Tempting Donovan Ford

by Jennifer Mckenzie

  “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.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JULIA WOKE UP after only a few hours of sleep, and instead of rolling over and drifting back off, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking. Alone with her thoughts didn’t always feel like a good place to be. Not when her head was filled with worries about the restaurant. Or worse, like this morning, memories of her mother.

  Julia had always planned to come back to Vancouver after she got all her European living out of her system, her various training at both Michelin-starred and nonrated establishments. She’d thought she’d have years left to live in the same city as her mother. And instead, she’d received a phone call one hot August afternoon just before her twenty-eighth birthday. Only, instead of hearing her mom’s cheerful voice on their weekly phone call, it had been Alain telling her that she needed to come home because her mother wasn’t well.

  It had scared her. Badly. And when she’d gotten hold of her mother—while sitting at the Orly airport in Paris, waiting for her flight to Vancouver to board—she’d heard the truth in her mother’s voice. That she’d been sick for some time. That she hadn’t wanted to tell Julia because she’d believed she was going to get better and hadn’t wanted to worry her. And that the doctor’s prognosis had been dire during her last checkup and he’d recommended that Julia return to Vancouver. Now.

  But her sudden return had given Julia something besides the fear that she was about to lose her mother. It gave her the chance to get to know her mother through the eyes of an adult instead of a teenager. The opportunity to share their love of food and each other. Most important, the time to say goodbye.

  Which was still hard to accept some days. When the ache in her heart refused to be eased, Julia went to the restaurant. The one place that felt truly instilled with her mother’s essence. Her joy of cooking and spirit of life. And in those moments, she truly saw what La Petite Bouchée had once been and could be again.

  So she pulled on her favorite jeans, the comfy ones that had been broken in just right and didn’t require her to wear five-inch heels, a simple silk T-shirt and a cashmere cardigan that she’d gotten 80 percent off years ago and still wore on a regular basis.

  Her mom had been the same way with her clothing, choosing quality over quantity. Julia’s closet wasn’t bursting at the seams with the latest styles and trends, and she didn’t have a different outfit for every occasion. What she did have were classic pieces that fit any situation. A little black dress that could be dressed up with sleek heels and pearls for a night of formal dining or paired with colorful flats and a printed scarf for a casual drink on a sunny patio. A beautifully cut blazer that she could wear with a skirt and kitten heels for a business meeting or skinny pants and leopard-print ballet flats for drinks after work.

  And it meant that she didn’t need to update her wardrobe every season or even every year. She simply added a few inexpensive accessories to keep her look fresh and in tune with what was in the fashion magazines.

  She made coffee, deciding to forgo the stop at one of the many artisan coffeehouses that dotted the Vancouver landscape. She was a woman who needed to save her pennies, not for another pair of shoes, but to purchase her restaurant. Though her pennies weren’t ever going to amount to the asking price, the more she could contribute to the pot, the larger the stake she’d hold.

  She also felt it increased her bargaining power. She wasn’t going into meetings with nothing to her plan but her name and a dream. She had her own hard-earned cash to put down, too. It helped not only to prove her own seriousness and determination in taking on the project, but also invited the same from her backers. She exhaled. Of course, that was assuming the Fords put the place back on the market.

  But she had no reason to think they wouldn’t. Donovan had seemed serious about wanting to sell and he’d never been afraid to share his true feelings. He certainly hadn’t spared hers when he’d talked about the current decor.

  She probably shouldn’t enjoy his company as much as she did. He was a distraction and one she couldn’t afford. But when he wasn’t insulting her restaurant’s looks, he was charming and interesting. He’d traveled a fair bit—not as much as she had, but then, he hadn’t lived overseas for six years, either.

  Her heart didn’t feel quite as heavy when she slipped into the back door of the restaurant. She expected to be greeted by cool silence, the kind that floated over her and soothed her irritations. The kind she could bask in for a couple of hours or longer since La Petite Bouchée was closed on Mondays. Instead, she heard voices coming from the dining room.

  Someone was here? Her heart thumped once and then calmed. There was no need to worry. Although she hadn’t expected company, the restaurant was a busy place and she wasn’t the only person w
ith keys. Sasha had a set, as did her floor manager, and the Fords would have a set. And whoever was inside certainly wasn’t making any attempt to be quiet. She thought she recognized the low timbre of Donovan’s voice.

