Boomark:Cover Copy
Cover Copy
Mix a chef and her contractor, stir in a mystery, and cook up a romance.
Jemima George leads a charmed life as a personal chef and assistant to reality television’s latest darling. But that changes in a New York minute when her Aunt Caro dies under odd circumstances, bequeathing her a small restaurant. Jem plans to sell the café and continue her life in NYC, until a dramatic phone call from her cheating boyfriend convinces her to experiment with the ingredients for happiness and accept her Aunt’s legacy. Throwing herself into remodeling the restaurant with the help of the town’s delicious contractor, Jem revamps the menu and renews her faith in herself.
Jack Kerrigan considered Caro a surrogate mother and hates the idea that the café could be sold. He doesn’t need the remodeling project, but if it means Caro’s beautiful, fascinating niece will stay to run the restaurant, he’s all in. He wouldn’t mind being savory to Jem’s sweet.
Jack’s brassy ex-wife is cooking up a scheme of her own, where Jack tosses Jem like a salad and comes back to her. Fold in a creepy attorney hiding secrets of environmental mayhem, add Jem’s claustrophobia, half-pint niece and nephew twins, one mysterious lockbox, and bring to a boil—a recipe for romance.
A Lyrical Press Contemporary Romance
Boomark:Highlight
Highlight
His sexy baritone voice breezed up her spine and her breath stuttered as his warm hand wrapped around hers.
Oh, no. She was in trouble. Standing this close to him, he even smelled like a hot guy, fresh, outdoorsy, a hint of distinctive male. He had great hands. Narrow wrists, long, elegant fingers, calloused enough, making her imagine how they’d rasp as they trailed along her flesh. She had always been a sucker for a long-fingered man.
Time to put the brakes on those ideas. His gaze roved over her body, not hiding the fact that he was checking her out. Heat bloomed in her cheeks and she mentally shook her head to clear the fireworks going off in her imagination when she caught sight of deep dimples bracketing either side of his full, smiling lips and even white teeth. Oh good Lord, why’d he have to have dimples?
When his gaze made the journey back to hers, she looked pointedly at her hand, still clasped in his. His look was almost apologetic as he released his grip.
Cooking Up Love
By Gemma Brocato
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Dedication
To my parents, for instilling a lifelong love of reading in all your children and for your constant encouragement to follow my dream.
To my Nona, thanks for letting me borrow your name.
Acknowledgements
Writing is a solitary venture, which is difficult for Type A personalities like me. I enjoy being around people, so I grab every available opportunity to socialize. Reaching out for assistance has never been easy, but when I’ve put my pride aside and asked, many individuals stepped forward to help me achieve my dream.
To Gene, when I said yes all those years ago, would you have believed I’d end up here? Thanks for your love and support of my dream. The strength of character, devotion to family and capability to love beyond reason that my heroes display are based on you. To Erin and Andrew, I couldn’t ask for two greater kids. Even if you three never read any of my books, I’ll love you forever.
To Betsy and Autumn, for being beta readers and correcting my grammar. Love you guys.
To Emily Collins, Lindy Dierks, Goldie Edwards, Kim Gabauer, Paula Gill, Dawn Lind and Christina Wilson; your friendship, critiques and support have made a world of difference. Terri L. Austin, author and friend extraordinaire, thanks for walking the path before me and blazing the trail.
To Krista Suozzo and all your digital and social media marketing goodness, thank you for your patience.
To Piper Denna, my first experience with an editor could not have been better. Thank you for your faith in my story and your hard work to make me a better writer. Renee Rocco, your cover magic brought tears to my eyes, which I will continue to blame on dirty contact lenses.
Chapter 1
What a dump.
Jemima George added an exclamation point and hit Send on her smartphone. A sigh surged up from her toes as she glanced around at the café she’d just inherited. Walking through the door of Caro’s Taste was like stepping into a time machine with a direct route to late nineteen eighty.
Grant Dubois, her aunt’s lawyer, augmented the sensation. He could have been a cover model on a senior citizen’s romance novel. His shoulder length salt-and-pepper hair flowed around his face as if stirred by a slight breeze, even though they were inside with the door firmly shut. He appeared fit, but his broad chest had begun the inevitable shift toward a softening waistline. The retro style, antiquated Windbreaker and shiny shirt, unbuttoned to midway down his chest, made his overall image the tiniest bit seedy. And he’d worn that getup to the funeral. The only things missing were gold chains and a pinkie ring.
“I’ve invited a local contractor to join us,” Grant said. “I thought you’d appreciate a cost estimate to update the space. It’s been a while, as I’m sure you can tell.”
“I don’t know about renovations. I’ll probably list it for sale. I need to get back to New York.” She scanned her vibrating phone and read Resa’s reply to her text.
The café or the town?
Jem keyed in the café and pressed send before returning her attention to the lawyer, surprised by the undisguised animosity on his face.
Jem blinked and the look was gone, replaced by a bland facade. An arc of guilt for being caught texting while he was talking forced heat into her cheeks. “Sorry. What were you saying?” She set the phone on a nearby table and shook her head to clear the odd sensation Grant’s shifting expressions had created.
