Jennifer McKenzie - Tempting Donovan Ford

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.