Of all the things I expected him to say tonight, that was dead last on the list.
"Of course," I say easily, like this isn't the most awkward thing anyone's ever said to me at a party. "I have no intention of complicating anything."
He laughs, short and dry and completely humorless. "Alex, you're single, are you not?"
"Married to the job," I say, which is mostly true. I'm obsessed with cooking in a way that doesn't leave much room for serious relationships. I leave out the part where I thoroughly enjoy the company of women and date frequently and enthusiastically. They’re the better half of the species, after all.
But as far as Jean-Pierre Beaumont will ever know, I'm a monk on a mission who has never once looked at a woman sideways and whose idea of a good time is reorganizing his spice cabinet.
"Well, be that as it may, I am not blind to the situation I'm creating," Jean-Pierre says. "A month in beautiful wine country, working closely together under pressure. These things can develop. But I am telling you now so it is clear: you are not to pursue my daughter. She is my world, and if I discover that something has developed between you, the Seattle arrangement will be off the table.Immediately. Is that clear Mr. Midnight?"
He holds my gaze and I hold his. He doesn't just have the power to pull the Seattle deal. He has the kind of reach in this industry where one phone call could make sure I never open arestaurant in any city worth cooking in. If Jean-Pierre Beaumont decides you're done, you'redone. Blacklisted. Finished. And he doesn't strike me as the kind of man who does anything halfway, including grudges.
"Crystal clear," I say, and then I lean in slightly and add, "and it'sAlex."
He smiles, thin and completely without warmth, and I have the distinct feeling I just signed my own death warrant.
CHAPTER 2
Isabelle
"The VIP tables for opening night will overlook the west vineyard," Margot says, sweeping her hand toward the pergola where the old stone gives way to a view of the vineyard, the mountains soft and blue behind, and the whole thing bathed in late afternoon light. "By seven o'clock the sun hits the ridgeline and I swear the vineyards glow. Trust me, nobody will be looking at their phones."
It's mid-September and the harvest is underway across Napa. The vines are heavy with grapes, the leaves starting to turn from green to yellow and red at the edges, and there's a hum of activity everywhere you look.
"I believe it,” I say, squinting against the sun, “it's stunning here. Though hopefully they'll be looking at their food, too.”
"They'll be doing both, andpostingabout it, which is the point." Margot tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear and gives me an amused look. "Social media iseverything. Half our inquiries come from someone seeing a friend's Instagram story from an event and deciding they need to book immediately."
I nod, making a mental note. Social media has never been my strong suit. I can plate a dish that looks like art, but asking me to take a photo of it is a different skill set entirely, and I’ll trust Margot’s instincts.
Margot wears several hats at Solstice Estates. Head sommelier, events coordinator, the person who somehow keeps every moving piece of this sprawling estate from colliding mid-air. The woman could plan a state dinner in her sleep and still have time left over to recommend the perfect Sancerre pairing.
And in less than two weeks, this terrace is going to be full of critics and food writers and people who flew across the country to eat my food. My menu, my concept, my name. The thought makes my stomach flutter with nerves that I immediately shove down into the same mental box where I keep all my other inconvenient feelings.
"You've thought of everything," I say, shaking my head as I take in the setup.
She grins. "That's what they pay me for."
We've been walking the grounds for almost an hour, Margot and I, going over every detail of the outdoor space for opening night. I arrived at Solstice a little over a week ago to start prepping for the residency, and we clicked almost immediately. Which is rare for me, but on my second night here, I'd finished prepping for the day and ended up on the terrace with a bottle of the estate rosé, feeling a little lonely and a lot overwhelmed.
Margot appeared out of nowhere with another bottle and that turned into a three-hour conversation about food and wine and life. By the time the second bottle was empty, I'd laughed harder than I had in months.
She is one of my favorite people I've met in years. Coming from someone who doesn't make friends easily and tends to keep people at arm's length both as a professional policy and a personality defect, this is no small thing.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Margot says, leading me down a stonepath. "I got the final proofs back for the printed menus this morning. We should go over those, but there's no rush."
"I had thoughts about the paper stock, actually. The first samples were too thin, I think. I want something you really feel in your hands when the server sets it down."
"Noted." She makes a little check mark gesture in the air. "Oh, and your father called me this morning. A few times, actually. He wanted to go over seating arrangements and wine pairings for opening night. I wasn't sure how much you wanted him involved in the logistics, so I told him I'd get back to him. He also asked me to have you call him."
I let out a long breath. Papa called me twice this morning and I let both go to voicemail. I cannot keep arguing with him about whether the amuse-bouche should be jamón or prosciutto when I've already told him four times which one it is. But ignoring Jean-Pierre Beaumont just means he finds the next available person to interrogate, and today that was Margot.
"I am so sorry," I say, wincing. "He is, and I say this with love, relentless. I should have warned you he'd try to insert himself into every detail of this. It's what he does. He built his entire career on controlling every variable in every room he walks into, and the fact that this particular room is mine has not registered with him yet."
"Honestly, don't worry about it," Margot says, waving a hand. "I manage clients who send me thirty-seven texts about napkin colors and then change their minds at midnight. Your father is nothing I can't handle."
"You say thatnow. Give it a week," I laugh. "I'll call him back when we're done so he stops harassing you. Otherwise you'll end up on his daily rotation, and trust me, that's a list you do not want to be on."