“I urge you not to be hasty. Caroline’s income didn’t allow her to entertain thoughts of buying a Caribbean island for retirement, but she was comfortable. She left you quite a nice inheritance, between savings and insurance.” He waved his hands vaguely around the tiny shop, his quicksilver expression at odds with his words. “However, I’d completely understand if you wish to wash your hands of it. I’d be delighted to handle the details of liquidating for you.”
“I just can’t pick up and move to Granite Pointe. I have a job I really like.” Jem did a slow turn, surveying the room. “Even if I found someone I trusted, it doesn’t make sense to run it long distance.”
“Really liking your job isn’t the same as loving it.” Grant’s eyes twinkled as he widened his hands in a question. “Are you passionate about your work?”
Passion, huh? Jeez, he knew how to milk his resemblance to a cover model. His words were earnest, but his body language implied he’d like her on the next bus out of town.
“Besides,” Grant continued, “the café is only open mornings. Still plenty of free time to carry on Caroline’s work with our local environmental group. Her loss will hit them hardest.”
Jem cocked her head to the side, feeling like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. The sour look on Grant’s face and the insincerity of his tone told her what he really thought of the idea of her staying, in spite of his encouraging words. What was his deal? “What happened? When I saw her in New York two months ago, her health was excellent. Do you know—”
Grant held up one finger and pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket, frowning at the display.
“Sorry, I have to take this. Excuse me.” He turned away to answer the call.
Jem
looked around the café she now owned. She’d been a frequent visitor as a child, and memories of the smells and sounds of the busy restaurant echoed through her mind. As a teen, she’d worked here each summer. If serving coffee and pastries to the locals could be called work.
Granite Pointe was pretty as a picture as she gazed through oversized front windows. She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the counter next to her purse and cell phone. The heavy black wool had been welcome as the wind blew through the cemetery.
Trailing her hand along the butcher-block counter, she wandered toward the kitchen door. Walking along the display cases occupying one wall of the narrow space, she briefly considered the possibility of owning and operating the little shop.
Her lips quirked into a slight smile and she shook her head, rejecting the thought. Her life was in New York, as assistant and chef to Margo Tremont, reality television’s latest darling in the chronicles of the rich, fabulous and ridiculous.
It was where she lived and played with her hopefully soon-to-be fiancé, Phil Centers. They’d been a couple for two years, and Jem was as positive he’d propose soon as she was eager to become his wife. They were perfect for each other. Both of them were going places and he’d make the journey together fun.
No, Granite Pointe, Massachusetts would remain a great place to visit, but it wouldn’t do as a residence or place of business.
“I’m sorry. It was extremely rude of me to interrupt our conversation.” Grant strolled back toward her. Well, she’d been put in her place. “Unfortunately, I have a small problem at the office. Jack Kerrigan, the contractor I mentioned earlier, should be here soon. Do you mind waiting alone?”
“Sure, no worries. As I said earlier, I’d rather see a realtor than a builder. I’m just not in a spot to consider moving here.”
“Please don’t rush into this decision. If you do decide to sell, some basic remodeling might appeal to potential buyers. You’re bound to get your investment back through an increased sale price.”
“Some updates might be necessary, even if it’s just a fresh coat of paint and refinishing the floors.” She critically eyed the rough pine plank flooring. “However, I’m sure I won’t change my mind.”
The first real smile she’d seen from Grant creased wrinkles on his brow and around his eyes as he zipped up his jacket. With a curt nod, he pulled on gloves and, twisting the doorknob jerked the door open, hastily grabbing it as the wind caught it. The small bell above the frame tinkled merrily. She grinned as he quickstepped his way across the street, his long hair flowing out behind him. Yes, ma’am, he could be the father of that famous model gracing the covers of the naughty books Caroline had constantly read.
Jem slipped behind the counter, heading to the coffee maker. Despite the warmth of her gray sweater dress and black suede boots, she remained cold. A hot cup of coffee would hit the spot.
She pulled the supplies she needed from a box directly below the machine and rinsed the pot in the nearby sink. The shop had closed when Aunt Caro got sick, so a fine coating of dust had built up in the entire space. A melancholy ache bloomed in the center of her chest. God, she couldn’t believe Caro was gone.
Shoot! Grant hadn’t answered her question about what might have caused Caroline’s death. So far, no one had answered the question. She’d have to remember to ask him later. Swishing soapy water around the carafe, she rinsed it before returning to the machine. She slipped a filter and ground coffee into the basket and poured clean water in the reservoir. After she flipped the switch to start the machine, she grabbed her cell phone and leaned against the counter to wait for the coffee to brew.
She’d missed three calls in a very short time. The first from Phil, the last two, within seconds of each other, were from Resa, followed by an urgent text from her with the code that meant there was an emergency with their boss. WTF! Another 911.
With Margo, emergencies were an everyday occurrence.
As she scanned the messages, another came in from Phil.
Hey Baby—hope all went well today. Crazy busy, no time to talk. Late client meeting. Will call tomorrow.
