Tempting Donovan Ford (21 page)

He had and he’d been pleased, even a little impressed. But still. “Elephants has always been a moneymaker.” Their first and finest. They could count on Elephants to offset start-up costs and other downward cycles in business in their other locations. Chalking up the wine bar’s success to Owen’s management as though it was sudden or some sort of turnaround felt disingenuous.

“You wouldn’t say that if Owen were a new hire. You’d promote him.” Mal leaned forward. “He’s ready.”

Donovan didn’t know if that was true. He didn’t know that it was false, either. But to gift Owen with La Petite Bouchée? When it had barely reopened? And was still finding its rhythm? Donovan shook his head.

It was entirely possible that Owen was ready for the extra responsibility and would shine in a new role. And it was also entirely possible that he’d get bored or decide the work was too hard or find something more exciting or any number of possibilities that would pull him in another direction. “He’s not reliable. We’ve all seen that.”

Which was why Owen had been given Elephants to oversee. With Jeannie in place and an already-solid customer base, it was a role that was impossible to mess up.

“He’s been more than reliable since Dad’s heart attack.”

Donovan exhaled. “He has, but what about when Dad comes back?”

“What about it?”

“Who’s to say that Owen won’t revert to his old ways? With enough of us to pick up the slack, I can’t say I feel confident that he’ll maintain his current attitude.” Donovan glanced at the budget, which had not crunched itself in the few minutes they’d been talking. “Look, why don’t we give it a trial run. Dad’s planning to return to the office in the next couple of weeks. We’ll see how that goes. If you still think Owen is ready once Dad’s been back for a month, then maybe we can give it a shot.”

“I don’t think we should wait that long.”

“That long? It’s not going to be more than six weeks. And we certainly waited long enough for Owen to show some initiative.”

Mal frowned. “They need someone at La Petite Bouchée now.” That was true. Julia had mentioned just the other day that they were understaffed for the amount of business now walking through the door. “Why don’t we give Owen the position as the trial run. He’s done a great job at Elephants.”

“Elephants is a bar.”

“It’s the same industry,” Mal retorted. “And they need someone immediately, not in six weeks after a series of interviews and reference checks. He already gets along well with Julia. Why don’t you ask her?”

Donovan clenched his hands more tightly. “Maybe I will.” Yeah, once he actually told her they were keeping the restaurant in the family.

“Oh, hell, no,” Mal said as if she’d plucked the words right out of his brain. “You haven’t told her that the sale is a no-go yet?”

He didn’t like being chastised by his younger sister. Well, anyone really, but especially not Mal, who used to look up at him with those hero-worship eyes. “I haven’t found the right time.” But he was making progress. He’d set up an appointment with the lawyer for Monday, and he saw no reason that they couldn’t have a contract drawn up before the end of next week. “I’ve got it under control.”

“No, you don’t. You so don’t.” Mal blew out a breath. The ends of her hair fluttered in the breeze she created. “The longer this goes on, the more difficult it will be. Just tell her.”

“I will.” He sounded whiny. He hated sounding whiny. “I have a plan, but not all the pieces are in place yet. It’s going to have to wait until after Mom and Dad’s party.” Which was happening on Sunday and already had things out of whack. Evelyn had insisted all three of her children arrive early to greet guests and fix any last-minute problems. Like Gus sneaking an unapproved beer.

“Nothing like putting it off another three days.”

“Give it a rest, Mal. I said I’ll handle it.” Perhaps not only with a stellar contract but with a good bottle of red wine and chicken parmigiana, which was his go-to meal. The one his mother had insisted he learn so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself, being in the food industry and unable to cook. A little wining and dining so Julia would be more open and amenable to the idea. He flicked a look at his sister. “And I don’t see you being forthcoming about your life.”

“We weren’t talking about me.” She sat back and crossed her legs. Her body language was clearly telling him to back off. But Donovan was tired of that.

“We weren’t talking about me, either.” Because what was good for her was good for him. “But maybe we should. Since you presume to comment on my personal life, I’m going to ask you. What’s going on with Travis?”

“Nothing.” But she pressed her lips together so tightly that they turned white. And her eyes seemed full of stories held at bay.

