes. She barely spares Paul a glance before she’s smiling at Jensen and Dom again.
Jensen sighs. “Tell Julie to put whatever Jared wants on my tab, and tell him I’ll be out soon.”
“You have five minutes,” she says matter-of-factly. “After that, I’m telling him you accidently sliced your dick off and had it reattached upside down.”
Dom guffaws, loud enough to be heard over the stoves and fans, and Jensen can’t help laughing, knowing she’d do it. Looking at the three of them like he’d suddenly walked into an asylum, Paul huffs and turns away, denying Jensen the opportunity to snap at him for being away from his station during the rush.
Satisfied, Genevieve spins and waltzes through the swinging door.
After rushing through the remaining sauces, Jensen whisks his apron off and towels the sweat from his face. He knows he wouldn’t pass a mirror’s inspection-his face is probably red, hair a mess, and he’s burned his knuckles twice already-but he knows Jared won’t care. Dom steps in as saucier, earning them a nasty look from Paul’s corner-of-shame. Jensen decides that before he goes out and meets Jared, he needs to have a few words with his insufferable sous chef about belittling the floor staff for every little misstep.
That’s Jensen’s job.
Genevieve was right about the cowboy boots, but as a Texas boy, Jensen appreciates the sight of tooled leather and thick heels.
Jared’s leaning forward on his barstool, saying something to Julie that has her grinning from ear to ear. His legs are stretched out, long lines of dark denim with one heel cocked on his stool, and his black v-neck is tight around his shoulders. Jensen’s a little surprised to see him wearing a hunter green scarf loosely around his neck; he’s so used to seeing Jared in casual, lounge-around-the-house attire that the outfit’s a bit of a shock.
“Hey,” Jensen says, stepping up to the bar. Julie nods before turning away to her other customers. “You didn’t tell me you’d be stopping by tonight. I would have gotten you a table.”
Jared shakes his head, and Jensen sees there’s something off kilter in his eyes. “Oh, that’s okay. It was kind of a last-minute decision. If you’re busy…”
“No, it’s okay.” Jensen watches Julie loop back and drop a pint of beer onto the coaster in front of Jared. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.” He taps the menu in front of him. “That’s part of the reason why I’m here.”
Jensen sets his elbows next to Jared’s on the canyon marble bar-top. “What’s the rest?”
Fortifying himself with beer, Jared swallows and says, “I ran into Matt as I was leaving my last class.”
Jensen sours but doesn’t let his expression change. “Have you talked to him since you moved out?”
“He’s texted once or twice wanting to make sure I’d found somewhere to stay, but tonight he was telling me how sick he was of Fed and Rich. They’re still pulling the same crap, I guess.” Jared makes an unpleasant sound. “Matt actually asked if I would consider moving back so he wouldn’t have to deal with them on his own.”
Jensen would rather return to the kitchen and deal with Paul than face the possibility of Jared leaving.
“-so I told him that he needed to have a serious talk with Rich about breaking the lease if things don’t get better. Or he could just pack up and leave like I did, and stick Rich and Fed with the extra rent costs.”
“You told him no?” Jensen is genuinely surprised, and so relieved his knees almost buckle.
This time, Jared’s laugh is light and appetizing. “Dude, of course I told him no. You’re such an idiot,” he adds with a fetching smile. “You seriously think I’d give up an endless supply of gourmet leftovers, your enormous guestroom, priceless entertainment system, and the dogs? I think you’ve inhaled too many fumes tonight.”
“You’re probably right,” Jensen says, gaze circling the dining room that’s now filled to capacity. From the number of patrons holding menus, the kitchen’s about to be inundated.
Jared follows his stare. “Yeah, I guess you should head back before Dawson organizes a mutiny.”
“People would need to like him in order for that to happen,” Jensen says, leaning over to whisper the words right into Jared’s ear. “You said you were hungry, right?”
“Gonna cook something for me?”
