Читать книгу Tempting Donovan Ford - Jennifer McKenzie - Страница 12
ОглавлениеJULIA SLID HER arms into the sleeves of her charcoal suit jacket and eyed herself in her bedroom mirror. It had been a week since Donovan Ford had barged into her restaurant and her life. And although she’d realized almost immediately that her options were limited, she’d felt obligated to take the full seven days just to ensure he knew he wasn’t calling all the shots. He might sign the checks and be the one with his name on the deed, but the kitchen and everyone in it were hers.
She ran a lint brush over her jacket, making sure there were no extraneous pieces of fluff on the dark wool, before fixing the collar of her crisp white dress shirt. Paired with a matching pencil skirt, her mother’s pearls and a pair of simple black heels, she knew she looked stylish and in control. Exactly the look she was going for in her meeting with Donovan Ford about the contract she still hadn’t signed. She grabbed her purse, did one last check in the mirror and headed out the door.
The day was cool, one that brought color to her cheeks and made her glad she kept a pair of leather gloves in the pocket of her winter coat. She slipped them on, covering up her short nails, nicked hands—the badges of honor every chef had—and caught a cab from her downtown West End apartment to Yaletown, where the Ford Group had their administrative offices.
She’d done her research and knew they owned the entire building. She peeked through the windows of Elephants, cheeks flushing as she recalled the flash of jealousy that had accosted her there when she’d seen Donovan walk in with his date. But that was a week ago, and in the interim, Julia had come to realize that she was over it. Over him.
She was surprised to see how full the wine bar was for a Monday at lunchtime. Tables of business professionals with bottles of sparkling water instead of wine. It was as full as La Petite Bouchée had been on Saturday night, a sobering realization, but not one she needed to analyze now.
Julia continued past the wine bar’s entrance to a smaller, less ostentatious door that had the company name written on it in gold font and opened into a tiny entry with an elevator and stairwell.
After a quick debate, she took the stairs. She appreciated the echo of her heels off the concrete walls. Strong, powerful, just as she was. She’d worked with some of the toughest chefs in Europe. A meeting with her new owner wouldn’t rattle her. Even if she did find herself thinking of him at the most inopportune times. Though she blamed much of that on Sasha, who’d somehow gotten the crazy idea that Julia liked Donovan.
Julia shook her head. Of course she didn’t like him. For one thing, he was thwarting her plans to buy the restaurant herself. For another, he wasn’t her type. She liked creative types who worked with their hands and weren’t afraid to get dirty. Plus, she barely knew him.
So no, she didn’t like Donovan so much as she knew they needed to have a good working relationship. Nothing more, nothing less.
She reached the top of the stairwell and rolled her shoulders. Breathed in and out. No reason to linger even if she did have a bit of time before the kitchen expected her. She affected her best moue—the French expression that indicated boredom or a desire to get this over and done with—and opened the stairwell door.
A young woman with the kind of smooth skin that came from good genetics sat behind a long wooden desk that shared the same glossy effect as the bar downstairs. Clearly, this was their brand. All sparkle and flash. Julia swallowed. She hoped there was some substance beneath the sheen.
There was a handsome man leaning up against the desk. Julia recognized him as a Ford immediately. The younger son, Owen. He looked like Donovan, but sweeter or maybe just more relaxed. Whatever he’d been saying to the receptionist made her laugh.
She stopped midgiggle and cleared her throat when she noticed Julia. “Good afternoon.”
“Hello. I’m Julia Laurent.” She glanced at Owen, who appeared to have perked up at the mention of her name. Great. Exactly what had Donovan been telling his family about her? She decided to ignore the question. No need to borrow trouble. Maybe it was nothing, just human interest at putting a face to a name. “I have an appointment with Donovan Ford.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Ms. Laurent. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Ford know you’ve arrived.” She gestured to a long white leather Barcelona couch. It looked custom-made, the tufted seat and back running the length of the entryway.
Julia remained standing while the woman picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons. A small ploy to show that she was on the same level as Donovan Ford when he appeared. But she hoped he wouldn’t be too long. Her feet hurt in these shoes. Though she was used to standing all night, she never did so in heels.
Instead, she stripped off her gloves, stuffing them in the pocket of her coat, and then slid out of the heavy wool. The offices weren’t overly warm, but they felt that way after the brisk outdoor air and her brisker climb up the stairs. She folded the coat over her arm, keeping her practiced pout in place.
“The lovely Julia Laurent.” Owen pushed away from the desk and held out a hand. “Owen Ford.”
