He glanced behind him at the closest wall and the photos displayed there. “I didn’t know.”
“And now you do.”
He straightened up. “Show me.” He started toward the wall she’d been staring at only a minute earlier. “Which ones are yours?”
Julia stood, too, slowly, trying not to drag her feet and wanting to all the same. There was no reason to think this was anything more than polite interest, and it provided her an excellent opportunity to sway him to her side. The photos weren’t just displayed at La Petite Bouchée; they were part of the restaurant. “This one.”
She pointed to the garden photo she’d taken when she’d first moved to Paris. She could still remember the day she’d taken it. A bad day when she’d been feeling lonely and lost, still working hard to be fluent in the language, and had just been thrown out of her first kitchen among extremely loud and spittle-laden cursing.
She knew it was a rite of passage, one that all young chefs experienced in this particular kitchen, but it was still difficult, and she’d promised herself that when she ran her own kitchen, she’d never do the same to anyone else.
“It’s beautiful.” Donovan stepped closer, really looking at the picture then back at her. And even though she hadn’t told him about the day she took it, she felt exposed, as if she’d just bared a piece of herself to him without realizing it. “Where’s the one your mom took? I’d like to see it.”
She felt her heart hiccup. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. She pointed it out anyway. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He was quiet as he studied the picture. “You can see the love.” And Julia felt her heart hiccup again. “The way you’re looking at her. You love her.”
“I do.” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “It was hard when she died.”
He only nodded and opened his arm, offering support if she wanted to take it. She did; she so did. But she was afraid to move.
“I was living in Paris when she got sick,” she told him. “But I haven’t gone back.” Hadn’t been able to. Not yet. “We had six months together.” To say those goodbyes that so many people never got the chance to say.
Julia knew she should consider herself lucky, but sometimes she was infuriated. She’d had only one parent. One lone family member. And that person had been stolen away. While other people had piles of family—aunts and uncles, parents and stepparents, brothers and sisters, and all sorts of second cousins and cousins once removed that they needed a spreadsheet to keep track of all of them. It wasn’t fair.
“And I don’t know why I’m unloading all of this on you.”
“I want to hear. Tell me about her.”
Julia clasped her hands together and looked at the picture of herself in the fountain as a little girl. Donovan was right; there was love in every aspect of the photo. The splash of the water. The way the sun shimmered on the water. The gleam in her eye. She knew her mother would have been looking at her with the same gleam. She drew in a deep shuddering breath and started talking.
She had Sasha to talk to, but she was conscientious about not dwelling on her loss, not bringing every conversation back to her mother. And she had the staff at work, but Julia had been careful not to exploit those relationships. She needed to seem in charge, and crying all over the dishwasher’s shoulder about the way her mother used to make beef stock wasn’t likely to inspire the kind of respect an executive chef needed.
She didn’t know why she felt comfortable talking to Donovan except that he’d asked to see the picture and had pointed out something that no one else had ever seen. Not even Julia, and she’d been looking at the photo from the time she was old enough to remember.
“She sounds special.”
Julia smiled. “She was.”
“I wish I’d had the chance to meet her.”
Julia’s throat clogged and she could only nod. Donovan took a step toward her and she met him partway, taking solace in his gentle hug. When she felt that the urge to cry had passed, she looked up. “Well, now that I’ve blabbed all my family secrets, you have to do the same. Tell me about your family.”
Donovan left his arm around her. She was glad. “My dad had a heart attack three months ago.”
Julia’s mouth fell open. “What? I hadn’t heard.”
“No, we kept it private. A family matter. He didn’t want people to know, didn’t want them to come bearing casseroles and other pity gifts.”
“So why are you telling me?” He simply looked down at her and she knew without him answering. He felt comfortable talking with her, too. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Oh, you will. We won’t be able to keep him cooped up permanently. My mother’s already threatened to lock him in his room if he doesn’t follow the doctor’s orders.”
Julia laughed, and it felt good. Knowing that other people’s parents recovered even if hers hadn’t.
“Donovan?” She lifted a hand to touch his cheek but stopped. What was she doing? Yes, they’d shared a moment, but that was it. She started to pull it back.
He caught her wrist and pressed a light kiss to her palm. “Thank you for telling me about your mother.”
She should look away, should step away. She didn’t.
It was a mistake. Suddenly, he was surrounding her. All dark and tall and staring down at her as if there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
Julia sucked in a breath. A quick one because she didn’t have time for more. And then his lips were on hers and her fingers were tangling themselves in his soft, dark hair, her body pressed into his tidy suit and she was just in the moment.
And not savoring it, either. Savoring was too wimpy a description for what they were doing, and Julia should know. She did plenty of savoring in her daily life. Taking a quick taste of sauce before adjusting spices, swirling and sipping wines to see what paired best with her dishes. If her staff were going to pitch pairings to the clientele, she needed to be sure they worked. Nibbling an appetizer from a competitor to ensure she tasted every component both alone and together. But this? This was no savoring.
