She did know one thing. “I won’t be undervalued.” Julia didn’t think it was bragging to say that the only reason La Petite Bouchée hadn’t gone completely under when Jean-Paul took over and decided to cut her budget in half was that she’d made it work. Unwilling to see the once-grand restaurant where her mother had been head chef declare bankruptcy, she’d worked around his ridiculous decisions, always with an eye on the final prize of buying it from him.
Of course, that hadn’t gone according to plan.
Julia’s throat tightened. She lifted her wineglass to her lips and then put it down without sipping. Wine wasn’t going to ease the rigidity there. The restaurant, her mother, family had all gotten twisted together and she didn’t know how to separate them. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyelashes.
“Your mom?” Sasha asked, her voice quiet but still audible under the hubbub of other conversations, most patrons half-corked by this time of the night. One of the benefits of being such close friends and spending so much time together meant she didn’t have to explain why she was feeling emotional.
Julia nodded. Her mom had been gone for just over eighteen months, but it still felt so close. There were mornings she woke up and couldn’t believe she was gone. She wondered if that place in her heart would ever be filled or, at least, not feel so big.
She had no other family. An only child of an only child. Her grandparents had died when she was little and she’d never known her father. All her mother would tell her was that he was a Parisian she’d met while apprenticing as a chef in the City of Light. No name, no background, not even a photo, though Julia could surmise he’d been lithe and dark like her. Her mother had been short and round, the years of butter and heavy cream she featured in her dishes showing on her round cheeks and rounder hips. Suzanne had also been much fairer than Julia.
“I miss her.”
“Of course you do.” Sasha hugged her. Julia absorbed her friend’s comfort. The kindness and sympathy offered without judgment or expectation of payment. Sometimes Sasha reminded her of her mom. The welcoming way they invited others into their lives so easily.
When she’d gone to Paris for staging—working in high-end kitchens for a pittance, the real salary being the opportunity to train under a highly respected chef—she’d looked for her father, checking the eyes of every man of the right age to see if they looked like hers.
Her direct appraisal had gotten her hit on a few times, but no closer to finding her father. She’d finally come to accept that she would probably never know. Her mother claimed not to have even told the man she was pregnant. Julia suspected he might have been married. Maybe she had an entire family in France, half brothers and sisters, a stepmother who would make those clucking French noises when she didn’t like something and a father who shared her eyes. But she wasn’t going to find them.
She sighed. Instead, it was just her against the world.
“I want to buy the restaurant.”
She didn’t need to tell Sasha. Her best friend was well aware of her plans.
“I know.” Sasha rocked her for a moment. “But what if you can’t?”
Julia didn’t like thinking about that. Not tonight. Not when she was already physically and emotionally drained from the long day on her feet and the surprise of the sale.
So she didn’t. She shoved it out of her mind and sat up, picking at the food in front of them. She knew that although Sasha was empathetic, she couldn’t really understand.
Their dreams were as different as their upbringings. Sasha had come from a nice suburban childhood with a big backyard and parents who were still married. Julia had grown up in a two-bedroom apartment in the city. A beautiful top-floor apartment, but far from the picket fence Sasha had known. Sasha’s mom thought gravy from a bag was an acceptable choice, while Julia’s mother had made everything from scratch, even bread. And Sasha had zero interest in owning her own place and had once told Julia that she wasn’t sure she wanted to even become an executive chef. The one night a week she ran the kitchen was enough for her.
It was as foreign an idea to Julia as growing up with two parents in the suburbs.
“Can we talk about something else? Who’s your latest boyfriend?” Sasha always had a new beau, claiming that she’d yet to find one who could hold her interest for more than a few weeks. It amused Julia to see the way she cut a swath through them, somehow always managing to have an amicable breakup.
And because she was a good friend, Sasha went along with the subject change, telling a humorous story about a man she’d met last week and how he already wanted to take her away for a tropical vacation.
But Julia couldn’t keep her mind on the story or on anything but the dilemma now facing her. She was going to have to figure something out. Luckily, she had a week and she planned to take every minute of it.
“Uh, Jules?”
“Yes?” Julia blinked, mentally rewinding their conversation to see if there was something she’d missed. Some particularly outrageous comment or a question that she hadn’t responded to, but she didn’t recall anything. Sasha’s eyes seemed to take up half her face. “What is it?”
But Sasha was busy fluffing her hair and pouting her lips.
“Okay, who is it?” Julia asked, smiling as she turned to see what fine specimen of man had caught her friend’s attention. And right there, having just come through the entrance in a tux that he no doubt owned, was Donovan Ford. With a beautiful blonde on his arm.
Julia swiveled back and reminded herself that she didn’t care who was on Donovan’s arm. But she turned her body just enough that she could sneak another peek.
The blonde’s dress flowed around her, rippling like waves, and was a blue so pale that it almost appeared white. There was virtually no color to her. Skin like the glow of the moon, platinum hair of a shade not found in nature and eyes an even paler blue than the dress. She looked like part of the bar’s design. The perfect woman in the perfect room, and her fingers were wrapped around Donovan’s forearm, a clear announcement that he was spoken for.
Julia hoped he got frostbite.
“Damn. There’s someone with him.” Sasha sighed heavily. “Guess that means he’s off-limits.”
“I already told you that.” Julia rarely got involved in the love lives of her staff. As long as they showed up for work on time and didn’t bring their personal issues to the kitchen, they could sleep with whomever they wanted. Even Jean-Paul.
But not Donovan.
“Yes, I remember that.” Sasha raised a strawberry-blond eyebrow in her direction. “Care to explain?”
Julia raised an eyebrow back. “Not really.”
Sasha smiled, a broad, bright smile that had won and then broken the hearts of plenty of men in the city. “Please, please, tell me it’s because you want him for yourself.”
“I don’t want him,” Julia said, but her stomach twisted. She ate another dull bite from her plate and washed it down with a sip of wine.
“Right. You just want his shares.”
“I don’t want his anything. And even if I did...” Her fingers fluttered up to her hair. “Oh, God. Stop talking. He saw us. He’s coming over.” She tucked a stray lock behind her ear though she didn’t know why she cared. So what if her hair was a bit messy because she’d only pulled it out of her bun and done a quick finger comb? That was life. Not shellacking her coif into a helmet that could break someone’s nose like the ice queen over there.
At least her clothing was nothing to sniff at. She straightened the hem of her nutty-colored tweed blazer, an investment piece she’d splurged on when she lived in Paris, and reknotted the leopard-print scarf around her neck. Paired with an army-green tee and black skinny pants, she looked chic and casual.
Keeping