Tempting Donovan Ford

by Jennifer Mckenzie

  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.

  “Stop working,” Mal said, shooting him a withering stare. “Enjoy your meal and the fine company of your siblings.”

  Donovan hadn’t wanted to bring them along when he’d decided to pop in for dinner tonight. Well, not entirely true. He never minded Mal tagging along, not even when he’d been twelve and she an annoying seven-year-old, but he could have done without Owen, who had already hit on both the server and the hostess and was even now eyeing up the bartender.

  But he supposed they provided a better cover story than the one he’d come up with on his own. That he just happened to be in the neighborhood when what he really wanted was to see Julia.

  He’d debated sending the wine. It was a vintage bottle, one from his private collection. Not the sort of thing he generally sent to staff no matter their level in the company hierarchy. But there was something different about Julia. A fact he’d been forced to acknowledge that night at Elephants when, instead of going home and enjoying an athletic and gratifying bout of sex with Tatiana, he’d sent her off with the clear disclosure that while he’d enjoyed dating her, he didn’t see it going any further and saw no point in continuing.

  “I’m not working,” he said and forked up another bite of his meal. He’d selected the steak frites despite Owen’s advice that if he was going to be stubborn and not get the coq au vin blanc, he should choose the boeuf bourguignon. And he was perfectly satisfied with his meal. “I’m just looking around.”

  “You’re making mental notes. And, Owen,” Mal said, turning her attention to him, “stop flirting with the staff and pay attention. Maybe if you thought about business once in a while instead of your sex life, you’d be able to convince Donovan to give you that promotion you want.”

  Donovan blinked at his brother. “You want a promotion?”

  A flash of panic tightened Owen’s face before it smoothed out into his usual laissez-faire expression. “Of course not. I don’t know what Mal’s talking about.”

  But Donovan wasn’t sure he believed him. Still, he didn’t chase his brother down. Owen had shown little interest in the business. While Donovan and Mal had worked summers in the office and gone to university to learn skills that would help them one day take over the business, Owen had preferred to spend his time lounging at the beach and had flunked out of university after two semesters.

  Even now, while Donovan and Mal held management positions that helped shape the future of the company as a whole, Owen seemed content to manage Elephants. It was a mind-set that Donovan simply couldn’t understand, and he’d long since given up trying.

  He understood that Owen might not be interested in the food-and-wine industry. He might not even be interested in business. But Owen didn’t seem to be interested in anything else, either. He flicked from hobby to hobby and woman to woman like a butterfly. Barely settling anywhere long enough to get a feel for the surface, let alone mine the depths. But that wasn’t Donovan’s problem. So long as Owen managed to keep Elephants running, he would leave him be.

  They talked about other things. How their father was doing, the local sports teams, a ski vacation Owen was planning on taking next weekend. “And then maybe somewhere tropical.” Owen looked at Mal. “I thought I might go and visit Travis.” Owen and Travis had always gotten along well, far better than Owen and Donovan.

  Donovan saw the way his sister seized up at the mention of Travis’s name, though she covered it well, smoothing her napkin and picking up her wineglass without the slightest shake. Yes, there was definitely something going on, but she didn’t seem inclined to talk about it, and Donovan wasn’t about to bring it up here. He changed the subject, noting the release of his sister’s shoulders.

  The conversation meandered after that, and Donovan was grateful when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else.

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Could you ask the chef to come out? I’d like to give her my compliments personally.”

  Donovan felt something strange and sharp bite through him. Owen shouldn’t be asking for Julia, implying that he was the one who knew her. He glared at his brother. Kept glaring when Julia came out, looking warm and sexy, and allowed Owen to kiss her on the cheek and then kissed him in return.

  “Julia, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Mallory.” The two women greeted each other with a friendly smile and murmured pleasantries. “And you know Donovan.”

  Julia’s gaze barely flicked to him, fluttered over like nothing. It cut. He wasn’t used to being passed over and he decided he didn’t care for it.

  “How was your meal?” Julia didn’t even mention the bottle of wine, which surprised him. Unless she hadn’t received it?

  No, he knew it had arrived. He’d insisted on a signature upon delivery and recognized Sasha’s name. While Donovan didn’t know her well, he found it highly unlikely that Sasha would have forgotten to give Julia the bottle or kept it for herself, which meant Julia didn’t want to acknowledge it. Or him.

