He throws his head back and laughs, and then his arms are around me and he's lifting me off my feet in a hug that knocks the breath out of me. I grab onto his shoulders and laugh into his neck and for three seconds the critics and my father and the ruined food on the floor and everything else disappears, and there is just this, the two of us in a kitchen at the center of a disaster we just turned into a triumph.
Every course after the lamb lands exactly as it should, the kitchen finding its rhythm again like a heart that skipped a beat and then steadied. The dessert course goes out to quiet murmurs of approval that carry all the way back to the kitchen, and when the final guest leaves at half past ten, I stand at the center island and just breathe.
The kitchen is quieting around me, the frantic energy of service giving way to the slower rhythm of breakdown and cleaning. Someone has turned on music, something low and acoustic, and Martinez is organizing the walk-in while Sofia wipes down the cold line and the closing crew moves around us taking over the rest.
We did it. We actually did it.
Alex left a while ago. He'd gone back out to the dining room to talk with my father and handle some last-minute front-of-house things, then came back to help with breakdown before I sent him off to his cottage. I wanted him gone before Papa came back to the kitchen, because I don't want my father picking up on anything between us. It's for everyone's good. Especially Alex's.
"Chef." Samantha, one of the hosts, appears in the doorway. "Olivier is still in the dining room. He's been asking for you."
Ugh. Papa came back to the kitchen about twenty minutes ago to congratulate me on a job well done, which is rare enough from him that it made my whole chest ache with gratitude, and then left for his hotel with a promise to get breakfast together tomorrow. I would have thought Olivier left with him.
"Could you tell him I'm busy with breakdown?" I ask hopefully.
"I tried that." Samantha grimaces. "He's very insistent. He said he'd wait as long as it takes."
I rub my forehead, feeling the headache that's been threatening all night start to bloom behind my eyes. Of course he is. Over the past few years my father has presented me withseveral men who he thought would be appropriate company, as if we are living in the eighteenth century and I am a broodmare to be matched with a suitable stallion.
He means well. I think. Or maybe I've just been conditioned to believe that, the way daughters of controlling fathers learn to call possessiveness love because it's easier than fighting every single day.
But no matter how good his intentions are, it's infuriating. There was Thomas, the perfectly decent investment banker who was so boring I wanted to chew my own arm off at dinner. And Philippe, who thought women shouldn't work in professional kitchens and told me so over the appetizer course. And James, who talked about himself for ninety straight minutes and then asked if I wanted to see his car collection.
Papa picks them because they are successful businessmen from respectable families, men who he thinks will be good for me and good for the Beaumont name. Olivier is just the latest in the lineup, and I'm sick of it. No matter how many times I tell himPapa, no more, I can choose my own partners, he just nods and saysjust meet them, Isabelle, there is no harm in meeting, you could fall in love.
Samantha is still standing there and I realize I've been tapping my foot and staring off into space, running through every reason I could give for not going out there.
"Isabelle?" She looks worried, as though I might have finally cracked under the pressure.
"Sorry. Just spacing out. I'll deal with him. Thanks, Sam."
"You got it," she says, looking relieved to be excused from the situation.
I push through the doors into the dining room, which is mostly empty now, just a few staff members clearing the last tables and resetting for tomorrow. The candles have been blown out, the linens are being pulled, and the whole space hasthat exhausted, post-service feeling of a party that's ended but hasn't been fully cleaned up yet.
Olivier is at the bar, a glass of something amber in his hand, and when he sees me his face does something I'm sure he thinks is a charming smile but actually just makes me want to turn around and go back to my kitchen.
"Isabelle." He stands as I approach, reaching for my hand like we're in a period drama instead of a twenty-first-century restaurant. "That was quite a performance tonight."
I let him take my hand briefly, then extract it and cross my arms. "I'm glad you enjoyed the meal."
"The lamb was particularly impressive." He takes a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim in a way that feels calculated. "Though I heard there was some excitement in the kitchen. An accident of some kind?"
"Nothing we couldn't handle." I smile politely, keeping my voice neutral.
"Your father was concerned. He mentioned it before he left." Olivier sets his glass down and moves closer, invading my space in a way that makes my shoulders tighten automatically. "He worries about you, you know. He wants to make sure you're surrounded by the right people. People who can support your career, help you navigate the challenges ahead."
"I have people," I say, fighting to keep the irritation out of my voice. "My team is excellent."
"I meant in a more personal capacity." His smile widens, and there it is, the pitch I've been waiting for, the reason Jean-Pierre brought him here tonight and made sure we crossed paths. "This is a bit awkward, but your father actually thought we might enjoy getting to know each other better. He speaks very highly of you, and I have to say, after watching you work tonight, I can see why. You're quite talented. And beautiful, of course."
He laughs as though we're in on the joke together, as thoughthis is all very charming and normal and not deeply patronizing. His eyes drop briefly to my chest before snapping back up, and I feel my blood pressure spike.
"Olivier." I keep my voice pleasant, professional, the tone I use when I'm about to eviscerate a supplier who's wasted my time. "I've had a very long night, and I have a team to dismiss and a kitchen to check and about a hundred other things that need my attention before I can even think about sleep. So I'm going to be very clear with you, because I don't have the energy to be diplomatic right now."
His smile falters slightly. "Of course. I didn't mean to?—"
"I'm not interested." I cut him off cleanly, my voice firm. "Not in whatever you're imagining, and not in continuing this conversation. You seem like a perfectly fine person for someone, but that someone is not me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."