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There’s a girly giggle. “No, but I could’ve gone with you. It’s been at least a month since I was there.”
“We’re here to work,” I remind her, winking at Winter who’s throwing me a curious glance. She winks back, pulling the drapes across the window, before opening them again.
“Gotta go. I’ve got plans tonight.”
There’s a barely audible gasp. “Wait, when can we meet for lunch?”
“Dunno. I’ll be in touch.”
I hang up, asking Winter, “Are you ready?”
“Yup.”
She walks up to me and slides her arms around my neck. Her fingers run through my hair, her nails lightly scratching my scalp. Her eyes caress mine as I tilt my head down, my palms trailing down her back until I reach her curvy ass. Pulling her against my groin, she moans shamelessly when she feels how hard I am for her.
“Tonight,” I tell her before she has the chance to ask. Before she starts to wonder whether this is ever going to happen between us.
“Tonight?” she asks, straightening.
“Me and you, woman, in that bed, fucking all night long.”
Her eyes widen. “Holy hell. How am I meant to get through dinner knowing that?”
I chuckle as Winter drops her head to my shoulder, her body sinking into mine. Her heart thrums against my chest as her arms slip around my waist. “Can we persuade your dad to eat on his own?”
I know she’s teasing, but I say, “No.”
Reaching for her hands behind my neck, I study the marks on her wrists. I was mad when I fist noticed these, giving Luca an earful. And then he pointed out that she loved what we did to her. That it was hot. That I need to calm the fuck down.
Knowing he felt bad, despite his words, I stopped raging about it.
“Come on. Let’s go."
After knocking on Dad’s door, we all head down for dinner. The Michelin-starred restaurant here is fully booked every night, but unsurprisingly, the maître d’ has managed to find the boss a table.
Once our orders are placed and we’ve had a chance to sip some wine, Winter asks, “I know Luca raised this idea with you, but what are your thoughts on cake? And by that, I mean fabulous layered cakes, with cream, or ones with intricate, detailed frosting. Think European patisseries and konditorei serving gateaux and tortes, not loaf cakes and muffins. And not tiered wedding cakes either, but a slice of cake that you wash down with champagne.”
Dad chuckles at Winter’s enthusiasm. “Do you bake? Or do you just love cake?”
A guilty grin. “Love it. If I wasn’t in hotels I think I’d be an expert cake taster. There should be more quality cake out there,” she enthuses. “Ones you’re prepared to pay over the odds for because it’s a special treat and worth every cent.”
“To be honest, my first thoughts were that this doesn’t sound niche enough,” Dad explains. “That it’s not on brand. We don’t need to be known for our gateaux.”
“I thought you’d say that.” She brings a piece of paper out of her purse. “I asked the catering manager for some figures on the most popular desserts in the fine dining restaurant at Chateau B. There are six desserts. Three are cake or torte based, and they make up seventy percent of dessert sales.”
Impressive statistics. “Why don’t you just add more cake options to the dessert menu?” I suggest, even though that might not be what she wants to hear. “Or what is it you’re proposing? A bespoke cake restaurant?”
“Yes. A patisserie dedicated to exceptional gateaux. Hotel Balthazar’s roots are French-Swiss,” she reminds him. “It’s a match from that perspective. Anyway, just think about it some more. I’m going to get you a delivery from the couple on Gretl’s so that you can see for yourself. They’re selling. We could buy their business, their recipes, and their skill.”
“And do what?” he genuinely asks. “Where will these patisseries go? We don’t have the space for them.”
“Going forwards, Reuben could plan them into new builds. In existing locations, we might be able to make room. We would start small and build up, ensuring there’s demand.”
“And if not, we sell it on,” I state. “Didn’t you tell Luca that WM was interested?”
“Not quite. I brought the idea to them, but they seemed against it. And then I…left.”
Her eyes dart to Dad, no doubt wondering if he’s aware of the reasons why she was fired. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the answer’s yes.
