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 Once a premier eating spot, over the past couple of decades it had fallen out of favor with local foodies and been replaced by hipper establishments that catered to the city’s adventurous palates.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.
She eyeballed him up and down, taking everything in. His steel-gray wool pants. No doubt made by Armani or some other expensive designer. The immaculate white shirt left open at the collar and leather shoes so shiny that she could see the reflection of her kitchen in the toes. Black, polished, Italian, expensive.
Oh, yes, even if she hadn’t already heard of him, she would have known everything about him from his clothes. Even his hair looked pricey. Dark and styled off his face so she could get the full brunt of his brown eyes.
She realized they were still holding hands though they’d stopped shaking long ago, and carefully disentangled her fingers. Polite and professional was the order of the day. She needed to know what his plans were and how—or if—she fit into them. Until she’d established that, nothing else mattered.
So Julia took a seat, allowing him to assist her into the chair as if he was serving her and waited until he’d sat back down across from her. She noted a briefcase on the floor by his chair and the intense look in his eyes. This was no ordinary, getting-to-know-you meeting. No quick visit to introduce himself and explain that he had no intention of making any big changes.
Then she took a deep breath and said, “So what is it you have in mind for my restaurant?”
* * *
DONOVAN WATCHED THE woman across the table from him. Julia Laurent’s dark hair fell over her shoulders in smooth waves and her eyes had that sleepy look, like a woman who’d just rolled out of bed. And she wanted to know his plans for her restaurant?
As far as he was concerned, she could have it. La Petite Bouchée had been overpriced and, though the location was excellent, it didn’t break even. Which was just one of the reasons he’d argued against the purchase. He thought that was reason enough. But if not? He had another trust fund’s worth of motives to spend the company’s money elsewhere. Top of them being that an investment in a restaurant was the reason he no longer had much of a trust fund to speak of. But despite his clear and concise arguments, his father had made up his mind. He wanted this restaurant and they were buying it. And even a heart attack two months ago hadn’t been enough to change Gus Ford’s decision on the matter.
Donovan exhaled around the twist in his gut that formed whenever he thought of that afternoon.