Served with a Side of Trouble

Served with a Side of Trouble- Part Five

He measured ingredients randomly, combined them in what he hoped was a plausible order, and became increasingly aware of Luca's occasional glances—not mocking, but observant, as if cataloguing Julian's struggle for future reference. Julian found himself unreasonably conscious of those glances, of the way Luca's dark eyes assessed the situation with professional interest rather than personal judgment.

When the mixer began making ominous sounds as Julian's too-thick batter threatened to burn out the motor, Luca finally spoke.

"The meringue should be whipped separately before the dry ingredients are folded in," he said, his tone carefully conversational rather than instructional.  "And there's a specific technique to the folding. Too much manipulation and the shells won't rise properly."

Julian glared at him. "I'm aware of proper technique. I'm simply... experimenting with an alternative method."

"Ah," Luca nodded, returning to his fish preparation. "Experimental baking. Ambitious."

The word choice—a callback to Luca's earlier comment—carried a hint of knowing amusement that made Julian's face burn. He was being humored, his pathetic attempt at asserting control seen for exactly what it was.

"This is ridiculous," Julian declared suddenly, switching off the mixer with more force than necessary. "The ingredients are substandard. I've changed my mind."

He abandoned the ruined batter on the counter and stalked to the far side of the kitchen, examining the wine refrigerator with feigned interest while internally cringing at his transparent retreat.

Luca said nothing, simply continuing his preparations as if Julian's aborted baking project and subsequent tantrum were normal occurrences not worthy of comment.
The dignified non-reaction somehow made things worse. Julian turned, prepared to deliver some cutting remark that would provoke a response, only to find Luca quietly cleaning up the mess Julian had left—disposing of the failed batter, wiping down the mixer, returning ingredients to their proper places. The afternoon light caught his profile as he worked, highlighting the concentration in his expression, the precision of his movements.

"Leave it," Julian ordered, embarrassment making his voice sharper than intended. "The housekeeping staff can handle that."

Luca glanced up, a single drop of perspiration tracing the clean line of his jaw. "It's a kitchen mess. That falls under my domain."

"Your domain?" Julian repeated, latching onto the word choice. "Interesting perspective for an employee."

"Professional responsibility, then. A chef maintains their workspace."

"And if I ordered you to leave it?" Julian challenged, deliberately pushing for a reaction.

Luca considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than defiant. "I would respectfully suggest that having the kitchen staff manage kitchen cleanup is more efficient than redirecting housekeeping resources," he said finally. "But ultimately, it's your decision."

Once again, Julian found himself deprived of the confrontation he'd been seeking. Luca hadn't refused, hadn't asserted authority—he'd simply offered a reasonable professional assessment while acknowledging Julian's ultimate control.

It was infuriating.

"Fine," Julian said, waving a dismissive hand. "Clean if you must. I have more important matters to attend to."

He moved toward the door, desperate to escape the evidence of his failed power play, but Luca's voice stopped him.

"Julian."

The use of his first name rather than the formal "Mr. Deveraux" caught Julian off-guard. He turned, wariness and curiosity mingling as he met Luca's gaze. The afternoon light caught his eyes, revealing those unexpected amber flecks again.

"If you're genuinely interested in making macarons, I could show you the proper technique sometime," Luca said, his expression neutral but not unkind. "When it's not interfering with meal preparation."

The offer hung in the air between them—not a challenge, not a criticism, but something more complex. An acknowledgment of Julian's failed attempt coupled with an opportunity to save face. A professional boundary gently reinforced alongside an unexpected olive branch.

Julian stared, momentarily at a loss for response. No one in his life addressed his failures this way—with neither the cutting criticism his father would have delivered nor the carefully veiled disappointment his mother would have expressed. Just a simple recognition of reality paired with a path forward.

It was disarming. And therefore dangerous.

"I have no interest in baking lessons from staff," Julian said finally, retreating behind cold dismissal. "I was merely inspecting your adaptability to changing circumstances. A test you barely passed, I might add."

Luca nodded, accepting this transparent fiction without comment. A strand of dark hair fell across his forehead again as he inclined his head, the simple physical detail drawing Julian's attention with annoying clarity. "Understood. Dinner will be served at 7:00 PM. The sea bass, as originally planned."

Julian left without further response, his attempted power play having accomplished exactly nothing. Luca remained unruffled, the kitchen schedule continued as planned, and Julian himself felt oddly unsettled rather than satisfied.

As he returned to his study, Julian found himself replaying Luca's offer in his mind. The simple "I could show you sometime" offered without judgment or mockery despite Julian's obvious incompetence. The image of Luca's hands guiding his through the proper technique lingered with unnecessary vividness, creating a strange flutter beneath Julian's ribs.

Julian settled at his desk, irritation and curiosity warring within him. Next time, he would need a more effective strategy for asserting his authority.