Chapter 25
Isabelle
We reluctantly leave the restaurant around ten, making our rounds and saying goodbyes to everyone. Hugs and promises to stay in touch, Chloe making me pinky-swear I'll come back and visit soon.
His entire family is so warm and kind, wrapping me up in their affection like I've known them for years instead of hours, like I'm already part of this circle they've created.
My own family has always been quite different.
Colder. My mother with her shopping addiction and a complete disinterest in my life or my father's business.
My father with his over-interest and suffocating control, every conversation a test, every achievement measured against impossible standards.
Only at my grandmother's house did I have that kind of unconditional love and acceptance.
Being with Alex's family feels like that again, like they've let me in without question and I'm wrapped in a warm hug I didn't know I was missing. I'm sad to leave them, even though we've only just met.
We drive back through the dark, the road wet with drizzle, huge trees towering on either side of us, evergreens so massive and ancient they make me feel tiny. Some of the trunks look wider than cars. I snuggle deeper into the seat in my oversized sweater, Alex's hand resting on my thigh.
"That was so lovely," I sigh, my head tilted against the window, watching the trees blur past in the darkness, their shapes looming and receding. "Your family is wonderful. I didn't want to leave."
He glances over with a soft smile, his face lit by the dashboard glow. "Everyone loved you. Maren cornered me in the kitchen while you were saying goodbye to Clara and told me if I screw this up she's going to kick my ass personally."
I laugh, happiness blooming in my chest. "I like her a lot. She's fierce."
We pull up to his apartment building and it's beautiful, clearly a newer construction but luxurious and well-maintained, with big windows overlooking the water, modern architecture mixed with Pacific Northwest materials—stone and wood and glass working together.
"You know,” I say as we climb out of the car, “I pictured you living in more of a rustic log cabin Pacific Northwest situation. Maybe some flannel curtains and a taxidermied salmon on the wall. Possibly a moose head."
He grabs our bags from the trunk. "Yeah, well, I like easy and convenient. I practically lived at Harbor & Ash for years, so I wanted amenities and everything taken care of at home so I didn't have to think about it."
I nod, understanding completely. We head inside and take the elevator up to the third floor. He unlocks the door and ushers me in, and I stop just inside the entryway to take it all in.
The apartment is beautiful and tidy, everything in its place.
Which is only mildly surprising—Alex is chaotic and spontaneous in the kitchen, tasting and adjusting and changing things on the fly, but his cooking stations are always immaculate, every tool exactly where it needs to be.
It only makes sense his home would be the same way.
The kitchen is open and modern, with stainless steel and butcher block counters, the kind of setup a chef would design for himself.
Big windows everywhere, letting in views of the harbor even at night, the moon reflecting off the dark water.
And a comfortable-looking sectional couch in charcoal gray faces a large TV.
There are movie posters framed on the walls—classic films, mostly. I spot the original Citizen Kane poster with Orson Welles' stark black and white portrait, Vertigo with Hitchcock's distinctive spiraling effect, and Blade Runner with its layered noir imagery and neon tones.
We'd had a debate about Blade Runner during movie night in Napa—me of the opinion it's overrated, him vehemently disagreeing—but he never mentioned owning the poster.
"So this is home," he says, setting down his keys on the entryway table and watching me with barely contained amusement, clearly enjoying me cataloging his space.
"It's perfect," I say. "Very you. I especially like the Blade Runner poster. A truly sophisticated interior design choice."
He chuckles, walking over to stand next to me, both of us looking up at it. "Well, I could always get a Ghostbusters one with Rick Moranis if that would do it more for you. Maybe hang it above the bed if you need me to create the right mood for—ow!"
I elbow him in the ribs, hard enough to make him grunt, and he catches my arm and pulls me in for a kiss.
"You cannot make fun of my extremely valid childhood crush," I say against his mouth, trying to sound stern and failing completely. "He is a very attractive man and the accountant thing was objectively hot."
"I never said he wasn't," he says. "I mean, good for him having you as a superfan all these years."
