Tempting Donovan Ford (23 page)

Julia would have known it as Gus’s enclave even before she saw him sitting in a large, overstuffed chair at what was effectively the heart of the room. It just looked like him. Full of rich reds and warm browns, the room was furnished with seats that looked as if you would sink into them, curling your feet beneath you. There was a large fireplace on one wall with a mahogany mantel covered in elegant statues and a silver-framed family photo.

Owen and Mal were already there, looking as out of the loop as Donovan, judging from the questioning glances they shot his way. Mal sat on a couch to the right of their father while Owen lounged against the mantel on the left with a glass dangling from his fingertips. It might look like vodka or gin, but Julia bet it was water, which was the only thing she’d seen Owen drink.

“I promise we won’t keep you long,” Evelyn said and gave Julia’s arm a light pat. She moved to join her husband while Donovan and Julia took the matched chairs in front of the fireplace. She could hear the clink of ice cubes whenever Owen moved his glass.

“Finally,” Mal said, turning her attention back to their father. “Now maybe Dad can explain what all this is about?”

“All in good time.” Gus folded his hands across his stomach and leaned against the back of the chair.

“How much time?” Mal wanted to know. “Some of us have to work early tomorrow.” But there was a lilt of humor in her tone.

Julia suspected the family was pleased to see how well Gus looked after the long and high-energy party. His health had continued to improve with no signs of a relapse, but she knew they all watched him carefully, anxious to ensure there were no signs that he’d pushed too hard or set back his recovery.

“Mallory.” Gus’s voice filled the room. “This is an important moment in our family’s history and you’re undermining it.”

Owen snorted. “Yeah, Mal. Don’t you know Dad’s got the conch?”

“Wolves and ingrates.” But Gus couldn’t stop his smile from peeking out.

Julia saw that, rather than engaging in the lighthearted family banter, Donovan watched her. A blast of heat tore through her and she glanced around to be certain no one had gotten singed or noticed the overheated look.

“Now that you’re all here, I have some news.” Gus made a point of looking at each person in the room, including her.

Julia was filled with a quieter warmth then. One born of kindness and inclusion. She wasn’t a Ford, but none of them ever made her feel that way. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Donovan had turned to face his father, but his hand sneaked out to rest on the arm of her chair. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand atop his.

“Your mother and I have discussed some things and we’ve come to a decision.” He looked completely at ease and relaxed. As did Evelyn, who was standing just behind Gus’s chair. Her hand rested on his shoulder. “I’ve decided not to return to work.”

The announcement was met with stunned silence, which lasted for about 2.3 seconds before a trio of voices exploded.

“What?”

“Dad!”

“Are you okay?”

Donovan spoke last, more quietly and so more noticeable.

“I’m fine.” Gus nodded, a gesture of reassurance that only quelled the storm instead of calmed it. “In fact, the doctor was very pleased at my last checkup. Good thing, too. I wouldn’t want to be eating all that green stuff for nothing.”

Evelyn gave his shoulder a hard squeeze.

“Fine, fine,” Gus said. “I love that green stuff. Happy?”

Julia pressed her lips together, attempting to tuck her grin away. Even so, it didn’t go unnoticed.

“See?” Gus inclined his head toward her. “Julia understands. Although if she were to cook for me every night, I might find myself enjoying whatever it is you’re feeding me.”

“There’s always an open table for you.” Even though they were solidly booked these days, there were ways of finding space for VIP guests. Julia figured the owner counted as one. And even if Gus hadn’t owned La Petite Bouchée, Julia never turned away people she loved.

“I might take you up on that.” Evelyn’s fingers squeezed again. “Or not. That’s not important. What’s important is that I’m retiring. Permanently.” Julia couldn’t help noticing that although he looked at all four of the under-fifties in the room, the primary focus of his gaze was Donovan.

“What does that mean for the company?” Donovan’s voice was low and calm, full of the control needed to take on the leadership of the family company. She squeezed his hand.

“I’d like to suggest that Owen take over running La Petite Bouchée
.
”

There was another silence, one that didn’t explode with voices.

