Chapter 3
Carina
My legs feel like jelly as we finally arrive at the hotel.
We sat at Heathrow airport for a long time before we were finally able to take off again.
It’s now the following morning and we hit Zurich during rush hour.
The drive through the city was a blur of expensive cars, pristine streets, and William's increasingly tight jaw as he checked his watch every thirty seconds.
The hotel lobby is all marble and gold, with fresh orchids everywhere and staff who look like they stepped out of a fashion magazine. I'm acutely aware of my wrinkled travel clothes and the fact that I probably smell like an airplane.
"I'll have the concierge send your luggage up," Travis says. "We should head to the meeting."
"Actually," I interrupt, "I'll just wait here in the lobby. You don't need me for a supplier meeting."
William pauses. "That's fine. We shouldn't be more than—"
"William! You made it!" A silver-haired man in an expensive suit approaches from the hotel bar area, arms spread wide. He's probably in his fifties, with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "I was beginning to worry about our meeting."
"Klaus," William greets him with notably less enthusiasm. "We were delayed and I apologize we've arrived so late. Headwinds. Would you like to reschedule?"
Klaus shakes his head, "No, no, not at all." But Klaus's attention has already shifted to me, his eyes tracking down my body in a way that makes my skin crawl, lingering on my curves like he's appraising merchandise. "And who is this enchanting creature? Please, introduce me."
William's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Klaus Richter, this is Carina Stevens, our new chef. Carina, Klaus is our Swiss cheese supplier."
Klaus takes my hand and, instead of shaking it, brings it to his lips. His mouth is wet against my skin, and it takes everything in me not to jerk away. "Chef? But surely you are too beautiful to be hidden away in a kitchen."
"Thank you," I manage, extracting my hand as politely as possible and resisting the urge to wipe it on my jeans.
"You must join our meeting," Klaus announces, not asks. "I insist. How can we discuss cheese without a chef's palate present? It would be... incomplete."
"I don't think—" I start.
"Nonsense! I will not take no for an answer." Klaus loops his arm through mine before I can protest. "William, you agree, yes? Your chef should understand what she'll be working with."
I look desperately at William, hoping he'll save me from this. But his expression is unreadable, and I can practically see him calculating—the deal, Klaus's insistence, the issues that could arise if he says no to Klaus.
"If Ms. Stevens is comfortable with it," he says carefully.
Klaus laughs, already steering me toward the elevator. "Of course she is comfortable! We are all friends here, yes?"
Knox shoots me a sympathetic look as we crowd into the elevator, positioning himself on my other side as if trying to create a buffer. But Klaus maintains his grip on my arm, chatting about Swiss hospitality and how I'll love the cheese selection he's brought.
William stands rigidly in the corner, his jaw working like he's grinding his teeth.
Travis tries to redirect the conversation to business, but Klaus waves him off with his free hand, insisting there's time for that once we're settled.
The elevator ride feels endless, and Klaus's cologne—something expensive and overwhelming—makes the small space feel even more claustrophobic.
What have I gotten myself into?
The Edelweiss conference room is all dark wood and crystal chandeliers, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Limmat River.
We all take seats around the table, Klaus motioning for me to sit directly beside him. I sit, trying to inch my chair away from Klaus without being obvious. He immediately scoots closer, his cologne making my eyes water.
"So, shall we discuss the exclusive distribution rights?" William's voice cuts through the awkwardness like a blade.
"Business, always business with you Americans," Klaus laughs, but his hand lands on my knee under the table. I freeze. "First, let us enjoy some samples, yes? I have brought our finest selections. And what better way to evaluate them than with a chef?"
One of his associates—a thin, nervous man who keeps adjusting his glasses—begins uncovering platters of cheese while another opens wine. The spread is impressive—wheels of aged Gruyère, cave-aged Emmental, Tête de Moine formed into delicate roses, Appenzeller with its mysterious herbal wash.
Despite my discomfort, my professional interest is piqued. These are cheeses I've only read about, never been able to afford.
"Please, Miss Carina, you must try the Challerhocker," Klaus says, cutting a piece and holding it out to me. Not to my plate. To my mouth. Like I'm a child or a pet.
"I can—"
"I insist." His other hand is still on my knee, squeezing slightly. "This cheese is my personal favorite. Made by only one man in all of Switzerland. Tell me what you taste."
