Besides, no matter how much I'm itching to get my hands on that beautiful stove, it's not my kitchen. I can be patient. Probably. For at least a few days.
"You're also not here to give me notes on my food. You're not here to second-guess my decisions." She holds up a finger. "My kitchen. My rules. Understood?"
"Completely." I smile.
She narrows her eyes at me. "You're being very agreeable."
"Is that a problem?" I laugh, taking another sip of my coffee.
"It's suspicious."
I put my hands up, coffee and all. "I just don't have any interest in fighting you on this. Your father made me an offer and I want to get funding for my own restaurant in Seattle. That's why I'm here. Not to take over your pop-up or undermine your authority."
"Well, I still don't know if I trust you," she says. "I mean, you say you'll show me the messages, but maybe you're a liar. I have no idea of your character. We just met, after all."
"That's fair," I smile. "But I’ll let you scroll all of the messages, if that helps. I can already see the first report.Dear Jean-Pierre, day one: your daughter has impeccable walk-in organization and also hates me. Will keep you posted on future developments."
She snorts and I catch the faintest smile. "I don't hate you, for the record. I just hate the situation."
"I'll take it," I say. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me since I walked in. Though 'fish guy' was a close second."
"Don't get used to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it." I grin and look around the kitchen, then back at her. "Hey, would you mind walking me to the cottages? I haven't stayed in them before, so I don't really know my bearings. You can give me the full list of things I'm not allowed to do on the way."
She narrows her eyes, and I can practically see her weighing whether I'm worth the effort.
"Fine," she says. "But this isn't social. I'm showing you the cottage and laying down more ground rules, and then I'm coming back to work."
"Completely professional," I say, setting my coffee cup in the sink and following her toward the side door. "I won't enjoy it at all. I'll be miserable the entire time."
"Somehow I doubt that," she says, pushing through the door without looking back.
The late afternoon light hits us as we step outside, and I have to stop for a second to take it in. The hills roll out in everydirection, rows of vines heavy with fruit, leaves just starting to turn at the edges. Beyond the immediate grounds, the mountains have gone hazy blue in the distance, the whole valley settling into a golden hour glow. If this is where I'm being exiled for the crime of accepting Jean-Pierre Beaumont's money, I've had worse punishments.
"I need to grab my bag from the car," I say, nodding toward the gravel lot where my rental is parked. "Give me thirty seconds."
She sighs loudly. "Fine. I'll wait."
I jog over to the car and pop the trunk, grabbing my duffel and slinging it over my shoulder. When I turn back, Isabelle is standing with her arms crossed, watching me with an expression that suggests the thirty seconds I asked for was about twenty-nine seconds too many. I'm starting to think impatience might be her default setting.
"Ready," I say, falling into step beside her as she starts down a stone path that winds between the main building and the vines.
"The cottages are on the far side of the property," she says, not looking at me. "There are ten of them. During residencies like this, they house any non local members of the team. Empty right now apart from me since the team is all from here. I'm in cottage nine. You're in cottage ten, according to my father."
"So we're neighbors." I can't help the grin.
"We're on the same property," she corrects. "That's not the same thing as neighbors."
"It's a little bit the same thing."
She shoots me a look that could curdle cream. "It's not."
The path curves around a low stone wall and into the rows themselves, the vines rising on either side of us like living walls. Up close, I can see the grapes are deep purple, almost black, with a dusty bloom on the skin. I reach out and brush my fingers against one of the leaves as we pass, rough and warm from the sun.
"Pinot Noir?" I ask, nodding at the nearest row.
She glances over, one eyebrow raised. "Mostly. There's some Chardonnay on the eastern slope, and a small block of Viognier near the creek."