“Really? So you just decided to stop wearing his ring?” Donovan noted the flick of her hand to her throat, as though the physical movement might capture any words that tried to spill out. “What happened in Aruba last month?”

Her eyes grew darker. “I told you—nothing.”

“And I don’t believe you.” They were both silent for a moment, only the low hum of office technology in the room.

Mal wasn’t happy. That much was evident. But exactly how unhappy Donovan couldn’t be sure. She showed up to work, was polite to the staff and was always well-groomed. But he was pretty sure her social life was on a ventilator. And whatever had happened with Travis was the cause.

He exhaled. He wasn’t trying to be a dick, even if Mal might not see it that way. “It might help to talk.”

“I know.” Her voice snapped through the air. “But forgive me if I don’t feel like talking about my sex life to my brother.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Donovan held up his hands to ward off any future sexually related information. “I just want to know that you’re okay. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a virgin.”

She sent him a withering look, but there was a hint of a smile behind it. Donovan knew that look. “Remember Max Thibodeau?”

“No, I do not.” He did. The son of one of their father’s friends. Spoiled and a little wild. Last Donovan had heard, Max had two baby mamas and was living in Australia.

“Well, the summer I was sixteen—”

“You win.” Donovan knew when to concede. Mal was more stubborn than he was, and if he didn’t want to be scarred for life, he needed to stop this tale of...well, tail immediately. “No more discussing our personal lives.”

“Good.” She nodded as if she’d just won. Which she had. “So back to Owen and how you’re going to ask him to manage La Petite Bouchée as well as Elephants.”

“Seriously. Like a dog with a bone.”

“Did you just call me a dog?” Mal narrowed her eyes. “Don’t forget, I know where your skeletons are buried. And I have friends in the media. Who would only be too happy to run a story on you with family photos.”

“Would you really do that to your favorite brother?”

“Of course not. Besides, Owen hasn’t done anything to piss me off in a while.” She flashed him a cheeky grin. And even though it was putting him in his place, Donovan was glad to see it. Glad to see any flash of the Mal he knew.

“All right. I’ll consider the suggestion. Now, get out of here. And stop talking about your sex life.”

“I will.” She pushed herself out of the chair and moved toward the door. “But only because I don’t have one to speak of.”

“Still talking.” Donovan closed his eyes, as if that might also close his ears to anything else she had to say, and didn’t open them until he heard her laugh trailing down the hall, back to her own office.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. Seriously, he was a saint. A bloody saint. Well, except for the fact that he still had to tell Julia that her dream of owning La Petite Bouchée had taken a serious hit. His stomach muscles cramped. But at least he was working on a plan.

Still, even with the plan, guilt suffused his body. He should never have let it go on this long. He was taking her as his date to his parents’ party. He wanted to introduce her as his girlfriend. He wanted to be the only man in her life. And, oh, by the way, he wanted her to be just fine with the fact that he was stripping away her chance at owning the restaurant she thought of as hers.

He forced himself to relax. It would still be practically hers. None of them had any intention of limiting her role or lessening her leadership. The restaurant would still look the way she wanted. Would still serve the food she wanted. Would still have her name on the window by the front door. She just wouldn’t have to deal with all the headaches that came with being an actual owner. So maybe this was a good thing.

And with the right ambience, the right mood, the right wine, maybe everything would work out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HIS WAS SO
not how today was supposed to go.

Julia ran around the kitchen at La Petite Bouchée wondering just where and when things had gone wrong. Really, it was a comedy of errors here today. She’d been in early to do prep for the evening service since she was going to be at the Fords’ party instead of the restaurant. But her chopping had come to a halt around noon when one of her suppliers had called to tell her that they weren’t able to fill her weekly delivery tomorrow but would try to swing by on Thursday instead. Which, yeah, not so much. She needed that product to feed her customers on Tuesday and Wednesday.

