Jennifer McKenzie - Tempting Donovan Ford

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 with 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?”