Tempting Donovan Ford (7 page)

The pair of men beside him were waiting for their table and chatting about their day. He eavesdropped, only half listening while he mentally planned the changes. New interior, new seats and bar stools, new menu. Then one of them said something that caught his ear.

“If this place didn’t look so terrible, I would totally consider having our wedding reception here.”

“Excuse me.” He turned on his friendly business smile. He was no Owen when it came to people skills, but he was entirely capable of holding his own. “I’m Donovan Ford. My family just bought this restaurant.” He shook their hands and proceeded to elicit their feelings on the restaurant.

They had a lot to say.

“So why do you come?” he asked after they’d filled him in on their many observances. Apparently, they came often. At least once a week.

“The food,” the dark-haired man said.

“As good as anything we had in Paris last year,” said the blond. “The chef is too good for this place. No offense.”

“None taken.”

The blond smiled. “I didn’t think she’d stay this long.”

“Have you been coming awhile?” Donovan was interested to hear this. Loyal, regular customers were the lifeblood of the industry. If these men were regulars, he wanted to know why.

“Oh, yeah, at least three years. We started coming because we were friends with Alain, the original owner. But when Julia took over cooking from her mom, we started coming for the food.”

“Her mom?” Donovan tapped a finger against the side of his coffee mug. What did her mother have to do with the restaurant?

“Suzanne was the chef here before she got sick. When she couldn’t work any longer, Julia came back to Vancouver to help. I think she only intended to stay until her mom got better...” His voice trailed off.

Donovan studied them, noting the sad tilt to their eyes. “But she didn’t.”

“No.” The brunette shook his head. “She died. We thought Julia might leave then. Go back to Paris.”

Donovan ignored the clamp of his own heart. His father had survived. According to the doctor, as long as he continued to take care of himself, Gus Ford would live a long life. “But she didn’t leave.”

“No, she settled in.” The dark-haired man smiled. “I think it’s sort of a tribute to her mother.”

Donovan could understand the desire. And felt as though maybe he knew Julia a little better than he had before.

He chatted with the men until they finished their drinks and moved to their waiting table. Then he waited for Julia.

* * *

J
ULIA REMAINED IN
the kitchen until the last plate was served and she was sure there were no further orders coming in before she made her way back into the dining room. She knew Donovan was still there. Had been informed by the staff the moment he’d left the table and taken up a stool at the bar instead of leaving.

The room was only a quarter full, which wasn’t terrible considering it had been only half-full this evening to begin with. She saw Donovan across the room, still sitting at the bar. He had a menu in his hand and was frowning. Even with twenty tables and about twenty-five feet between them, she could feel his magnetism. But that magnetism, that draw of attraction, wasn’t why she walked over. She was simply being polite, making nice with the new owner.

Still, when he noticed her, putting down the menu and focusing all his attention on her, Julia felt the pull all the way to her toes.

“Donovan.” She slid onto the stool beside him. “I didn’t expect you’d still be here.” A subtle hint that he shouldn’t be.

He smiled, either ignoring or missing the gentle rebuke. “I thought we could talk.”

“Oh?” The bartender, Stef, arrived to place a glass of water in front of her. Julia stilled the sudden fluttering in her chest with a sip of it and smiled at the woman who was working her way toward a law degree. “Thanks.”

“The menu’s dated,” Donovan said.

Julia stiffened. She knew the menu was dated. It hadn’t changed in thirty years. But her attempts to modernize it had fallen on deaf ears. First with Alain, who hadn’t wanted to change anything, and then with Jean-Paul, who’d refused to spend money.

She reminded herself that she should be grateful Donovan saw the need, too—she wouldn’t have to convince him—but something about his tone put her on the defensive. As if he thought she was the one responsible for it.

“I happen to agree. I hope this means you’re open to changing it.”

He nodded, his eyes already scanning the room. At least the space was decent. It needed a bit of polishing, but nothing major. Julia had convinced Alain to repaint the walls so they were a crisp white, and the photos on the walls were full of charm. A mix of pictures from Alain’s childhood in Bordeaux and some from her mother’s personal collection of travels through France. Besides the one of Julia playing in the fountain, there was also one she’d taken during her first year living in Paris. In her opinion, they created a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. A personalization that let diners know the meal wasn’t just about eating but was an experience.

The floor could use a good sanding and restaining to return it to its former golden glory and the light fixtures should be swapped out for something more current, but other than that, the restaurant looked nice. It was classic, like the food they served.

“And the space needs a major update.”

Apparently, Donovan Ford felt otherwise.

Julia felt the stiffness travel up her spine, across her shoulders and settle in her jaw. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?”

His eyes met hers and held. She felt that spark of attraction again and doused it with a quick toss of common sense, like flour on a grease fire. Always best to tamp those things out before they had a chance to catch.

“I’d say the renovations are a necessity. The seats aren’t comfortable.” He shifted as though to prove his point. “And the decor is at least twenty years out of style.”

Out of style? Well, only if you thought looking like the inside of a snowflake was style.

“It’s old-world,” she countered, recalling the lovely bistros and family-owned restaurants she’d favored during her years in Europe. She didn’t want La Petite Bouchée
to be quite as authentically homespun as that—it didn’t suit the food she wanted to serve—but the aesthetic of appearing like something that had lasted hundreds of years and would last hundreds more appealed to her. Classic was what she aspired to. Glossy white bar tops and Lucite seats were tomorrow’s Harvest Gold appliances and velvet wallpaper.

“It’s old-fashioned.” Donovan lifted one dark eyebrow, a quirk Julia always wished she’d been able to master. Mostly because she hated it being directed at her and wished she could do the same in return as a way to negate the skill. “Who is the target market?”

She scowled. “Are we talking about numbers, then?”

“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

J
ULIA 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.