Chapter 6
Margot
"Do you have a minute?" Carol asks, walking briskly down the expansive stone corridor that leads toward the staff wing. I have to practically scurry to maintain her pace, clutching my notebook to my chest.
"Is this about the Marchettis?" I ask, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach as I walk. "Because I have a call with their wedding planner at eleven, and I've prepared a very diplomatic answer for why we cannot release doves indoors."
"It's not about the doves." She waves a dismissive hand, then pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "Although do hold your ground on that. But, brace yourself, because I have wonderful news."
I feel a momentary surge of relief about the avian situation, though "wonderful news" from Carol is a phrase that usually precedes a significant increase in my heart rate.
"I'm braced," I say.
"Cillian's team confirmed this morning. He's agreed to be auctioned off at the gala!"
I blink at her. "Auctioned?"
"A date with Cillian O'Rourke. Dinner for two, the top lot of the entire night." She clasps her hands together. "His manager signed off an hour ago."
I really shouldn't be surprised. He strikes me as exactly the type who'd say yes to a date auction, a kissing booth, or any other excuse to stand in front of a crowd and be adored.
"That's great," I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. The gala is an important fundraiser, and I have no doubt that a private evening with him will raise a massive amount. So at least there's that. "I'm sure it'll be a huge success."
"Oh, I know it'll be a huge success," Carol says. "Because Vivian Ashford has already committed to winning it."
Everyone at Solstice Estates knows the name Vivian Ashford. She's massive old money, gives generously to every cause we touch, and pops in for reserve tastings whenever she's at her Napa estate, though she usually spends her springs in Europe.
"I didn't realize she was a hockey fan?" I ask, trying to keep up as we turn toward the executive offices.
"She doesn't care a lick about hockey, but she does care about remaining the estate's primary donor since this year's charity is personal to her. Her ceiling is incredibly high, so it's a win-win. If she wins, it's massive capital; if she just pushes another bidder up, even better."
"That makes sense," I murmur, my mind already drifting back to the impending dove conversation.
"There's just one wrinkle." Carol leads me into her office and gestures toward the armchair.
"There's always one wrinkle," I say, a sinking feeling beginning to take root in my chest as I sit.
"Vivian is committed to the bid and will be calling in," Carol says, leafing through several folders on her desk. "She'll be in Europe during the actual gala and scheduled dinner date. She's attending a granddaughter's week-long wedding celebration."
"So she's buying a dinner date that she can't attend."
"She’s purchasing the publicity and the charitable deduction, for which we are immensely grateful. However, it leaves us with a dinner and a vacant seat, which would be a PR disaster. The committee is insistent that the date be documented for socials."
"I see. That is a bit of a puzzle," I say, trying to brainstorm a solution.
"Well, it would be if I hadn’t already thought of a fix." Carol pauses, looking a touch apprehensive. "I think it would be fantastic for the brand's visibility if you were to represent her and go on the date, assuming no other donor outbids her."
“What?” I stare at her. "You're asking me to go on a date with Cillian O'Rourke. As a… work assignment?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds a little strange."
"It sounds a little strange because it is strange, Carol. I am being assigned a candlelit dinner with a pro athlete."
"It isn't a real date, for heaven's sake. View it as an extension of the gala—just another promotional event, but a bit more intimate. And I doubt there will be candles," she says, then pauses. "Actually, there might be."
"You're not making this any more enticing."
Panic bubbles up at the idea of dinner alone with him.
We've settled into a decent professional rapport lately, no more biting each other's heads off, and he's been pleasant enough.
But every single time we've been alone, I start opening up, or he notices something I never meant to show him.
I don't know what it is. I just know it makes me uncomfortable, and I cannot spend an entire dinner alone with the man.
"It's just one meal," she says. "Most people would view having a fancy dinner with Cillian as a major benefit."
"Most people aren't being assigned a romantic date for work, unless they're in the sex industry." I hear myself and immediately cringe. "Which is a respectable profession and deserves union protections, obviously, I just mean it isn't exactly... standard for a sommelier's job description, it's..."
I trail off, floundering in my own awkwardness, and Carol peers at me over the rim of her glasses. "Relax, Margot. I understand your point."