“But, of course, that’s up to all of you.” Gus looked at each of his children in turn. “You’ll be in charge now, and while I’ll always be here to offer advice, you don’t have to run anything past me for approval.”

Julia couldn’t hear anything over the agonized scream that seemed to come straight from her heart. La Petite Bouchée was hers. Or so she’d thought.

The rest of the family made happy sounds, talking about a future with the restaurant. But all Julia could think was that La Petite Bouchée wouldn’t be hers. Not ever. And she wondered if she’d been an idiot to think it could be, to believe Donovan when he’d said he had no interest in the place and that he’d wanted to sell to her.

She pulled her hand from his.

“Julia.” Donovan’s voice was quiet, rolling beneath the bright chatter coming from everyone else. She only shook her head. She couldn’t do this here, in front of everyone. Couldn’t announce her hurt and betrayal with everyone watching.

She blinked and turned her face as tears threatened to spill, and managed to take enough deep breaths to maintain her facade.

Julia didn’t say anything until they escaped the confines of the house and they were out of earshot. Even then she kept her voice low, in keeping with the still darkness of night that surrounded them. “How long have you known?”

She appreciated that he didn’t play dumb. He sighed. “A month. After the day you cooked lunch for everyone at the restaurant.”

Somehow that little tidbit made it worse. While she’d been thinking about how much she liked them, he’d been cutting her out of the restaurant.

“I didn’t intend for this to happen, but when I pitched the idea of selling again, my father said he wanted to take over instead.” He reached for her, but she pulled away, glad for the cool March air that slowed the growing fury in her chest.

A month. He’d known for a month. “Before Whistler, then.” It wasn’t a question. She could do the math. People were often surprised to find out just how good at numbers chefs were. But keeping track of inventory was often the difference between being in the black or running in the red. Or keeping track of the moment the man you’d thought you were falling in love with chose to shatter your heart.

“Julia.”

“No.” Julia didn’t move, afraid that she might break, might crumple before him, so overwhelming was the sense of betrayal. “I don’t understand. We discussed this. I was going to put in a fair offer, a good offer. For God’s sake, Donovan, you said you didn’t want the space.”

“I know.”

“So what happened?” What had changed to cause the family to want to keep it?

“My father. You saw how he feels about the place. He’s nostalgic, and since his heart attack...well, it’s important to him.”

She understood that; she really did. But what about her? What about her ties to La Petite Bouchée? “It’s important to me, too.”

“I know.”

She risked a glance at him, and the sympathy on his face almost undid her. Almost.

“But I’m not family.” She tasted the bitterness on her tongue and didn’t care.

“That’s not what this is about.”

No, that was exactly what this was about, but she couldn’t say anything. Her chest felt tight and she struggled for breath.

“I don’t want you to leave.” He ran a hand through his hair. Had it really been only hours earlier that she’d run her own hands through it? It seemed like decades. “I’ve got an appointment set up with the lawyer tomorrow to discuss your contract.”

She barked out a laugh. “Why? What else are you going to try to take from me?”

“Nothing.” He reached for her again, but she stepped back and held up a hand to ward him off. “I’m not going to take anything. I want to offer you more. Listen, I know this is a shock and I’m not happy about the way this came out.”

That was probably true, but she had to wonder if he’d ever planned to tell her at all. Or was he just going to let her stay in the kitchen, believing that one day she’d be able to buy the restaurant when he had no intention of ever putting it up for sale?

“But nothing has to change. All the renovation choices, the way things run, the staff, the food. Those are all you.” He sounded desperate. But not as desperate as she felt. “And I know Owen has no interest in having a hands-on role, so it’ll be like you own the place.”

Only, she wouldn’t own it. “You have no idea what kind of role Owen wants,” she told him. But she had a feeling she did. And it wasn’t hands-off.

“Julia, try to understand. This isn’t just my decision.”

It wasn’t. “But it was your decision to keep it a secret.” He’d had plenty of opportunity to tell her, to work something out before now.

“Julia.” It sounded as if his heart was breaking. She ignored the pang in her own chest.

