Chapter 2
These used to be her people, Mia mused, as she studied the international jet set crowd gathered in the ballroom. Then her father had lost everything to a man who was pure evil—Angelos Mavromatis. Now her father, who had sunk into a hell of booze and drugs, was a pariah. And so was she.
Rumor had it that Mavromatis was here tonight, but she’d never seen him and prayed she never would. She might claw his eyes out.
- One Week with the Greek
CALLIE
T he next morning, I arrived early at the Moxie Hotel in Shoreditch.
I didn’t want to appear too eager, especially if I planned on negotiating a new salary; I had to go in there like I owned the place and this promotion.
So I slipped around the corner to a trendy coffee shop to gather my nerves before my 10 a.m. meeting.
I’d spent most of the night on the Greystone website reading about the company’s resort plans for the upcoming year. There was one scheduled to open in Marbella, another in Cannes, a third in the Swiss Alps, and a fourth in a secret destination.
I wanted Cannes. It made perfect sense for them to send me there: I was trained in classic French cuisine, had cooked in one of the best kitchens in Paris, and spoke fluent French.
Plus, Cannes was only an hour away from Olivia and Jake.
I could already envision myself in the kitchen with a view of the Mediterranean.
Butterflies of anticipation took flight in my stomach and my heel tapped under the table.
I pulled out the small mirror in my purse and stared at my reflection. Grace Kelly chignon, check. Cat eyes, check. And most importantly, red lipstick, check.
I wore a designer dress that hugged my curves—specifically to get at Gaz, who all through our relationship (or whatever you might call it), never failed to remind me how I was pretty, but I’d be an atomic bomb if I went easy on dessert.
Fuck him. I was tall and full-figured, and I was cool with that.
It had taken me years to be comfortable in my own skin.
My mom was constantly on a diet of some sort and as a kid, I’d internalized so many of her hangups.
It didn’t help that she constantly brought up my size when we went to the doctor for check-ups.
My dad was a big guy though, and I took after him. What can I say?
Transitioning from plump preteen to tall and curvy teenager in the span of a couple years hadn’t made junior high school easy, that’s for sure.
By the time I was in high school I’d tried every miserable fad diet on the planet—cabbage soup diet, anyone?
the grape cleanse?—which allowed me to get down to an acceptable size to try modeling in New York for the summer after my senior year.
It was mostly catalogue lingerie work and even as starving as I was, I was still too much.
Then, after a disastrous pickled beet and tuna diet (yes, it was as disgusting as it sounds), I passed out at a summer pool party.
That was the end of dieting for me. I loved food and I eventually learned to love my body.
And I finally understood that there was power in embracing who I was.
And I had embraced every last delectable inch of me.
Too bad if I was too much for Gaz Greystone.
With a last glance at my watch, I made my way to the Moxie, the boutique hotel in East London where Gaz had his latest restaurant.
People waited months for a reservation, and the place was constantly full of influencers, hipster actors, musicians, and journalists.
It annoyed me that we were meeting here, one of the last places we’d hooked up a few months ago, and not at the company’s headquarters in Mayfair.
As soon as I entered the lobby, the receptionist greeted me like we were old friends. “They’re waiting for you in the back office.”
I walked through the empty restaurant with its deep-purple velvet booths and leather chairs and the diamond-studded Damien Hirst skull at the center of it all.
Everything here was so Gaz. I wondered what it would be like to one day have a place that resembled me.
I’d spent the better part of the train ride this morning manifesting it.
With one last deep breath to put on my game face, I pushed open the door to the back office where Gaz, his father, his brother Seth, and some guy I’d never seen before were waiting around a large industrial desk made of reclaimed wood.
The room with its gray walls and high ceilings made me feel like I was in a mafia movie walking into an abandoned warehouse to meet the big boss.
It wasn’t that far from the truth; in the hospitality industry Rupert Greystone was the godfather.
As I entered, Gaz came around the desk and slipped his tattooed forearm around me, giving me a lingering kiss on the cheek, his lip piercing tickling my skin.
Rupert studied us with his sharp eyes. I tried not to let him intimidate me, but it was hard. He was still a handsome man at nearly seventy with steel-gray hair and the piercing blue eyes that his son had inherited. He never smiled. And I mean never . Not even at his daughter’s wedding.
