Chapter 21
Isabelle
Seattle is beautiful, which is genuinely annoying.
I'd been counting on rain and gray skies to match my increasingly foul mood ever since my father started micromanaging every detail of this trip the second we met up with him at the airport. Gloomy weather would have felt perfectly cinematic, and would have validated my sulking.
Instead the sky is a sharp, cloudless blue.
The sun is hitting the water and Mount Rainier is visible—white and snowcapped and absolutely impossible against the skyline, dominating the view like a giant watching over the city.
The trees lining the streets are the deep, saturated green of a place that gets enough rain to be lush and tropical-looking.
It's infuriating how pretty it all is.
"I thought Seattle was supposed to be gray and depressing," I say to Alex as we walk from the hotel toward the waterfront.
My father had a car service waiting at the airport, checked us into the hotel with ruthless efficiency—separate rooms on opposite ends of the building, naturally, because god forbid we be near each other—and announced the trip schedule like a drill sergeant.
He’s now power-walking toward a meeting with his attorney while Alex and I trail behind at a pace that could generously be called leisurely and more accurately be called deliberate stalling.
"That's the secret of the Pacific Northwest," Alex says, his hands shoved in his pockets, squinting against the bright sun.
"The winters are gray and rainy, but the summers are absolutely perfect.
We just tell everyone it rains constantly year-round so they don't all move here and ruin it for us. It's a regional conspiracy."
"Your secret's safe with me," I say, looking around despite my bad mood.
He smiles at me. "Wait till you see Dark River. The scenery out there is even better. Water and forest and these huge cliffs. It's gorgeous."
I feel something warm bloom in my chest at that, hearing him talk about taking me to his hometown, introducing me to that part of his life.
But there are nerves too, anxiety about meeting Alex's family.
In past relationships I would have scoffed at meeting family even after months of dating.
It always felt like too much pressure, too serious, a step I wasn't ready for.
Even though I’ve already met Jack and Lark, meeting the rest of his brothers and their families after just a few weeks is completely out of character for me.
And yet it strangely feels so right and I find myself eager to see where Alex comes from, what his brothers are like, where he grew up and learned to cook and became the person standing next to me. I want to know all of it.
My father is a good fifty feet ahead of us now, still on his phone, gesturing emphatically at nothing with his free hand the way he always does when he's telling someone they're wrong about something.
"You think he suspects anything?" I ask quietly, nodding toward my father's back. "About us?"
Alex shakes his head firmly. "You know him better than I do, but no. He'd say something if he did. You said it yourself—he's not subtle when he's displeased."
I nod slowly. "I think I'm blinded by absolute terror right now, so my judgment might be compromised. Every time he looks at us I'm convinced he knows, that he's just waiting to drop the hammer."
He laughs softly. "Well, I'd reach over and hug you right now to make you feel better, but that would only add to the problem since he'd definitely see it."
I smile. "Well, you owe me one later. Multiple ones, actually. I'm keeping a running tab."
We stare at each other for a moment, and I can feel the urge to touch him, kiss him, just be close to him the way we've been for weeks now. Then my father ends his phone call and turns around to look back at us, and I snap my gaze forward immediately.
"Sorry about that," my father says briskly as we catch up to him. "Business issue with the Tokyo location. Supply chain problems. Shall we continue?"
He turns and continues walking at his brutal pace, and we follow.
The streets are bustling with people here in downtown Seattle, and I find myself studying the passing scenery.
The coffee shops on every corner, the mix of modern glass buildings and older brick architecture, the casual way everyone dresses compared to New York.
I can see why Alex wants to be here, wants to build something in this city. And yet I feel hostile toward the city, irrationally bitter, like it's the other woman stealing the person I want to keep for myself.
Maybe New York could work for him instead, maybe plans can change, maybe he could open something there and we could both be in the same city. This line of thinking is selfish and accomplishes nothing, but I can't seem to stop myself from spiraling into it.
We come up to the building, which I recognize immediately from the photos my father's people sent over.
