I barely spoke to Alex either, which is its own kind of torture. Alex is the one person I don't want to avoid, but it feels safer this way. Easier. The alternative is acknowledging thispainful crush that only gets worse every day, every time I catch him looking at me across the kitchen, every time our hands accidentally brush. And I'm a big fan of easier right now.
He's been keeping his distance since San Francisco, likely reading my cold shoulder correctly, which only makes me more miserable. Miserable enough and angry enough at everything else in my life that I keep fighting off dangerous ideas like showing up at his cottage tonight and picking up exactly where we left off, consequences be damned.
So I decided to make myself useful and stay late, work on the New York problem in the empty kitchen where no one can see me spiral. The staff left an hour ago, and now it's just me and the low hum of the walk-in and the pot of chamomile lavender tea I made to calm my nerves, which isn't working.
I take another sip and give the mug a hard look. "Bitch, you better fix me."
To be fair, that's asking a lot of a few dried flowers and some hot water. But I'm a big believer in setting high expectations.
I have papers spread around me on the stainless steel prep table, printouts of my father's "finalized" menu with my original proposal laid out beside it for comparison. Red pen marks cover both versions, my handwriting getting more aggressive as the night wore on.
I might not be ready to battle it out with him yet, but I need to be prepared when I do. I need my arguments airtight, my reasoning unassailable, my passion organized into something he can't dismiss as emotional or impulsive or the product of his daughter being too young to understand how the business works.
I stifle a yawn and take a sip of tea, the lavender fragrance rising with the steam, warming my hands through the ceramic mug. I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders and flip through the pages again, making another note in the margin.
There's a balance in keeping the classics that regulars lovewhile bringing fresh energy, new perspectives. There's nothing wrong with a comfortable favorite, but the menu should change with the seasons. It should have the stable favorites, but also the flexibility to highlight what's available at the markets right now, what the farmers are most excited about.
And a bit of soul wouldn't hurt either. Some heart underneath all the technical precision.
I doodle a small sketch in the corner of the page, a plating idea for the cassoulet I'm not ready to give up on. Maybe if I can prove to him that it works, that it's refined enough for the flagship, that it won't alienate the clientele, he'll reconsider.
The sound of the kitchen door opening snaps me out of my thoughts and I look up, heart jumping into my throat, half-expecting to see Alex coming to check on me because he noticed I was still here.
It's Olivier.
What the hell?
"Uh, hi," I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. I set down my pen and straighten up. "Sorry, I'm working right now. This area is staff only, you're not supposed to be back here."
"Comeon, Isabelle. Don’t be such a stickler for the rules." He steps fully into the kitchen and immediately stumbles slightly, catching himself on the doorframe with one hand. His tie is loosened, his shirt untucked on one side, his eyes unfocused. He's massively drunk.
My spine straightens immediately. "You need to leave, Olivier. Right now. As I said, I'm working and this isn't a space for guests. Staffonly."
He rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. "Relax, Isabelle, you're so uptight. I just wanted to say goodbye. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, as you know. I thought we should talk before I go."
He's such a repulsive man. Clammy and entitled, with that insufferable 'my family has lawyers on retainer and I've never heard the word no' energy radiating off him. A spineless little weasel in expensive clothes. Add him to the fucking list of things my father thinks are good for me, right alongside the gutted menu and the New York restaurant I'm apparently not trusted to actually run.
"And," he continues, taking a few unsteady steps further into the kitchen, one hand trailing along the counter like he needs it for balance. “You know, I've been trying to see you all week. But you won't seeme. You won't even give me the time of day. Even yourdadsees me. Your dad likes me."
I stay where I am, keeping the island between us like a barrier. "Well I don't really care what my father thinks, so there's your first mistake. As I said, I'm not interested in you. So we don't need to say goodbye. You should really learn to accept the word no. It might serve you well in the long run."
His eyes widen and his face flushes darker, red creeping up from his collar. "Don't fucking accuse me of?—"
"I'll do as I please," I cut him off, keeping my voice level. "Now kindly get the hell out of my kitchen before I call security."
He shakes his head and laughs. "You know what I find really funny? You won't eventalkto me. You won't even try to get to know me. I'm a nice guy, Isabelle. I'm successful, I'm connected, your father approves of me. And instead, you can't seem to stay away from that guy your father hired to babysit you. What's his name again? Alex?"
Ice runs down my spine, cold and sharp.
"What on earth are you talking about?" I keep my voice carefully controlled, but my heart is pounding now.
He smiles, and it's such an ugly expression. Triumphant and mean and pleased with himself. "Isawyou. Opening night Iwent to your cottage with flowers. Spent probably three hundred dollars on this beautiful arrangement, thought I'd surprise you, be romantic. And I saw you two. I saw you go into his cottage. I saw you kiss him on his porch like some teenager sneaking around."
He takes another step closer, swaying slightly. "And I know your father would fucking destroy Alex if he knew. Jean-Pierre already told me about the deal, about how he's bankrolling Alex's restaurant. You think your dad's going to keep that funding when he finds out Alex fucked his daughter?"
Now I'm really pissed. The fear is still there, coiling tight in my stomach, making my hands shake, but rage is winning. White-hot fury that this pathetic excuse for a man thinks he has any power over me, that he thinks he can threaten me, threaten Alex, and I'll just roll over.
"You pathetic littleworm," I say, and my voice is shaking but not from fear. "You really are a whiny, spineless, entitled piece of shit, aren't you? That's your big play? You're going to run to my daddy like a tattling child because I won't sleep with you?"