I glance out the window at the Seattle skyline, the lights twinkling against the darkening sky, the water reflecting the city glow.
Maybe Seattle isn't stealing him from me, isn't the enemy I've been treating it as in my head all day. Maybe we really can make this work—him here building something that's entirely his, me in New York finally stepping out of my father's shadow, both of us building something we're proud of while staying connected, staying us. It won't be easy, but nothing worth having ever is.
We have a plan. It's complicated and messy and requires more coordination than I want to think about right now, but it's a plan. And for the first time today, I feel like I can actually breathe.
My father slides back into his seat across from me, already launching into some story about the realtor and how impressed they were with his timeline for closing, and I nod along like I'mpaying attention, making appropriate sounds of interest. But under the table, where no one can see, I press my foot against Alex's, just a small point of contact, a secret touch that says I'm here, we're in this together.
And when he presses back, steady and sure, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the smile off my face.
CHAPTER 22
Alex
The hotel is one of those historic Seattle buildings that's been meticulously converted into something expensive and exclusive. Jean-Pierre is apparently an investor in the place, one of his many business ventures that I only have vague ideas about.
He doesn't own it outright, but he might as well based on how he gets treated here. The concierge practically bows when he walks past, the staff materialize out of nowhere whenever he needs something, he sends a single text and things magically happen. It's slightly unsettling to witness.
Isabelle's room is in the east wing of the hotel and mine is in the west wing. Annoyingly, the building is set up so that the only way to get from one side to the other is to go back down to the damn lobby on the ground floor and make your way across the ground floor to the elevators for the opposite wing.
Which means that getting from my room to Isabelle's requires crossing approximately every public space in the building, all of which are staffed by people who definitely recognize Jean-Pierre Beaumont and, by extension, have now seen hisdaughter and his business associate. Any of them could at any moment casually mention to Mr. Beaumont that the two of us were spotted in the same hallway at an unusual hour. It's a surveillance nightmare.
We saw the restaurant yesterday and it was everything I could have dreamed of—the space, the location, the potential buzzing through me like electricity every time I think about it. Though the entire experience is feeling more and more complicated and tainted with the weight of keeping Isabelle and me a secret. But I promised I'd respect her wishes.
My biggest frustration at the moment is that I haven't gotten a single second alone with her since we landed in Seattle.
We'd planned to sneak to each other's rooms last night, but the dinner ran late and then later, stretching past eleven, and afterward her father wanted to go over menu concepts and staffing plans in his suite.
Today we had several long meetings looking over planning documents and zoning requirements, visited one other potential location, though we both immediately agreed the first building is the place without question, and had lunch at some exclusive private club Jean-Pierre belongs to.
Finally, after an interminable dinner that stretched past nine-thirty, I'm back in my room and ready to make my way over to Isabelle. I'm buttoning a fresh shirt when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it to see her name lighting up the screen.
Isabelle:I'm wearing a new very see-through lacy nightgown that I bought specifically for this trip, but I'm getting chilly over here all alone. Are you going to come warm me up or not?
I actually groan out loud at that, my entire body responding immediately to the mental image as I grab my hotel keycard and shove it in my pocket. I dial her number and she picks up on the first ring, already laughing.
"You know, it'sdesperateto call immediately after a text like that," she says, clearly enjoying herself.
"You're cruel and you know it," I say, laughing. "How can you possibly torture me like this when I've been so good to you all day?"
"Well, I'm about to be very,verygood to you," she purrs, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "So I think a little torture is acceptable. Consider it foreplay. But you'd better be careful getting over here. I swear half the staff in this place like to give my father detailed reports on everything that happens, and I don't know if you wandering the halls at night qualifies as noteworthy or not."
"I will be the picture of discretion," I promise, already heading toward the door.
"Good, because I—" she cuts off and I hear a distinct vibrating sound in the background, low and buzzing, and my brain short-circuits for a second. "Am already starting without you."
I swallow hard. "Damn, Isabelle."
"You'd better hurry.”
"I'll be there in five minutes," I say. "Maybe three."
"I'll time you," she laughs, and we hang up to the sound of her breathless giggling.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby and I cut through the main floor, past the still-bustling concierge desk. I navigate past a dining area with a few late diners still lingering over wine to my right, the elevator bank to Isabelle's wing straight ahead maybe fifty feet away.
I'm almost there, eyes scanning around automatically, when I spot him.
Jean-Pierre himself is sitting in a burgundy leather wingback chair in a small seating area next to the massive fireplace, positioned in this alcove section of the hotel lobby that gives him a perfect sightline to where I'm standing. He'slooking down at his phone with a crystal glass of whisky in one hand, completely relaxed in an expensive sweater and slacks.