“Nope”-Jensen holds him hostage with a grin-“I’m going to create something for you.” He’s already imagining the way Jared’s mouth is going to water when he tastes Jensen’s medium rare filet with a crumbled Hook’s Blue cheese crust. “Any preferences?” he asks to be on the safe side.
Jared, visibly more relaxed than he was a few minutes ago, raises his beer in a toast. “Surprise me.”
HOME
The sun is just beginning to set west of the Ashley River by the time Jensen gets home early Wednesday evening. He has to tilt his rearview mirror to keep the sun’s reflection from burning out his eyes as he drives back to James Island.
Jensen has to remind himself to head in the direction of the house instead of continuing into downtown. Instinct is telling him that it’s dinner time; he belongs in the kitchen with his crew, prepping for a busy weeknight. But he’s not-he’s forced to the sidelines one night a week thanks to Miranda’s insistence that Paul be able to manage a day on his own.
Of course, Jensen hadn’t stayed away. He’d grabbed his morning coffee and driven to Riverside as the sun was coming up. He got there in time to take care of a seafood delivery and he’d stayed to sort out the paperwork on a new hire. Beneath the W-2, he’d found a mailer with Reid Canton’s name on the return address. Inside, along with a handwritten note, were glossy pages that laid out articles and recipes alongside beautiful culinary photography.
Jensen-
Don’t you think it’s time Charlestonians created their own publication on local Food Culture? I do. Take a look at these magazine pages and let me know what you think. I could really use input from someone with your background and level of success.
-Reid
Flipping through the mock-ups, Jensen could admit that Reid knew what he was doing. Even with such a small piece of the whole, Jensen was excited about the magazine’s possibilities, and he’d found himself outlining ideas and concerns on the back of his new dishwasher’s W-2 form. Quickly recopying the notes he’d made, Jensen hustled through the rest of his paperwork before he could be distracted again.
No one called Jensen on his presence at the restaurant that morning, but he wouldn’t care if they had-Paul might be running a shift, but Jensen runs the kitchen. If Paul has a successful night, it’ll come down to Jensen’s prep work and the efficiency of what he’s built, and nothing else.
After that, Jensen had driven south towards Beaufort to check in with a local farm that supplies a portion of Riverside’s produce. With the summer fast approaching, and the height of the tourist season with it, Jensen wanted to make sure that Riverside Grill had the first choice of organic stock. He’d spent the majority of the afternoon walking the fields and greenhouses, sweating through the humidity and making mental lists of all the amazing dishes he’ll be able to create with produce such as Tuscan kale, hydroponic Bibb lettuce, baby mustard greens, and golden beets.
As he pulls into his neighborhood, Jensen’s tired and more than a little dirty, uninspired by the thought of spending a night home alone. But that idea is dashed, happily, by the sight of Jared’s car in the driveway.
He finds his roommate in the kitchen, a warm bready smell wafting throughout the room. The combination of basil, buffalo mozzarella, and something sharper tickles Jensen’s nose.
“Hey, what’s all this?”
Standing in front of the dual ovens, Jared smiles back. His jeans are worn thin at the knees and frayed at his feet, fabric soft through the entire length. The plaid shirt he’s wearing is a balanced mixture of blues, grays, and warm caramels, and his brown hair is brushed behind his ears.
“This is me cooking dinner for you, for once.”
“What do you mean?” Jensen asks, stalking around the counter as if it’s his line. “You’ve cooked before.”
“Yeah, but not dinner,” Jared says. “Since this is your first night off, I figured I’d show you that I’m no one trick pony when it comes to cooking. I can do more than breakfast.”
The kitchen is overrun with ingredients. Piles of grated cheese set out like islands on the bamboo cutting board; shreds of basil and oregano here and there; prosciutto sharing space with spicy pepperoni; a myriad of colorful vegetables all chopped and sliced. Behind it all, two freshly made crusts stretched out on Josh’s pizza stones (that Jensen had noticed but had yet to use).
Jensen looks up. “I know we didn’t have all this in the fridge.”
“I had a little spare time after class, so I went shopping.”
“You picked this out on your own?”
