Chapter 8
Alex
It's opening night, we're an hour from first service, and Isabelle has been avoiding me all day. I walk into the pantry, she walks out. I round a corner, she goes the other way. I ask her a direct question about the seating chart and she answers it while looking at anything but me.
Which is fine. I'm not going to push her. But I'd be lying if I said the kiss hadn't kept me up half the night, staring at the ceiling of my cottage. I knew there was something between us. I'd been testing it since I got here, flirting, seeing if she'd flirt back, enjoying the friction.
But last night knocked me sideways. She kissed me first and damn, it was good.
Better than every scenario I'd been running through my head for the past two weeks, and I'd been running through plenty of them.
I went back to my cottage and took a cold shower that didn't help at all, then spent the rest of the night hard and restless, replaying it on a loop until the sun came up.
I glance over at her now, at the far end of the kitchen doing a final walk-through of plating with Sofia. She looks beautiful, which is becoming a problem because I'm starting to think she'd look beautiful covered in flour or mud or literally anything.
Right now she's got that slight frown of concentration between her brows as she adjusts a nasturtium petal, her hands moving with precision that makes me think about what those hands would feel like on me instead.
But I'm a gentleman. Or at least I can fake it convincingly enough to survive the next four weeks.
Which is going to be a challenge when what I really want is to pull her into the walk-in and fuck her against the shelves and find out if she makes the same breathless sounds when I'm inside her that she made last night.
And at this point my pants are uncomfortably tight, my dick half-hard just from thinking about her, and I need to get out of this kitchen before I do something monumentally stupid. I glance around for an escape route. The thyme container on the shelf is running low.
I grab it and catch Martinez's eye. He gives me a thumbs up from his station. I'll restock this for service and get some air away from Isabelle and whatever gravitational pull she seems to have over my common sense.
I push through the door, breathing in evening air and head outside along the herb path.
The sun is dropping lower, that time of evening where everything goes soft.
I can see around the building to where the terrace is set for the pop-up—white linen moving slightly in the breeze, candles waiting in their holders, the vineyard rolling out in neat rows behind it all.
It couldn't be a more perfect evening for an opening night.
If you were going to launch a career, you'd want it to look exactly like this.
I turn left toward the herb beds, inhaling rosemary and lavender.
I find the thyme and crouch down, pulling my knife and starting to cut stems close to the base.
The repetitive work helps. Gives my hands something to do.
Gives my brain something to focus on that isn't Isabelle Beaumont and how badly I want to—
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. I turn and there she is, stopped dead on the path like she's just walked into an invisible barrier.
Of course. Because why would anything be easy today.
"Oh." She blinks, her cheeks slightly flushed like she just rushed out here. "I didn't realize you were out here. I was coming to grab more thyme for the lamb jus."
I hold up the container, half full with fresh stems. "I had the same thought."
She nods, standing very still, and neither of us moves for a second. The herb garden suddenly feels very small, just the two of us and the lavender and about ten feet of gravel between us that might as well be ten inches for how charged it feels.
"Well, listen." She clears her throat. "We should probably talk about last night."
I stand up and brush the dirt off my knees. "Alright."
"I shouldn't have kissed you,” she says, with her chin up and putting her hands behind her back.
"I can't protect you from my father pulling the Seattle deal if he finds out, no matter how unfair that is.
And I don't want a boyfriend right now. I need to focus on tonight and the rest of this residency, and I can't do that if I'm also trying to figure out whatever this is. So it can't happen again."
"I understand," I say. It's what I expected, even if I'm disappointed.
"And look, I know I've been flirting with you since I got here, and I'm not going to pretend I didn't enjoy every second of it.
But I wasn't expecting some big relationship thing.
I just like you. I like being around you, I like how your brain works, and last night was.
.." I search for a word that won't make her bolt.
"Amazing. But I hear you, and I'll back off. "
She looks at me for a long moment, and to my complete confusion, she looks, inexplicably, annoyed.
I blink. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," she says, clipped. "That sounds great."