Par for the course with Phil. She sighed mentally. There was always a meeting or crazy day lately. Although he was a junior partner in a prestigious law firm today, he wouldn’t be for much longer. With her connections, more business had flowed Phil’s way, impressing the senior partners. Increased billings equaled a promotion.
Because of his success, he took phone calls all hours of the day and night, and worked nearly every weekend. They hadn’t been able to grab any real alone time for the past four months. Her filming schedule with Margo didn’t help the situation. She sighed, a deep, resigned exhale.
She speed-dialed Resa, who answered so quickly she must have been waiting with her phone in hand.
“Hi, Sweetie.” Resa jumped right in. “How are you? Did everything go well this morning? Was it awful? Is the café really a dump? How soon can you wrap things up there and get back?”
Used to Resa’s rapid-fire questions, Jem grinned. “Okay, yes, not as awful as it could have been, dump might have been too strong and I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Resa shrieked, zeroing in on the last answer. “I thought you were going to leave it in the hands of the lawyer and get your skinny ass back here.”
“The building is solid, even kind of interesting, but the interior needs work. It’s funny, I don’t remember the exposed brick.” She squinted her eyes at the walls in question. “I haven’t even made it into the kitchen yet. I’m waiting for a contractor to arrive. I won’t get a very good price if I put it on the market as is. On the plus side, the neighborhood has potential. It’s in a great location. Granite Pointe is a fun, historically significant place. Not Manhattan, but it has its own brand of charm.”
“Ooh, sounds like someone might be thinking about staying.”
“No! No way. I belong in New York. But the lawyer said something about having passion for what I do. Which made me think…could I be more passionate about another career choice? The work I do is challenging some days, but do I honestly love it?”
“As if you would have passion for frying eggs and making muffins.” Resa laughed. “Although, you do make the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“Well, I can see the upside of a less Margo-like life. Speaking of which, what’s up with her?”
“It’s a few clowns short of a circus here today. Production asked to film Thursday instead of Friday. Margo’s clueless about her calendar. The computer network is down, thanks to the cable company, so we aren’t sure it will work. I know you have her schedule memorized, so I made the executive decision to bother you with the question. Even though I know Margo’s schedule is the last thing you want to deal with now.” Resa lowered her voice and continued, “I mean, shit, you’re on bereavement leave. I’m so sorry to bother you when you’re dealing with so much else. Caro’s death was so sudden, I mean.”
“I’m still struggling with that,” Jem admitted to her friend as the coffee finished brewing. Tucking the phone under her chin, she grabbed a cup. “She was fine when I saw her in January. Then, three weeks ago, she gets the flu. Now, she’s gone. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I asked Grant, the lawyer, but he avoided answering. He made some lame excuse about an office emergency and left me here to meet the contractor—”
The bell above the door tinkled again. Jem glanced over her shoulder at the man who walked in. His back was to her as he pushed the door closed against the wind. When he turned around, she froze.
The next winner of the Sexiest Man Alive title stood in her café.
A crooked grin animated a fashionably stubbled face. His classically handsome looks included a square jaw, chiseled cheekbones and a nose she’d call patrician. Dark, even brows sat nicely over deep-set eyes. She recognized him from the funeral. Could this be the contractor? Oh, God, she hoped so.
Her hand stung as hot coffee overflowed the cup. Jerking into action, sh
e set the pot back on the burner and bent to search under the counter for a rag to clean up her mess.
“Jem, are you still there?” Resa’s voice came over the phone as the stranger dropped his satchel next to a table and hustled across the café.
Slipping behind the counter, he pulled a handful of paper towels from a dispenser on the wall by the sink before coming to the rescue.
Finally able to speak again, she smiled her thanks to the man before answering Resa. “Yeah, sorry. I think the contractor just walked in,” she said, looking at the man for confirmation.
He glanced sideways at her with a pair of unbelievably gorgeous, smiling blue eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, and nodded as he wiped up the spilled liquid.
“I’ll be right with you, okay?” At his quick smile and nod, she returned to Resa. “Listen, I better go. Can I call you later?”
“Wait,” Resa protested. “Don’t worry about calling back. Just tell me if you know whether Margo is free to film on Thursday.”
“Sorry, I forgot why you called. Give me a second to grab my calendar.”
She slid past Sexy Contractor Man and walked over to her purse. She dug through the oversize burgundy hobo bag, found the slim book and flipped to the date in question.
“Sorry, Resa, it won’t work.” Jem surreptitiously ogled the rather fine way the jeans hugged the contractor’s butt as he mopped up her mess. “Her schedule is jammed solid until nearly eight Thursday evening. There’s a small window, but not nearly enough time to make the producers happy, even though Stacey usually doesn’t mind a quickie.”
That earned her a quick glance from Sexy Contractor Man and a laugh from Resa. Neither woman liked working with Stacey, the production assistant who worked hard to earn the title of skanky.
“They’ll have to stick with Friday. Tell Margo to check her inbox. I printed a duplicate calendar before I left this morning.”
Cooking Up Love Page 1