“I had help,” Jared admits with a soft smile. “I called Genevieve for tips, but she was downtown anyway. She came and shopped with me before her shift started.”
That’s another new development: Jared and Genevieve. Despite her initial wariness of Jared’s cowboy boots, the two have bonded over scarves (turns out Jared owns more than the one), the local music scene, and their classes at the College of Charleston. Instead of minding their sudden connection, it warms Jensen; Jared’s fitting more and more of himself into Jensen’s world, and that’s nothing to make a fuss over.
“She took me to Goat. Sheep. Cow. to find the best cheeses. I didn’t even know what half the stuff was. That place is amazing,” he says, and Jensen would have to agree-the quaint, European-style fromagerie is a gem, and a recent addition to Charleston’s food scene. “She took me to Bull Street Market for the rest.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You should be.” Jared smirks, puffing up his chest. Jensen’s eyes linger on the stretch of the fabric. “Now, go shower and change.”
Jensen pouts. “I guess no one wants me in their kitchen tonight.”
“Oh I want you, chef,” Jared teases, “but I can see the dirt on your arms from here, and there’s no way you’re getting near my haute cuisine like that.”
Feeling the shiver of Jared’s stare all the way down his spine, Jensen fights the urge to turn around as he walks towards his bedroom. In the shower, he scrubs the sweat from his hair and the earth from his skin, body pinked and refreshed from the hot water. After a quick towel-dry, Jensen slides into jeans and rolls the sleeves of his navy button down up to his elbows.
“It’ll be ready in five,” Jared says when Jensen walks back into the kitchen. “Why don’t you open the wine?”
“Wine?” Jensen looks around. “Where is it?”
“Everything’s set up in the living room.”
‘Set up’ is an understatement. The couch has been pushed back from the low coffee table, which itself has been draped with one of Josh’s rarely-used tablecloths (Jensen’s brother really could be a Neanderthal at times) and set with napkins and wine glasses. In place of the overhead lights, Jared has lit a dozen candles, wax already dripping down the sides of the tapers, and their warm glow makes the room seem smaller and more intimate. Jared’s iPhone is docked to a set of speakers playing subtle songs Jensen doesn’t recognize.
It would be impossible to describe the scene as anything other than romantic.
Jensen swallows, wishing he’d taken a more thorough shower. The bottle of Malbec sitting on the side table isn’t much in the way of a distraction, but Jensen takes it, popping the cork smoothly with the wine key Jared had set out.
“Did you pick the wine?”
“Sort of,” Jared calls back from the kitchen where he’s bent over, peering into the oven. “Genevieve helped me pick it out. Did I get a good one?”
Jensen hums as he pours two glasses. “I think it’ll be perfect.”
Jared carries two large plates into the living room, each boasting a homemade crust topped with fragrant, melted cheese and a colorful array of toppings.
“So what’s the occasion?” Jensen asks after following Jared’s lead and taking a seat on the rug between the couch and the coffee table. Kneeling next to him, Jared hands Jensen one of the wine glasses.
“Nothing special,” Jared tells him without making eye-contact. “I thought it might take your mind off of not being at work. I know it’s rough, but maybe you can see it as a good thing: having more time to do what you want.”
Jared’s theory (the same as Sebastian’s, Jensen can’t help but notice) sounds great, but Jensen’s life revolves around Riverside. Even today, he’d spent the majority of his free time on related business. But that’s what Jensen signed up for when he agreed to Pierre’s offer-it’s what he wanted.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Jensen says, admiring the tempting spread in front of them, “but it’s great, seriously.” Reaching for his first slice-a large wedge topped with banana peppers, creamy whole milk mozzarella, thin slices of tomato, and basil-he stops when he realizes he has nowhere to put it. “You forgot the plates.”
“Nope”-Jared’s hand on his arm prevents Jensen from standing-“we don’t need them. Don’t tell me you’re afraid to get your fingers a little messy.”
Jensen has no comeback. He folds the slice and takes a huge bite, letting the cheese melt at the corner of his mouth, flavors sweeping over his tongue and satisfying his taste buds.
