“Then I shall let the kitchen know. Please, this way.” She led them through the restaurant, past tables that were large and small, and Skye was horrified to realise filled with celebrities that even she recognized, which was saying something as she generally paid no attention to pop culture and gossip. But when you had some of the biggest names in rock and roll in the same room as Oscar winning actresses and world-famous politicians, it would have been impossible not to recognize at least some of them.
Everything in the restaurant was white and gold. The floor was white tiled, the tablecloths crisply starched white, the enormous windows were framed by cream, gold and white damask curtains, and in the center of each table was a small arrangement of roses, perfect white balls—too perfect for Skye, who’d always preferred wild, tumbling, fragrant blooms, like the Pierre de Ronsard that had grown opportunistically over the fence near her farmhouse, scrambling like wildfire until it was completely covered. And every year, for far too short a time, it would blossom, with abundant, pink and peach roses, huge and frothy and so sweet-smelling Skye could have lost herself in them.
The waitress led them to a table by a window, with a view over a paved courtyard to the rear of the hotel. Skye toyed with her necklace as she took the chair Matthieu held out for her, until he kissed the top of her head as she sat and she relaxed, breathing out a slow, calming breath.
He sat opposite, and their feet kicked beneath the table, his eyes teasing her, his lips curving into the hint of a smile.
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” she said with a rueful expression, once they were alone.
He grinned. “Too fancy?”
“Um, just a little.”
“The food is incomparable. I wanted you to try it.”
Her heart skipped a beat and she looked down at her lap quickly, needing a moment to collect her thoughts. But he’d wanted her to experience this, because it was excellent. He’d wanted to give her that. The diamond was wonderful, but his desire to share great food with her was even better. When she looked up at him, she hoped she wasn’t beaming like an idiot. “Okay. I’ll put up with all this, then,” she joked, waving her hand around the room and almost colliding with a man in a tuxedo, who’d stealthily approached them.
“Monsieur de Garmeaux. What a pleasure it is to see you again. Mademoiselle,” the waiter gave a small bow. “Delighted you could join us.”
Skye’s smile was watery.
“Alain,” Matthieu nodded his greeting. “My fiancé, Skye.” The introduction rolled off Matthieu’s tongue and Skye’s pulse crackled. What would it feel like to know he meant that, for real?
“A pleasure,” Alain responded. “Would you like to look at the list –,”
“That won’t be necessary. Just a bottle of my label.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Skye? Are you happy with red? Or would you prefer champagne?”
Heat flushed her cheeks. She hadn’t drunk champagne since the day at his grandparents’ property in the Loire, since she’d drunk far, far too much of the stuff.
“Your wine will be fine,” she said with a small shake of her head.
“Thank you,” he dismissed Alain curtly.
“He’s really dressed up for a waiter,” she remarked as Alain disappeared.
“He’s the head sommelier.”
“A wine waiter?”
Matthieu grinned. “It’s a little more than that. Alain has studied for decades to get here. His education was formal, and then included apprenticeships, learning his trade. Being a head sommelier, particularly in an institution such as this, carries an incredible amount of prestige and pride. The tuxedo is a part of that. It is a way to say to the room, I am the master of this, you should listen to me.”
“And yet you ordered your usual,” she pointed out.
“Alain is very partial to my wine.”
“I imagine that’s saying a lot about its quality, then.”
He dipped his head in silent agreement.
Alain reappeared, a bottle of Matthieu’s personal vintage in hand, and two wine glasses that made a delightful chiming sound as they brushed together in his hand. He placed them down and began to uncork the bottle. Unlike in the private members’ bar, Matthieu waited silently while Alain finished his work, with quite some fanfare. Skye watched, fascinated. It was like a play—the cork was removed, passed beneath Alain’s nose, handed to Matthieu to smell, then a small amount of wine was sloshed in the bottom of the glass. Alain passed it briefly beneath his nostrils before handing it to Matthieu, who took a sip, sat on it a moment and then nodded. “Thank you.”
Alain poured a small measure into both glasses and then left without another word.
“His job now, like the rest of the staff’s, is to be unseen. This is not a restaurant where the waitstaff will try to entertain you. They see their role as facilitating your meal, nothing more.”