Page 137 of Prelude To You

“My instinct says otherwise,” Meg insisted. “Like I said before, you don’t need a crystal ball here. At all. Just sayin’.”

I locked eyes with Meg. “You know what, just this once let’s not dissect this to death. My nerves are fucking raw. If it wasn’t for Henry I’d already be back at the restaurant.”

Meg guzzled champagne from her coffee mug. “But see how you’re makingprofiteroles.That’s one of the more fancy thingies. Why not just make blueberry muffins, or those yummy lava cupcakes with edible gold flakes? All things way easier thanprofiteroles.I mean look at you, you’re all flushed and sweaty from working so hard. Who exactly are you doing this for over there? Who are you trying to impress, Isabel? Or better yet, who’s attention are you trying to get?”

“Shut up, Meg.”

“Well, there you go,” Meg said, and filled her mug to the brim again. “I rest my goddamn case.”

When I arrivedat Le Petit Chateau an hour later, the kitchen was already bustling, everyone prepping. Patrick handed me a glass of wine and looked me up and down.

“Get the hell out of here. How can you afford this overcoat, Princess? Cashmere, no less.”

I took a tiny sip of wine. “It was a gift.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shot to the roof. “A gift, she says casually. Like who among us doesn’t get gifts picked from the Valentino fashion line.”

“You know that without looking at the label?”

“I do.”

I laughed. “Weren’t you the one who told me to get another coat?”

“Yes, but it’s quite the jump from that rag to this sweet number. I’m totally jealous!”

Marguerite waded through the kitchen and scowled at Patrick and me. “Everybody’s prepping and you two are having a tea party.Merde!”

Patrick rolled his eyes at her and gave my arm a squeeze. “We’ll convene again after the battle. It looks like it might be a bloody one tonight.”

A few hours later when I was caramelizing the sugar on top of two crème brûlées, the new manager Sirena tiptoed up to me. “Isabel, there’s a couple here who just finished their dinner and are having their dessert at the chef’s table.”

“Okay, do you want me to take their order?” I asked. I glanced toward the chef’s table. The middle-aged couple was typical Newport blueblood, and they seemed perfectly nice.

Sirena smiled apologetically. “If you don’t mind. They want to speak to you personally.”

I figured they had some outrageous dietary specifications and wanted their desserts low-fat and sugar-free, or maybe gluten-free. When working at Le Petit Chateau, I always had aketo cheesecake handy for such occasions. And if they didn’t want sugar-free cheesecake, I’d forge something else delectable.

I’d barely reached the chef’s table when the woman started gushing. “Hello, my husband and I are having a little argument. We attended a wedding in the Belmont Hotel the other night and I could swear it was you that Roman Belmont was getting all cozy with in the foyer.”

All the air left my lungs. Holy shit.Roman’s last name was Belmont.His family weretheBelmonts. They owned the Belmont Hotels, among other things. How did it take two total strangers to tell me that? Now everything made sense. I felt stupid and a little faint, but I smiled until my cheeks hurt.

“I must have a twin in Newport,” I laughed. “Can’t say I know the man. What would you like for dessert?”

The man smiled. “You know Elizabeth, now that I see her close-up, you’re right. It is her. My darling, you win the bet, I owe you a ruby bracelet.”

Elizabeth smiled coyly and looked at me. “My goodness, what a lovely couple you make. And it’s so refreshing that you didn’t give up working just because you’re dating Roman.”

My eyes almost crossed over. “Uhm, dating might be overstating it a little bit.”

But there was no derailing Elizabeth from her take on things. “I know when I see a couple in love. Didn’t they look in love, Charles?”

“Yes, they did,” Charles said. “Reminded me of us.”

I took their order and escaped the conversation with the excuse that even though I’d love to chat, other people were waiting for their desserts. The only words that kept rushing through my mind wereRoman Belmont.

Dear God, how did I miss that? How had I not put it together when I found out he recalled the dessert menu from all the Belmont hotels in the United States? To be fair, at the time I wasa little overwhelmed at just having found out that Roman lived in the same house where I was reading to his father, so there was that.

For a hot minute I considered scrapping theprofiterolesbecause how long could it take for Roman to figure it all out? Sure I wanted him to experience what a real French pastry should taste like, but at what cost? Wouldn’t he ask who was responsible for the baking of said pastries? And did I want my name to come up?

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