  Julia pushed open the swinging doors and found Donovan in gorgeous black wool pants, a blue dress shirt and a charcoal sweater, standing with a trio of strangers. The trio were nodding and draping bolts of fabric over everything that stood still. The designers.

  She felt a small niggle of apprehension. Donovan hadn’t mentioned anything about the designers coming in this morning. And he’d been here after closing last night. Of course, he didn’t have to tell her everything.

  He must have heard the doors because he looked up when she walked into the dining room and smiled. Julia felt a low thrum run through her. “Julia. Come in. Meet the design team.”

  The team of three, two men and one woman, all looked the same. Three variations on tall and skinny, with sable hair and blue eyes, clad in black with one single focal point, or as they would probably phrase it, “a pop of color.” One of the men had a striped purple tie, the other wore sapphire-colored cuff links with matching shoes, and the woman, who seemed to be in charge of the trio, had a gorgeous scarf in red, pink and orange, as if the sunset had been swirled onto the fabric before being draped around her neck.

  They each greeted Julia politely if a bit indifferently. She wasn’t sure if that was because they didn’t like anyone who might have an opinion on their style selections joining them or they were simply going for that mannequin effect. There wasn’t a wrinkle or a hair out of place on any of them. By comparison, she and Donovan both looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed after some hot and sweaty sex.

  Julia felt her cheeks heat and pushed the thought away. Donovan and her bed were two things that didn’t mix outside her fantasy life.

  “Are we picking colors?” she asked when she reached the group.

  “No. We’re merely getting a feel for the space.” The woman started talking while the two men began gathering up the bolts. Her words were full of terms like “flow” and “maximizing table space.” Whether the new bar should be in dove gray or champagne and questions on whether the accents should be silver or gold. It sounded beautiful but cold and a clear imitation of the Fords’ other bars.

  Julia listened, gathering information and context. When the designers finished extolling their grandiose plans and gathering their materials, they left. Julia waited until the door clicked shut behind them before she looked at Donovan. “I thought we agreed that I would be a part of the design discussions.”

  Donovan pulled out a chair that had been draped with a burnt orange—no, just no—and sat down. Julia sat down, too. “It was unplanned. The designer called this morning with a free block of time, and I took her up on it so we could get things moving.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You said last night that you were looking forward to sleeping in today.” He reached out to touch the back of her hand. “Nothing has been decided yet. It was only an initial meeting to get a scope of time and cost. I didn’t think you needed or wanted to be involved in those aspects.”

  “Well, I do.” She wanted to have a say in everything. “The space has to reflect the menu and service. Those are my domains.”

  Donovan nodded. “How do you picture the space?”

  She looked around, picturing her favorite spaces in her mind and superimposing them on the room around her. “Pretty much the same. Just fresher. Maybe some new chairs and stools for the bar, a softer color on the walls.” The white was a bit bland with no other design to highlight, but it was a lot better than burnt orange. “Some updated light fixtures.” She glanced up at the chandelier, which was the one piece she wouldn’t change. It was huge and gorgeous, all crystal and platinum swoops of sparkle. “Maybe a ceiling medallion to highlight the chandelier.”

  “And what about the floors? The bar? The poor use of space?” He squeezed her hand and heat shot through her. “Julia. We have to make changes.” His dark eyes seemed to tilt down at the corners. “We can’t leave it as it is and expect anything else to change.”

  “We could. With the marketing campaign, we’ll gain new business.” All they really needed was for people to remember they were there, to walk through the door and taste the food for themselves.

  “But they won’t come back.” He let go of her hand and sat back. “They’ll take one look at this place and decide it’s not cool or hip or whatever.”

  “This isn’t about being cool or hip or whatever.” La Petite Bouchée was classic and would stand the test of time.

  Donovan ran a hand through his hair. “Actually, it is. We need the social scene to give it the stamp of approval. Once we’ve got that—”

  “But we’re not a bar,” Julia interrupted. She understood where he was coming from. The part of the industry that relied on the young and pretty to fill their tables and their coffers. But a restaurant was different. And she felt as if everything was changing so fast. As if her life was once again in upheaval. “We need the foodies.”

  “Julia, the foodies are the social scene. And right now, you and your food are being wasted.”