Julia shook his hand politely, perfunctorily. Was it just coincidence that he was out here prior to her meeting with Donovan? Or had he been planted here? Some sort of gatekeeper to soften her up or throw her off her game? “Hello.”
She searched for something, anything, that might hint why Owen just happened to be in the reception area when she arrived, but the only thing she noticed were the laugh lines that radiated from his eyes. She liked them. They made him look like the kind of person who knew how to have a good time and included everyone around him in the fun. He moved that way, too, a smooth, laid-back roll to his motions that indicated a man who enjoyed living and didn’t always have a set goal.
For just a second, Julia wondered what that was like. How it would feel to simply take life as it came and not worry about the things she couldn’t control. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
She’d done some research on the family over the past few days. Elephants was their first purchase and had been a swanky lounge back in the ’80s. One of those of the time monuments to shoulder pads and three-martini lunches that had become a city staple during that decade. But, unlike La Petite Bouchée, it hadn’t stagnated. Instead, it had been renovated in line with the times, shifting from bright neon to flashy lasers and disco balls to its current clean look. And it had been successful enough to allow the family to buy the building that housed it and expand to three other locations in the city. All shared the same styling and nod to excess.
Owen wasn’t listed on the company website. In fact, the only place Julia had seen his photo was on the city’s social pages. Always with his arm around one beautiful woman or two. Maybe he didn’t have the cutthroat instincts necessary for business.
His smile certainly didn’t indicate a cold, sharklike nature. “The pleasure is all mine.” And somehow, when he said it, the words came off as charming and self-effacing rather than smarmy. All in the delivery, she suspected. He took her hand and bent to buss a kiss along the back. “I love your food.”
Julia decided she liked him. The pout slipped off her face, more easily than it had slipped on, replaced by her real, natural smile. “You’ve been to the restaurant?” She hadn’t planned to talk about food. Today was about numbers and contracts, budgets and projections. The back-end things that needed to be done properly to allow her to focus her attention where it belonged. In the kitchen.
“A few times. The coq au vin blanc is amazing.”
Since the coq au vin blanc happened to be one of Julia’s favorite dishes, she couldn’t knock his taste. She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“And the fact that you’re not making life easy for my brother is just one more reason to like you.”
No, she decided, eyeing Owen Ford. She didn’t like him—she loved him.
Owen’s smile deepened, showing off his dimples. “He’s used to getting his own way. Being the boss. Always has. It’s good that you’re standing up to him.”
Julia opened her mouth to tell him that she wasn’t standing up to Donovan so much as standing up for herself, but another voice spoke first.
“Owen, what are you doing here?”
Julia turned to see Donovan behind her, arms crossed over his chest. She hadn’t realized quite how broad his shoulders were. Not that she should be noticing now.
Owen’s tone remained easy, a noticeable difference from the tightness that edged Donovan’s. “Just checking in.”
Donovan frowned and looked from his brother to the pretty receptionist and back again. “Well, if you’re all done checking in, perhaps you could do some work.”
Julia felt a twinge of sympathy, but the loaded statement appeared not to bother Owen. “Sure thing, boss. Bailey.” He nodded at the receptionist. “Julia.” He kissed her on the cheek and then exited the offices.
Julia watched him go, wondering what all that was about. She hadn’t been kissed goodbye by someone she’d just met since her time in France, but somehow Owen pulled it off. Maybe because it felt genuine. He was the kind of person who liked people and was comfortable sharing easy affection. She liked it. She liked him.
“Julia.” There was a low growl in Donovan’s voice. She turned and took his outstretched hand, noting that it wasn’t nearly as warm or friendly as his brother’s handshake, and yet unlike Owen’s handshake or kiss, Donovan’s touch sent an arc of attraction through her.
Why? Why, after all these months of being perfectly content to focus on the restaurant and her staff, being satisfied with the occasional night of flirting when out with Sasha, was she suddenly finding her hormones waking up? And why were they waking up for him?
Seriously, she was going to kill Sasha for ever mentioning the attraction and planting that seed in her head. Because, yeah, she totally wouldn’t be attracted to Donovan at all if Sasha hadn’t brought it up.
Julia batted away the thought. Even if she were interested in pursuing the lure of Donovan Ford, now was not the time. She followed him as he led her down the hall, decorated with a few discreet black-and-white photos and a flashy starburst mirror, and into an equally glossy office with a wall of glass overlooking the city street.
“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He turned to look at her and the attraction flared again.
