She shook her head. “That you love me.”
“Yeah.” His voice came out so rough, he cleared his throat. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”
“But... Don’t you want children of your own?”
“You’re saying you don’t?” He was getting more baffled by the minute.
“No, it’s not—” She chewed on her lip. “It’s just...I don’t know if you’re that serious about me, but—”
God. This was like stepping out on a high wire, and him scared shitless of heights. “I want you to marry me.”
She stared and then whispered, “Oh.”
A laugh that held no humor whatsoever huffed out of him. “Guess I shocked you.”
“It’s just...you’ve seen.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes beseeching. “Jeff was right. If I have more kids, we’d be lucky if they were like Mark.”
He felt like a cartoon character with a lightbulb popping into sight above his head. The asshole had convinced her she was flawed down to the DNA level.
“Yeah.” He smiled at her and took her upper arms in his hands, squeezing gently. “We would be. He’s a great kid. I wouldn’t mind having another one like him.”
Her lips parted, closed, parted again. “But...but what if we have one like Bridget?”
“Then we’ll love her, just as your parents love your sister.” He shook his head. “Is this what’s been the problem, Ciara? Or can’t you love me?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes at the same time as she laughed. “Of course I love you! I’d be crazy not to.”
He lifted a hand to wipe away tears. “I’m not that good a deal.”
“You are the most amazing man I’ve ever met.” Ciara sniffed. “Sexy, too.”
He had no doubt his grin looked as foolishly hopeful as he felt. “Yeah, I’ve spent my life fighting women off.”
“You did try.”
“Yeah.” His smile died. “I swore I’d never go here again. Staying to myself was easy until you and Mark showed up.”
Her gaze searched his again. She seemed unconscious of her wet cheeks. “You’re already more of a father to Mark than his own ever has been. You really won’t mind that?”
“I’d be proud to claim him as my son.” That required another throat-clearing. “You’re sure, Ciara?”
She flung her arms around him, rising on tiptoe to press her mouth clumsily to his. Gabe took control of the kiss immediately, wrapping her tight in his arms and swinging her in a slow circle as he tasted and claimed, his tongue met by hers.
He was painfully aroused when he wrenched his mouth from hers. “Do you think he’ll really stay put?”
The beautiful woman in his arms gave an impish smile. “If not—there’s a lock on my bedroom door.”
Gabe laughed, swept her off her feet and started up the stairs. “I can ignore him on the other side of the door if you can.”
* * *
CIARA ENDED UP sprawled atop him, her head resting in the hollow below his shoulder, her hand over his heart, hammering as hard as her own. He let out a slow groan that had her laughing.
He lifted his head enough to give her a wicked smile, one side of his mouth higher than the other. “Can we get married soon?”
“So we can do this every day?”
His head dropped back to the pillow, although she could see the groove in his cheek that told her he was still smiling. “Maybe twice. Or three times. You know, with us both working from home, we can coordinate our breaks.”
Ciara giggled. “Especially once Mark is in school.”
“Yeah.” There was a moment of silence. “You think he’s going to be okay with us? Or, I guess I should say, with me?”
“He worships the ground you walk on.”
“He might be jealous.”
“He’s going to be thrilled,” she said with sudden certainty.
His hand stroked down her back, the roughness of his fingertips astonishingly sensuous. “Much as I’d like to make love with you again, I keep wondering what he’s gotten up to.”
“He wouldn’t be using your saws without you, would he?” Buoyant with happiness, she couldn’t feel the alarm she probably should.
“Nope. Locked the workshop.”
“Maybe he’s decided to saddle up Hoodoo.”
He sat up, effortlessly setting her beside him. The skin beside his eyes crinkled in a smile that didn’t reach his lips. “Now you’ve scared me. I’ll retrieve him.”
Suddenly worried, she sat up, too, by instinct grabbing a pillow to clutch in front of her. “We’ll almost have to live in your house, won’t we?”
His eyebrows rose. Getting out of bed, he stretched, giving her a lovely view of his powerful body. “Yeah. You don’t have a barn adequate for my workshop. Does the idea bother you?”
“I was more worried about whether it would bother you. I mean, I don’t want you to feel as if you’re replacing your wife and daughter.”
Gabe stood looking down at her, his boxers and jeans hanging from his hand. “I think they’d be happy for me. If Ginny could have seen me these past few years, she was probably shaking her head in disgust. No, it’s time I do some work on the old place. Make it our home.” His mouth quirked. “Starting with new kitchen cabinets.”
“Well, now, there’s a concept,” she teased. “We could go to The Home Depot in Spokane—”
He gave her a dark look as he stepped into his pants and zipped them up. “If you’re real nice, I might let you have some say in what they look like.”
“Thank you, sir.” She hugged the pillow harder, older fears not quite gone. “You’re sure...?”
“Yeah.” That deep voice was impossibly tender as he flattened a hand on the bed and bent to kiss her. “We’ll tear out some walls, modernize—”
“Get rid of the wallpaper in the living room.”
