a personalized interview showcasing their chef. Donovan felt another flicker of attraction as Julia’s face flashed through his mind.
“When will we be ready to go?”
Donovan shoved Julia’s dark eyes out of his mind. They wouldn’t be ready to go until they had said chef’s signature on a contract. “I’ll let you know.”
But rather than nodding and accepting his information as gospel, Mal frowned. “No, I’m going to need more than that. Dates, decisions.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “We can’t hold off indefinitely. No one is going to write about the purchase two months after the fact.”
He knew she was right. He also knew that they couldn’t move forward without Julia’s consent. “Then we come up with a new strategy.”
She stared at him with that skewering glare she was so good at. “You thought this was a great plan this morning. What happened?”
“Nothing.” Which was the truth. No signed contract. No verbal one. Just a promise that they’d meet in a week and that sizzle of attraction.
Mal scowled, her earlier good humor disappearing. But she’d been like that lately. Quick to grow irritated over small details. About the same time she’d returned from a visit to Aruba no longer wearing the sapphire ring Travis had given her. “Then what am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you to dole out information? When, Donovan? I need to know when to start contacting my people, dropping hints about an exclusive and setting up other events.”
He rubbed his temple. “I know. Let’s discuss later.”
“When?”
He knew Mal wouldn’t leave until she’d pinned him down. It was just one of the many reasons she was so good at her job. He made a decision. “First thing tomorrow morning. You and me.” They could pick some hard dates and make decisions based on the assumption that Julia would have signed the contract by next week. He didn’t want to consider the fact that Julia might turn him down.
“You and me and coffee,” Mal agreed. She tapped on her phone again. “Should we invite Owen?”
“Why?” Donovan loved his brother even though he was regularly annoyed by him, but Owen was not a businessman. “What’s he going to do? Offer to sleep with the reporter?”
Mal smirked, some of her earlier good mood returning. “Oh, I don’t think you should be throwing any stones, brother.”
“Me?” Donovan enjoyed the company of women. A lot. But he was hardly the Romeo his brother was. Donovan doubted Owen had ever gone out with the same woman twice in a row and he regularly juggled multiple lady friends. Donovan was a one-woman-at-a-time guy. It was just that he hadn’t met a woman who made him want to give up all others forever. Nothing wrong with that.
“Yes, you.” Mal shrugged. “Hey, maybe you’d find the reporter so appealing that you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, and the great story with excellent placement on the front page would just be a bonus.”
“You would pimp me out for the family business?”
Mal considered that and then shook her head. “You’re right. It would be wrong of me.”
“Exactly.” Now, if she wanted to pimp him out to convince the new chef to sign...
“I’d pimp out Owen. He’s much prettier.”
Donovan snorted.
“I STILL CAN’T believe you refused to sign.” Sasha stared at her with wide green eyes, looking impossibly innocent though Julia knew that to be far from true. Still, Sasha’s innocence or lack thereof wasn’t the point here.
They were holed up in a corner booth at Elephants, a destination Julia hadn’t chosen and wasn’t comfortable with. But when she’d mentioned to Sasha that perhaps they should find another place to have a bite to eat and a drink to unwind, Sasha had overruled her since they were now part of the Ford family group of establishments.
Julia didn’t know about that, but she was keeping an eye out for the family in question. Or for one particular member. “Of course I refused to sign.” It was probably ridiculous to think that Donovan would be down here in the wine bar. He worked in the offices. He didn’t get down and dirty in the trenches. “No doubt it was full of legal ropes that would bind me to a lifetime of servitude.”
The interior of the bar was gorgeous. Not Julia’s style, but stunning. Although the lighting was low, everything sparkled and gleamed, like the inside of a snowflake. A long white glass bar and crystal lights that gave off just enough illumination to see without ruining the cool ambience.
“Exaggerate much? I hardly think he’s trying to trick you into indentured servitude. Although I have to say, if I was going to be tied up, he would definitely make the list.” Sasha tapped a finger against the stem of her wineglass. “And I thought he seemed nice.”
Julia rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the food on the table. It was a little boring but tasty. Not something she’d serve, but then, this wasn’t her restaurant. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Ignoring the fact that she didn’t have a restaurant to call her own. Not really.
“He had a nice body. Or are you going to tell me you didn’t notice that, either?” Sasha wasn’t giving up.
Oh, she’d noticed, and filed it away as a wasted observance. Because the only thing Donovan Ford had that she wanted was La Petite Bouchée.
Julia noted the lascivious glint in Sasha’s eye, obvious even in the dim interior of the wine bar. She didn’t like it. “Not that it matters, but he’s off-limits.” She wasn’t going to get into a session about the rest of Donovan Ford’s obvious attributes. Danger and distraction lay that way. And really, she didn’t care who or what he did in his spare time, so long as her staff weren’t involved.
“Oh, is he?”
Julia ignored the teasing tone and questioning look. “I told him I wanted him to pay me in shares.”
The diversion appeared to work, since Sasha frowned and asked, “For the restaurant?”
“Yes. Like the deal I had with Alain.” The original owner, the one who’d loved the restaurant as much as she did. The deal she’d never bothered to get in writing because she’d trusted Alain. Julia sighed. It was her own fault.
When she’d returned to Vancouver, she’d been thinking only about caring for her ailing mother, not her career. But Suzanne had wanted Julia to take the role of executive chef at La Petite Bouchée, a role Suzanne had held for a decade. Julia had agreed, noting that it was only temporary, just until her mother recovered and could return to the kitchen. Except Suzanne had never recovered, the cancer metastasizing through her body, leaving Julia with no family and a temporary job.
When Alain had offered her the position permanently, she’d agreed. There had been comfort in working at the same place as her mother, working with the staff who had loved Suzanne as much as she had. And she found consolation working in a space imbued with her mother’s presence. Due to the restaurant’s struggling fortunes, Alain had been unable to pay her the salary she knew she deserved, but he’d offered something better. The promise that when he retired the following year, he’d sell her La Petite Bouchée at a discounted price.
Except Alain had passed away before retirement, and when his nephew and sole heir, Jean-Paul, claimed no knowledge of the deal, Julia found herself with no legal recourse. Just a nearly empty bank account. But she could learn from her mistakes. This time, she’d get everything on paper. And notarized. Assuming she could talk Donovan Ford into it.
“And what did he say?”
“He wasn’t amenable to the idea.” Which was putting it mildly. He’d been painfully, stridently clear that he wouldn’t offer shares. On