"Well, you better not make me regret telling you about that," I warn, poking him in the chest. "Or I'm going to have to eviscerate you and hide the body where no one will find it."
He throws his head back and laughs. "You do that, Princess. But the murder will have to wait."
And then he pulls me in for a deep kiss and I'm his again, completely melting into him, all thoughts of revenge or Rick Moranis or anything else disappearing entirely.
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer, and I wrap my arms around his neck, rising up on my tiptoes to meet him, to get closer, to eliminate any space between us.
Back in Seattle, my alarm screams and I reach out blindly, smacking it into silence. Alex and I returned from Dark River yesterday morning and he spent the day in back-to-back meetings with my father and the Seattle property investors, wrapping up preliminary negotiations.
He flew back to Napa late last night, much to my disappointment. I've gotten used to waking up next to him, to the weight of his arm around my waist and the sound of his breathing, and sleeping alone in this sterile hotel room felt wrong.
My father insisted I stay an extra half day because we have New York restaurant details to go over—menu adjustments, staffing decisions, timeline reviews, all the operational logistics that he’s switching over from Laurent’s control to mine.
I'm even flying to New York on the pop-up's upcoming break to finalize everything in person.
Exciting, but the timing is not ideal since the pop-up is back tonight. But Papa said they can handle it without me and I'll be back in time for service. And what Papa says goes.
I drag myself out of bed, gulping down bitter coffee from the room service carafe that's been sitting there since last night, and stumble into the shower. The hot water helps wake me up, and I stand under the spray longer than necessary, trying to shake off the exhaustion.
I get dressed in dark jeans and a silk blouse, something presentable enough for a meeting with my father but comfortable enough that I don't feel like I'm wearing a costume. I pull my hair back into a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup. The armor of looking put-together even when I feel scattered.
I make my way through the hotel to my father's suite on the top floor. It’s enormous, a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Seattle skyline, a separate office, a bedroom, and a kitchenette that I'm certain he's never used.
I check my phone. Seven fourteen. He told me to be here at seven fifteen sharp, and on time I shall be, because Jean-Pierre Beaumont does not tolerate tardiness, not even from his daughter.
I use the master hotel key card he gave me and let myself into the living room, stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from sleeping poorly. The suite is silent except for the muffled hum of the city below, morning light streaming through the windows
"Papa?" I call out, looking around. The main living area is empty, but I can hear him talking in the office, his voice muffled.
I walk closer, curiosity pulling me forward, and peek through the crack in the mostly-closed office door.
He's pacing in front of the windows, phone on speaker on the desk, gesturing with one hand even though whoever he's talking to can't see him. He must not have heard me come in, too absorbed in the conversation.
I reach for the door handle to click it closed so I can wait in the living room in peace, when I recognize the other voice coming through the speaker. It's Richard Crane, my father's business partner in the New York restaurant group, a man I've met exactly twice and disliked both times.
"The branding is coming together nicely," Richard says, his voice tinny through the speaker but clear enough. "Isabelle's face on the marketing materials is testing extremely well with the under-forty demographic. The focus groups loved her, she checks every box."
I freeze at that, my hand still on the door handle. What the hell are they talking about?
"She's not checking boxes," my father says, and there's a defensive edge in his voice that I recognize. "She's a talented chef. That's the foundation. The marketing simply reflects reality."
"Of course, of course," Richard says, and I can practically hear him waving a dismissive hand. "But let's be clear about the structure here. She's going to be the face of the restaurant, yes. But the operational decisions, the business side, that stays with us, correct?"
"I think it's the right call," my father says, and I can just barely see him through the crack in the door, still pacing, one hand in his pocket. "She doesn't have the experience to run a restaurant at this level without support."
"Exactly," Richard says, and I can hear papers shuffling on his end.
"So I'm making notes here for the investor meeting next week.
We put on Simon as executive sous for support, and Isabelle does the press and social media.
In our current media climate, having a young woman at the forefront plays extremely well. And Isabelle is perfect for that."