“Meant to do that years ago.” He momentarily disappeared as he retrieved his shirt from the floor, coming up with her bra and shirt, too. His face was suddenly expressionless. “Your parents going to be disappointed?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! They loved you! They’ll be thrilled.”
“Okay.” He didn’t look entirely convinced, but sat down to pull on his socks and boots. Then he gave her another amused, sexy smile. “I’m off to get your kid. You might want to be dressed when we get back.”
She stuck out her tongue.
He laughed and left.
* * *
GABE FOUND MARK sitting on the fence, chewing on a strand of hay and running his fingers through Aurora’s forelock. She appeared half-asleep, her eyelids heavy. She stayed dozing when Mark clambered down.
“What were you doing?” he demanded. “Your computer is really slow. I was thinking of saddling Aurora and riding.”
Gabe smiled. “That would have been okay.”
The boy’s face brightened. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, then...can I? I mean, now?”
“No, your mom’s expecting you.” He hesitated. “Why don’t I throw your bike in the back and drive you home?”
“Okay.” He waited until both were in the cab. “Did you and Mom talk?”
“Yes. Thanks to you.” Should he wait until they were all together to tell him? Gabe’s instinct said this was the time. “I asked your mother to marry me.”
“Marry you?” Mark said it as though the concept was utterly foreign to him. “You mean, like, we’d all live together?” he said finally, awkwardly.
“Yeah. It’ll mean moving again for you. Because of my workshop, you and your mother will have to move into my house.” Gabe wondered if Mark had noticed the positive verb tenses.
“We’d live here?” He turned his head, as if he’d never seen Gabe’s plain farmhouse or the two big barns and other outbuildings.
“Yes.”
“Like...like you were my father?”
It caught at Gabe’s throat, how off-handed Mark was trying to sound. As
if he could shrug off a hurtful answer.
“I will be your stepfather.”
He sat for a minute, taking it in. “Did Mom say yes?”
“She did.”
“And...and Watson and Daisy can live here, too?”
“Yep.” Gabe reached out and squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “They’ll be our dogs. Just like Aurora and Hoodoo will be our horses.”
The boy’s screamed “Ye-es!” came close to splitting Gabe’s eardrums.
But they were both grinning when he put the truck in gear.
And everything in Gabe settled when they reached Ciara’s house, and he saw her come out on the porch. Mark threw himself out of the truck and tore up the steps to grip her in a rare hug.
“We can have dinner together every night!” he exclaimed.
Gabe had forgotten what real happiness felt like. He hadn’t expected a second chance. Had resisted the idea.
He was the luckiest guy on earth.
A dog trying to trip him all the way up the stairs, he couldn’t take his gaze off the woman and boy he loved.
“Tell you what,” he told her. “I’ll even let you pick the color next time I paint the house.”
He didn’t think he’d mention how long it had taken Ephraim’s heir to sell this house. What the hell. Maybe they’d do better this time around.
A smile sneaked up on him. Hey, maybe having new neighbors wasn’t such a bad thing.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from TEMPTING DONOVAN FORD by Jennifer McKenzie.
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CHAPTER ONE
JULIA LAURENT HAD always liked traditions. Turkey at Thanksgiving, cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning, strawberry pie in the summer. Classics. Things that stood the test of time.
She hummed as she stepped out of the cold, midmorning January air and into the back entrance of her restaurant, La Petite Bouchée. Though her name wasn’t on the deed, in every other way the space was hers. As executive chef, she’d lovingly tweaked the menu, hung some of her own personal photos on the walls and trained the staff. She’d spent the past two years building traditions and trust, taking the routines her mother had started in the kitchen and making them better. In time, she was certain her name would be listed on the deed, too.
Assuming she could ever get Jean-Paul, current owner and massive pain in her ass, to agree to terms.
Still, she was satisfied. Jean-Paul had no interest in the restaurant. He’d inherited the Vancouver property six months ago and had been looking to sell it ever since. And she had financial backers and an offer on the table. As soon as they could come to an agreement, La Petite Bouchée would be hers.
Julia unwound her scarf as she passed through the delivery bay and into the long hallway that led to the staff rooms and her office. The kitchen would already be buzzing. Prep chefs would be chopping, dicing and julienning the mise en place for tonight’s service. Stocks and sauces would be simmering on the burners. Veggies tourneed, beans soaking.
And Sasha, her closest friend and sous chef, flying out of the swinging doors toward her. “Julia.”
Julia stopped and stared. Sasha looked harried and not the normal busy-kitchen harried. More like the sky was falling. Or they’d run out of chicken.
“Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” There was a spatter of brown sauce on Sasha’s chef coat and a dusting of flour on her cheek.
“My phone?” Julia frowned and pulled the device out of her bag. A black screen looked back at her even when she tapped the power button. Obviously, she’d forgotten to plug it in last night. Again. Which was why people rarely called her on it. Something Sasha well knew. “It’s out of juice. Why?”