“Water, please.” Something to cool the fire within her. She needed to focus—and not on Donovan Ford.
He nodded and procured a bottle from a small fridge built into the mirrored sideboard along one wall. The glass he handed her was heavy crystal. Julia recognized the style as Baccarat tumblers. No plain or inexpensive glassware for the Fords.
She took a seat in the visitor’s chair across the desk. No cheap imitation leather or rough, scratched wood, either. The seat looked like glass, but despite its cold and unbending appearance, was surprisingly comfortable. She’d bet it cost more than anything in her apartment except her chef knives.
Donovan lowered himself into the chair across from her and put down his tumbler without taking a sip. “I’ve had my lawyer look over your suggested changes.”
Julia had taken his advice and contacted a lawyer to look over the original offer. Actually, he’d been a former boyfriend of Sasha’s who had agreed to do it as a favor. Probably because he hoped Sasha would give him a second chance if he did. He’d been thorough and proactive, determining what it was that Julia wanted and then figuring out how she might get it. He’d had some excellent suggestions, including the addition of a codicil that would provide her rights of first purchase should the Fords decide to put the property on the market.
It wasn’t shares or ownership of any kind, but it was something. And since Donovan had, both in person and again through his own lawyer, made it clear that shares were not on the table, it was the best she was going to get.
Of course, she’d asked for a hefty raise for herself and the staff, too. Judging from what they’d paid for the location, the Fords had money to throw around. She saw no reason why her team shouldn’t share in it.
“You’ll see here—” Donovan used the same silver pen he’d had at the restaurant to point to the term in question “—we’ve dealt with your request regarding ownership.”
Julia scanned the words, parsing the legal jargon to understand the actual meaning. She looked up at him. “Just to be clear here, you’re agreeing that I’ll be given rights of first purchase?”
Everything else was flexible to Julia. Her salary, hours, benefits and other perks were things she could compromise on, but pushing forward for ownership was not.
“Yes. Should we decide to sell the property, you’ll be given the right to meet the asking price first.”
Julia nodded. “And I’ll have six weeks from that time?”
“Four.” He angled the pen toward her, a subtle hint to take hold of the instrument and put her name on the page. “We have to consider that a third party may withdraw their offer if they have to wait too long.”
She accepted the proffered pen. The metal was warm from his hand and smooth to the touch but impersonal. So different from her kitchen knives, which seemed to absorb a piece of her whenever she used them. They were all sharpened a certain way, worn down in a certain spot. It was one reason all serious cooks had their own set, which they were loath to share. Julia didn’t even let other people clean hers.
She pressed the nib of the pen to the page. This was it. She either signed now or forever held her peace. Her lungs felt swollen, as though she’d sucked in a huge breath and forgotten to let it go. Yes, this was it, and in her opinion, there was really only one option.
Julia signed quickly and handed the pen back. Donovan’s fingers brushed against hers, hotter than the metal. Suddenly, that metal didn’t feel quite so impersonal. Her eyes darted up to meet his. He smiled and she felt a flicker of interest rise up, tamped it back down and looked at his hands instead.
Hands were safe. They told a person’s story without words.
Donovan gripped the pen, lightly but firmly. In perfect control. And made a series of long, artful swoops as he added his name to the document. A man who wasn’t afraid to be noticed, a man who wasn’t afraid to demand it as his due. He wouldn’t be the type to hide in the back, away from the lights, wouldn’t be afraid to ask for what he wanted and expect to get it.
She took note of the scar on one knuckle and the thickness of his fingers. Donovan’s hands weren’t sleek and buffed, not polished within an inch of their lives. They didn’t look long and elegant like those of a pianist or a doctor. They were manly hands. Ones that looked as if they’d be just as confident swinging a hammer or using a saw as signing a life-altering contract. And strong. And sexy.
Julia looked away and tried to pretend that wasn’t her stomach doing a long, slow flip-flop and her brain wondering if those hands could hold a woman’s body just as easily.
* * *
SASHA MET HER at the door when she walked into the kitchen, a splotch of sauce on the shoulder of her white chef’s jacket. “So? Everything go okay?”
Julia nodded. Everything except the lingering attraction that had followed her all the way to the restaurant. She’d decided against taking a cab, hoping a walk in the cold afternoon would chase the feeling away, but the chill outside had only highlighted the heat building within her and the certain knowledge of one thing.
She liked his hands.