“It’s not enough, Donovan.” Acting as the owner wasn’t the same as being the owner. And to her it was a big difference.

“Why?”

“Because.” She couldn’t have explained even if she wanted to.

“Julia.” He called out as she turned to go.

She didn’t look back. “Don’t, Donovan. Just don’t. I remember what you said. Business is for family.” She moved off, away from him, away from everything. “I’ll find my own way home.”

And she didn’t cry. Not even once she got to her own apartment, locked the door, turned off her phone and closed the blinds. Instead, she just sat in the dark, wondering what she was going to do with the rest of her life and praying that she wouldn’t always feel as hopeless as she did now.

* * *

“
M
R.
F
ORD?”
B
AILEY’S
voice carried over the line. “Mr. Ford is here to see you.”

Donovan still felt sick about what had happened last night. Sick in the gut, sick in the head, sick in the heart. Julia hadn’t answered his calls, and even when he’d convinced one of her neighbors to buzz him in, she wouldn’t answer his knocks on her door. He’d finally left when a different neighbor had threatened to call the cops if he didn’t stop banging.

He’d gone through the meeting with the lawyer this morning, even knowing that the contract would be unnecessary. Julia had sent a resignation email this morning to all five members of the Ford family. She hadn’t explicitly stated that it was because of him, but they had to know. He cursed himself for not acting sooner, not telling her immediately and then suggesting they work together to find a compromise that would keep her firmly in place as the executive chef at La Petite Bouchée.

And now he had to face his father and explain just how and why he’d so royally screwed up. Great.

Except it wasn’t his father who walked through the door to his office, but Owen. Donovan stiffened when he saw his brother. “Not today, Owen.”

“Yes today.” Owen took a seat, making himself comfortable in the clear chair. He was wearing a suit, every crease in alignment, every pleat perfect. With sneakers. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Couldn’t talk about it. He was angry at his father for making a private announcement so public, but really he was mad at himself. He was the dumbass who’d sat on the information for a month, waiting for the right time. Even when Mal had advised him otherwise. So he knew the blame lay squarely on his own shoulders. But that didn’t really help.

“Mal said you told Julia you were going to sell her the restaurant?”

“Because we were.” The words burst out of him. “Dad wasn’t well enough to come back to work, and Mal and I were swamped handling everything.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?” Donovan didn’t feel like having this conversation now. “You weren’t ready for that level of responsibility.”

“You’re wrong.”

Donovan glanced back at his computer screen. Although Owen might be inclined to have this little chat, Donovan didn’t have time. There was still work to be done. Lots of work. “Fine. I was wrong. Now that I’ve admitted it, can I get back to business?”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Owen didn’t raise his voice, didn’t get his back up. Just remained where he was, his gaze calm. “I came to find out how to fix it.”

The bleakness Donovan had been trying to fend off swelled through him again. “See, that’s the thing, Owen. I don’t know if we can.” God knew he’d racked his brain all night trying to think of a way. In between dialing Julia’s cell phone like a stalker. He hadn’t stopped calling even when all he got was the mechanized recording telling him her voice mail was full.

“Then we’ll have to think of something.”

“Like what?” Donovan looked at his brother and for the first time he wondered if maybe Owen did have some good ideas hidden in that head of his. But if Owen had been enlightened, he wasn’t sharing.

“I think that’s something you’ll need to figure out. I just wanted to come in and tell you not to give up on her. She’s special.”

“I know.” But he didn’t know how to tell her that when she wouldn’t answer her phone.

“She’s worth fighting for.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not taking over La Petite Bouchée.”

Donovan didn’t even blink, so inured to the bad news flying his way over the past twelve hours. “Okay.”

“Because I think we need Julia. Give her shares in the restaurant.”

“Owen, it’s not about that.”

“No, Donovan.” Owen stopped him. “It is about that. You just need to open your eyes and see it.”

Donovan thought about it. Really thought about it. Opening up the family company to someone else. Letting them in, allowing them a voice to shape and determine their future. It could work. There were plenty of companies that did just that. But they weren’t his family company. And he wasn’t ready to put all his hard work, all his father’s and Mal’s hard work, at risk.