I didn't even realize he was still in town, and it’s just my luck to run into him randomly on the side of the building. The kind of luck that makes you wonder what wrongs you did in a past life to deserve it.
"—yes, yes, fine. I'll call you about it later," he hangs up and glances at me. His face does this thing where he clearly recognizes me but can't quite place me for a second, and then it clicks. "Midnight, right?"
I nod and don't stop walking. "Yep."
He pushes off the pillar and falls into step beside me, which is the opposite of what I was hoping would happen. "Heading to the kitchen?"
"It is in this direction, isn't it?" I say, not looking at him.
He laughs. "Well, how's our girl doing in there?"
I stop walking and turn to look at him. "Excuse me?"
"Isabelle." He says her name with a casual familiarity that sets every one of my teeth on edge. "Jean-Pierre's been keeping me updated, obviously. Sounds like the pop-up is exceeding expectations. We're flying back to New York tomorrow, but I'm hoping to steal her away for a bit tonight. Celebrate before we head back. But she's really proving herself, isn't she?"
I swallow the first three things that come to mind, which all involve telling him exactly where he can put his celebration plans. She's not "our girl." She's not his girl. She's not mine either, technically, and she hasn't exactly been consulting me on her social calendar. But hearing this guy talk about her like she's a dinner reservation he's looking forward to makes something hot and tight settle behind my ribs.
I look at him properly for the first time. Expensive loafers, tailored pants, a polo shirt, one of those watches that says my family's money has its own money. So this is what Jean-Pierre Beaumont picks out for his daughter. Cal Hockley in the flesh, minus the ocean liner. I resist the urge to say anything that would get me thrown out of Napa Valley.
"She's doing great," I say instead, starting to walk again.
Olivier keeps pace, apparently immune to social cues. "She's something else, isn't she? Jean-Pierre and I were talking last night about the New York transition. He's got big plans for her. I'm thinking about getting involved on the investment side, actually. The culinary world in New York is ripe for disruption and Isabelle's brand has real potential."
Isabelle's brand. Like she's a product to be marketed instead of a chef with her own vision.
"You should talk to Isabelle about that," I say, working hard to keep my voice neutral. "She's pretty clear about her own plans."
"Oh, I intend to." He has this smile that makes me want to push him into the nearest fountain. "We have a lot to discuss. Jean-Pierre's been very encouraging about the two of us spending more time together. Getting to know each other better. He thinks we'd be a good fit. Professionally and otherwise."
I stop again and look at him directly. I'm taller than he is by a few inches, and right now I'm glad of it. "Does Isabelle think you'd be a good fit?"
His smile slips for half a second before sliding back into place. "I think she's still figuring that out. But I'm patient. And I have Jean-Pierre's endorsement, which counts for a lot in this world."
"Right," I say. "Well, good luck with that."
I start walking again, and mercifully he doesn't follow. I can feel him watching me though, and can practically hear the wheels turning in his finance-bro brain.
CHAPTER 15
Isabelle
"Well? What does it say?" Margot leans over my shoulder as I scan the review on my phone.
We stepped out to the garden a few minutes ago, the one off the guest wing with the stone bench and the rose beds. TheChroniclereview dropped at seven this morning, and it’s good.Morethan good.
I scan the key lines, barely breathing. The wordsrevelationandone of the most assured debuts in recent Napa memoryjump out at me. The critic praises the food as having both technical precision and genuine artistry, and then the line that makes my throat close:Beaumont proves she isn't riding her family name. She has the talent to back it up, and quite possibly the vision to take it somewhere new.
"Eeeek!" I jump off the bench and grab Margot's arms and we're both bouncing up and down on the damp garden path like two teenagers who just got concert tickets. "She called it a revelation! Arevelation, Margot!"
Margot pulls me into a hug, squeezing hard. "Iknewit," shesays into my ear. "I knew it was going to be good. We have to celebrate."
I laugh, pulling back to look at her. "Definitely. God, I had hoped it would be positive, but you never really know with critics like Vivienne Leclair. TheChronicledoesn't mess around."
I scroll down, continuing to read, and catch a line about the wine pairings. "Oh, Margot, look at this part!"
She leans in, reading over my shoulder.And the wine pairings elevated each course with selections that showcased Napa's best without falling into the trap of obvious choices. Truly a masterclass in thoughtful pairing that respected both the food and the region.
I turn to look at her. "That's all you. I couldn't have pulled off those pairings without you. You're anartistwith wine."