Julia had always liked hands. Even when she was small, she could remember watching her mother as she stood over the stove, stirring with one hand, dipping a finger into whatever she was making with a practiced swirl. Twisting the top off a piping bag and then squeezing the first drops of frosting into Julia’s waiting mouth, using her thumb to wipe away any that might get on Julia’s face.
Julia had chosen her first boyfriend because of his hands. Chris Wright had been tall and thin with glasses and a quiet way in class. His father owned a successful construction company and Chris spent his summer working for him. His hands were thick and muscled, a working man’s hands. Julia had found them fascinating, and when he’d asked her out she’d agreed.
Hands were a calling card. Chris’s scarred knuckles and rough edges told her he wasn’t afraid of hard work. What they didn’t tell her was that he was also capable of creating the most delicate wooden animals. Woodland creatures he whittled from leftover pieces at the work site.
She’d expected Donovan’s hands to be soft and manicured like those of the other men she’d met who’d been born to families where trust funds were the norm. But she seriously doubted he’d ever seen the inside of a nail salon. She wondered what other secrets he hid.
“It was fine.”
“You were there a long time.” Sasha’s eyes swept over her, halting on her hair, which was still pulled back in an elegant twist.
Julia’s hands rose to touch it. “We negotiated.” Which was one way of putting it. In fact, Donovan had explained the marketing plan that was to be implemented over the next two months and the role she would play in it. While her first instinct was to refuse—to explain that she was a chef, not a celebrity—she’d held her tongue.
The truth was that chefs today were more than creators of food. They were arbiters of style and taste. Name and face recognition were a considerable asset in the industry. As much of a draw as the food and decor. And the Fords wanted to use her.
Better yet, the Fords wanted to tie her to La Petite Bouchée and to tie her so intrinsically that there could be no separation. When she’d asked why, Donovan had explained it was all part of the branding push they needed to do to bring the restaurant out of the shadows. “We need to show everyone that it’s not the same old restaurant. It’s young and fresh and headed by a beautiful chef.” Then she’d had to remind herself not to get all twisted up simply because he’d called her beautiful.
It was probably all part of his ploy to make her agree. It worked.
Julia knew that if the plan succeeded, it would raise the value of the restaurant. The deal she and her investors had put together wouldn’t be enough anymore. But it should also mean that she’d find it easier to get financial backing. Maybe even swing it herself with the bank since she’d be able to prove her own worth.
A wave of pleasure crested through her at the thought. No, she didn’t have shares in her pocket, but she had the promise of a future. Something to work toward. The heady feeling made her smile.
“And?” Sasha asked.
“And we came to a mutually agreeable solution.” One that Julia hoped would see her vision of the restaurant become a reality. She saw no reason it wouldn’t, since Donovan had confirmed that he hoped to sell the restaurant in the near future. But she popped the bubble of excitement that threatened to rise. They still had a long way to go before then. “Is the prep done?” Because no matter what else had happened today, she still had a service to run tonight. With a newly signed contract, it now felt more important than ever that things go well.
“Almost.” Sasha turned back to her station, checking the sauces and stocks simmering on the burners.
Julia didn’t need to look in the pots to know what was there. Variations on the five master sauces that were the basis of French cooking, stocks that would be used in the sauces and reduced to glaze certain dishes.
She inhaled the scent of tarragon and basil, parsley and chervil being chopped as she headed to her office to check on the delivery and change into her chef whites. Tonight would be a good night in the kitchen. No specter hanging over her head, no worry that she was going to be bounced out of the kitchen and restaurant. Nothing but cooking.
“Did you see the delivery in your office?” Sasha called from the kitchen a few minutes later. “I put it on the chair by the door.”
Julia hadn’t noticed anything, but then, she hadn’t looked, either. She’d been thinking and swapping her business suit and heels for her comfy pants, T-shirt, chef jacket and Converse runners. “Anything important?” She received plenty of deliveries during the week. Invoices for food, bills for their linen service, samples from suppliers.
“I don’t know. A bottle of wine with a gold bow around the neck sound important?”
“What?” Julia’s head whipped up to look at Sasha, who was smirking in the doorway.
“I sense you haven’t told me everything about the meeting.” Sasha gestured to the chair with her head. “Well, go look at it and then come back to the kitchen and tell me everything.”
Julia almost didn’t. She didn’t even know whom the bottle was from. But the excitement bubbling inside her did. An instinct confirmed when she pulled the note from the envelope attached by the ribbon.
To a bright and satisfying future.
Donovan
She recognized the label. An expensive and uncommon bottle. She hadn’t needed to read the card to know it was all Donovan. All class. Attraction flared. Which showed just how long she’d been without a boyfriend, if a bottle of wine, even one that cost more than most people’s weekly paychecks, was enough to get her all heated up.
