Chapter 29 #2
She gives my arm one last squeeze and walks toward the main building. She glances back once, catching my eye, and I nod to let her know I'm okay. Then she disappears through the entrance and it's just me and Alex and about fifteen feet of parking lot gravel between us.
I walk toward him slowly, deliberately, trying to read his expression. He looks tense but not guilty, focused but not defensive. He looks like he's been waiting for this moment, prepared for it, ready for whatever I'm about to throw at him.
Part of me wants to scream at him. Part of me wants to burst into tears. Part of me wants to slap him across the face for taking the money in the first place, for putting me in this position, for making me doubt everything I thought we had.
"My father said you were in Dark River," I say when I'm close enough that I don't have to shout.
My voice comes out cold, controlled, every bit of French precision my grandmother ever taught me.
"Apparently already planning how to spend your two and a half million dollars.
Measuring out square footage for your dream restaurant or whatever the fuck you're doing with blood money. "
He flinches like I physically hit him, and something in his expression cracks. "Your father says a lot of things that aren't true."
"But the deal is true." I cross my arms over my chest, defensive, protecting myself. "You took his money. You shook his hand and agreed to the terms. You signed paperwork. So which part exactly did he lie about, Alex?"
"The deal is real," he says quietly, holding my gaze steadily. "I did take the money. I did shake his hand on it. But Isabelle, I'm not breaking up with you. I lied to your father when I said I would."
I stare at him. "That doesn't make any sense. My father will destroy you. He'll blacklist you in every city he has connections in, which is basically every city that matters. You know what he's capable of. You've seen what he can do."
"Let him try," Alex says, and he actually shrugs, like the idea of my father coming after him is mildly inconvenient at worst. "I don't really care what he does to me.
What I care about is whether you're still with me.
Whether you believe me when I say I love you and that taking his money doesn't change that. "
I blink at him, trying to catch up, trying to make the pieces fit together in a way that makes sense.
"So what's the plan with the money? You just take it, lie to his face, stay with me anyway, and hope he doesn't notice?
Because if he hated you before, he'll really destroy you now.
He's not going to let this go. He might even go after Harbor & Ash out of spite, mess with Theo, destroy everything you've built there just to punish you. "
Alex smiles, and it's a slow, dangerous smile. "Well, the thing is, I didn't quite take the contract the way your father thinks I did. See, the deal was contingent on me using the money to start my own place and stay away from you. But that's not what I'm planning on doing with it."
I shake my head, completely lost, frustration building in my chest. "What are you talking about? You're not making any sense."
His smile widens, that dimple appearing in his cheek, his eyes bright with mischief and something that looks an awful lot like triumph. "Will you go for a drive with me? It's easier if I show you."
I look up at him, searching his face for any sign that this is a game, that he's playing me the way my father always has. But all I see is Alex—steady, confident, looking at me with so much love and hope and barely contained excitement that it makes my chest ache.
Maybe I'm an idiot. Maybe I'm setting myself up to get hurt. Maybe I should demand explanations right here in the parking lot before I go anywhere with him.
But Margot was right. One of these men has spent my entire life lying to me and trying to control me. The other one hasn't. And if I can't take a leap of faith for Alex after everything we've been through, then what was the point of any of it?
He reaches out his hand, palm up, waiting, and I take it.
He doesn't say much during the drive. The roads wind through vineyards bathed in late afternoon light, past farm stands closing up for the day and weathered oak trees that have probably been here longer than either of us have been alive.
I steal glances at him while he drives, trying to figure out what's going on in his head.
His expression is relaxed, almost pleased, like he's holding onto a secret he can't wait to share.
One hand is on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us, close enough that I could reach over and touch him if I wanted to.
Part of me is growing giddy at the possibility that Alex didn't actually betray me, that there's some explanation that makes this all okay.
Relief makes my chest feel lighter, makes it easier to breathe.
But the uncertainty of what's ahead keeps me from relaxing completely, keeps my thoughts spinning in anxious circles.
"You're thinking so loud I can practically hear it," he says, glancing over at me with a smile.
"You can't hear thinking," I say automatically, falling into the familiar pattern of our banter. "It's in my head. It can't be loud."
He shoots me a look, amused and affectionate.
"Yes I can, because you have the most expressive face I've ever seen.
Every single thought shows up right there.
You're cycling through about fifteen different scenarios right now, trying to figure out what I'm up to, and I can watch each one cross your face. "
"And you're not going to just tell me?"
"No," he says cheerfully. "Because you'll like the surprise better.
Trust me. It's nothing bad. Your father might not love it, but he's been an ass to you forever, so who cares what he thinks.
And in a way, he's getting what he wants too.
He's helping his daughter. Just not quite the way he expected. "
He smiles to himself like he has a private joke running through his head, pleased and a little smug, and despite everything—despite the confusion and the doubt and the emotional exhaustion—I feel a small smile forming on my face.
It's impossible not to with Alex like this, his confidence filling the car, his good humor infectious, the way he makes everything feel like an adventure instead of a crisis. Even now, even with all the uncertainty, being near him makes me feel steadier, more grounded.
"What on earth are you talking about?" I ask.
He glances over at me with his most devastatingly charming smile, dimple on full display. "Almost there, Princess. Almost there."
I'm done for. Completely, hopelessly done for.
We crest a hill and the view spreads out below us, immediately familiar. Recognition hits me like a wave because we've been here before, and as we wind down the narrow road I know exactly where we are.
