Mathéo Boucher: A Christmas Deal

Chapter 4: Eloise

One year later...

“I’m green with envy,” Amber sighed as we walked behind the maître d toward our table. “How come you just get let in every single time, and when I call, I get put on a waitlist for weeks at a time.”

I couldn’t quite contain my grin, enjoying the attention we drew as we moved through the throngs of people gathered near the entrance—men and women standing shoulder to shoulder, lingering with hopeful expressions, all waiting for a cancellation or a miracle. It wasn’t lost on me how many eyes followed us, how conversations dipped momentarily as we passed, curiosity flickering across unfamiliar faces.

I had wondered about it myself at first. But sometime over the last year or so, it had become a quiet certainty—something I no longer questioned. No matter where I wanted to go, no matter how exclusive or newly opened the place was, I never found myself waitlisted anymore. The city’s hottest restaurants, the newest bars, the places that required months of planning and whispered recommendations—doors simply opened.

And it wasn’t just coincidence. The Boucher Group had expanded massively during that same time, its name threading itself deeper into the fabric of New York’s culinary scene. Still, I didn’t dwell on it. I had long since stopped asking why and started enjoying the strange, effortless privilege of it all. It felt like the dining gods themselves had tilted things in my favor, and I was content to accept their blessing without protest.

“It helps to carry the Hayden name,” I mused lightly, narrowing my eyes at Amber in a teasing way.

She had taken some getting used to, Amber Nightwall. Over the years, she had softened—smoothed around the edges—especially since getting engaged to Paxton Hemming II. The Hemmings ran one of the largest media conglomerates in the country, controlling so many news outlets it was said they could shape a narrative before breakfast. Amber had been told she struck gold with Paxton, and perhaps, in her own way, she had.

Paxton himself wasn’t much of a catch by society’s standards—soft-spoken, almost painfully polite, a little dull—but maybe that was exactly what Amber needed. Someone steady. Someone unthreatening. Someone who didn’t compete with her but instead let her shine.

“Oh, please,” she huffed, rolling her eyes as her glittering ring caught the light. Her fingers tightened possessively around her Chanel bag. “It’s probably because every man in New York hopes to be the fortunate one who turns out to be Mr. Eloise Hayden.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, light and unguarded. The maître d pulled out my chair, his movements practiced and deferential, and I sat gracefully, smoothing my dress beneath me. Only then did I notice he hadn’t extended the same courtesy to Amber. She shot him a sharp look, clearly annoyed, though this was hardly the first time it had happened.

“Well, then the pickings are rather slim,” I replied dryly, glancing at her just as we both turned our attention back to the maître d.

Taking our silence as permission, he smiled politely and began speaking, his tone warm and rehearsed. “Welcome to the opening of La Grande Boucherie. It is our pleasure to have you with us on this important night. For our opening, we have prepared a three-course menu, curated with great care by our owner and head chef. We hope everything meets your expectations. Should anything fall short, please do not hesitate to let us know.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, offering him my most practiced smile.

After five years of being single in New York—and being exactly who I was—I had learned the importance of composure. Appearances mattered. Reputation mattered even more. Every interaction was a reflection not just of me, but of my name, my family, and the legacy tied to it.

He left us then, a waiter appearing moments later to pour chilled white wine into our glasses before disappearing just as quietly.

This was what set Mathéo Boucher apart. He didn’t simply open a restaurant or launch a new venture. He turned it into an event. Something people planned their schedules around. Something you had to attend, if only to prove that you belonged.

La Grande Boucherie was his most ambitious project yet—a space designed to bridge worlds. Fine dining without pretense. Elegance without intimidation. A place meant to draw in both the upper and middle classes of New York, blurring the lines between exclusivity and accessibility.

The interior was breathtaking. Dark wood beams contrasted with soft cream-colored walls, creating warmth without sacrificing refinement. The design was a collaboration between Mathéo and Natalie Sherman, one of the city’s newest but now most sought-after interior designers. Rumor had it that after this project, her calendar had filled for the next fifteen months straight.

Everything about the space felt deliberate. Thoughtful. Controlled. It was rustic and polished at once, clean and stoic, effortlessly beautiful.

I’d also heard whispers—plenty of them. Fourteen head chefs interviewed. Fourteen rejected. No one had quite met the standard Mathéo was looking for until Pietre Naveen came along. The vision, apparently, was to merge fine dining with something almost intimate. Homey, but elevated. Familiar, yet impeccable.

Whatever that meant, I was more than willing to find out.

“Speaking of which,” Amber said suddenly, pulling my attention back to our table. “I am dying to hear how the date went with Eric Davenport.”

A sigh escaped me before I could stop it. I leaned back slightly in my chair—not slumping, never that—but allowing myself a careful moment of rest. Image, after all, was everything.

Eric Davenport had escorted me to the Winter Auction at Olympus, an event I’d been genuinely excited for. The anticipation alone had carried me through days of fittings and preparations. But the reality had been a crushing disappointment.