After phoning around, calling in favors and threatening to change suppliers entirely, Julia had gotten him to agree to provide an extremely thinned-down order. Which was better than nothing. So along with prep, she’d needed to come up with an appealing nightly special that would convince diners to order it instead of off the menu. Then two of her sous chefs had called in sick. Though she suspected it was less 24-hour bug and more “out too late last night and don’t feel like getting out of bed,” which was tantamount to quitting in the restaurant industry. She’d already made some calls and had Sasha do the same to try to fill the positions as quickly as possible with employees who could be counted on. And if that weren’t enough, her acting floor manager had quit, stating that the job was more stressful than he wanted and he’d decided to go find himself in a Buddhist monastery. Which was good for him, but did he have to wait until they were two hours from opening to tell her?

She’d almost called Donovan then, explained the situation and why she couldn’t go to the party, but Sasha refused to hear of it. “Hells, no. You’re finally getting a little something-something. I’m not about to let you blow that.”

“He’ll understand.” Julia chopped more quickly and checked the burner under her saucepan.

“I won’t. It’s almost like you think
I
can’t handle it. I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly capable of holding down the kitchen. In fact, I do it every night you’re off.” Sasha poured some wine into a different pan, which sizzled and spat.

Julia knew that was true. But she hadn’t taken a night off since La Petite Bouchée’s
reopening and she didn’t feel right leaving Sasha in the weeds. No, this couldn’t even be classified as the weeds. It was more like a jungle that required a machete to get out of. Or a really excellent chef knife. “I know you can handle it. But this isn’t a normal night. You need all hands on deck.”

“No. I need you to get out of here, go home, get into a sexy dress and have a good night. You deserve it.”

“Sash...”

“Don’t make me threaten to tell the staff that the reason you’re so calm even while things are crazy in here is because you’re finally getting properly rogered.”

“Rogered?” Julia looked up from her sauce.

“Shagged, smushed, played hide the salami.”

“Please stop.”

“I will.” Sasha winked. “When you leave.”

But Julia had stayed another two hours, until service actually began, before letting Sasha shoo her out the door. She’d called Donovan to let him know that she’d be late and she’d find her own way to his parents’ house.

After a shower that might have set land speed records and putting on her five-minute face, which she’d learned in Paris from a gorgeous model, she climbed into a cab and gave the driver the Fords’ address.

The good thing about being so busy was that she hadn’t had time to think about the party. But by the time her cab pulled up in front of Gus and Evelyn’s house, her stomach was in full roil mode. Maybe because it was more of a mansion than a house.

Julia swallowed the nerves that rose up the back of her throat. There was no reason to feel anxious, no need to feel scattered. If the kitchen hadn’t undone her, a simple house party should be nothing. And yet, her legs felt wobbly as she got out of the cab and stared up at the house.

A young man in a red blazer stepped forward to shut the cab’s door and point her up the steps to the front door. She blinked at him. A valet? They actually had valets tonight? Another man in the same red blazer walked up the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. Yep, most definitely valets. She’d never been to a private home that had valets before. But then, she generally didn’t attend parties that took place in mansions.

She tried to shove the nerves aside. The Fords weren’t the old-money, snobby, nose-and-pinkie-in-the-air types she’d run into in Europe. They weren’t the trashy nouveau types, either, always bragging about brand-name this and designer-label that, who liked to think they ran Vancouver’s social scene. They were a loving and hardworking family who’d simply used good business sense and made smart decisions to turn their effort into a lot of money.

Yes, the Fords were wealthy. But she already knew that, had known before she’d even met them. They were also perfectly lovely and down-to-earth. And if they had valets, Julia knew it was to make the lives of their guests easier, not to brag or show off.

The house was gorgeous, all stone and glass, a slightly less glossy version of the decor in all their wine bars. It suited the landscape, the warm and welcoming glow of interior lights shining through the windows. It made her feel a little less uncomfortable. And she knew she looked the part, though her shoes pinched her feet.

Julia was used to the discomfort that came from standing for hours at a time. She just didn’t usually do it wearing a cocktail dress and three-inch heels. But jeans and flats weren’t appropriate for this party, and despite the fact that this wasn’t her normal attire, she felt good in it. She’d splurged on the classic dress when she’d lived in Paris. It had eaten up half her food budget for the month, but she’d been unable to return it to the rack after seeing it on her body. And nothing had changed since that first time she’d tried it on.