Well, that may be so, but she didn’t have to act on it. Couldn’t act on it. Her focus needed to be on the restaurant. She didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe in a few years when her name was on the deed, when La Petite Bouchée was spoken about in the same breath as other great Vancouver restaurants, she could ease off a little. But until then, she’d accept the gift at face value, a way of welcoming her and her team to the company. Nothing more. Then she went out to tell the staff they were going to have a treat with family meal tonight, the meal she cooked and served before the start of service to make sure everyone was fueled for the long night ahead.
Because what was the point of having such a fantastic bottle of wine if not to share it with the ones you loved?
* * *
DONOVAN LOOKED AROUND La Petite Bouchée with a discerning eye. In the glow of the lights, without the sharp, exposing brightness of the sun, the space looked better. Not good but better.
The walls were plain but clean, as were the tables and chairs. The bar was too small and should extend another couple of feet to make full use of the space. They could easily fit in three or four more stools at a longer bar, which would mean three or four more people eating and drinking and adding to their profits.
The parquet flooring was worn and scuffed, and even if it was salvageable, Donovan had no plans to keep it. It was just a dated look that added nothing to the space. He was bringing in the designer next week to look the place over and discuss some potential changes. Hopefully, it could be done quickly and cheaply.
“Stop working,” Mal said, shooting him a withering stare. “Enjoy your meal and the fine company of your siblings.”
Donovan hadn’t wanted to bring them along when he’d decided to pop in for dinner tonight. Well, not entirely true. He never minded Mal tagging along, not even when he’d been twelve and she an annoying seven-year-old, but he could have done without Owen, who had already hit on both the server and the hostess and was even now eyeing up the bartender.
But he supposed they provided a better cover story than the one he’d come up with on his own. That he just happened to be in the neighborhood when what he really wanted was to see Julia.
He’d debated sending the wine. It was a vintage bottle, one from his private collection. Not the sort of thing he generally sent to staff no matter their level in the company hierarchy. But there was something different about Julia. A fact he’d been forced to acknowledge that night at Elephants when, instead of going home and enjoying an athletic and gratifying bout of sex with Tatiana, he’d sent her off with the clear disclosure that while he’d enjoyed dating her, he didn’t see it going any further and saw no point in continuing.
“I’m not working,” he said and forked up another bite of his meal. He’d selected the steak frites despite Owen’s advice that if he was going to be stubborn and not get the coq au vin blanc, he should choose the boeuf bourguignon. And he was perfectly satisfied with his meal. “I’m just looking around.”
“You’re making mental notes. And, Owen,” Mal said, turning her attention to him, “stop flirting with the staff and pay attention. Maybe if you thought about business once in a while instead of your sex life, you’d be able to convince Donovan to give you that promotion you want.”
Donovan blinked at his brother. “You want a promotion?”
A flash of panic tightened Owen’s face before it smoothed out into his usual laissez-faire expression. “Of course not. I don’t know what Mal’s talking about.”
But Donovan wasn’t sure he believed him. Still, he didn’t chase his brother down. Owen had shown little interest in the business. While Donovan and Mal had worked summers in the office and gone to university to learn skills that would help them one day take over the business, Owen had preferred to spend his time lounging at the beach and had flunked out of university after two semesters.
Even now, while Donovan and Mal held management positions that helped shape the future of the company as a whole, Owen seemed content to manage Elephants. It was a mind-set that Donovan simply couldn’t understand, and he’d long since given up trying.
He understood that Owen might not be interested in the food-and-wine industry. He might not even be interested in business. But Owen didn’t seem to be interested in anything else, either. He flicked from hobby to hobby and woman to woman like a butterfly. Barely settling anywhere long enough to get a feel for the surface, let alone mine the depths. But that wasn’t Donovan’s problem. So long as Owen managed to keep Elephants running, he would leave him be.
They talked about other things. How their father was doing, the local sports teams, a ski vacation Owen was planning on taking next weekend. “And then maybe somewhere tropical.” Owen looked at Mal. “I thought I might go and visit Travis.” Owen and Travis had always gotten along well, far better than Owen and Donovan.
Donovan saw the way his sister seized up at the mention of Travis’s name, though she covered it well, smoothing her napkin and picking up her wineglass without the slightest shake. Yes, there was definitely something going on, but she didn’t seem inclined to talk about it, and Donovan wasn’t about to bring it up here. He changed the subject, noting the release of his sister’s shoulders.