Donovan’s mouth was pressed against hers, firm and demanding. Julia sank into it, allowing herself to revel in the moment even as she knew this wasn’t the way to help her career.
The way his hand slid up her back then back down before pulling her into him. The light bristle of stubble that scraped across her skin as he dragged his mouth across hers. The scent of strong basil. An herb she loved and always kept a fresh pot of on her windowsill.
She wanted more.
Donovan’s body rocked into hers, the press of his thigh between her legs. She felt her body relaxing. All those tight balls of tension that she carried around most days unwinding and slipping away, leaving behind pockets of heat.
His hand pressed her lower back, nudging her more tightly to him. Her muscles loosened, threatening to let go. If they’d been in a different space and different situation, she might have done it. Just let go. Might have peeled off her cashmere sweater and silk top. Might have shucked her jeans to the side and divested herself of her pretty bra-and-panties set and found a comfy spot—preferably one that was king-size and sturdy enough to handle some vigorous bouncing—to take this where it needed to go.
Because this didn’t have to be forever. What was one night? One afternoon? Her body melted against his, the press of hard pecs and firm abs against her softer physique. She liked her body, appreciated the difference between women and men. Hard planes to soft roundness. The contrast heightening the sensation.
His hand slid down to cup her ass, then up to finger the hem of her T-shirt. She slipped her hands under the collar of his coat and slid it down. It got caught on his shoulders, so she switched tactics, slipping her hands along his collarbone to unknot his tie and undo the first few buttons of his fancy dress shirt that probably cost as much as her sweater. Only she’d bet he’d paid full price and had a closet full of them. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was getting her fingers insi
de it so she could touch his bare skin.
She felt a sprinkling of hair on his chest, the sharp crispness of curls, and appreciated that he hadn’t waxed them away. She wasn’t into a pelt of hair the way Sasha was, but that was probably due to seeing one too many on the beaches of Europe. A hair sweater coupled with a banana hammock was enough to make a person lose their appetite for the rest of the day. But she didn’t think baby-soft smoothness was much better.
Donovan’s chest was just right. She undid a couple more buttons just to be sure and was rewarded when his fingers sneaked beneath her shirt to dance across her back. A trail of shivers followed his touch. And she felt a little shudder work its way through her body.
Maybe they could use a chair. They were getting rid of them anyway. And she was pretty agile. But then Donovan flicked his tongue against hers and moved his hand around to caress her stomach, and all thoughts about chairs and beds and using whatever apparatus was available flew out of her head on a wave of enjoyment.
She knew she should back away, gain her head and the thread of why she shouldn’t be kissing Donovan Ford in the middle of the restaurant.
She didn’t. Not until a knock on the door interrupted them.
“What the hell?” Donovan mumbled the questions against her lips, his hands still all over her. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.” Her staff never came in on their day off. She wouldn’t allow it, knowing they needed a break to decompress.
“Me neither.” He started kissing her again. She started to seriously wonder if the chairs could hold them. Or there was always a tablecloth laid across the floor. Or up against the wall. Donovan looked as if he was strong enough to support her in that position.
The second knock was louder, more insistent. Donovan groaned and rested his forehead against hers for a moment. “Don’t move,” he said and started buttoning his shirt over that gorgeous chest.
Julia drew in a breath and straightened her T-shirt and sweater, smoothed her hair, hoping it didn’t look as though some hot man had just had his fingers buried in it.
Donovan grinned at her over his shoulder as he headed toward the door. “That looks like moving.”
Well, sure, easy for him to joke. He wouldn’t be the one standing there mussed and half-undressed. “I didn’t see you staying still.”
“Someone has to answer the door.” He turned to look through the glass windows on either side of it. Julia couldn’t make out any faces, but apparently Donovan could because he swore.
“Who is it?” she asked, her fingers toying with the edge of her sweater.
“My family.” And Julia felt alarm and nerves rise up her throat as his entire family—Owen and Mal, and an older woman and man who, judging from appearances, could only be his parents—walked inside. Oh, God. Would they be able to tell she’d just been contemplating how to do Donovan in the restaurant?
Julia wasn’t sure if she should run or hide. She hesitated and then it was too late. Owen grinned and headed her way. Spotted. Left with no option but to stay and stand her ground or look like a nutcase, she chose the former.
“Jules.” Owen’s tone was warm and welcoming. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.” He greeted her with a brief hug.
Julia felt some of her nervous energy ease. She already knew Owen fairly well. On the nights that Donovan didn’t show up at the restaurant for dinner, Owen did. He had already offered some good suggestions on how she might smooth out some of the flaws in their front-end service. Julia got the feeling that Owen’s suggestions sometimes fell on deaf ears with his family, which she didn’t understand. He had a natural gift with customers and an ability to home in on the root cause of an issue and resolve it quickly without hurt feelings. Quite honestly, she wished she could hire him to be her restaurant manager, but she knew he was already working full-time at Elephants.
“Is my brother cracking the whip?” he asked as he released her from his tight hug. “Making you work extra hours?”
