Chapter 14 A French Cooperation
A French Cooperation
— T ODAY —
“A taboo topic, you say?” Barb asks before fitting a large piece of cantaloupe in her mouth and chewing.
My eyes don’t leave the scrambled eggs in front of me. It’s my second plate, so it’s fair to say I’m emotional eating. “Yeah. A topic we were allowed to avoid,” I explain again. I set my fork on the small wooden table, then steal a look at the breakfast room. Ian is nowhere to be found. Maybe he slept in. “We made a deal about it.”
“Well, it’s still crazy that he didn’t know who you were. That we didn’t know who he was.” With a “Humph,” she shakes her head. “You know William Roberts congratulated me at the wedding? It was the first time I ever spoke to him. He said his son also wished me the best, that he was somewhere around, but I never saw Ian. Never talked to him.” She smiles to herself. “Seriously, it’s crazy. Especially since the—” She widens her eyes, cutting herself off with a visible shiver. “I mean…”
She means since the article. And, of course, she has a point. Though I managed to distance myself from my father’s very public career, the few instances I spent online in the last days have been excruciating. That article is everywhere. How did he miss the huge picture of me that comes with it?
Almost as if summoned, Ian walks into the breakfast room, and the whole atmosphere shifts. Logic tells me he’s too far for it to be possible, yet I could swear I’m enveloped by his fresh, comforting scent as he walks to the buffet.
Dark shoes, blue jeans, a pressed shirt that looks like it’s just waiting to be wrinkled. Ideally by me. He’s heart-stopping, but what steals my breath away is the gorgeous woman at his side, whispering something in his ear.
“Is that their chef?” Barb asks. The woman looks like she should be welcoming people into paradise rather than working in a kitchen, but yes, that’s her. Isabella Clarke.
She’s far more gorgeous than I imagined, but to be fair, in most pictures or videos I’ve seen of her, she’s always been in her red chef’s coat, with a ridiculous red toque on and a sheen of sweat over her face. The woman in front of me right now is wildly different.
Barb blows a raspberry, a pretty unmistakable sign that she’s noticed her too. Just as I slap her hand, prompting her to stop staring, Ian turns around, and his eyes find mine.
Oh, my heart.
He waves, and I can almost see an ethereal light around him, wind blowing through his hair despite the closed windows. Sexy music in the background, slow-motion effects. The whole thing.
I wave back. Casual, not like the psycho I am. Once he faces the woman, she glances at me, and I’m seeing her in slow motion too. High cheekbones, perfect blond beach waves, and a gorgeous resting bitch face. She looks like a Vogue model. She’s as tall as he is, slender and tanned. And her outfit . She wears it with such grace, the short lilac dress should thank her.
“I think I hate her.” With the way she smiles at Ian as they study the breakfast buffet, I can’t help it. They’re obviously close, and though I adore Jules, La Brasserie’s manager, he’s a sixty-year-old grandfather. It’s not quite the same thing.
Barb steals a look and lets out a low whistle. “Oh, this is going to be a long week. A long, excruciating week.”
Fuck. I know what this is in front of me. Karma. One would think I paid enough, but it looks like the universe disagrees. This man obsessed over me for six months, and then I vanished for half a year, so he shows up here with a hotter version of Natalie Portman.
“She’s so beautiful,” I whisper. It’s all my mind can process. Every single one of her movements is sheer grace. How she fills her glass with apple juice, how she chuckles at something he said, how she tucks a strand of perfectly curled, bright blond hair behind her ear.
How was Ian ever attracted to me with someone like that woman beside him every day? She and I don’t belong to the same world. I live in the land of fuzzy hair and a touch of makeup, in the kingdom of baggy sweaters and knee socks. She’s from the realm of people who sleep in lingerie and wake up with zero need for makeup.
“You’re staring,” Barb says. When I force my gaze on the plate of food in front of me, she adds, “Now you’re fuming.”
I look up at Barb, pleading for help, and she squeezes my hand with hers.
“It’s too late to cancel, Ames. Unless I fake a pregnancy-related issue and you say you’re my doula.”
When a chuckle bursts out of my mouth, she points at my plate, but I don’t think I can eat anything. Instead, I ask her about the nursery, and though I grasp a few words about paint colors and stuffed pandas, I can’t process any of it as my fingers pull at my necklace and my eyes study Ian and his gorgeous chef.
Barb groans, slapping her forehead as she grumbles a string of curse words. The introductory meeting just ended, and Ian and the blond goddess are sitting a couple of rows behind us in the conference room. Though I can’t see them, I’m sure their expressions resemble mine as I stare down at my copy of the schedule we’ve all received.
I stand and walk to Pamela, my stomach in a knot. “Pamela? What’s this?”
She stares at the paper, then smiles. “The schedule. Do you have any questions?”