The conversation meandered after that, and Donovan was grateful when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else.
“Yes,” Owen said. “Could you ask the chef to come out? I’d like to give her my compliments personally.”
Donovan felt something strange and sharp bite through him. Owen shouldn’t be asking for Julia, implying that he was the one who knew her. He glared at his brother. Kept glaring when Julia came out, looking warm and sexy, and allowed Owen to kiss her on the cheek and then kissed him in return.
“Julia, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Mallory.” The two women greeted each other with a friendly smile and murmured pleasantries. “And you know Donovan.”
Julia’s gaze barely flicked to him, fluttered over like nothing. It cut. He wasn’t used to being passed over and he decided he didn’t care for it.
“How was your meal?” Julia didn’t even mention the bottle of wine, which surprised him. Unless she hadn’t received it?
No, he knew it had arrived. He’d insisted on a signature upon delivery and recognized Sasha’s name. While Donovan didn’t know her well, he found it highly unlikely that Sasha would have forgotten to give Julia the bottle or kept it for herself, which meant Julia didn’t want to acknowledge it. Or him.
His brother was practically falling all over himself and Julia, praising the excellence of the meal. Mal was a little more circumspect, but she was incredibly complimentary, too. Of course, they hadn’t had their gifts ignored.
“Did you like your gift?” Donovan said when Julia finally looked at him.
She jolted. “Yes, thank you. The staff and I enjoyed it very much.”
She’d shared it with her staff? The thousand-dollar bottle he’d handpicked from his stash to give to her personally had been passed around the kitchen? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, Donovan could appreciate the magnanimity of her gesture. What better way to show people how much you appreciated them than by sharing your good fortune, which was exactly what he’d done with her. He’d just hoped she might return the favor by sharing the bottle with him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Julia nodded, a light flush rising on her cheeks. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the kitchen.”
“Of course,” Donovan said before Owen could. He watched her walk away, the sway in her step that made him forget all about the skinny blondes of his past. Tatiana who?
“I didn’t know we were sending wine to our staff now.”
“We’re not.” This was a personal gift from him. But he didn’t tell his sister that. And he wasn’t even sure what had brought on the generosity. He needed to concentrate on getting the restaurant up to par so that when he managed to get his father’s agreement to sell, they could list the property immediately. He needed to focus on work. They all did.
Donovan glanced at his brother, who was smiling at the bartender across the room. “Owen.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, but first Julia and then the bartender? Was there anyone safe from Owen’s charms? “Don’t you have to work tonight?”
Owen should be on-site at Elephants, making sure everything was running smoothly, not sitting in a restaurant. He didn’t appear upset by Donovan’s tone. “I’m heading over after dinner. The staff can handle things without me.”
Donovan was sure they could, since the assistant manager at Elephants was incredibly competent. She could probably handle the Apocalypse without batting an eye. Still, that didn’t excuse Owen from his work. If he wanted to get paid, he needed to put in the hours. “You’re expected to be there—”
“I haven’t had a day off in two weeks and I’m working tonight. Okay?” Owen patted his lips and then rose. “If it makes you happy, I’ll go now.”
But Donovan noticed that Owen stopped by the bar, charmed the woman working behind it, and chatted with the hostess on his way out. Donovan wouldn’t have minded any of that. Owen’s people skills were his greatest attribute. But when Donovan saw Julia duck back out of the kitchen and head straight toward his brother, saw them hug and kiss each other once more, his hands fisted.
No. His brother was welcome to spread his charm across the city. He could date a different woman every night. He could bring them into his bar and comp them drinks and food all night. But he could not date Julia. Hell, no. Donovan had just gotten her to sign a contract. He wasn’t about to have Owen risk that for a quickie.
But he kept his aggravation hidden under a polite smile. This was nothing to get into now. Especially since he’d be sure that it wouldn’t amount to anything.
Donovan and Mal chatted about work for a while, and when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else, he ordered dessert and coffee. Just getting the full meal experience provided by the restaurant. And if he got another look at Julia, that would be okay, too.
Mal declined. “I’m exhausted,” she told him. “If I have coffee this late, I’ll be up all night.” She did look tired.
“We can go, then.” He started to lift a hand to call for the check and cancel the dessert.
“No, no.” Mal waved a hand. “You stay.” She stood and came over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the dessert. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He considered leaving anyway. He didn’t need the dessert, but he really should try to get a handle on the customer service provided by La Petite Bouchée.
