Slate Bleu Reservations Novels & Stories

Good. “Where is Mr. Blythe now?” Jerry asks, his voice stripped of its usual performer’s charm. He’s not in the mood for bullshit. “Oh, uh, he’s being escorted off the property as we speak, I can assure you. Please let us make it up to you. How does a decadent lunch at the grand Opulent Palate Restaurant sound?” Xavier answers nervously. “No need. We’ll be on our way then,” Jerry declares, his tone flat.

Without the entire pack watching their every move. Blake called their travel agent. “Hi, Celeste,” he greeted as she answered the phone. “I would like your assistance in booking a trip, please. I need two tickets for The Maldives. It will be for both Amelia Brighton and myself. We will be leaving tomorrow morning if possible please.” Celeste looked online and made the booking for Blake, business class of course. “All set Mr Saint Claire. You leave at 10 am tomorrow morning and return four days later. Should I email all of the details to Amelia?”

Becky said apologetically. Millie frowned in disbelief. Was this place really so popular that she needed a reservation to eat? "How soon could I be seated if I made a reservation right now?" she asked straightforwardly. Becky flipped through the reservation book and responded, "I'm afraid we're fully booked today. The earliest we can offer is tomorrow. Would that work for you?" Millie felt disappointed upon hearing that. Her craving might not last until the next day. She noticed the restaurant's signature foie gras advertised outside and was genuinely intrigued.

I snap, “Tiara James-Lemptons.” I watch with satisfaction as she recognizes my name and the shock hits her face. “Oh my! For the wedding. Uh, give me sec,” she taps on the computer again. “You’re right. There is a reservation,” she smiles at me, “it’s one of the best rooms, overlooking the ocean. You’re mother reserved it for you.” Ryan taps on the counter to get her attention. “Upgrade it. We want a suite.” Her eyes and mine widen at the same time. “But s-sir, you have to make a reservation for that.”

You could dine high in the air, hundreds of meters above the abyss. When Esteban arrived at the restaurant, he immediately asked for the manager. The manager, a man in his forties, greeted him. “Good morning, Sir. I’m Beny, the manager,” he said, extending his hand. “Desmond,” Esteban replied, shaking his hand lightly. “How may I assist you?” the manager asked with a smile. “I’d like to reserve the entire Hemisphere on the 13th of this month. Money isn’t an issue,” Esteban said, running his fingers through his jet-black wavy hair.

The reservation at Le Noir was for 8 p.m., a private dining room overlooking the river. Apex needed the Yamamoto account $180 million in Asian market expansion and the client, Mr. Kenji Sato, had a reputation for appreciating more than just good scotch and quarterly projections. Ryan had made the call that morning after another under-desk ritual left Emma’s throat raw and her thighs sticky. “She’s ready,” Ryan told Marcus while Emma knelt between them, licking the last traces of cum from their fingers. “Our wife entertains tonight.”

The table I booked nestles in one of the booths, secluded and to the rear of the dining area. As we take our seats, the waiter scoops up the Reserved label. A matching Reserved sign sits on the table in the next booth, equally secluded, back to back with our own. Claudia and I sit together, facing away from that booth. The waiter looms. "Something to drink while you wait for your party?" "Claudia?" "Whatever you're getting." "A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc," I say.

Breanna inquired. I had made sure to make a reservation in the car on the way over here. “Yes. It’s under the name Westwood.” I replied. There was no need to run my eyes over the restaurant's dining room to see if Althea had gotten here yet. I had made sure to get here a bit before the time of their reservation. Breanna looked at the tablet in her hand. Scanning for my name on the list. “Celine Westwood. Party of 1 for 6:50 p.m.” Breanna repeated the reservation out loud when she found it.

Crystal chandeliers dripping lights onto pale velvet chairs, a floral arrangement taller than the man beside her, a room dominated by stylish wealthy men and women on vacation. “Reservation?” the host asked. “St. James,” Syl said. The man glanced at his list, hesitated, then frowned. “I’m sorry, can you reconfirm that? We just let in a St.James.” Syl lifted a brow. “I made a reservation last night, please check again.” He whispered, almost embarrassed. The host apologized profusely while combing through their list of reservations, but just then, Syl spotted someone unbelievably familiar. Benita.

“So um…I have made a reservation at Blue Garden, I don’t know if you will like it. However, if you have anywhere in mind, I can easily cancel.” Blue Garden was the most popular restaurant in London. It was a restaurant that Phoebe was constantly seeing the review online and which no one could easily go to without booking a reservation four months prior to the day they want. It was a restaurant that Phoebe has never dreamed to go to in her whole life because even though you will need four months to book a reservation, it would still take her two years earning to buy a single meal. And now he is telling her that if she doesn’t like it, he could cancel? “Is it like the Blue Garden I know about?