"Alex…" I say quietly, my voice catching.
The French restaurant.
The one where we came on our mini getaway, the one that felt like stepping into my grandmother's kitchen, into every good memory I have of learning to cook before it became about pressure and perfection and my father's approval.
The building appears as we round the final curve, and it looks exactly as wonderful as I remember.
Stone walls weathered by decades, shutters painted that blue-grey, flower boxes still overflowing with late-season blooms. The property hugs a hillside with vineyards stretching out behind it, the whole place radiating a warmth and charm that makes you want to stay forever.
He pulls up the gravel drive, stones crunching under the tires, and puts the car in park. He doesn't say anything, just looks over at me and smiles, gesturing for me to get out.
I step out of the car in a daze, my legs slightly unsteady, and I just stand there looking at the building.
The fig tree is still there, the one that reminded me so powerfully of my grandmother's garden in France.
Its branches spread wide and generous, leaves rustling in the breeze, and looking at it feels like a hello from her across the years, like a sign saying this is the right place, the right choice, the right life.
Alex comes to stand beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and we both look up at the tree together.
"Your new restaurant," he says quietly.
I turn to stare at him, my brain refusing to process the words, refusing to make them mean what they seem to mean. "What are you talking about?"
He shrugs. "I knew I didn't want to take your father's deal.
Losing you would never be worth any amount of money, and I didn't want his money for myself anyway.
But then it occurred to me that I could use it for you instead, and I thought this might be perfect.
I thought maybe this could be your place. Your restaurant. Your dream, not his."
He watches my face carefully, and I realize I'm crying. Tears are forming and spilling over before I can stop them, my throat tight with too much emotion to speak.
"It's…" I'm completely lost for words, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he's saying, what he's done, what this means. "How did you make this happen? They told us they were retiring, that they were closing. How did you—"
"The paperwork isn't signed yet," he says, and there's a careful note in his voice.
"These things take time, plus I wanted to make sure it's actually what you want.
Otherwise I'll just give you the money for whatever your real dream is, wherever you want to go, whatever you want to build.
But I knew you loved this place, so I called them right after your father made his offer.
The owners remembered us, said they'd thought about us a few times after we left, hoping we'd come back before they closed and put the place on the market. "
He pauses, his eyes searching my face. "They're ready to retire.
They've been looking for the right people to hand it to, people who'll love it the way they have, who'll respect what they built here.
And when I called and told them you were interested, that you might want to continue the tradition they started…
they said yes. Said they'd been hoping for someone like you or me. "
I feel more tears spilling down my cheeks, my chest so full it feels like it might crack open. "You bought the restaurant for me? With my father's money?"
He laughs, reaching up to brush tears off my cheek, his touch gentle. "Your father is finally helping his daughter follow her dreams. Just not the dream he had in mind."
I laugh through my tears, the sound coming out wet and slightly hysterical. "You beat Jean-Pierre Beaumont at his own game?"
"Well, like you said, this kind of money is nothing to him, right?
" His grin is pure mischief now, unrepentant.
"So I didn't feel too bad about taking it.
And besides, the contract was very specific.
It says that if I use the money to start my own restaurant, then I have to stay away from you.
But I'm not starting my own restaurant. I'm buying you yours.
Technically, I'm not violating anything.
He should have been more precise with his language. "
I try to take it all in, the happiness building in my chest like a physical force, spreading through me like sunlight.
Alex didn't leave. He took my father's money and turned it into my freedom.
This place that I fell in love with, that I was devastated to learn was closing, will be mine.
Will be ours. Will be exactly what I've been wanting without even knowing how to ask for it.
He looks at me, his expression softening, hope and vulnerability showing through the confidence. "Do you like it? Is this what you want? Because if it's not, we can do something else. This is your dream, Isabelle. Not mine. Not your father's. Yours."
I let out a huge smile, the kind that takes over your whole face, that makes your cheeks hurt. "Alex, I love it. I love it so much I don't even have words."
I throw my arms around him, laughing and crying at the same time, tears streaming down my face as pure joy floods through every part of me. He catches me easily, spinning me once before setting me down, his arms tight around my waist, solid and real and here.
I pull back just enough to look up at him, my hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my palms, steady and strong. "So we run it together, right? Our own place here in Napa, moving here full time, doing this together? Building something that's ours?"
He laughs, the sound rich and warm and full of affection.
"Only if you want me. I mean it. It's yours.
I can stay in Dark River with Harbor & Ash if that's what you'd prefer, come visit on weekends, support you however makes sense.
Whatever you want, whatever makes you happy.
This is your dream, Isabelle. I'm just making it possible. "
I reach up and cup his face in my hands, looking at him with everything I feel written all over my face—the love, the gratitude, the overwhelming joy. "Don't you dare. You better stay right here with me. I don't want to do this without you. I don't want to do anything without you."
He looks down at me with all the tenderness in the world, his eyes soft and bright and full of so much love it makes my breath catch, and he smiles in that way that makes my heart turn over in my chest.
"As you wish, my love," he says quietly. "As you wish."
He leans down and kisses me, his mouth warm and sure against mine, and I kiss him back with everything I have.
The sun is setting behind us, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose and deep purple, the fig tree rustling overhead in the evening breeze, and I can smell earth and grapes and the faint herb-scent of the garden that my grandmother would have loved, that she would have recognized as home.
This is home. This man, this place, this life we're about to build together.