Chapter 12
Alex
I roll over, reaching for her on instinct, but the sheets are cool on her side, which means she snuck out a while ago. The image of Isabelle tiptoing barefoot across the gravel path back to her cottage in the dark like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene makes me smile into the pillow.
I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, letting last night settle over me like something I can touch. The warmth of her skin, the sound of her laugh, the way she looked at me—all of it is running through my head on a loop I'm not interested in stopping.
She was very clear about what she wanted—one night, nothing more, keep it simple. I want the exact opposite, which is more of her, more of whatever this is, as much as the month allows and probably longer than that if I'm being honest with myself.
Though there's the Jean-Pierre issue, which is no small thing.
The man explicitly told me to stay away from his daughter and I have now spectacularly failed to do that.
And Theo would have a coronary if he knew, since he's risk-averse in the way that older brothers who have mortgages and children and a sensible retirement plan tend to be.
He would see this as exactly the kind of reckless behavior he's been warning me about since I was fifteen, the kind that gets people in trouble they can't talk their way out of.
And to be fair to him, it is. But Isabelle is worth the trouble.
Eventually I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water work on muscles that are pleasantly sore.
I get dressed and take my time heading down to the kitchen, in no particular hurry to face the day but knowing I need to get down there eventually.
It's the second night of the pop-up tonight, and we've got another full house.
The kitchen should be in full prep mode by now, which means I need to see where we're at and what needs my attention.
The path from the cottages cuts through the eastern edge of the vineyard, the air still cool from overnight, carrying that morning smell of dew on the vines and earth warming up. I'm running on maybe four hours of sleep, but I feel more awake than I have in weeks.
The main building comes into view, old stone catching the morning light, and I can already hear the faint sounds of the kitchen through the open windows. Music, the clatter of pans, voices calling out orders for mise. I take the steps up to the entrance and pull open the kitchen door.
Sofia and Martinez are at their stations, one of the prep cooks is brunoise-ing shallots, and classical music is playing from someone's phone, something orchestral that I don't recognize. The air is thick with the smell of stock reducing and butter warming and aromatics going into pans.
Isabelle is at the center station in her usual uniform—t-shirt, linen pants, hair slicked back into her bun with not a strand out of place.
She's whisking a small saucepan over low heat, her movements precise and rhythmic, and she looks up when the door closes.
Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she immediately looks back down at her pan, but I catch the slight flush that colors her cheeks.
"Morning," she says, and keeps whisking.
"Morning," I say, crossing to the espresso machine beside her station and pulling a cup from the rack. Sofia glances up from her station and smiles at me, and I nod back. Martinez doesn't even look up, too focused on portioning duck breast with surgical precision.
"What's in the pan?" I ask Isabelle, keeping my voice casual.
"Beurre blanc," she says, adjusting the flame with her free hand. "Testing a yuzu finish instead of lemon. The lemon's been too direct for the halibut, it hits you over the head. Yuzu might give me floral brightness without pushing the whole sauce citrus-forward."
"I think that's right," I say, slotting the cup under the portafilter and starting the pull. The machine hisses and espresso drips dark and thick into the ceramic. "Yuzu has that perfumy quality lemon doesn't. It'll add complexity without competing with the butter."
"That's the theory." She reaches for a small brown bottle, tips two drops into the pan, and whisks them in with quick, efficient strokes.
I finish pulling my espresso and lean against the counter a few feet from her station, watching her work over the rim of my cup.
Sofia and Martinez are both deep in their prep, heads down, and the prep cook has moved to the walk-in for something.
Isabelle turns to face me, glancing around the kitchen.
"So," she says in a low voice. "Last night."
"Last night," I say, matching her quiet tone, and take a sip of espresso.
"I had a really good time," she says, meeting my eyes.
"So did I."
"But I meant what I said." She holds my gaze, her expression serious. "About keeping it simple. You're really great, but I'm focused on New York. You've got the deal with my father. Neither of us needs the complication, so I think keeping it to just last night would be wise."