Instead of remaining at the table, he caught the server’s attention and said he’d like his coffee and dessert at the bar. The server nodded and walked him over, making certain he had everything he needed before disappearing. Donovan was impressed. Julia had trained her staff well and the food was excellent, which would make his job much easier.
The bar stool he was on was rickety and the cushioning was almost nonexistent, but the bar was clean and the woman behind it was friendly. She answered all of Donovan’s questions knowledgeably, keeping an eye on the other customers and segueing between all of them easily.
While he sipped his coffee, Donovan studied the beer-and-wine list. Satisfactory, but with the number of craft breweries and boutique wineries that permeated the West Coast, Donovan knew it could be better.
The pair of men beside him were waiting for their table and chatting about their day. He eavesdropped, only half listening while he mentally planned the changes. New interior, new seats and bar stools, new menu. Then one of them said something that caught his ear.
“If this place didn’t look so terrible, I would totally consider having our wedding reception here.”
“Excuse me.” He turned on his friendly business smile. He was no Owen when it came to people skills, but he was entirely capable of holding his own. “I’m Donovan Ford. My family just bought this restaurant.” He shook their hands and proceeded to elicit their feelings on the restaurant.
They had a lot to say.
“So why do you come?” he asked after they’d filled him in on their many observances. Apparently, they came often. At least once a week.
“The food,” the dark-haired man said.
“As good as anything we had in Paris last year,” said the blond. “The chef is too good for this place. No offense.”
“None taken.”
The blond smiled. “I didn’t think she’d stay this long.”
“Have you been coming awhile?” Donovan was interested to hear this. Loyal, regular customers were the lifeblood of the industry. If these men were regulars, he wanted to know why.
“Oh, yeah, at least three years. We started coming because we were friends with Alain, the original owner. But when Julia took over cooking from her mom, we started coming for the food.”
“Her mom?” Donovan tapped a finger against the side of his coffee mug. What did her mother have to do with the restaurant?
“Suzanne was the chef here before she got sick. When she couldn’t work any longer, Julia came back to Vancouver to help. I think she only intended to stay until her mom got better...” His voice trailed off.
Donovan studied them, noting the sad tilt to their eyes. “But she didn’t.”
“No.” The brunette shook his head. “She died. We thought Julia might leave then. Go back to Paris.”
Donovan ignored the clamp of his own heart. His father had survived. According to the doctor, as long as he continued to take care of himself, Gus Ford would live a long life. “But she didn’t leave.”
“No, she settled in.” The dark-haired man smiled. “I think it’s sort of a tribute to her mother.”
Donovan could understand the desire. And felt as though maybe he knew Julia a little better than he had before.
He chatted with the men until they finished their drinks and moved to their waiting table. Then he waited for Julia.
* * *
JULIA REMAINED IN the kitchen until the last plate was served and she was sure there were no further orders coming in before she made her way back into the dining room. She knew Donovan was still there. Had been informed by the staff the moment he’d left the table and taken up a stool at the bar instead of leaving.
The room was only a quarter full, which wasn’t terrible considering it had been only half-full this evening to begin with. She saw Donovan across the room, still sitting at the bar. He had a menu in his hand and was frowning. Even with twenty tables and about twenty-five feet between them, she could feel his magnetism. But that magnetism, that draw of attraction, wasn’t why she walked over. She was simply being polite, making nice with the new owner.
Still, when he noticed her, putting down the menu and focusing all his attention on her, Julia felt the pull all the way to her toes.
“Donovan.” She slid onto the stool beside him. “I didn’t expect you’d still be here.” A subtle hint that he shouldn’t be.
He smiled, either ignoring or missing the gentle rebuke. “I thought we could talk.”
“Oh?” The bartender, Stef, arrived to place a glass of water in front of her. Julia stilled the sudden fluttering in her chest with a sip of it and smiled at the woman who was working her way toward a law degree. “Thanks.”
“The menu’s dated,” Donovan said.
Julia stiffened. She knew the menu was dated. It hadn’t changed in thirty years. But her attempts to modernize it had fallen on deaf ears. First with Alain, who hadn’t wanted to change anything, and then with Jean-Paul, who’d refused to spend money.
She reminded herself that she should be grateful Donovan saw the need, too—she wouldn’t have to convince him—but something about his tone put her on the defensive. As if he thought she was the one responsible for it.
“I happen to agree. I hope this means you’re open to changing it.”