“I can’t remember the last time I had pizza,” he says. “I think I’m missing out. Where’d you learn to make stuff like this?”
Swallowing a bite of his own slice, loaded with Italian meats and soft cheese, Jared says, “I put in my time behind a pizza counter when I was in high school, and I was always playing with the toppings. I got to take a pizza home every night-which my parents were thrilled about because it cost so much to feed me-and I loved the weird combinations. I know it’s not gourmet…”
“I saw some of the labels on the cheeses you bought, and I beg to differ.”
Jared laughs and the light conversation continues as they work their way through the pizzas, trading slices back and forth between the platters.
There’s half a pizza left on each plate by the time Jensen’s full. Jared’s finishing his fourth slice and Jensen is leaning back against the couch with his wine, content to watch and relax, answering the questions Jared throws his way.
“You know, when I first met you, I never would’ve pegged you for a chef.”
“No?”
Jared shakes his head, licking olive oil from his bottom lip. “I thought you were a writer or something. I mean, you were out during the day, spending time with the dogs, but it seemed like your mind was somewhere else entirely.”
“I was probably praying for someone to help me,” Jensen teases. “I couldn’t keep up with Paisley.”
“Aww”-Jared presses his hand to his heart-“I was literally the answer to your prayers.”
After that slice, Jared finally admits to a full stomach. He combines the remaining slices on one platter but refuses to let Jensen carry anything into the kitchen. Sipping his wine, Jensen listens to Jared set everything on the counter and walk back into the living room, passing by the screen door to check on the dogs who were shooed outside before their impromptu picnic.
“Have you thought about what you’re gonna do after graduation?” Jensen asks, conscious of the fact that Jared has less than a month left in his senior year.
“I want to stay in Charleston,” Jared says right off the bat. “Texas was a great place to grow up, but I really like it here. I’m closer to the friends I’ve made here than I am with the people I went to high school with, and the beach beats anything we had back in San Antonio. And, I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about going for my MBA next year and filling in with some part-time work or internships.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
With a tipped grin, Jared shrugs. “And hey, if all that fails, you’ll hire me. Right?”
“In my kitchen?” Jensen pretends to consider the idea. “Well, let’s see. You make fantastic pancakes, and the pizza was superb, but I’ll be disappointed if your skills only apply to flat foods.” That starts Jared on a rolling laugh; he has to set his wine glass aside to keep from spilling it. “Maybe I could hire you for a brunch shift-”
“Which you don’t have,” Jared adds unhelpfully.
“Which I could create for you, Mr. Ungrateful,” Jensen points out. “You picked an excellent wine to pair with dinner tonight, and I’m sure you’re a hard worker.”
“I can provide letters of recommendation.”
“Hmm, still. I don’t know that you’d be the right fit for my kitchen.”
Jared gasps with theatric emphasis. “Why not?”
Jensen holds back for a moment, fighting the smile that naturally appears in Jared’s presence. “You’re just too nice,” he finally says. “And way too well-adjusted.”
“Well-adjusted?”
“It’s a well-known fact that kitchens attract the crazy types-the addicts, the unsociable, the totally unbalanced.”
Jared’s smile is warm enough to light a match on. “So, naturally you fit right in.”
“Hey!” Jensen laughs, but deep down he knows there’s a lot of truth stirred in with that statement. He began cooking with wholesome intentions-dreams of fine cuisine and world travel, creating and teaching-but everything spoiled when his parents died. Now his world is the merciless grind of a world-class kitchen: smoke and heat and enough noise to drown out any thought that doesn’t revolve around food. For nearly eight years, Jensen’s been grateful for the mayhem.
In the flickering candlelight, Jared’s expression softens. His eyes are golden-their color reminds Jensen of the caramelized sugar on top of crème brûlée-and his gaze has dropped to Jensen’s fingers.
