Chapter 38 #2
He grins. “Pamela has excellent instincts.”
I reach for the tall glass of sparkling lime water the server brought and take a slow sip, letting the citrus settle on my tongue. “To second first dates,” I say, holding it up halfway.
Knox lifts his glass. “And life outside of our summer bubble.” We clink, glass to glass, and then he leans in. “You still want this?”
I nod, the side of my leg pressing back against his beneath the table. “One hundred percent.”
The words come easily. Maybe because being with him doesn’t feel like a risk anymore. Especially when he’s looking at me like this. Besides, if we can survive our bubble, certainly we can survive…my dad.
Before either of us can say more, the server returns, buttoned-up and breezy with a linen napkin over one arm.
He launches into a well-rehearsed overview of the seasonal menu, describing each dish from their signature wood-fired sea bass with miso broth to the foraged mushroom risotto like we’re on some kind of culinary pilgrimage.
We place our order. Knox goes for the dry-aged ribeye, rare, with heirloom carrots and truffle-mashed potatoes. I choose the roasted halibut over saffron couscous, with citrus beurre blanc on the side.
The server nods approvingly, promises warm bread and olive oil to start, and floats off like a silk napkin caught on a breeze.
Knox shifts slightly, one arm resting behind me. “So, Francesca Camille Beaumont…” My full name spills from his lips like a seductive dare, velvet-wrapped and edged with amusement. “Where shall we begin?”
I meet his gaze, my lips curving. “Formal introductions. You first.”
“Okay…I’m Knox Everette Ryder. Thirty-five. Divorced. Only child of Everette and Claire Ryder. Yes, the Everette Hill Reserve Syrup people.” He pauses, a slow lift at one corner of his mouth. “And I own Luxe Properties.”
I blink.
Beyond fascinated.
My summer bubble hottie is the only child of some maple syrup dynasty. Like, what?
And, it suddenly clicks.
The syrup. The name on the label. The bottles his grandma stuffed in the biscuit bag when we left Vermont, the brand he used this morning at breakfast. And, oh my goodness, our late-night breakfast at Pier 24 when he said he was picky about syrup.
“You’re—wait.” I lean in, narrowing my eyes. “You’re that Ryder?”
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “Guilty.”
“During our drive to Vermont, you mentioned you’d traded maple syrup and apple skins for glass and city glare. It all makes sense now.”
“You remember…”
“Of course I do.” I lean in, elbows propped on the table, curiosity drawing me in. “And Luxe Properties? As in the vacation-rental empire?”
His grin widens, just enough to confirm every wild guess spinning through my head. “That would be the one.”
“Wow.” I lean back, stunned. “Okay.”
He studies me like he’s trying to gauge whether I’m impressed or about to bolt. “Too much?”
I shake my head, still a little breathless. “No. Just…unexpected. In the best way.” I take a sip of water, wishing it were tequila. “Did your ex start Luxe with you?”
Knox shakes his head, expression unreadable. “Jenna? No. She has her own brand. Vow & Vine.”
“Jenna Blair?” My brows lift. “The celebrity wedding planner?”
He nods. “Yeah. Dropped my last name. Didn’t want her brand tied to maple syrup. Same reason she finally signed the divorce papers. If word got out she’d cheated, it would’ve tanked her image.”
I roll my eyes. God, she really didn’t deserve him.
“Luxe was mine before, during, and now, after the marriage.” He lifts his water but doesn’t drink, gaze locked on mine. “It pretty much runs itself now, with help from Pamela, my assistant.”
Our server returns with a small wooden board of warm, crusty bread and a shallow dish of olive oil laced with herbs and sea salt. He sets it down between us, flashes a polite smile, and glides away.
I tear off a piece absently, still processing. “So…that’s why you said Pamela wouldn’t say a word…”
Knox nods, reaching for the bread. “She doesn’t even know your father, so she’d never run to him with something personal.
Pamela’s only ever supported Luxe. Started helping out after she retired from running HR at a major hospitality group.
Luxe gave her something to sink her teeth into.
And even now, as she approaches seventy, she treats it like her own.
” He pauses, then adds with a small shrug, “Though I have a feeling she’s getting ready to retire for real this time. ”
I glance up, smiling. “Says a lot about you as a boss, you know.”
His eyes meet mine, a flicker of warmth passing between us. “Or about her loyalty.”
“Maybe both.”
Silence grips the moment as if we’re both marinating in our own thoughts before Knox clears his throat.
“How about we circle back to me in a bit?” he says, a smile curving his lips. “But now, it’s your turn.”
“Right.” I reach for my glass, take a sip, then set it down with more care than necessary.
“I’m Francesca Camille Beaumont.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then meet his gaze again.
“Cami to most. Frankie if you’re my dad.
I’m twenty-four. PhD from Oxford. Daughter of Nora Moretti, who married Oliver Beaumont when I was two.
” My fingers trail the edge of my napkin.
“He adopted me not long after.” I straighten slightly, shoulders squared.
“Which makes me the heiress to Beaumont Group, a billion-dollar acquisitions empire.”
Knox gives a slow nod. “Which explains why you wanted to stick to no last names, no real life in Crystal Cove.”
“My dad’s done a good job keeping who I am out of the public eye.
” I tear off another piece of warm bread, dip, bite, chew.
“Few people know. Paxton, of course. We’ve been best friends since forever.
But after what happened with my ex…” The words fold out gently, “I promised myself I’d never lead with that again. ”
As if on cue, the server interrupts with our meals, setting each plate down with a practiced flourish.
He places mine in front of me first, a thick-cut halibut fillet with a delicate golden crust, resting over a bed of saffron couscous that carries notes of citrus and sun. The beurre blanc glistens on the side, buttery and pale, its tangy scent already making my mouth water.
Knox’s ribeye arrives next, charred to perfection, rare at the center, the juices already pooling slightly on the plate.
The truffle-mashed potatoes are piped like clouds, flecked with herbs and velvet-smooth, and the heirloom carrots look almost too pretty to eat, roasted to what looks like a tender, caramelized finish.
“Enjoy,” the server says before prancing away.
Knox picks up his knife but doesn’t cut into anything yet. Instead, his gaze flicks back to me, playful and pointed. “Sometimes, when the name comes first, it’s easy to miss the person.”
“Exactly.” I cut into my halibut. “And let’s be honest, if I’d googled you first, I probably would’ve run.”
He laughs, then leans in, hand on my thigh, mouth at my ear. “Good thing fate doesn’t use Google.”
His lips brush mine, slow and warm, laced with a promise he’ll ruin me the second we’re alone again.
I nearly swoon, goose bumps racing from head to toe.
Real-life Knox is just as intoxicating and molten-hot as the man in our summer bubble who pulled my heartstrings toward the moon.
Only now, I’m not floating in that dangerously hopeless way.
I’m soaring, weightless and free.