Chapter 22
Alex
The hotel is one of those historic Seattle buildings that's been meticulously converted into something expensive and exclusive. Jean-Pierre is apparently an investor in the place, one of his many business ventures that I only have vague ideas about.
He doesn't own it outright, but he might as well based on how he gets treated here. The concierge practically bows when he walks past, the staff materialize out of nowhere whenever he needs something, he sends a single text and things magically happen. It's slightly unsettling to witness.
Isabelle's room is in the east wing of the hotel and mine is in the west wing.
Annoyingly, the building is set up so that the only way to get from one side to the other is to go back down to the damn lobby on the ground floor and make your way across the ground floor to the elevators for the opposite wing.
Which means that getting from my room to Isabelle's requires crossing approximately every public space in the building, all of which are staffed by people who definitely recognize Jean-Pierre Beaumont and, by extension, have now seen his daughter and his business associate.
Any of them could at any moment casually mention to Mr. Beaumont that the two of us were spotted in the same hallway at an unusual hour. It's a surveillance nightmare.
We saw the restaurant yesterday and it was everything I could have dreamed of—the space, the location, the potential buzzing through me like electricity every time I think about it.
Though the entire experience is feeling more and more complicated and tainted with the weight of keeping Isabelle and me a secret. But I promised I'd respect her wishes.
My biggest frustration at the moment is that I haven't gotten a single second alone with her since we landed in Seattle.
We'd planned to sneak to each other's rooms last night, but the dinner ran late and then later, stretching past eleven, and afterward her father wanted to go over menu concepts and staffing plans in his suite.
Today we had several long meetings looking over planning documents and zoning requirements, visited one other potential location, though we both immediately agreed the first building is the place without question, and had lunch at some exclusive private club Jean-Pierre belongs to.
Finally, after an interminable dinner that stretched past nine-thirty, I'm back in my room and ready to make my way over to Isabelle. I'm buttoning a fresh shirt when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it to see her name lighting up the screen.
Isabelle: I'm wearing a new very see-through lacy nightgown that I bought specifically for this trip, but I'm getting chilly over here all alone. Are you going to come warm me up or not?
I actually groan out loud at that, my entire body responding immediately to the mental image as I grab my hotel keycard and shove it in my pocket. I dial her number and she picks up on the first ring, already laughing.
"You know, it's desperate to call immediately after a text like that," she says, clearly enjoying herself.
"You're cruel and you know it," I say, laughing. "How can you possibly torture me like this when I've been so good to you all day?"
"Well, I'm about to be very, very good to you," she purrs, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
"So I think a little torture is acceptable.
Consider it foreplay. But you'd better be careful getting over here.
I swear half the staff in this place like to give my father detailed reports on everything that happens, and I don't know if you wandering the halls at night qualifies as noteworthy or not. "
"I will be the picture of discretion," I promise, already heading toward the door.
"Good, because I—" she cuts off and I hear a distinct vibrating sound in the background, low and buzzing, and my brain short-circuits for a second. "Am already starting without you."
I swallow hard. "Damn, Isabelle."
"You'd better hurry.”
"I'll be there in five minutes," I say. "Maybe three."
"I'll time you," she laughs, and we hang up to the sound of her breathless giggling.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby and I cut through the main floor, past the still-bustling concierge desk. I navigate past a dining area with a few late diners still lingering over wine to my right, the elevator bank to Isabelle's wing straight ahead maybe fifty feet away.
I'm almost there, eyes scanning around automatically, when I spot him.
Jean-Pierre himself is sitting in a burgundy leather wingback chair in a small seating area next to the massive fireplace, positioned in this alcove section of the hotel lobby that gives him a perfect sightline to where I'm standing.
He's looking down at his phone with a crystal glass of whisky in one hand, completely relaxed in an expensive sweater and slacks.
Fuck.
He looks up and sees me, surprise flickering across his face. I force myself to smile and walk over casually, like this is completely normal and I have a perfectly reasonable explanation.
