Chapter 6 #2
"I can and I do," I say, leaning forward. "And you're just holding onto nostalgia. You have to be able to admit that the newer version has stronger performances and better pacing."
"I have no idea what you two are even talking about," Margot says with a laugh. "My parents thought anything rated above PG was morally corrupting, so my film education stops somewhere around animated musicals and historical dramas with no kissing."
Alex and I both burst out laughing at that.
"Oh, Margot," I say, grinning at her. "You're too pure for this world."
"I know," she says with a sigh. "It's a burden."
Alex laughs. "Well, in the interests of all parties being able to converse, I have a subject change. You know your pear dessert problem? The delivery issue with the Warren pears?"
I groan and press my fingers to my temples. "Do not remind me. I have been trying to figure out what to do about that and nothing feels right. The whole dish was built around the texture of a perfectly poached Warren pear. No other variety is working how I want it to."
"I thought the Bosc version you had me taste this afternoon was still quite nice," Margot offers diplomatically.
"It was fine," I say. "But fine is not good enough. Fine is what you serve at a hotel brunch, not at a tasting menu people flew across the country for."
"This might be insane," Alex says, and there is a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"But I saw some quince at the farm stand on the way in that looked incredible, and I think it could work instead of a different pear variety.
You poach the quince in that same Sauternes, slow and low until it turns that ruby color, and the flavor gets almost floral, like roses and honey.
Every other component in the dish still works. "
I stare at him and I want to hate the idea, but it's arguably better than my original concept with the pears.
The quince would have that texture I was looking for, and the flavor would be more complex, more layered.
The combination of the Sauternes and the balsamic would create this beautiful sweet-tart thing, and the thyme would keep it from being too precious.
Damn it.
"Oh, that is gorgeous," Margot says, sitting up straighter. "I have a late harvest Viognier in the cellar that would be stunning with that. The stone fruit notes would play against the quince."
"That is..." I pause. "That is annoyingly good. Like, genuinely excellent."
Alex grins, looking pleased with himself. "Annoyingly?"
"Yes, annoyingly," I say, glaring at him without any real heat behind it.
"Because I have been banging my head against this problem for two entire days, losing sleep over it, and you apparently just solved it while drinking bourbon at a bar.
I kind of hate you a little bit for that. Just a small amount."
"I will take it," he says.
Before I can reply to that, Margot's phone buzzes on the bar top and she glances down at it, her expression shifting to mild concern.
"Oh shoot, I've got to take this. I've been playing phone tag with her all day about the Patterson wedding. Be right back." She slides off her stool gracefully and heads toward the quieter end of the bar, phone already pressed to her ear.
Alex watches her go, then turns back to me, shifting slightly closer now that we are alone, and that easy smile is still in place.
I narrow my eyes at him over the rim of my glass, suspicious. "Are you flirting with me right now?"
"Oh, definitely," he says, without a single shred of hesitation or embarrassment. "Very much so, yes."
The directness of it catches me completely off guard. I am used to men who circle, who hint, who make you wonder if they are interested or just being friendly. I cover my surprise by taking another sip of bourbon, buying myself a second to recover my composure.
"So,” I say. “You think you can flirt with me and get in my father's good graces at the same time? Kill two birds with one stone? Is that your strategy here?"
He laughs, low and warm. "No. The opposite, actually." He leans in a little closer, and his voice drops. "Your father made it very clear before I came here that pursuing you was off limits. He told me that if anything developed between us, the Seattle deal would be off the table immediately."
I blink at him. "He said that to you?"
"Word for word. Something about you being precious to him and me not being sent here to harass you or try to sleep with you." He takes a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim.
I feel a hot flare of irritation at my father, which is becoming a familiar sensation this week. Of course he did. Of course he sat this man down and gave him the do-not-touch-my-daughter speech like I am some kind of prize to be guarded rather than a grown woman who can make her own choices.
"That is so like him," I mutter. "I am sorry. That must have been incredibly awkward."
