Chapter 9 #2
"I meant in a more personal capacity." His smile widens, and there it is, the pitch I've been waiting for, the reason Jean-Pierre brought him here tonight and made sure we crossed paths.
"This is a bit awkward, but your father actually thought we might enjoy getting to know each other better.
He speaks very highly of you, and I have to say, after watching you work tonight, I can see why.
You're quite talented. And beautiful, of course. "
He laughs as though we're in on the joke together, as though this is all very charming and normal and not deeply patronizing. His eyes drop briefly to my chest before snapping back up, and I feel my blood pressure spike.
"Olivier." I keep my voice pleasant, professional, the tone I use when I'm about to eviscerate a supplier who's wasted my time.
"I've had a very long night, and I have a team to dismiss and a kitchen to check and about a hundred other things that need my attention before I can even think about sleep.
So I'm going to be very clear with you, because I don't have the energy to be diplomatic right now. "
His smile falters slightly. "Of course. I didn't mean to—"
"I'm not interested." I cut him off cleanly, my voice firm. "Not in whatever you're imagining, and not in continuing this conversation. You seem like a perfectly fine person for someone, but that someone is not me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
I turn and walk away before he can respond, my heart pounding in my chest. Behind me I hear him make a sound of surprise, maybe outrage, but I don't look back.
I don't care. Let him complain to my father, let Jean-Pierre be disappointed that his matchmaking didn't work, let them both figure out that I'm not a piece in their chess game to be moved around at will.
I've just run the best service of my career. I'm not going to let Olivier Mercier ruin it.
Back in the kitchen, Margot is sitting at the counter with a bottle of champagne, already pouring for the team.
The sight of her makes some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
She catches my eye and raises an eyebrow in question, and I shake my head slightly—later, I'll tell her later—and she nods and goes back to pouring.
I feel a flash of regret at having sent Alex back to his cottage, wishing he was here for this, but before I can even think about texting him, Margot presses a glass into my hand and pulls me into the celebration.
"To Chef Beaumont," Martinez says, raising his glass, and the rest of the team echoes it.
"To the best damn service I've ever worked," Sofia adds, and they all cheer.
I raise my glass back to them, my throat tight. "To all of you. That was a team effort from start to finish, and you were incredible. Every single one of you."
We clink glasses and drink, and the champagne is cold and perfect and tastes like victory. The adrenaline is starting to fade now, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that I know will hit me fully the moment I sit down. But there's satisfaction underneath it, warm and solid and earned.
Someone refills my glass and I don't protest. Martinez is telling a story about the halibut course that has Sofia laughing so hard she's wiping her eyes, and Margot is leaning against the counter looking elegant even now, at nearly eleven at night after a full day of work.
This. This is what I wanted. Not my father's approval or Olivier's attention or a spot in some prestigious kitchen in New York. Just this: a team that trusts me, a menu that worked, a night that proved I could do this on my own.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up to see a text from my father.
Papa: Just had a thought about the halibut dish. Text me back when you can.
He can't just let me have one night. Not one single night.
"I'll be right back," I say to Margot, who is laughing with the crew about something Martinez said. She smiles and waves me off.
I slip outside the kitchen door into the cool night air and dial, my fingers tight around the phone.
He picks up on the second ring. "Isabelle? I was expecting a text."
"Papa, my menu is not up to you." The champagne has loosened me just enough to say what I've been swallowing all night.
"I have told you, I appreciate your support, I do.
But I did this. This wasn't one of your projects, it was mine.
If it were yours, I would hear you out. But you've got to stop inserting yourself into every single decision I make. Please."
There's a pause, and when he speaks his voice has cooled considerably. "Isabelle, I expect a bit more respect than this. I'm doing this for you, and when you can't see what needs to be changed—"
"Just stop, Papa." I cut him off because if I let him finish that sentence I will scream. "And I hope you're happy with yourself about Olivier. How many times do I have to tell you not to meddle like this? I'm a grown woman, I'm not some prize to be auctioned off to the highest bidder."
"Don't be so dramatic, Isabelle. You're young, you don't see the bigger picture. I know what's best for you, even when you can't see it yourself. What I do comes from love, you need to understand—"
"I am not speaking to you like this." The words come out cold and sharp and final. "How dare you say that to me."
I hang up before he can respond and stand there in the cool night air, the phone hot in my hand, fury and hurt twisting together in my chest like a knot I can't untangle.
I know what's best for you.
The words echo in my head, and I want to throw my phone into the vineyard.
I want to scream. I want to get in my car and drive back to the city and never speak to him again.
But mostly I just feel tired. Tired of fighting him, tired of proving myself, tired of being seen as his creation instead of my own person.
I take a few deep breaths, forcing the anger down until it settles into something I can carry. Then I go back inside, paste on a smile, and rejoin the celebration.
I thank my staff one more time, meaning every word, and hug Margot and promise to meet her for lunch tomorrow. I finish the last of my closing checks, double-checking the walk-in and making sure everything is set for tomorrow's prep, and finally grab my jacket and head out into the night.
I walk through the vineyard, too exhausted to worry about aliens or shadows or anything except putting one foot in front of the other. The cottages come into view through the olive trees, their porch lights casting warm circles against the darkness.
Alex's porch light is on, and he's sitting out there in a t-shirt and dark pants, feet propped up on the railing, a glass of wine in his hand. He raises it to me as I pass and I smile but keep walking to my own door, because if I stop I don't know what I'll do.
Inside, I strip off my chef's coat and kitchen clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor, and step into the shower.
The hot water hits my shoulders and I let out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a sigh, my muscles finally unclenching after fourteen hours of holding everything together.
I stand there longer than I need to, letting the steam fill the bathroom, the water running down my back, washing away the sweat and the stress and the smell of the kitchen.
But all of it, every second of it, Alex is on my mind.
I shut off the water, stepping out of the shower and put on my pajamas. I walk over to the front of the mirror and debate skipping skincare tonight, when I see my Philosykos on the shelf. I pick it up and spray a little on my neck, on the spot below my ear where he looked.
This is a bad idea. Going out on that porch and finding Alex is a bad idea.
Everything about this is a bad idea. But my father just told me I can't be trusted to make my own decisions, and I am buzzing with champagne and adrenaline and the memory of what it felt like to kiss Alex Midnight in a dark kitchen, and I want to feel that again.
Maybe it's rebellion against my father, choosing the one man he explicitly wants to stay away from me. Or maybe it's the celebration of the best night of my career, and I want to celebrate it properly. Or maybe I just want him, simply and badly, and I'm tired of pretending I don't.
I walk out my door and across the path to his porch. He's exactly where I left him, feet propped up on the railing, a glass of wine in his hand.
The porch light throws a warm circle around his chair and the rest of the vineyard is dark behind him, just the shapes of the vines and the faint outline of the hills against a sky that's deepening from purple to black.
He looks up when he hears my footsteps on the gravel and his eyebrows rise, just slightly, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches me come toward him, and there's something in his expression that makes my pulse kick up.
"Hey," he says. "I wasn't expecting to see you again tonight."
"Yeah, well." I make a vague gesture that I intend to be casual and nonchalant and that is, in reality, just me waving my hand at nothing like a person who has lost control of her motor functions. He grins and holds out his wine glass.
I take it and sip. It's good. Really good. One of Margot's, I think, a Pinot with bright fruit and the perfect amount of acidity to keep it from being lazy. I lean against the railing facing him, take another sip, and let the warmth of it settle into the places the shower didn't reach.
"Hell of a night," he says, watching me.
"We were incredible," I say. "I couldn't have done it without you."
He grins. "You easily could have. It just would've been slightly less fun."