  His brother was practically falling all over himself and Julia, praising the excellence of the meal. Mal was a little more circumspect, but she was incredibly complimentary, too. Of course, they hadn’t had their gifts ignored.

  “Did you like your gift?” Donovan said when Julia finally looked at him.

  She jolted. “Yes, thank you. The staff and I enjoyed it very much.”

  She’d shared it with her staff? The thousand-dollar bottle he’d handpicked from his stash to give to her personally had been passed around the kitchen? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, Donovan could appreciate the magnanimity of her gesture. What better way to show people how much you appreciated them than by sharing your good fortune, which was exactly what he’d done with her. He’d just hoped she might return the favor by sharing the bottle with him. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Julia nodded, a light flush rising on her cheeks. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the kitchen.”

  “Of course,” Donovan said before Owen could. He watched her walk away, the sway in her step that made him forget all about the skinny blondes of his past. Tatiana who?

  “I didn’t know we were sending wine to our staff now.”

  “We’re not.” This was a personal gift from him. But he didn’t tell his sister that. And he wasn’t even sure what had brought on the generosity. He needed to concentrate on getting the restaurant up to par so that when he managed to get his father’s agreement to sell, they could list the property immediately. He needed to focus on work. They all did.

  Donovan glanced at his brother, who was smiling at the bartender across the room. “Owen.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, but first Julia and then the bartender? Was there anyone safe from Owen’s charms? “Don’t you have to work tonight?”

  Owen should be on-site at Elephants, making sure everything was running smoothly, not sitting in a restaurant. He didn’t appear upset by Donovan’s tone. “I’m heading over after dinner. The staff can handle things without me.”

  Donovan was sure they could, since the assistant manager at Elephants wa
s incredibly competent. She could probably handle the Apocalypse without batting an eye. Still, that didn’t excuse Owen from his work. If he wanted to get paid, he needed to put in the hours. “You’re expected to be there—”

  “I haven’t had a day off in two weeks and I’m working tonight. Okay?” Owen patted his lips and then rose. “If it makes you happy, I’ll go now.”

  But Donovan noticed that Owen stopped by the bar, charmed the woman working behind it, and chatted with the hostess on his way out. Donovan wouldn’t have minded any of that. Owen’s people skills were his greatest attribute. But when Donovan saw Julia duck back out of the kitchen and head straight toward his brother, saw them hug and kiss each other once more, his hands fisted.

  No. His brother was welcome to spread his charm across the city. He could date a different woman every night. He could bring them into his bar and comp them drinks and food all night. But he could not date Julia. Hell, no. Donovan had just gotten her to sign a contract. He wasn’t about to have Owen risk that for a quickie.

  But he kept his aggravation hidden under a polite smile. This was nothing to get into now. Especially since he’d be sure that it wouldn’t amount to anything.

  Donovan and Mal chatted about work for a while, and when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else, he ordered dessert and coffee. Just getting the full meal experience provided by the restaurant. And if he got another look at Julia, that would be okay, too.

  Mal declined. “I’m exhausted,” she told him. “If I have coffee this late, I’ll be up all night.” She did look tired.

  “We can go, then.” He started to lift a hand to call for the check and cancel the dessert.

  “No, no.” Mal waved a hand. “You stay.” She stood and came over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the dessert. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He considered leaving anyway. He didn’t need the dessert, but he really should try to get a handle on the customer service provided by La Petite Bouchée.

  Instead of remaining at the table, he caught the server’s attention and said he’d like his coffee and dessert at the bar. The server nodded and walked him over, making certain he had everything he needed before disappearing. Donovan was impressed. Julia had trained her staff well and the food was excellent, which would make his job much easier.

  The bar stool he was on was rickety and the cushioning was almost nonexistent, but the bar was clean and the woman behind it was friendly. She answered all of Donovan’s questions knowledgeably, keeping an eye on the other customers and segueing between all of them easily.

  While he sipped his coffee, Donovan studied the beer-and-wine list. Satisfactory, but with the number of craft breweries and boutique wineries that permeated the West Coast, Donovan knew it could be better.

  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.

  * * *

  JULIA 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 th
e 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?”