He studied her for a long moment. “You’re hired. You’ll be in charge of the complete dessert menu for two restaurants, one a sit-down, dine-in and the other a diner in the lobby. When can you start?”
“Immediately,” she said, relieved. She’d left her last job at Mitzi’s Cake Magic rather abruptly. Even though she’d given him her references a week ago, she had the feeling he hadn’t checked them. Should she be worried?
He nodded. “Report to Human Resources right away. I’ll call them and let them know you’re on your way. And be here tomorrow morning at four.”
He mentioned a salary that made Hendrix gulp. She almost asked if he really meant to offer her so much money, double what Mitzi paid her, but clamped her mouth tight so it wouldn’t get her into trouble.
She started packing up the uneaten pastries, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Leave them.”
She swallowed and nodded, unable to talk. She picked up her tote and fled. She briefly glanced back to see him digging in to what was left and chewing thoroughly as though trying to guess what was in each of her sample offerings.
* * *
Donovan had been bored. He’d interviewed several pastry chefs and not one had shown him anything interesting. Until Hendrix walked in looking sassy and just plain different. He didn’t know what he’d expected from her, but she’d blown him away.
Donovan ate every last sample left on the little tray, even using his finger to lick up the crumbs. Oh, my God, he thought. He didn’t know what was better, Hendrix or her cake. He could identify the main ingredients, but the subtle, pleasant aftertastes were harder. She’d used more than just bourbon and chocolate in the tart’s sauce. And the tiny pie, which he thought was mainly key lime, had something else, some undertone that had a slightly spicy aftertaste yet was still completely and totally delicious. Better than any samples from previous interviewees and he’d interviewed too many to even keep count.
Just from the way Hendrix walked, he knew she was different with her odd black-and-white dress, black shoes and hair curled like she’d just stepped out of a poster from the 1940s. She was sexy, classy and had a look of fun in her amber-colored eyes. He liked her. He wasn’t sure why, but that combination excited him. The way her food did.
Each one of Hendrix’s samples had contained surprising undertones, and he knew she was never going to give him any more information on the ingredients she used other than the obvious. Yet her samples had been outstanding. Just thinking about them gave him a thrill.
And she was gorgeous. The sight of her heading into his office looking nervous and half terrified had rocked him. He’d gone into despair over the thought of finding just the right person to take over the pastry station after the last pastry chef had so unceremoniously quit. He’d wanted someone surprising and Hendrix was certainly that.
He sat back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the empty tray. He’d been looking for unique and found it, though he already knew she would be a headache. Just from looking at her and eating her samples, he could tell she wasn’t a team player. But if she could deliver quality every time, she’d really help put the restaurants on the map.
Donovan gazed around his combination office and kitchen. He was proud of it. Originally the office had been a small storage room, but he’d knocked out a wall and converted the expanded space into an industrial kitchen where he could experiment. He loved having his own private kitchen designed to his specifications. He loved every gleaming surface from the cabinets to the large worktable in the center with stools along one end so he could easily serve food when he and his brothers had a few food sessions on their guy nights. He’d even given cooking lessons to his new sister-in-law, Lydia, and his soon to be sister-in-law, Nina.
A knock sounded. He opened the door to find a portly man standing in the hallway. The man looked as though he’d just eaten a bowl of prunes. His mouth was pinched and his eyes were tired. He held up an ID wallet. Donovan tried not to groan. He’d been under scrutiny from the health department since his arrival.
“Come in,” Donovan said. “How can I help you?”
The man glanced down at his tablet computer. “I’m Larry Deacon. I’m replacing your last health inspector. I’m just checking to make sure you’re in compliance with the repairs you were ordered to make at the last inspection.”
Donovan nodded. “I don’t think I missed anything.” The last inspection had been meticulous, with the inspector citing him over the most mundane things that had nothing to do with food handling, such as improperly storing dirty towels.
“I’ll take a look around and meet you back here,” Deacon said.
Donovan watched him return to the kitchen. Every time he had an inspection new violations were found. He would correct them, but sometimes he felt the health department was out to crucify him. He was pretty thick-skinned but at times the inspections seemed personal.
His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Donovan Russell.”
“Donovan,” his ex-wife chirped. “How did you manage to keep the linen supplier on schedule? You never had a problem with him.”
He tried not to groan. Even though he and Erica had been divorced for several years, she couldn’t seem to get over no longer being married to him. “Erica, I always say please and thank you.” Not that Erica was rude, but she definitely considered service personnel to be beneath her.
“Could you just call him for me?” she pleaded.
A former model, Erica had looks, drive and determination. What she didn’t have was patience. “No.”
“Donovan,” she cried.
“We opened the restaurant six years ago. You know how everything works.” Most of the everyday details had always been her job. And now that he’d sold her his half of the restaurant and moved to Reno, she called him over the most agonizingly silly things.
“But I don’t have your touch.” A tiny whine crept into her voice.
“Being polite is your first order of business.” He closed his eyes trying to maintain his temper. After a couple of deep breaths, he was able to get beyond his irritation. “Erica, you need to hire a general manager to run the restaurant.” A general manager would intercede for her and help keep everything running smoothly. “I gave you the names of people to call. Have you called anyone?”
She avoided his question. “You didn’t need one.” Erica’s voice was soft and wheedling.
Donovan took another deep, calming breath. “But you do.”
She drew her breath in sharply. “Donovan, can’t you just come back to Paris? Your grandmother doesn’t need you and I do. Nobody goes to a hotel to eat the food. And Reno is just a Podunk little town. It’s not like Rome or New York or Paris.”
He swallowed his irritation. “Erica, I’m not coming back to Paris. You can run the restaurant. I left you all the recipes. And you know how to cook.” For someone who didn’t eat, she was a darn good cook.
“Please, Donovan,” she begged.
“No.” He didn’t understand why she thought she wasn’t experienced enough to run a restaurant, or why she was so clingy. Her neediness was one of the reasons why they were no longer married. Her need to be admired, petted and supported had tired him out.
For an intelligent woman, Erica was kind of lazy. She always wanted other people to do everything for her. At first Donovan had been enchanted by her little-girl helplessness. But once they were married, her inability to care for herself got old pretty quick. He’d kept expecting her to grow up, but that never happened. They’d both been relieved to end their marriage after only a year.
He’d opened the restaurant, and her ability to be a charming hostess drew crowds. People returned because the food