number. That seemed like a pretty solid indication that she would’ve been less than thrilled to find him knocking on her door.
“I watched the Rangers game and then went to bed,” he said. Then for added emphasis, “Alone.”
“So what gives? Why are you late?” Zander frowned. “Wait. Don’t tell me the groupies are back.”
Ryan wanted to correct him. The groupies weren’t technically back, because they’d never gone away. They’d been hanging around the Bennington for nearly two months—since the day the New York Times had decided to throw a wrench in his otherwise peaceful life.
He should have seen it coming. The Bennington had been the subject of a wildly popular series of columns in the Times’ Weddings page. A reporter for the Vows column had speculated that the hotel was cursed after several weddings in the Bennington ballroom had ended like a scene from Runaway Bride.
But that was ancient history.
Should have been, anyway. Ryan had negotiated a cease-fire with the reporter. In exchange for exclusive coverage of Zander’s recent nuptials, the reporter declared the curse over and done with. But Ryan hadn’t anticipated that the last line of her column would imply he was on the lookout for a bride himself.
It had been brief—just a single sentence. But that handful of words had been enough. Women had been throwing themselves at him in a steady stream—morning, noon and night. His photo on the cover of Gotham had only made things worse.
Ryan sighed. “There are half a dozen of them waiting for me in the lobby. I had to go around the block and come in through the service entrance in the back.”
“You had to?” Zander let out a snort. “Here’s an idea. Call me crazy, but why don’t you go to the lobby right now, talk to the lovely ladies and ask one of them out on a date?”
He couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely not.”
Those women knew nothing about him, other than the fact that he was single. And rich. It didn’t take a genius to know why they wanted to marry him, a total stranger.
No, thank you. He’d nearly been married once already, and once was enough. Never again.
Zander rolled his eyes. “You realize almost every man in New York would trade places with you in a heartbeat right now, don’t you?”
“Is that so?” Ryan crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m a happily married newlywed.”
Precisely.
Ryan was thrilled for Zander. He really was. But that didn’t mean he was going to pick a woman at random from the marriage-minded crowd in the lobby. This wasn’t an episode of The Bachelor. This was his life.
“Good for you. I prefer my dalliances more temporary. Short-term and strings-free. Can we talk about something else now?” Anything else. “You said you needed to speak to me. I trust it’s about something other than my personal life.”
“It is.” Zander picked up his discarded newspaper, spread it open and slid it across the desk toward Ryan. “Have you seen this?”
He glanced down. The New York Times. Not his favorite media outlet of late, for obvious reasons.
At least it wasn’t open to the Weddings page.
“The food section?” Surely he hadn’t merited a mention in one of the cuisine columns. “No, I haven’t.”
“The restaurant column contains an interesting tidbit. Right here.” Zander indicated a paragraph halfway down the page.
Ryan scanned it.
Carlo Bocci was spotted checking into the Plaza last night, fueling rumors that he’s in town for his annual month-long restaurant tour on behalf of the Michelin Guide. This time last year, Mr. Bocci visited a total of thirty-five New York eateries, ultimately bestowing the coveted Michelin star on fewer than ten. Only one of those restaurants, The White Swan, was awarded three Michelin stars, the highest possible ranking. The White Swan was recently named America’s finest restaurant by Food & Wine magazine.
He looked up. “Let me guess. We’re upset that he’s staying at the Plaza instead of the Bennington.”
“No. It doesn’t matter where he stays. What matters is...”
Ryan finished for him. “The Michelin stars.”
“Precisely.” Zander’s mouth hitched into a half grin. “Do you have any idea what a three-star Michelin ranking for Bennington 8 would mean?”
Bennington 8, the hotel’s premiere fine dining restaurant, was located in the rooftop atrium. With its sweeping views of Manhattan, it already performed remarkably well as far as bookings went. But three Michelin stars would keep their reservations calendar full six months out.
It would mean money.
A lot of money.
An obscene amount of money.
The Bennington could use that kind of income since the runaway bride curse had put a serious dent in their cash flow. They were bouncing back, but not fast enough.
Ryan frowned and smoothed down his tie. “Three stars? Do you really think that’s doable?”
They didn’t even know if Bennington 8 was on Carlo Bocci’s review list. The list was secret. Ryan suspected he booked his reservations under an assumed name and showed up when least expected, as most restaurant reviewers did.
Zander shook his head. “No, not the way we stand at the moment. Which is why you and I will be in interviews all afternoon today and tomorrow. As long as it takes.”
“You want to hire a new chef? I’m not sure that’s a wise idea.” The chef they had was one of the best in the city. They’d never get anyone else of his caliber on such short notice, much less someone better.
“Agreed. Patrick is as good as we’re going to get. As far as food is concerned, we’re golden. But that’s only half the battle, isn’t it?”
Ryan glanced back down at the newspaper and his gaze zeroed in on three italicized words—Food & Wine magazine.
“Wine,” Ryan said, nodding slowly. “You want to hire a sommelier.”
“A wine director—someone with impeccable credentials. Without a good somm, we haven’t got a chance. Have we got room in the budget to hire someone?”
“I’ll make room.” He’d be staring at spreadsheets all day, trying to make it work. But that was fine. Numbers were Ryan’s specialty. There were no gray areas with numerical figures, only black and white.
Just the way Ryan liked it.
Zander stood, folded the copy of the Times and tucked it under his arm. “Great. I’ve already put out some feelers. I’ll start lining up interviews. Clear your calendar.”
“Done.” Ryan rounded the desk and reclaimed his seat.
Zander lingered in the doorway. “Let’s hope we find someone immediately. This could be tough, but surely there’s an out-of-work somm somewhere in the city who’s also charismatic enough to impress Bocci.”
Ryan’s thoughts flitted back to six weeks ago. To a little wine bar in the Village. To Evangeline Holly, her butcher knife and the way her lips had tasted of warm grapes, fresh from the vine.
He pushed the memory away.
Zander was asking the impossible, but Ryan was grateful for the challenge. He needed to get his focus back. He needed to forget about the numerous women who wanted to marry him. He especially needed to forget about the one who didn’t.
He shot Zander a look of grim determination. “If the right