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 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