Jensen brings one hand up between them, noticing for the first time how close they are, and opens his palm so Jared can see the dark imperfections. His hands are strong and capable, flying over the stove and sacrificing nothing to pain, but they’re also scarred and thick, as if Jensen’s skin grew an extra layer of protection. Flame and heat seared off any of the fine hairs long ago, and there are marks to immortalize countless kitchen mishaps.
Jared isn’t put off. He holds the back of Jensen’s hand and draws his finger over the scars, putting more pressure on the faintly purple burn marks across the heel of Jensen’s palm.
Not sure what to say, Jensen mutters, “The back looks worse,” and watches with a heavy stomach as Jared turns his hand over. Jensen curls his battered knuckles to hide his blunt fingernails, but Jared rolls his fingers out like dough, with a soft touch.
“Jared?”
“I-um,” Jared stutters and drops Jensen’s hand. “I hope you left room for dessert.”
Suddenly, Jensen’s staring at an empty space. Jared’s clattering through the kitchen, pulling out drawers and opening the refrigerator, but Jensen’s stuck in the quiet moment they shared not thirty seconds ago-the sensual and provocative way Jared touched him.
“I saw this at the market and couldn’t resist,” Jared says on his way back into the room. He’s carrying a plate and silverware this time: two forks on either side of a massive piece of tiramisu.
‘That speech makes me want to get naked, cover myself in tiramisu…’
Jared’s voice fills Jensen’s head, the memory pulled safe and sound from his fantasy vault. As if someone’s turned up the heat, Jensen’s cheeks begin to flush.
’…and have gorgeous men lick it off.’
If this is a hint-if Jared’s willing-then Jensen is ready, waiting for the smallest encouragement. Thinking about it is enough to give him a semi, easily hidden in the shadows cast by the low light.
“Are you gonna try it?”
Jensen looks up and sees Jared holding up a fork, a layered bite of sweet mascarpone and lady fingers waiting to be savored. Desserts have never meant all that much to Jensen-something he’ll never admit to Mark for fear of losing a limb-but they deserve reconsideration, especially when served by gorgeous male roommates after a seductive hand massage.
Jared is watching closely as Jensen leans forward and parts his lips for the offered bite, whipped sugar and shaved chocolate curls catching at the corner of his mouth. It’s easy to name the ingredients-lady fingers soaked in a mixture of espresso, dark rum, and Kahlua, chocolate and fluffy mascarpone cheese-but tiramisu is an example of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. Bold and delicate at the same time. As Jensen’s swallowing, Jared’s taking his first bite, eyes rolling back in pleasure. He’d like to see how that expression compares to the one Jared has mid-orgasm, something less sweet but just as delicious filling Jensen’s mouth.
Unconsciously, Jensen licks his lips.
“Oh my god,” Jared says with thick cheeks, “this is better than amazing.”
Jensen’s grateful Jared only bought one piece; he’s not sure he could survive an entire pan. It’s not the first time he’s gotten hard over food, but it could be the most memorable, depending on how the rest of the night goes. The combination of caffeine and alcohol in the dessert is affecting Jensen more than it should-his blood is coursing fast and slow in turns.
They share the tiramisu with a single fork, trading bites and long looks. Jensen lets Jared have the last taste so he can focus on the way Jared licks the semisweet chocolate from the prongs, his eyes fixated on Jared’s fluid mouth.
“Do I have something on my face?” Jared whispers. Jensen shakes his head but moves closer, imagining that if there were a dollop of sweetness on Jared’s lips, he could easily lean across the space and kiss it away. He’d move lower and share the sugar between their tongues until there was none left.
When he blinks, Jensen realizes he has unconsciously tilted forward. Jared’s eyes are depthless, pulling him in. As if Jared’s an exotic taste waiting to be sampled, Jensen can’t help himself. Jared takes a breath, lips open-
A sudden clatter turns their heads, Jared’s forehead nearly colliding painfully with Jensen’s. Paisley’s sharp bark shatters the moment completely.