“Never mind.” Sasha waved away the concerns of the dead phone. “You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?” Julia felt a trickle of unease run down her spine, but she kept her expression cool. Sasha might be one of the few people she felt close to, but at the restaurant, Julia needed to appear in charge at all times. It was key to the authority structure of the kitchen.
“Jean-Paul sold the restaurant.”
Julia’s stomach dropped. Actually it took a skydive off a skyscraper and splatted on the concrete sidewalk. But she didn’t even flinch. She’d trained in some of the toughest kitchens in Paris. She’d mislabeled food in the walk-in and had her chef throw it all over her and the floor before insisting that she clean the cooler and relabel everything. She’d fired salmon too early and put the entire kitchen in the weeds on a night when they were serving the prime minister and other heads of state. And she’d made it through without losing her job or her cool. She knew how to hide fear. “He sold the restaurant.”
“Yes.” Sasha’s huge green eyes looked worried. “And the new owner is here.” Sasha’s gaze darted back toward the kitchen door. “I tried to call you.”
Julia dropped her phone back into the depths of her bag, where she’d probably forget to charge it again tonight. “I see.”
But she didn’t see. Jean-Paul had sold? And not to her?
“Where is the new owner?” Julia fought back the rise of terror. She had no information, nothing to make an informed decision with.
“I set him up in the dining room. He’s been waiting there about twenty minutes. He’s a Ford.”
Julia knew the name. The restaurant industry was a small one and everyone either knew or knew of each other. The Fords ran a string of well-respected, well-run wine bars that populated Vancouver’s hot spots. She’d been to one last month and been pleased with the friendly service, decent selection of wines and small plates that could be ordered à la carte or in pairs with the wine. But running a bar was nothing like running a restaurant. Nothing at all.
Oh, God. Her restaurant.
La Petite Bouchée had a great location on Granville Island, which was actually a peninsula not an island, located on False Creek across from the downtown core. Once a premier eating spot, over the past couple of decades it had fallen out of favor with local foodies and been replaced by hipper establishments that catered to the city’s adventurous palates. But Julia thought—no, knew—she could turn that around, given the necessary time and money.
The restaurant didn’t need a complete overhaul. It was full of old-world charm and she’d put her food up against anyone else’s. But... A chilly dread crept over her. Was it possible that the Fords had bought the place simply to turn it into another wine bar? Was the owner here now to tell her to pack her things and get out?
Julia swallowed the sick feeling that was trying to rise. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, show weakness. “I’ll go speak with him.”
She used her chef voice, the one that accepted nothing but absolute obedience. The deference of cooks to those above them in the line of command was key. One person who didn’t follow orders could lead to a complete breakdown. An entire table’s meal needing to be remade because someone didn’t fire the steak on time or the veggies weren’t ready. And that didn’t just affect one table—it was a domino effect, rippling through the restaurant as other orders backed up. Julia’s biggest job was ensuring that this happened. Every service. Every night.
But she wished she’d worn something nicer today. Of course, she hadn’t expected to meet a new owner. Up until two minutes ago, she’d thought she would be the next owner of the restaurant. At least her jeans were clean and her sweater was
cashmere. Julia didn’t have closets full of clothing, but the pieces she owned were expensive and classic. Something she’d picked up from living in France for six years before returning to Vancouver.
Julia took the time to open her office and remove her scarf and coat, to check her teeth and smooth her hair. Then she steeled her spine and headed out to face whatever might be waiting for her. She had no clue what the Fords intended to do with the restaurant or with her. But if she was going to get fired, she’d do it in style, looking as cool and chic as any Parisienne.
The sounds of the kitchen washed over her as she walked toward the dining room. Noises that normally relaxed her, the clink of spoons and pots, the hiss of sauces reducing on gas burners, the whir of sharp knives hitting cutting boards, served only to highlight that she couldn’t join her staff, at least not yet.
She pushed open the doors that led to the dining room. The space was cool and dim, as though it was sleeping in preparation for service tonight. Julia strode down the middle of the tables, most with the chairs still upended, toward the one in the center. Her eyes locked on the man sitting there.
He glanced up at her and smiled. A nice smile that made her stomach do a slow turn. Of course, that might also be the fear of the unknown. Julia shook off both thoughts. Her apprehension and the man’s attractiveness needed to remain on the back burner until she uncovered exactly why he’d chosen to drop in without notice.
She smiled back, a slightly haughty one learned at the elbow of France’s best, and held out her hand. “Mr. Ford.”
He rose, clasping her hand in his larger one. “Donovan.”
The oldest son. The one who’d been groomed to take over the family business. Julia had heard the stories about all three of the Ford children. The youngest, a daughter who was off in Jamaica or somewhere running a restaurant with her boyfriend; the middle son, Owen, who was a regular in the social pages; and the oldest, Donovan, who, while not exactly like his brother, was no social slouch himself. “Donovan, then.” She inclined her head. “Julia Laurent. Executive chef.”
Might as well put it out there now. If she was about to get canned, she didn’t want to waste the next ten minutes on the niceties. She felt the ball of dread in her stomach grow.
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