I set my espresso down on the counter and lean back, amused by this whole conversation. "Chef, are you giving me the 'it's not you, it's me' speech right now? The classic one-night-stand brush-off?"
She rolls her eyes but her cheeks go pinker.
"I'm trying to be mature about this. I just want to make sure we're on the same page, because you seem like someone who could get confused about.
.." She drops her voice even lower, glancing around the room again to make sure no one's listening.
"Sex and emotions, you know? Like you might catch feelings or something. "
I laugh at that, and the sound carries across the kitchen louder than I intended. Martinez glances up briefly, and I wave at him casually. He nods back and returns to portioning his duck breast.
"Be quiet!" Isabelle hisses, her eyes going huge with alarm.
"No one can hear what we're saying," I say, keeping my voice low but unable to stop smiling.
"And don't worry, I heard you loud and clear last night.
You said you only wanted it to be one time, and I completely understand.
I mean, I don't believe you for a second, but I will absolutely respect your wishes. "
Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Excuse me? How dare you presume to know what I want better than I do? I already told you, you're not my type. I like my guys stable and predictable and boring. You're one step away from being clinically insane."
"Clinically insane seems harsh." I take another sip of espresso, thoroughly enjoying this.
"I prefer 'charmingly impulsive.’ Much better ring to it.
And I think we both know you like your men to be a bit more unpredictable than stable and boring.
Otherwise you wouldn't have spent half of last night—"
"Do not finish that sentence," she cuts me off, and she's blushing hard now. "I'm serious, Alex."
"I know you are," I say, taking pity on her. "Which is why, in the name of keeping things professional and casual and very mature, I will honorably refrain from bringing up last night again."
"You’re so not honorable," she mutters, crossing her arms.
"How do you know?"
"Because you don't follow rules," she says, glowering at me. It would be more effective if I didn't see the ghost of a smile too.
"Fair point," I concede anyway. "Terrible at rules. Always have been. Just ask any of my brothers." I finish my espresso and set the cup down. "Anyway, speaking of brothers, you're heading to San Francisco on Monday for that interview, right?"
She blinks at me. "See? This is what I mean. Insane random segue. Absolutely mental. And yes, I have that whole interview thing."
"Well, my brother Jack and his wife Lark are flying in Monday morning," I say.
"They're visiting me for the day before they head down to LA.
Since there's no service Monday night, I figured I'd drive into the city and spend the day with them, probably stay over since we’ll be out late.
You and I are both heading to the same place anyway. We should carpool."
She studies me for a long moment, suspicious. "Is this some kind of ploy to spend more time with me?"
"Would it work?"
"Absolutely not," she says firmly.
"Then it's not a ploy. I just think it would be fun.
You could do your interview, then come hang out with us after.
Jack and Lark are great, you'd like them.
Plus, carpooling is good for the environment.
Think of the carbon footprint we'd be saving.
The polar bears, Isabelle. Think of the polar bears. "
"You're using environmental responsibility and polar bears as a pickup line," she says flatly and I smile. "Fine. But just as colleagues blowing off a bit of steam. Coworkers carpooling together for practical, environmental, polar-bear-saving reasons. Nothing more."
"Of course," I say, keeping my face perfectly innocent. "I'll be the perfect gentleman."
She points the whisk she’s holding at me like a weapon. "Be ready at nine Monday morning. Sharp. I want time to find parking before the shoot."
"Nine sharp," I say. "I'll drive."
"Fine by me. I hate city traffic anyway." Then she lowers her voice and leans in slightly, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. "But we are getting separate hotel rooms if we're staying overnight, got it?"
"Yes, chef," I say, matching her quiet tone and trying very hard not to smile.
She holds my gaze for another second, like she's trying to figure out if I'm messing with her or not, and then she turns back to her station. I catch the tiniest smile on her face before she wipes it away and goes back to being all business, whisking her beurre blanc like nothing just happened.