Chapter 35 Wonderful to Meet You
Wonderful to Meet You
— T WO M ONTHS A FTER A MELIE’S W EDDING —
The spring sun shines bright in the sky, warming up my cheeks and forcing me to squint as I walk to my bike. With my helmet on, I ride through the city center, the wind a pleasant distraction from today’s heat. They say summer will be brutally warm this year.
The air smells like salt and the sea, and the window-lined single-story construction site that’s become familiar in the last two months takes up the view. The wide doors are open, and men in tank tops walk in and out as they move heavy appliances.
And right at the top, though it’s still covered in a thick tarp, sits the logo of Amelie’s Bistro. My restaurant.
“Good afternoon,” I say as I hop off my bike and enter the empty space. I’ve ordered tables and chairs, but they won’t be here until next week. On top of that, I have to finish up my new menu and get it printed, and—well, a million other things.
“You got some mail,” one of the workers says in response as he points at the newly installed counter.
“My first mail delivery?” I bite my lips, a flicker of excitement coursing through me. I grab the thin pile and frown at the first three papers: takeout menus from nearby restaurants. The last one is a letter, though, sent from the International Cooking and Culture Expo. Interest piqued, I quickly rip the paper open and grab the invitation inside. Apparently, they want me to be one of their speakers at this year’s conference in September.
After mentally confirming that it doesn’t conflict with Martha’s wedding, I smile. Maybe they heard about Amelie’s Bistro. Either way, it’s an honor. And they say I can bring a sous, so Barb could come too. She’ll be about six months pregnant by then.
I look around, a smile spreading across my face.
Today’s a good day.
Some workers are painting the walls with the baby-powder white I chose, while others are moving out the old equipment from the kitchen, when my phone beeps. At this point I’ve stopped jumping every time it does, but the hope that it’s Ian still slithers its way into my brain.
It’s much more likely Barb checking in on me. She’s been doing that a lot, and she’s been the only one who has, seeing as Martha blames me and Ian for Frank leaving me at the altar.
With a sigh, I take the phone out, my heart pausing when I see a Twitter notification. Since I quit my job at La Brasserie, my dad has taken over the feud, but the public interest has steadily decreased. Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t spend more than a fair share of time picturing what I would have answered to the Marguerite’s tweets if it were still my job.
I press on the bubble and, staring at their latest tweet, my jaw falls open.
Shit. They know: whoever this is, they figured out there’s been a change in the chain of command at La Brasserie. They know it’s not me answering their tweets anymore, and I must really be starved for affection, because it warms my heart that there’s someone out there who noticed . Who, in the most fucked-up way ever, cares.
Wishing once again that I could answer, I open my chat with Ian, the screen exclusively filled with my own bubbles no matter how much I scroll. Every day I hope the message I send is the one that’ll be checkmarked. The first one he actually receives.
After thinking for a few seconds, I tap:
Amelie:
I’d take you to the movies, but they won’t let me bring my own snack.
Better than yesterday’s Do you have a map? Because I got lost in your eyes.
My breath catches once I hit “send,” and when no checkmark appears, my shoulders drop and I put the phone away. Maybe tomorrow.
“So it’s true. Amelie Preston is opening a restaurant.”
I turn around and notice a man standing at the entrance. His black suit almost takes up the whole space, and against the bright rays of sun streaming in, he looks like the epicenter of all that’s dark.
“Hello?” I say, not sure who he is or why he knows my name. “Do we know each other?”
He takes a step inside, and then another. The third step is when I recognize him. We’ve never met in person, but I’ve heard, read, and talked about this man more often than I care to admit.
“Not yet,” he says as he keeps advancing toward me, his pace slow as his dark eyes roam my barren walls and freshly painted ceiling. “But I’m hoping we’ll get to know each other better.”
Yeah, I don’t see that happening.
He halts in front of me and holds out his hand. “William Roberts. Wonderful to meet you.”
William Roberts is in my restaurant.
Why? I’m not sure.
Some strands of his hair are turning gray, but most retain their dark brown, almost black color. His eyes are a shade lighter but not by much, and he has a trimmed beard. By all accounts, he’s handsome. I knew that already; I’ve seen him online or in magazines. But now that he’s here, I realize he’s magnetic, intimidating. It’s not even that he’s overly tall or strongly built, which he is. It’s his attitude.