“Shit.” Jared’s the first to gather his wits, jumping up. “I’ll let them in.” Jensen’s too shocked to argue, staring blankly at Jared’s back as he opens the sliding glass door. Paisley demands attention immediately, trotting over to her bowl and barking for food, her nub tail wiggling furiously. Scout follows his sister inside, moving slowly over towards his dish.
“Guess I should…” Jared trails off. “Sorry.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jensen’s at a loss. “I’ll get this stuff cleaned up.”
“I can get it-“
Jensen cuts him off. “You cooked. It’s the least I can do.”
They’d been so in tune all evening, but the chaos of the last two minutes has ruined that, and now Jensen can’t come up with anything to say that’s not awkward. He washes dishes while Jared takes care of the dogs and starts blowing out candles in the living room. Jensen scrambles for something to say in order to regain lost ground; his gut tells him that they were both more than willing. But maybe willingness isn’t the problem, Jensen thinks, gaze following Jared as he moves around the room and cuts back the ambiance until there’s nothing left of their intimate little world.
When the last flame is snuffed out, Jensen loses all hope of picking up where they left off.
RIVERSIDE GRILL
The Friday night rush swamps them early-god damn downtown festivals-and Jensen’s barely keeping his crew out of the weeds as he works a line of tickets longer than his arm. Dom has brought a waitress to tears over a plate of foie gras while Jensen scores one breakdown when he kicks a sniffling, groveling apprentice out of the kitchen for trying to use his stove during the melee. The guy was lucky to leave with all ten fingers.
Paul attempts to approach Jensen before the initial wave of orders hits, but Jensen sends him retreating with a single look, the same thing he’d done yesterday whenever his sous chef tried to start a conversation. Having little patience on his best days, Jensen’s felt tapped out since Wednesday night after his dinner with Jared. He’s been teetering on the edge of total volatility for the last two days and the last thing he wants is to hear Paul recap his solo shift in nauseatingly self-flattering detail. He’d rather stick his hand in a food processor.
Jensen pulls another ticket from the printer. “Entrées!” he shouts, ready for the all-around symphony of groans. At least Jensen can take joy in the fact that Paul is struggling as much as anyone, cursing loudly enough to be heard across the chaos.
The bedlam is a blessing for Jensen’s rubbed-raw conscience; no spare energy left to think about Jared and the strain between them. They haven’t spoken much since their near-kiss in the living room, but they’re not exactly avoiding one another. It’s simply product of busy schedules and never being home at the same time, Jensen reassures himself. They’ll be fine-Wednesday night was a mishap, that’s all. Jensen deals with mishaps all the time.
Like now, when Genevieve drops a plate on the counter.
“He claims he ordered rare when I know for a fact he told me medium,” she complains, eyes pleading for Jensen to just fix the filet and not give her crap.
“Fire me another filet, rare, on the fly!” Jensen calls back and hears Saban pass along the order to one of the two guys working the grill.
“I don’t care if it’s cold and bleeding,” Genevieve adds with a generous helping of contempt.
“Gonna stand here and wait for it?” he asks.
She nods and crosses her arms. “God forbid it cooks one extra millisecond between here and the table.”
Returning his attention to the eight burners in front of him, Jensen forgets about Genevieve until she clears her throat. “Are you coming out tonight?”
He doesn’t look up from the blood orange sauce he’s making for the fish. “Huh?”
“Jared texted to see if I wanted to hang out after my shift,” she explains. “Guess I assumed you were coming, too.”
“I...” He doesn’t mean to hesitate, and Genevieve can easily interpret his stumble, but he struggles to connect the thought. “I can’t,” he finally says, taking two plates from Dom and adding the sauces. “I’ll be here for a while and then, the dogs…I’ve gotta drive home to let them out.”
Genevieve smacks her lips together, staring at Jensen while another waiter hurries in and takes the two entrees from the counter. Her gaze is unnervingly thorough.
“I think Jared meant that he wanted to meet up late. He knows you’d have to clean up, and-”
“Filet, rare, on the fly!” Saban’s voice booms and a plate comes rolling down the line, stopping at Dom’s station for the sides. Distracted from her inquisition, Genevieve pounces as soon as the meat is plated properly. She glides out of the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with another server going in the opposite direction.