And with that she spins on her heel and marches back toward the kitchen with the kind of stride that suggests she is either going to execute a flawless seven-course tasting menu or murder someone, and I genuinely cannot tell which.
I stand there in the herb garden holding a container of thyme, watching her disappear through the kitchen door, trying to figure out how I just gave a woman exactly what she asked for and somehow made her furious.
At ten to five, a black sedan pulls into the parking area outside the main entrance.
I'm near the host stand when it arrives.
Jean-Pierre Beaumont emerges first, silver hair swept back, posture impeccable in a dark blazer.
The second man is younger, maybe early thirties.
He's wearing a suit that says serious money and even more serious self-regard.
I move to greet them at the door, a smile in place.
"Mr. Beaumont." I extend my hand as they enter, the evening light spilling in behind them. "Welcome to Solstice. It's good to see you again, sir."
"Alex." Jean-Pierre's handshake is firm and brief. "Based on your messages about Isabelle, I trust everything is in order for tonight?"
"Your daughter runs a tight ship. The kitchen's ready, the team is sharp, we're just waiting for doors to open." I turn to the second man, extending my hand. "Alex Midnight."
"Olivier Mercier." He grips my hand harder than is necessary. "Jean-Pierre has mentioned you. The consultant from up north, yes? Oregon or Washington, something like that."
"Washington. Small town west of Seattle."
"Ah." He nods like the distinction doesn't interest him. "Well. Very generous of you to come down here and help with Isabelle's little project. I'm sure she appreciates the support."
Little project. Nearly two weeks of watching her work harder than anyone I've ever worked with, pushing herself to prove she's more than just her father's name. And this guy, this smug prick in his expensive suit, calls it a little project.
"It's been a privilege working with her," I say, keeping my voice pleasant. "She's one of the most talented chefs I've ever seen."
"Oh, certainly. The Beaumont name comes with certain expectations." Olivier's smile widens without getting any warmer, his eyes sliding past me toward the dining room like he's already bored with this conversation.
Jean-Pierre, seemingly unbothered by any of this, gestures between us. "Alex, Olivier works with me in New York. He's an investor, more on the finance and development side of things. Brilliant businessman, you two should get to know each other."
Not a chance in hell.
I gesture toward the dining room. "They have you at table six, a corner spot with the best view of the vineyard. Can I get you anything while you settle in? Wine, water, an aperitif?"
"We'll wait for the sommelier," Jean-Pierre says, already moving toward his table with the expectation that we'll follow. "I want to see what she's done with the pairing list."
I walk them to their seats, making small talk about the property and the weather and the turnout for tonight. But before I can excuse myself, Jean-Pierre catches my arm with a grip that suggests he's not asking.
"A moment, Alex."
He steers me to the side of the room where we can speak without being overheard. Olivier is already studying the wine list with the intense focus of a man looking for something to criticize.
"How is she really?" Jean-Pierre asks, his voice low. "Not the professional assessment. I want to know what you've actually observed. Your updates were positive, but I want the truth."
I consider what to say. He asked me to observe and report, that was the deal from the beginning, and I've been doing it honestly for two weeks. What he doesn't know is that I've been showing Isabelle the messages before I send them.
"She's ready," I say. "More than ready. The menu is brilliant, the team is solid, she's going to execute at the highest level tonight. There's no but. That's the whole picture."
Jean-Pierre nods slowly. "And her state of mind? Is she focused? Confident?"
"She's exactly what you'd want her to be the day of opening night.
Focused, prepared, running her kitchen like she was born to do it.
" I hold his gaze, deciding to push a little further than he probably wants me to.
"You should tell her that yourself, by the way.
Before service starts. She'd like to hear it from you. "
A flicker crosses Jean-Pierre's face, too fast for me to read, and then his expression settles back into steel. "I'm sure she knows how I feel about her capabilities."
"With respect, sir, she's carrying a lot of weight tonight. A word from you before service could go a long way. She's your daughter."