Merde.
"I missed some calls from him this morning," I say, working hard to keep my voice steady despite the fact that I am actively dying of embarrassment and would very much like the floor to open up and swallow me whole. "But no, I'm sorry, I don't know anything about this. About you being here."
"From thismorning?" He looks surprised, running his hand through his hair in a way that makes it even more tousled. "He talked to me about this a couple weeks ago, so I just assumed you'd known for a while now. Well. This is awkward."
"Yes, it is," I agree, feeling distinctly out of the loop. God, I hope he's not a critic. I can see the headline now:Beaumont Heiress Screams at Legendary Food Critic.My career would be overbefore the pop-up even starts. I swallow hard. "What exactly are you here for?"
"I'm from Washington State. A town called Dark River, a couple hours from Seattle. I run a restaurant there called Harbor & Ash with my brother, and your father is considering funding a new place in Seattle."
Harbor & Ash.The name is actually familiar, tugging at something in the back of my mind. I think I read a piece on it last year, something inFood & Wineabout rising West Coast spots worth the drive. If I remember correctly, they got absolutely glowing reviews.
"Anyway," he continues. "Before he commits to my place, he wants to get to know me better, and he also wants me here to sort of keep an eye on you. Before you take over his New York place, or something like that. Since I have experience running events like this and you… well… don't.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “His words, not mine."
As if that's going to cushion the blow. The mortification I was feeling about my misplaced fish lecture evaporates instantly, replaced by hot fury toward my father.
He brought in ababysitter. A babysitter for his twenty-six-year-old daughter who has organized this entire residency from scratch, secured the venue, built the menu, and sold out six weeks of reservations, and he didn't even have the courtesy to tell me first.
What. The. Hell.
"Sorry,whatdid you just say?" I'm aiming for professional, but it comes out closer to murderous. "He sent you to keep tabs on me?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "Well, he mentioned that this is your first solo operation, and I've been running a restaurant for about ten years now, so he wants me around for the operational side of things. And to keep an eye on, uh..." He trailsoff. "Listen, Ireallythought he would have told you all this by now."
"Putain!" I hiss. "So you're like what, his little spy? His plant? Sent here to watch over me because I'm some helpless child who can't be trusted to run her own kitchen? Is that it? I'm a grown fucking woman!"
"I have zero interest in stepping on your toes here," he says, holding up both hands in a gesture that's probably meant to be placating, but just makes me angrier. "Believe me, this is not my idea of a good time either. But it's part of the agreement I made with your father for my restaurant. He funds Seattle, I help out here first. That's the deal."
"Oh, so you're doing this for yourself," I spit out. "You're using my pop-up as some kind of audition for my father's money. Is that supposed to make me feel better about this situation?"
"I'm not trying to make you feel anything. I'm just trying to explain the situation."
I roll my eyes and dig my phone out of my pocket. "Well, don't get too comfortable, because you're not staying. This ismypop-up. I have worked my ass off to do this, and he has no right to send some random guy to hover over me like I can't tie my own shoes. And honestly, you're scum for agreeing to it."
He laughs again, which makes me want to throw my phone at his head.
"What isfunnyabout this?" I snap.
He shakes his head, still grinning. "Look, if my brothers tried to pull this shit on me I'd tell them exactly where they could shove it. This whole thing with your dad is patronizing and sexist as hell. But these areyourissues withyourfather, not mine." He points a finger at me, and there's something almost playful in the gesture that makes me want to scream. "So I'm just here to do my end of the deal and then get back to Seattle and my actual life. Okay, Princess?"
Princess.
He didnotjust call meprincess.
"Whatever," I mutter, already turning away before I say something I'll regret, or possibly commit assault. "Don't unpack yet, jackass!"
I flip him off and stride toward the terrace with my phone, dialing furiously as I push through the glass doors. The terrace stretches toward the vineyard and I walk to the far railing, as far from the doors as the terrace allows, and dial.
He picks up on the second ring. "Isabelle!Ma chérie, I have been trying to get ahold?—"
"Papa. Explain.Right now."
CHAPTER 3
Alex
Through the kitchen windows, I watch Isabelle pace the length of the terrace with her phone pressed to her ear. Her free hand is doing most of the talking, cutting through the air in gestures so emphatic she looks like she's conducting the world's angriest symphony. A rapid-fire stream of curse words pours out of her, English and French mixed together in what sounds like every profanity both languages have to offer.
She's different than I expected. Maybe because she looks so prim in her professional photos, but the woman on that terrace is a force of nature. The cursing alone would make half the line cooks at Harbor & Ash blush, and I've worked with guys who spent twenty years in New York kitchens where creative profanity is considered a job requirement.