And neither did Seth. We’d met on a few occasions, and I’d had the impression he disapproved of me.
“Calista, thank you for joining us,” Seth said, calling me by my full name.
Turning to the other man, he gestured. “This is Fred McFairday, our project manager.” Okay, that checked.
With his slim navy suit and smart glasses, he looked like a textbook example of a project manager for The Greystone Group.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“A coffee would be lovely, thank you,” I answered, though I was already jittery from the three cups I’d already downed this morning.
We sat down on the hard distressed-metal chairs, and I tried to pretend I wasn’t bothered by once again being in a room with men discussing my future.
“We’ve been very impressed by you this past week at Marcel,” said Seth. “You and your colleague, Roman.”
I tensed. Why were they bringing him up?
“She’s been a superstar since we brought her on,” Gaz said and winked at me. “And she’s very photogenic.”
What did that have to do with anything? I glared at him.
“As you may know, we’re preparing to open four new resorts.
And at each of these hotels, the restaurant is our calling card,” Seth explained.
I tapped my foot anxiously before settling it down with my hand.
My mind was already flashing with images of my kitchen in Cannes, my entirely female brigade, features in magazines, interviews on the radio, my first Michelin star.
Cannes would be perfect. But I’d settle for Marbella.
“Your cuisine is elegant and classic, yet modern at the same time. Just what we need for the new hotel in Lyra,” said Gaz.
My brain skidded to a halt. “I’m sorry? In Lyra?”
“Yes, it’s a secret. No one knows about it yet because construction is being held up.” They exchanged a look but didn’t elaborate.
“Is this in Italy?” I asked hopefully. I could do Italy.
“No, in Greece,” replied Rupert, and Fred placed a binder on the table. He opened it to a computer-generated drawing of an ultra-modern white building—basically a rectangle with windows, perched on some hostile-looking rocks. Not at all my style.
I grabbed the binder and flipped through the other pages.
A description, written by their PR firm, no doubt.
Words jumped out at me—exclusive, hidden, escape—but all I saw was far away, lonely, isolated.
Especially when I looked at the other pictures of the island.
An old man on a donkey, the ruins of an old temple, lines of whitewashed houses with peeling shutters, and dingy fishing boats in a nondescript harbor.
“What about Cannes?” I choked out like I was being strangled by my vintage Hermès scarf.
“Cannes is a big deal, Cal. I’m opening Cannes.” Gaz sat back, pleased with himself. He always used to tease me about how he loved French girls and American starlets. This would give him unfettered access to both.
Disappointment and mild panic seized my gut as Fred McFredface began to explain more about their vision for the Greek resort. “There are pristine beaches, hidden coves with natural hot springs. Just imagine in five years, we’ll be the next Mykonos.”
I glanced down again at the picture of the port. It was beautiful in its way, but Mykonos it was not.
Rupert eyed me coldly and I shifted, trying not to appear flustered.
“Look, Cal. One day you might be worthy of Cannes or St. Moritz. But you’re still unknown. You’ve got to make a name for yourself. This is the perfect opportunity for you, a springboard. Imagine—a young, unknown female chef brings a forgotten island new renown.”
I tensed at the use of “female”—were they giving me this chance because they didn’t have any other women chefs in their foodie empire? Was I the sacrificial female being sent out to an abandoned island to appease some angry food-industry god?
“Plus, I thought you’d be delighted to get back to your roots,” Gaz went on, scrubbing his hand through his artfully disheveled hair.
“My roots?”
“Yeah, your Greek heritage, Calista .” He pronounced my name like he was Zorba the Greek.
My lips flattened together. We’d already had this discussion and here he was proving, yet again, that he had no idea who I really was. “I’m not Greek. My mom was just a huge Ally McBeal fan.”
His eyebrows drew together in confusion.
“You know, the show from the ’90s with lawyers in short skirts singing in bathrooms?
” He shook his head. “There was a computer-generated baby and lots of Barry White?” The three of them stared at me like I was speaking another language.
“Anyway, the lead actress’s name was Calista Flockhart. She’s married to Harrison Ford.”
“Ah.” Both Fred and Gaz nodded.