"I’m just saying," I say, attempting to salvage what's left of my composure. "When I signed my contract, 'professional escort' wasn't listed under the primary duties. I'd have asked for a higher salary."
Carol bursts out laughing. "Very funny."
"Thanks," I mutter.
"Obviously this is optional. You know I value your boundaries, Margot." She leans forward, her expression shifting more serious. "But it would look incredible to have our sommelier featured. There's a French tech group interested in a partnership, which would be a massive win for the project."
I rub my temple, feeling a headache that began with doves finally bloom into a full-scale throbbing. "And let me guess, they want a certain aesthetic."
She shrugs. "It’s a strong look. But I meant what I said, it’s not mandatory. The sommelier angle is just very chic, and you two look remarkably attractive together. That’s why. But say the word and I’ll find a backup."
I fiddle with the edge of my notebook. "Ugh, fine. I’ll do it," I groan.
"Excellent. I appreciate the team spirit," Carol says with a wry smile.
"I just hope these tech investors aren't expecting a full performance, like a photoshoot of me making out with Mr. Athletic Charisma."
She laughs, looking amused. "Goodness, you've really developed a particular thorn for him, haven't you? Normally I have to practically interrogate you to extract even a whisper of a negative opinion about anyone."
"That isn't entirely accurate. I have very little patience for Harold's tech lectures."
"Nobody enjoys a conversation with Harold, Margot, so he's hardly a benchmark for your social tolerance."
I shift my weight. "Cillian is fine, he just rubs me the wrong way a bit."
"Well, I'm certain you'll survive one meal for the sake of your brainchild," she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Oh, and at the risk of being murdered where I stand, the team also needs us at the big hockey game for a press appearance next week, the day before the gala. This one is mandatory."
The hits just keep on coming.
"For the optics?" I sigh, already mourning my quiet evening with a book.
"Precisely.” She nods. “It'll be me, Elaine of course. Plus a few faces from marketing. It's not my usual thing either, but we all need to show our support. They've already clinched their playoff spot, so apparently the night will be more of a celebration than a game."
I nod. "Alright. I'll... I'll be there."
"Wonderful. Just show up, have a glass of something, and it'll be over before you know it. And I'm referring to the game, gala, and dinner." She flashes a satisfied smile. "Ready for the challenge, superstar?"
I lift a fist in a gesture of mock enthusiasm, and she laughs.
I pull into the lot of the restaurant and am surprised to find Celeste's car already tucked into a corner spot. I'm ten minutes early and usually am the first to arrive anywhere, but I'll happily hand the title over to a fellow punctuality devotee.
I kill the ignition and step out, the herb-scented air reaching me before I've even shut the car door.
The restaurant is a charming little French gem owned by my best friend Isabelle and her fiancé Alex—Sous le Figuier.
Or "Under the Fig Tree," for those of us who didn't inherit the linguistic flair.
It's a homey sanctuary where a massive fig tree stands guard out front and rows of lavender run along the stone path. It feels more like a home than a business, with family photos lining the walls inside and a lush garden patio spilling out the back.
Quite simply, it's the best kind of escape.
I wander in to find Celeste and Isabelle already deep in conversation at a corner table. They both look up, breaking into matching smiles as I approach.
"Hey!" Isabelle says, rising to pull me into a hug. "I was just getting to know Celeste, who is every bit as cool as you said. Also, you conveniently failed to mention she's half French too."
I laugh, settling into my seat. "Yeah, apparently I'm only recruiting French Americans into my circle these days."
"A wise strategy," Celeste says, looking amused. "We're a delight to have around, after all."
"Celeste was just giving me the highlights of her family's wild wine history," Isabelle says, leaning on her elbows. "And I thought my father could be intense. Though to be fair, he's much better these days. But man, your family really takes the prize."
Celeste gives a sheepish shrug. "Yeah, the stories I could tell would fill a very long, very dramatic memoir."
"Do you still see them much?" I ask.
I knew about her family's legendary wines well before I ever met Celeste, and she's practically a celebrity in the wine world.
Born in the States but raised between here and France, where her family has massive old-money wine strongholds.
She walked away from the gilded life and the controlling purse strings to work as an architect.