"It was a little intense," Alex admits, though if anything, he looks amused, like my father's threats are a fun anecdote rather than a career-ending ultimatum. "But I appreciated the honesty, at least. He is not subtle, your father.”
"No, he is not subtle. Ever." I shake my head. "So wait. If he told you all of that, why on earth are you flirting with me right now? That makes absolutely no sense."
Alex shrugs. "Because I like you. And your father is not here."
I stare at him, genuinely at a loss for words. He is either very stupid or very confident, and I am not entirely sure which.
"You have known me for all of a week," I say slowly. "Are you always this reckless?"
He tilts his head, considering. "Yep. Life is too short to not go after things that interest you. Where is the fun in caution?"
"Well, your Seattle restaurant is safe from my corrupting influence, because I am not interested.” I set my glass down on the bar.
“While my father's meddling in my personal life is a massive overstep, I also think you would be genuinely insane to risk your entire restaurant deal over a woman you just met a week ago.
And I do not like my men insane or reckless. "
"Noted." He takes a sip of his bourbon. "I will keep my reckless tendencies confined to my personal time and the comfort of my own cottage, where I will spend the rest of the month brooding about what might have been."
I roll my eyes. "You are so dramatic."
"It’s a family trait." He smiles at me, and there is something so charming about it that I cannot help the small laugh that escapes.
"Anyway, I assumed as much," he continues, looking unbothered by my rejection. "Based on the fact that you have been hostile to me for approximately ninety percent of our interactions."
"Hey, I am being quite nice right now," I say, gesturing at him with my glass. "I invited you over here, did I not? I am making polite conversation. I even avoided saying anything about your terrible taste in bourbon."
He glances down at his drink, then back at me with an expression of exaggerated offense. "This is a perfectly respectable bourbon."
"It’s a fine bourbon," I say, drawing out the word. "For someone who does not know any better."
I take a pointed sip of my own bourbon with the smugness of someone who has superior taste and is not above flaunting it.
"And what would you recommend instead, since you are clearly such an expert?" He leans in slightly, clearly enjoying this.
“Anyone with taste knows that Blanton's is the good stuff," I say. "Not the Bulleit I saw the bartender pour for your glass. Perfectly drinkable, but nothing special.”
He laughs, warm and unguarded. It seems to come so easily to him, like playfulness is his default setting rather than something he has to work for.
"Ouch," he says, pressing his hand to his chest. "You are really good at the cutting remarks. Have you considered a career in professional insults?"
"I am half French," I say, as if that explains everything. "It comes naturally."
His smile widens. "Well, you have got to stop being so mean to me, or I'm going to fall in love with you and then we're both in trouble."
I choke on my drink, bourbon burning the back of my throat as I cough in a way that is decidedly not elegant or attractive. My eyes water and I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to recover some shred of dignity.
"You okay there?" he asks, looking far too amused by my suffering.
"Fine," I manage once I can breathe again, my voice slightly hoarse. "Went down the wrong pipe."
"Sure it did."
"So," I say, once my lungs have stopped staging a revolt. "You have a thing for hostile women, is that it? Women who insult your bourbon?"
"I have a thing for interesting women," he says, leaning back against the bar and getting comfortable. "And you are extremely interesting. The hostile bourbon critiques are just a cherry on top."
He winks at me, and I will be absolutely damned if it is not a little bit charming in an obnoxious sort of way.
"You are shameless," I say, shaking my head at him.
"Completely shameless," he agrees without a hint of remorse or self-consciousness. "It is one of my best qualities, honestly. Probably top three."
"I am afraid to ask what the other two are."
"If we get to know each other a bit better, maybe you will find out."
I should shut this down right now. I should tell him firmly and clearly that this is not happening, that he should save his charm for someone who is actually susceptible to it, someone who is not his evaluator's daughter and his ticket to a funded restaurant.
But instead I find myself smiling back, just a little, against my better judgment.
I see Margot making her way back toward us, phone tucked away and looking relieved, like the wedding situation has been resolved to her satisfaction and she can finally relax. I turn back to Alex before she gets close enough to overhear.
"We’ll see," I say, and I am not entirely sure what I mean by that.