"Evening, sir," I say, keeping my voice relaxed and friendly.
He sets down his phone "Alex, what are you doing on this side of the hotel? Your room is in the west wing, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is," I say, thinking fast. "But I hadn't actually seen this side of the building properly, and you mentioned earlier that you liked the bar over here, so I thought I'd check it out.
I couldn't sleep yet. I keep thinking about all the restaurant planning details we discussed, and my mind won't shut off.
" Somehow my voice comes out sounding perfectly calm, maybe even a little bored.
Jean-Pierre nods slowly, seeming to accept the explanation.
"Well, perfect timing then. You can join me for a drink.
I came down here to do some work. I have that full office setup in my suite, but sometimes it's nice to be around people, you know?
I find I think better with a little ambient noise, some people-watching, a good drink. Sit, please."
He motions to the leather chair opposite him, a twin to his own, separated by a small marble-topped table.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
All I can think about is Isabelle right now, waiting for me, using a vibrator, wearing some kind of see-through nightgown, and this might be the closest thing to actual torture I've ever experienced. But I sit down in the chair.
"I'd love that," I say through barely gritted teeth, forcing a smile.
Jean-Pierre smiles warmly and raises his hand to flag down an employee walking past with a cleaning cart. "A whisky for my colleague here. The same as mine, the Macallan 18."
I resist the urge to point out that the person he just flagged down is clearly housekeeping staff, not restaurant or bar staff, based on the cart full of cleaning supplies. I flash an apologetic expression at him before he scurries off anyway to fulfill the request.
"So," Jean-Pierre says, settling back in his chair and swirling his whisky.
"The restaurant. I'm very pleased with how everything is coming together.
I'm glad we're on the same page about the direction so far.
A few minor disagreements here and there, but that's healthy.
I like to let the people I invest in make their own creative decisions about their restaurants.
And your instincts are good, I'll give you that, Alex. You have a strong vision."
The apologetic housekeeping employee returns surprisingly quickly with my whisky and I accept it with genuine thanks, raising it in a small toast to Jean-Pierre. "I appreciate that, sir. I'm really happy with how everything has progressed so far. The building is perfect."
He nods, taking a sip, savoring it. "Isabelle did quite well observing everything too, I thought. I really want her to see all this business side of things—the negotiations, the inspections, the zoning complications."
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, the leather creaking slightly. I would very much like to be with Isabelle right now, preferably horizontal and naked, which is a deeply uncomfortable thought given that her father is sitting three feet away.
"Yeah, she's always insightful," I say carefully, sipping my drink and letting it burn its way down my throat, willing it to calm my nerves. "She has a really good eye for this kind of stuff."
"And this whole arrangement has worked out so well so far," he continues, warming to his subject.
"The reviews for her Napa pop-up have been outstanding.
Better than I could have hoped, honestly.
The Chronicle piece was glowing. And you two seemed to have worked out whatever initial friction there was, which is nice to see. Professional respect is important."
I could laugh at the spectacular understatement, but instead I smile pleasantly and nod, all the while knowing she is literally waiting for me with a vibrator and lingerie less than a hundred yards away.
"Anyway," he continues, settling deeper into his chair like he's getting comfortable for a long conversation.
"I really hope Isabelle learns to trust my judgment more after this experience.
She absolutely exploded when she first found out you were going to be at the pop-up, as you know. But it all worked out beautifully."
I tense slightly at that, my fingers gripping the glass a little harder. He's so fucking condescending without even realizing it, so casually dismissive of his daughter's agency and talent, and it didn't work out how he thinks it did at all.
The fact that he still doesn't see that this all succeeded because his daughter is brilliant and talented and worked her ass off, not because of me being there to supervise her like some kind of culinary chaperone, is infuriating.
"Well, I really didn't do much," I say, keeping my voice level. "She managed the entire operation. If anything, I think I picked up some techniques from watching her work. She's exceptionally talented."