I lean forward and take the cheese, trying not to let him put his fingers in my mouth. The cheese is extraordinary—nutty and complex with a finish that goes on forever—but I can barely taste it through my discomfort.
"Well?" Klaus prompts, leaning closer. "What does your trained palate detect?"
I force myself to focus on the cheese, not the hand on my knee. "Brown butter notes, toasted hazelnuts. There's a crystalline texture from the aging, and something almost... caramel-like in the finish. It's beautiful."
"You see how she appreciates fine things?" Klaus addresses the room but keeps staring at me. "This is why I love American women. So... enthusiastic. And you haven't even tried it with the wine yet."
He pours me a glass of something white and expensive-looking, his hand brushing mine unnecessarily as he passes it over. The wine is crisp, with enough acidity to cut through the richness of the cheese. The pairing is perfect. Now if only he would take his hand off my knee.
Knox reaches for another piece of Gruyère, his fourth or fifth, and I remember what he said on the plane about being lactose intolerant. Sure enough, I can see his face starting to look a little green.
"Perhaps we should pace ourselves," I suggest quietly, but Knox waves me off, reaching for the Appenzeller.
"The distribution rights," William tries again, his fingers drumming against the table—the same nervous habit from the plane. "We're prepared to offer—"
"Patience, my friend." Klaus waves him off. "First, we feast. Business is better on a full stomach, no? Miss Carina, try the Sbrinz. It is aged for three years in mountain caves. I would love to show you these caves sometime. Very... intimate. Just the two of us, surrounded by cheese and darkness."
I nearly choke on my wine. Travis smoothly intervenes. "The aging process must be fascinating. How do you maintain a consistent temperature?"
As Klaus launches into an explanation, his hand slides higher on my thigh. I grab my wine glass with shaking hands, trying to shift away, but there's nowhere to go. The thin associate is watching with obvious discomfort, while the other seems oblivious.
Knox makes a small groaning sound. "Excuse me," he mutters, standing abruptly and heading for the door. As he passes, he squeezes my shoulder—a small gesture of support that almost makes me cry.
I hear Klaus mutter something in German that sounds dismissive. The thin associate laughs nervously.
"Perhaps we should focus on business," William says, and there's something dangerous in his tone now. His eyes are fixed on where Klaus's hand disappears under the table. "Our time is limited."
"Americans," Klaus sighs dramatically. "Always rushing. No appreciation for the finer things. Very well. But I think perhaps Miss Carina should tell us her thoughts first. After all, she will be working with these cheeses, yes? Tell me, beautiful, what would you pair with the Gruyère?"
Everyone turns to look at me. Klaus's hand is still on my thigh, and I can feel William's gaze burning into us from across the table. My mind goes blank for a moment, then my culinary training kicks in.
"The aged Gruyère?" I force my voice steady, drawing on every ounce of professionalism I possess.
"For retail, I'd suggest pairing it with quince paste and marcona almonds.
The sweetness plays against the nuttiness, while the almonds echo the toasted notes.
For prepared foods, it would be exceptional in a grilled cheese with caramelized onions and a touch of whole grain mustard. "
Klaus's eyebrows rise. "Go on."
Once I start talking about food, my nervousness fades.
This is my territory, my expertise. "The Challerhocker has that almost butterscotch quality—it would be incredible with honeycomb and fresh pears.
Maybe a drizzle of chestnut honey. For the Tête de Moine, you're already creating those beautiful rosettes, so I'd keep it simple.
Fresh baguette, maybe some cornichons for acidity. "
"And for wine pairings?" The thin associate asks, genuinely interested now, adjusting his glasses to peer at me with new respect.
"White wine, definitely. The Gruyère can handle something with more body—a nice Chasselas or even an aged Riesling.
The Appenzeller, with that herbal wash, needs something crisp to cut through.
Grüner Veltliner would be my choice. Though for American markets, you might want to suggest more familiar varieties alongside the Swiss options. "
"She thinks like a businesswoman," the other associate comments. "Not just a chef."
"Extraordinary," Klaus breathes, leaning closer. His cologne is overwhelming. "Beauty and brains. You are wasted on these men, my dear. You should come work for me in Switzerland. I would pay you double—no, triple what they offer."
"She's not available," William says flatly.