Later, when Jensen takes five to down an entire bottle of water and check his phone, he finds no texts or missed calls from Jared. He tells himself there’s no reason to be disappointed, but it doesn’t stick, sliding off him like butter on a hot skillet.
His mood deteriorates from there, coming to a head when Paul corrals him in the prep room, arrogance written all over his face.
“-it felt amazing,” he’s gloating. “I was so connected with my customers and their tastes. My shift was flawless,” he adds, something Jensen knows for a fact isn’t true based on Libby’s rundown. “I just feel that this restaurant and I will evolve together, bringing Miranda’s vision into-”
“Evolve together?” Jensen cuts through Paul’s bullshit. “Can you hear how preposterous you sound?”
Paul cocks his hip against the prep table, its bamboo top filled with spring vegetables. “Ignore it all you want, Jensen, but you and Miranda are working in opposite directions. She and I share the same vision.” Jensen freezes. It’s the exact same thought he’d had when he began working with Pierre. “It’s only a matter of time before she and I are so far ahead, you won’t be able to see us.”
“Not being able to see you sounds pretty good right about now,” Jensen counters. “And since you’re always looking for more responsibility, now you’re responsible for dicing all of these vegetables”-he gestures across the prep table-“and getting them to Dom A.S.A.P.”
Putting Paul in his place only satisfies for a moment. Leaving the prep room, Jensen works harder and faster, demanding perfection from his crew as the rush of orders crests and, finally, recedes. The mountain of clean-up is daunting but everyone claims their share, even Jensen. Paul disappears with a false apology, stating aloud that Miranda needed to see him after the shift. It’s just more bullshit, and the entire staff knows it.
“Oh my God, Jensen.” Genevieve’s hand is curled around the kitchen door, hair loose and wavy around her shoulders. A salmon colored scarf is bunched up around her neck and she’s changed her shoes. “Aren’t you done yet?”
“Why?” he asks. “Am I missing something?”
She huffs as if Jensen’s denser than a wedge of gouda. “I told Jared you were coming out and we’ve been waiting at the bar.”
“Jared’s here?” Genevieve rolls her eyes. Jensen dumps his polishing rag in the linen bin. “Can you wait another ten minutes?”
“Fine,” she says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “But you’re buying my next cosmo.”
Finished with the stainless steel around the saucier station, Jensen gladly abandons the rest; he’d done more than his usual share. In the next ten minutes he washes his face and runs wet fingers through his sweaty hair, strips out of his kitchen whites and houndstooth pants, and changes into jeans and a t-shirt. He sprays a stripe of cologne over his chest to cover the mix of cooking smells he’d waded through all night and pulls his leather jacket from his desk chair.
Dom wolf-whistles as Jensen passes through the kitchen, and he winks before slipping out. Jensen’s afraid no one will be waiting for him; maybe Jared got impatient or decided to leave once Genevieve told him Jensen was coming.
But across the dining room, Jensen sees Genevieve and Jared sitting at the end of the bar, conversation turned away from the rest of the late-night crowd. In deference to what must be a cooler night, Jared’s wearing a soft brown sweater-Jensen sees a green and brown plaid shirt peeking out at the bottom-and a solid camel colored scarf. Jensen doesn’t need to look closer to know that Jared’s sporting jeans and his favorite pair of boots.
He lingers in the soft shadows curtaining the back of the dining room, reads the relaxed lines of Jared’s body and compares them to the tense stances and cloudy expressions he’d seen yesterday and this morning. If giving Jared his space is what’s needed to preserve that comfortable posture, Jensen doesn’t mind walking away and letting Jared and Genevieve have their night out.
Just as he’s forming the impetus to turn around, Jared beats him to it. He zeroes in on Jensen through the dim light, expression undecipherable for a second before he’s grinning from cheek to cheek, beckoning Jensen with the tilt of his head.
And Jensen knows he couldn’t stay away even if Jared needed him to.
PART FIVE