Questions? Yes, I have questions. Though the schedule is fairly clear, with ten to twenty classes taking place in the conference rooms every day for the next week, there’s one teeny tiny problem. “Why am I paired with Ian Roberts?”
Her eyes move somewhere behind me, to Ian. I don’t get it. These people are aware of the hatred between our fathers. Especially after the scene we made last night at dinner.
“Since you both work with French cuisine, we figured…”
“But he’s not a chef. And we have very different views on food, opposite work ethics. The food that comes out of the Marguerite isn’t in the same universe as what I do.”
“Do you want me to see if we can move you around?”
“I…” I think it through for a moment. Ian hasn’t approached her at all, so he must be okay working together, and if I complain, it’ll look bad after he said he wants us to be “friends.” “No, I guess it’s fine. We’ll manage.”
“Okay, then. Let me know if there’s anything else.”
With a nod, I turn my attention back to the paper. Maybe it won’t be that bad. According to the schedule, we’ll teach three two-hour classes every day. Six hours a day, the two of us bouncing ideas off each other, smiling, reconnecting. Maybe becoming more than friends.
“Amelie?”
Ian’s warm, deep voice brings me back to reality. Tucking some hair behind my ear, I turn to him, my dreamy smile shifting into a polite grin when I notice Isabella is by his side. “Hi,” I say, scanning both of them and hating how good they look next to each other.
“Seems like us four will stick together,” he says with a formal, tight-lipped smile. It’s nothing like his real one.
Barb nervously chuckles as she appears at my side. “It’s going to be fun.” She’s met by a stony silence, yet she continues: “So fun.”
Everybody looks tense and uncomfortable, stealing glances at one another without knowing what to add. Though Isabella’s definitely glaring at me, I figure I should introduce myself. “Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand toward her. “Amelie Preston.”
“I know.” She glances down at my hand like it’s a piece of fish gone bad. “The famous Amelie Preston.”
My eyes shoot to Ian, asking a silent question. Why did hotter Natalie wake up and choose violence today? “Not a fan of my father’s?” I ask.
“Your father and his little restaurant don’t bother me in the least.” She tilts her head, her eyes studying me as if she’s deciding I couldn’t possibly have spent more than twenty dollars on my whole outfit. I probably didn’t. “But I am a fan of your personal work. Few people can make so many mistakes in so little time.”
“Quit it,” Ian mutters in a tone I’ve never heard him use before. Aggressive, abrupt. It’s probably the same one I’d use if a staff member from my father’s kitchen acted in such an unprofessional way toward a colleague.
My hand is still outstretched and waiting for hers, and with a stiff smile I pull it back. I expected the article to come up—of course I did—but I didn’t think it would be on my first day. During my first interaction with a stranger.
I’m pondering what to say when Isabella’s arm locks with Ian’s as she leans against him.
Not like a colleague.
Maybe she’s not talking about the article at all, and the mistakes she’s referring to have nothing to do with my career. Maybe they’re about something much more personal. Someone much closer.
Maybe Isabella isn’t only a colleague.
Maybe she’s Ian’s girlfriend, and she’s telling me to back off.
As I look from one to the other, my smile withers. “Well, anyway, I—” My chest tightens as the realization fully hits me. “We’ll only work together for the next seven days. For only six hours a day, so… forty-two hours.” Everything around me begins to blur, my panic at this point probably obvious in my expression. “And you and Barb will be there too. And the audience. We’ll all be there together. The four of us and…”
Barb gawks at me in a desperate attempt to shut me up.
“…and them,” I choke out.
Nobody utters a word, awkwardness hovering between us like an uninvited guest. This empress of beauty is Ian’s girlfriend, and oh my, I look like a rat next to her.
“We should use today to go over our notes, make sure we can come up with cohesive lectures before we start,” Ian offers, placing a hand into the front pocket of his jeans.
I nod, staring at the deep-blue flecks in his irises. It makes even more sense now that he only wants to be friends; after all, his new girlfriend looks Louis Vuitton, and I’m Forever 21. “Yeah, okay,” I say, in a tone of abject defeat. “Sounds good.”
“Great. We can meet this afternoon.” Ian turns to Isabella, but her mocking, ice-blue glare is still on me.
“Fine.” She holds her hand out, and almost automatically I grab it and shake. This time, though, I don’t smile. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. “I look forward to seeing what you’ll delight us with.” She looks down at me from her impossibly high heels and grins, though there’s hardly any honesty in her expression. Instead, her smile is malignant, arrogant. In a sickeningly mellifluous voice, she adds, “Ella Clarke.”
My jaw snaps open, my eyes darting to Ian as every single thought disappears from my mind.
Isabella Clarke… is Ella ?
Ella… Clarke ?