“Here’s your coffee,” I say, offering him a cup.
He graciously accepts it, then points out to the sea. “Gorgeous view. If you look that way, you can see the outermost point of land.”
I follow the direction of his finger and nod. For all the smack our restaurants talked about each other over the last year, he seems nice enough. “Yeah. This comes second.”
“Still takes the podium.” He grins, then sips his coffee. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while, Amelie. Hammond has kept you locked in his kitchen, far away from the public.”
Because he doesn’t think I’m ready or worthy of any attention, and though technically the enemy of my enemy is my friend, I’m not sure it applies to this situation. “I’ve been focusing on cooking.” I offer him a light shrug. “I’m not really interested in the public part of my father’s career.”
“I can understand that.”
I wait for him to get to whatever he’s here to say, but he just keeps studying me with a look I can’t quite decipher. It’s somewhat intrusive. “So… um, how can I help you, Mr. Roberts?”
“Please call me William.”
I offer him a light nod.
“I just figured introductions were in order.” He slips a hand into his pocket. “And congratulations too.”
“Thanks.” Still doesn’t explain why he’s here. An email would have sufficed.
“And what better chance to start off on the right foot?” He takes a sip of coffee, not once breaking eye contact with me over the rim of his cup. “In fact, we should celebrate your new venture. How would you feel about escorting me to dinner tomorrow night?”
“Dinner?” A nervous giggle escapes me, and I try to hide it by looking at the blue waves crashing against the rocks beneath us. “I—if you’re here as part of some espionage ploy, I’m sorry to disappoint you, William—”
“Espionage!” He huffs out a laugh, then looks down at his coffee, a shy smile on his lips that doesn’t match anything else about him. “Look, Amelie, I know you’re an extraordinary cook. With this restaurant, you’ll do great things. It’s in my best interest to have you on my side.”
“Or we could just not have sides.”
He chuckles. “I agree. This silly little crusade Hammond is fighting against me is getting old. I have nothing but respect for your father and his restaurant.”
Cocking my brow, I give him a “Who are you kidding?” look. I’m not one to often defend my father, but I also wasn’t born yesterday. “You defined my father and La Brasserie as ‘pretentious, overpriced—’?”
“?‘—leftovers from the past,’ yes.” He thoughtfully rubs his jaw. “I believe it was during an interview with Yum magazine.”
Yes, it was.
As if brushing the thought away, he focuses on me again. “And if I’m not mistaken, you suggested that my restaurant offers a low-quality imitation of your father’s work.”
Right before the journalist asked if I was afraid of William Roberts.
“You also said you’d only be afraid of me if I came after you with one of the items on our menu and asked you to eat it.”
Pressing my lips together, I try not to let out a laugh. I can’t say I don’t believe those things, but telling them to the man’s face—especially when he’s being so polite—must be torture for something I’ve done in a previous life.
“It’s all in the past,” he says, straightening his tie. “That’s precisely why I’d like to invite you out for dinner. Now that you’re opening your own restaurant, maybe we could bury the hatchet.” Leaning forward with a sly smile, he winks. “What do you think, Amelie?”
That it’s ridiculous. That there’s nothing he could say to make me change his mind about him. But I guess the less I need to concern myself with William Roberts, the better, and if having dinner together will get me off his radar, then subjecting myself to his company is what I’ll do.
“Considering you’re no longer a chef of La Brasserie, is it safe to assume you and Hammond had a disagreement?” he asks in a suggestive tone.
“You could say that,” I mutter as I think of when I told him I’d open my own restaurant. All he said was “Congratulations.”
“Then let me add that your dining with me would be a great ‘Fuck you’ to your old man too.”
I laugh, watching as his eyes lighten up and his head tilts to the side—the same expression as a connoisseur savoring a sip of a fabulous wine. Though he’s joking, I fight even harder to find a good reason to say no.
Only more reasons to accept.
“Yes. Okay.” Pushing myself off the railing, I smile. “Let’s bury the hatchet.”