  She sat up straighter, stinging from the implication that her food, her staff wouldn’t be good enough on their own. “I think my food speaks for itself.”

  He reached out and caught her hand when she started to stand. “The decor, the layout, even the menu is working against you right now. I want to bring everything in line to work together.”

  His hand was large and strong but held her fingers loosely enough that she could break free if she wanted to. She should want to. His eyes drilled into hers, searching. “Why are you so afraid of change?”

  “I’m not afraid.” But her pulse pounded in her ears and made her vision shimmer for a second. “I just don’t think we need to change for the sake of change.”

  It felt as if her whole life had been nothing but change for the past two years. A sick mother, taking over the restaurant, dealing with Alain’s death and then the nightmare that had been Jean-Paul’s reign. And now the Fords also wanted to do things their way.

  Was it so wrong to want a little stability? A little time-out so she could get her legs under her and figure out what to do next?

  She studied his hand as it curled over hers. They looked good together. Strong and supportive. “I just don’t want to see this place turned into a replica of every other restaurant out there. I don’t want us to lose what makes us different, special.”

  The parts that reminded Julia of her mother and the traditions she’d built during her ten-year tenure as executive chef in the kitchen.

  Suzanne Laurent had been part of the heyday of La Petite Bouchée as a junior kitchen slave, and she’d always believed that with hard work and a concerted effort it could be a top-tier restaurant again. Given a little more time and money, maybe she’d have been able to get it there. Now it was up to Julia.

  “And you think that’s what I want?” His voice was low and serious. Sexy.

  Julia looked up from their hands. It wasn’t a connection she could pursue anyway. Even if they did look like something sculpted by Michelangelo. She tugged free and put her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what you want, Donovan. You say you want to sell the restaurant and know that I’m an interested buyer. Yet you don’t include me on the decisions that will affect the future of the restaurant. Wouldn’t it make more sense to get my opinion?”

  There was a pause, a long, silent pause. She could hear the rumble of voices outside, tourists braving the February weather to visit the popular market next door, and the whoosh of cars and wind. He nodded slowly. “Of course. You’re right.” He stood. “Come and look.”

  He led her to another table to a trio of poster-board mock-ups. “These are just some ideas based on my suggestions and work the designer has done for us in the past.” His arm brushed hers as he pointed, and his scent filled her head. That spicy,
clean scent that made her think of the windowsill herb garden she’d had in Paris.

  Julia prepared herself for shiny white and lots of cold, oversize mirrors. A restaurant version of Elephants. Instead, she saw something more beautiful than she’d imagined.

  Louis XVI oval-back chairs in dark wood and a silky ivory moiré. The golden parquet floor replaced with light gray wood. The walls were no longer slabs of plain white decorated only with scattered pictures, but had strips of white wood installed as panels, and the walls themselves were a foggy gray with mirrors and other objets d’art. The bar was longer, stretching to fill up that awkward corner that was too small for a table and too big for a plant.

  It looked like her restaurant, only better. So much better.

  She inhaled, sucking in wonder, excitement and eau de Donovan. God, he smelled good. She shoved that discomforting realization out of her head. No matter what she might personally think of Donovan Ford, he was off-limits.

  How could she grow her own name, increase her cachet in a city full of world-class chefs if she allowed herself to be waylaid by the first amazing-smelling man to cross her path?

  Julia concentrated on the mock-ups in front of her, on the impersonal wall displays, and her gaze skittered up to the photos that were hung there now. The walls of La Petite Bouchée were currently covered in personal photographs taken by current and former staff that displayed a French life in stunning black-and-white imagery. They were part of the restaurant’s tradition.

  “I want to keep the photos on the walls,” she told Donovan, turning her face from the pictures to look up at him. He leaned over her, one hand planted on the table as he, too, reviewed the papers on the table.

  He glanced down, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Why?”

  Julia swallowed, told herself she should really break this eye lock or at least shift in her chair so their bodies weren’t so close to touching. “They’re part of the restaurant’s history. Of all the people who worked here.” At his furrowed brow, she explained. “They’re our pictures. Alain’s photos of his childhood home, a picture I took of the Tuileries Garden my first winter in Paris, one that my mom took of me the first time she took me to France, one that Sasha took when she went to the French Alps last year.”