Eric was yet another name from my father’s carefully curated list. Approved. Vetted. Suitable. And just like the others, he had been painfully dull. His humor was dry to the point of discomfort, his conversation dominated by endless commentary on the Fortune 500 list—a list he himself wasn’t even part of.

I knew the names. I knew the figures. I knew the power dynamics behind every merger and acquisition he mentioned. I knew it all. But he spoke as if I didn’t, droning on with misplaced confidence, never once asking what I thought.

“It’s over,” I said quietly, fingers fidgeting with the stem of my wineglass. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

Amber’s eyes widened slightly. “Was it really that bad?”

“I swear,” I said, leaning forward slightly, keeping my tone light and my expression pleasant, clinging to the bubbly façade I had perfected over the years. “I have never met a duller person in my life. Everyone remotely interesting is already taken.”

Amber’s lips curved into something sly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I know a few eligible bachelors you might not say the same about.”

I rolled my eyes, already anticipating the names she would inevitably bring up. Joshua Wilkins was always at the top of her list, but everyone knew he wasn’t ready to marry anyone—his focus was entirely on his growing empire. Christian Howard was charming, yes, but a notorious playboy, and I had no interest in a man whose past I would constantly have to compete with. Benjamin Kempball had risen quickly, almost impressively so, but my father had made his stance clear—new money would never be enough. He wanted lineage. History. Old blood.

“I won’t even try,” I said, leaning back as the waiter carefully placed an appetizer in front of me. It was beautifully presented, something delicate and deconstructed, the kind of dish meant to be admired before tasted. “I know better.”

Amber didn’t respond right away. Instead, her attention shifted somewhere behind me, her posture changing instantly. I didn’t need to turn around to know what—or rather who—had captured her interest. Her smile widened, becoming practiced and artificial, her shoulders rolling back ever so slightly. One perfectly manicured finger lifted to toy with a strand of hair.

“Mathéo,” she cooed, her voice dripping with warmth. “I hadn’t counted on seeing you here tonight.”

“Miss Nightwall,” a dark, composed voice answered from behind me, followed by the subtle movement of someone stepping closer.

I didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Mathéo Boucher was impossible to ignore. When I finally turned my head slightly, taking him in from my seat, it was like the air around us shifted. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, his jaw freshly shaven, his features sharp and commanding. His eyes—deep, dark, assessing—seemed to absorb everything in the room without effort.

His suit fit him impeccably, tailored to perfection, the vest beneath his jacket giving him a polished, almost old-world elegance. And then there was the pocket watch—his newest addition—a small but deliberate detail. The golden chain draped elegantly across his vest, disappearing into a pocket. It shouldn’t have been as striking as it was, but it added something to him. Authority. Confidence. A sense that he knew exactly who he was and what he was worth.

“Mr. Boucher,” I greeted, lifting my gaze to meet his.

The moment our eyes locked, something shifted. It felt as though the room faded into the background, the noise dulling, the space between us charged with something unspoken. His gaze didn’t wander. It stayed on me, unwavering, as if I were the only thing of interest in his vicinity.

“Miss Hayden.”

My heart gave an unwelcome, traitorous thud against my ribs.

“I simply adore the décor,” I said, forcing myself to speak, to break the spell. “The contrast between darkness and light—it’s beautifully done. Magnificent, really.”

His eyes flicked away from mine briefly, sweeping the space around us as if reassessing it through my words. The way he considered things—carefully, deliberately—made it clear that nothing about this place had been accidental.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Amber chimed in quickly, eager to reclaim his attention. “Everything about this place screams romantic.”

“I appreciate the compliments,” Mathéo replied, his gaze returning to me rather than her. “But those should be directed to Miss Sherman. She was the decorative mastermind behind the project.”

I smiled despite myself. “I’m sure you still had the final say.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His eyes remained locked with mine, intense and unreadable, and I became painfully aware of how fast my heart was beating.

“Are you here for business or pleasure tonight?” Amber asked, her fingers tapping impatiently against the table.

“Business,” he said without hesitation, his attention never leaving me. “I always attend my openings. Just in case.”

“You don’t trust your personnel?” I asked, my voice steady despite the way his presence seemed to unsettle me.

“I trust my staff completely,” he replied smoothly. “I simply prefer to remain involved. Especially with the clientele here tonight.”

One eyebrow arched instinctively, my mind catching onto the implied challenge in his words. “Are you suggesting the upper class is incapable of enjoying good food without tearing it apart?”

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You said that, Miss Hayden. Not me.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. I wasn’t used to being spoken to like that—certainly not by men. Most of them treaded carefully around me, wary of my father’s reputation, fearful of saying the wrong thing.

“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” Mathéo said at last, inclining his head slightly before stepping away.

I watched him move through the restaurant with practiced ease, greeting tables, exchanging brief words, entirely in his element.

“Jackass,” I muttered, turning back to Amber.

She looked positively delighted.

“What?” I demanded.

“I think,” she said smugly, “I know exactly who you need to pursue.”

No matter how fast my heart raced, no matter how tempting the thought was, I knew better. I had been taught better. Haydens didn’t mix with Bouchers. Never. My father had made that painfully clear.