“No. I just happened to be in the area.” Julia swallowed her nerves and forced a smile. Mal waved hello as she slid out of her coat, showing off a gorgeous black suit that displayed her long legs and sleek figure. She and Mal had been in touch through email about a planned media blitz once the renovations were under way and Julia had the free time to give to it, and though they hadn’t spent time together in person, Julia liked her decisiveness and confidence.
There was no reason to be nervous. The Ford siblings were lovely people; there was no reason to think their parents would be any different.
“Julia.” Donovan’s voice spread through her like butter melting in a hot pan with a bubble and froth. “I’d like to introduce you to my parents, Evelyn and Gus Ford.”
Julia smiled at the couple. Evelyn was her height and slender with a bright smile and the same expressive eyes as Mal. She wore a beautiful wool coat in heather gray that Julia recognized as expensive and vintage. Gus was an older version of his sons. Both the older Fords wore friendly and interested expressions.
“Mom. Dad. This is Chef Julia Laurent.”
She was pleased that he’d used her title. Not everyone would have. But her nerves remained fluttering just below the surface. Julia inhaled slowly and reminded herself that although her lips were still tingling, there was no visible indication that she and Donovan had been engaging in some decidedly nonwork behavior in the dining room mere minutes earlier. She was simply the executive chef in to check on her kitchen and make sure everything was ready for tomorrow’s service. No making out in the dining room to be found here at all. Nope, not at all. Nothing to see here.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ford.” Julia held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
Mrs. Ford stepped forward, taking Julia’s hand in hers. “Forgive us for intruding. And please call me Evelyn.” She hugged her, surrounding Julia with warmth and a familiar feeling. That of being loved by her own mother. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but we’ve been so excited to meet you.”
They had? Julia stood still, caught by surprise and the rush of memory brought on by the hug. It reminded her of summer nights in Paris, of holding her mother’s hand as they tried out a new café by the Seine, of walking into the family kitchen where her mother was testing out a new recipe she wanted to put on the restaurant’s menu, and of those last days when her mother, laid up in a hospital bed and unable to handle much of her own basic needs, still insisted on dabbing the insides of her wrists and pulse points behind her ears with her signature scent.
She hugged Evelyn back, reveling in the thoughts of her own mother, appreciating the easy affection the Fords offered. Evelyn’s hold was soft and soothing and just for a moment Julia felt as if it was her own mom hugging her. Only it wasn’t and would never be again.
She swallowed the tears that prickled in the back of her throat. Yes, her mother was gone and she desperately missed that connection, but that didn’t mean she was going to cry all over a virtual stranger.
Still, when she moved to step back, Evelyn held on for one extra moment and then released her with a squeeze. “Welcome.”
And Julia felt the prickle return. Just a flash before it was replaced by a slow warmth that seeped through her and smoothed some of her jagged emotions.
“Thank you.” Julia wanted to say more but her throat was tight and mouthing platitudes was all she could manage. She settled for smiling, hoping what she felt inside showed on her face.
“Step aside. Step aside.” Gus, whose dark hair was the same shade as all three of his children’s and showed only a touch of lightening at the temples, moved to stand in front of her. He was tall with broad shoulders. His handshake was strong, no sign of the heart attack Donovan mentioned he’d suffered. His color was good, too. In fact, had she not known, Julia would never have guessed he’d suffered such a major health crisis a few months earlier.
Of course, Julia knew better than most how deceiving looks could be. Her mother hadn’t looked sick at all, not until her il
lness left her with only months instead of years. And even then, on her good days, Suzanne had looked like the same woman Julia had always known. A bit too thin and with a tendency to move gingerly, but not like a woman who would be dead within the year.
“Mr. Ford.” She pumped her hand up and down. “A pleasure.”
“Gus,” he corrected. “We don’t stand on ceremony in this family. And you’re one of us now.”
“One of us. One of us,” Owen chanted until Donovan pinned him with a glare. “One of us,” he whispered.
Julia bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to laugh. But it felt good to be referenced as part of the family. Even if Gus had only meant she was part of the business family, it was something, and more than many business owners were inclined to give.
“So tell us something about yourself, Julia.” Gus released her hand but remained close. “I understand you have some family history with the restaurant.”
Julia explained that her mother had worked in the kitchen of La Petite Bouchée for more than thirty years, starting as a sous chef and working her way up to the executive position. She didn’t say why she’d taken over for her mother or that she’d passed away, and she was grateful that Gus didn’t ask.
“Your mother might have been working here the night Evie and I got engaged. How long has it been? Thirty-one years?” He looked to his wife for confirmation.
“How old is your son?” Evelyn asked.
“Thirty-one?” Gus guessed, darting a glance at Donovan.
“Right age, wrong son,” Donovan said, coming over to stand beside his father and far too close to Julia for her comfort.
She eased over a step, but Gus and the rest of the family simply moved with her. All except Mal, who was looking over the mock-ups Donovan had left on the table.
“That’s one of the reasons we wanted to buy this particular space,” Gus said. “There’s history here and not just for us.”
Tempting Donovan Ford Page 7