It's right in the heart of the city but it's a standalone building, not crammed between other structures, with beautiful landscaping around it—mature trees and plantings that soften the modern architecture.
It was a restaurant before, so it's already set up with the right infrastructure, the right zoning, the right bones.
The exterior is gorgeous weathered brick on the lower level, with warm wood accents and a modern glass upper story that wraps around the entire building, floor-to-ceiling windows that would give diners a stunning view of the water on one side and the city skyline on the other.
It couldn't be more perfect for what Alex wants to do.
I hate it.
"Wow," Alex says, stopping on the sidewalk and letting out a low whistle. "It looks even better in person than in the photos."
My father smiles, clearly pleased with himself.
"Yes, I was glad we were able to see it before it officially goes on the market next month.
This kind of location and building, with the infrastructure already in place?
It's rare to find something like this in this part of Seattle, from what I'm told. Prime real estate."
We walk up to the entrance and spot the realtor standing outside waiting for us. She’s in her late fifties, with silver hair in a sleek bob, wearing a navy suit and heels, with the kind of fierce, competent look that tells you she's very good at her job and doesn't suffer fools.
"Welcome," she says warmly, shaking all of our hands with a firm grip. "I'm Patricia. I've been working with Doug on this property. Let's head inside and I'll show you around."
She guides us through the front entrance and into the main dining space, and it's perfect. The interior is modern and clean-lined, but without the cold, sterile feeling that so often comes with that design style.
The warm wood tones throughout and the exposed brick on one accent wall help ground it, making it feel inviting rather than intimidating. The view is stunning, water glittering in the afternoon sunlight through those massive windows.
He's going to absolutely love it here. He's going to build something incredible in this space.
And selfishly, miserably, I resent it. I resent this perfect building in this beautiful city three thousand miles from where I'm going to be.
I force myself to smile at him instead, because I hate this nasty, possessive part of myself that's rearing its ugly head.
I only want good things for Alex—I want him to have everything he's dreamed of, to build the restaurant he's been imagining for years.
He catches my eye across the space and winks at me, quick and subtle, and my heart does a stupid flip in my chest. He and my father start walking through the space together, pointing things out, discussing potential layouts and traffic flow and kitchen configurations.
Alex is opinionated as always, not afraid to push back when he disagrees with something my father suggests. I can tell my father really likes him, respects him, even. Jean-Pierre usually hates being contradicted.
But it must be the way Alex always stays calm and playful that softens it, makes it feel like collaboration rather than conflict. His charm even works on my father, apparently. Wonders never cease.
Maybe Alex is right that my father would come around eventually if he knew about us.
But Jean-Pierre is proud and controlling, and even if he likes Alex professionally, even if I begged him to accept this, I think he would take the disobedience—the fact that I went behind his back, that Alex ignored his explicit warning—as an unforgivable slight.
A betrayal of trust. Maybe not even Alex's considerable charm could smooth that over, and then this whole dream would poof, vanish because I couldn't keep my hands to myself.
The realtor continues pointing things out enthusiastically. "And this entire wall of windows actually opens," she says, demonstrating the mechanism. "You can see how they accordion fold to the side. Creates this beautiful indoor-outdoor flow for the warmer months."
She shows us the mechanism and Alex nods, looking pleased.
"And Doug?" my father asks, turning to the realtor. "He's confirmed he's willing to include the commercial kitchen equipment in the sale price? I spoke with him on the phone before flying out but I know he had that board meeting this afternoon and couldn't join us."
She nods. "Yes, he specifically wanted me to tell you he'll happily include all the equipment—it's all high-end, well-maintained, and most of it is less than three years old.
He'd rather it go to someone who'll actually use it than try to sell it separately.
And of course, he's looking forward to dinner tonight so you can discuss the finer details. "
My father nods, satisfied. Tonight we're all having dinner with Doug Hanson, the man who owns this building and is selling it. Another restaurateur like my father, part of that exclusive club of people who've built empires in this industry.