He nodded, his eyes already scanning the room. At least the space was decent. It needed a bit of polishing, but nothing major. Julia had convinced Alain to repaint the walls so they were a crisp white, and the photos on the walls were full of charm. A mix of pictures from Alain’s childhood in Bordeaux and some from her mother’s personal collection of travels through France. Besides the one of Julia playing in the fountain, there was also one she’d taken during her first year living in Paris. In her opinion, they created a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. A personalization that let diners know the meal wasn’t just about eating but was an experience.
The floor could use a good sanding and restaining to return it to its former golden glory and the light fixtures should be swapped out for something more current, but other than that, the restaurant looked nice. It was classic, like the food they served.
“And the space needs a major update.”
Apparently, Donovan Ford felt otherwise.
Julia felt the stiffness travel up her spine, across her shoulders and settle in her jaw. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?”
His eyes met hers and held. She felt that spark of attraction again and doused it with a quick toss of common sense, like flour on a grease fire. Always best to tamp those things out before they had a chance to catch.
“I’d say the renovations are a necessity. The seats aren’t comfortable.” He shifted as though to prove his point. “And the decor is at least twenty years out of style.”
Out of style? Well, only if you thought looking like the inside of a snowflake was style.
“It’s old-world,” she countered, recalling the lovely bistros and family-owned restaurants she’d favored during her years in Europe. She didn’t want La Petite Bouchée to be quite as authentically homespun as that—it didn’t suit the food she wanted to serve—but the aesthetic of appearing like something that had lasted hundreds of years and would last hundreds more appealed to her. Classic was what she aspired to. Glossy white bar tops and Lucite seats were tomorrow’s Harvest Gold appliances and velvet wallpaper.
“It’s old-fashioned.” Donovan lifted one dark eyebrow, a quirk Julia always wished she’d been able to master. Mostly because she hated it being directed at her and wished she could do the same in return as a way to negate the skill. “Who is the target market?”
She scowled. “Are we talking about numbers, then?”
“If you want.”
She didn’t want. She’d looked at the numbers often enough to know they weren’t going to support her argument. The fact was La Petite Bouchée was lucky to break even on any given night, but Julia didn’t think that was because of the decor.
“I know it could use some freshening up,” she admitted, “but the decor is part of the charm.” And she wanted him to stop talking about any potential changes. One thing at a time. It was enough that she’d signed the contract today and agreed to the marketing blitz. She didn’t want to hear how he planned to rip the heart and soul out of the place, as well.
“It’s not charming.” Now she did feel insulted. “But it could be. It will be when we’re finished.”
Julia peeked up at him. “I’m not going to let you make this a carbon copy of every other place you own.”
To his credit, Donovan didn’t get his back up or look put out by her comment at all. “You don’t like the wine bars?”
His calm tone helped her find her own cool. “I do like them. For bars. But that’s not what La Petite Bouchée is about. We’re an iconic and classic fine-dining establishment. The decor should reflect that.” And since she was the one who’d hopefully be buying it from him in the future, Julia felt she should have some say in the matter.
Donovan watched her, and Julia felt a warm flush crawl over her skin. “I’ll take that into consideration.” And before she could get her back up about how he should do more than consider her opinion, he said, “The service was good and your food was excellent.”
“Not dated?” She couldn’t help sniping.
He grinned and accepted the verbal tap. “Not dated. But nothing about the decor showcases just how good it is.” Julia opened her mouth to object. Her food was classic. The decor needed to follow suit. But he had more to say. “Which is why it needs updating.”
Julia sipped her water instead of arguing. He was right. She knew that. She just wanted to protect the traditional charm that would make La Petite Bouchée stand out. But she should hear him out before deciding that he was wrong. “Okay. Like what?”
He smiled and it slipped through her like warm chocolate sauce. “That is a question for my designer. Why don’t we table this discussion until she’s had a chance to look the space over and come up with some options.”
Julia frowned. In her experience—okay, from what she saw on TV—designers rarely kept anything the same. They wanted to make a bold statement, something bright and flashy that held no reminders of what the space had looked like before. A designer would eradicate all the good years La Petite Bouchée had experienced. The happy memories that used to fill the space before time and customers began to slip away.
She wanted to bring that back, to revive the space, not revolutionize it. “Part of the restaurant’s heritage is in keeping things the same. If you change it too much, it’ll just be like any other restaurant.” It was a good point and one Julia was prepared to make over and over until he got it. “People will have no reason to come here.”
Donovan glanced around the room, which had emptied out completely while they talked. “Is anyone coming here now?”
She bristled at that. “They come. Just not often enough.”
“Exactly.”
