“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He turned to look at her and the attraction flared again.
“Water, please.” Something to cool the fire within her. She needed to focus—and not on Donovan Ford.
He nodded and procured a bottle from a small fridge built into the mirrored sideboard along one wall. The glass he handed her was heavy crystal. Julia recognized the style as Baccarat tumblers. No plain or inexpensive glassware for the Fords.
She took a seat in the visitor’s chair across the desk. No cheap imitation leather or rough, scratched wood, either. The seat looked like glass, but despite its cold and unbending appearance, was surprisingly comfortable. She’d bet it cost more than anything in her apartment except her chef knives.
Donovan lowered himself into the chair across from her and put down his tumbler without taking a sip. “I’ve had my lawyer look over your suggested changes.”
Julia had taken his advice and contacted a lawyer to look over the original offer. Actually, he’d been a former boyfriend of Sasha’s who had agreed to do it as a favor. Probably because he hoped Sasha would give him a second chance if he did. He’d been thorough and proactive, determining what it was that Julia wanted and then figuring out how she might get it. He’d had some excellent suggestions, including the addition of a codicil that would provide her rights of first purchase should the Fords decide to put the property on the market.
It wasn’t shares or ownership of any kind, but it was something. And since Donovan had, both in person and again through his own lawyer, made it clear that shares were not on the table, it was the best she was going to get.
Of course, she’d asked for a hefty raise for herself and the staff, too. Judging from what they’d paid for the location, the Fords had money to throw around. She saw no reason why her team shouldn’t share in it.
“You’ll see here—” Donovan used the same silver pen he’d had at the restaurant to point to the term in question “—we’ve dealt with your request regarding ownership.”
Julia scanned the words, parsing the legal jargon to understand the actual meaning. She looked up at him. “Just to be clear here, you’re agreeing that I’ll be given rights of first purchase?”
Everything else was flexible to Julia. Her salary, hours, benefits and other perks were things she could compromise on, but pushing forward for ownership was not.
“Yes. Should we decide to sell the property, you’ll be given the right to meet the asking price first.”
Julia nodded. “And I’ll have six weeks from that time?”
“Four.” He angled the pen toward her, a subtle hint to take hold of the instrument and put her name on the page. “We have to consider that a third party may withdraw their offer if they have to wait too long.”
She accepted the proffered pen. The metal was warm from his hand and smooth to the touch but impersonal. So different from her kitchen knives, which seemed to absorb a piece of her whenever she used them. They were all sharpened a certain way, worn down in a certain spot. It was one reason all serious cooks had their own set, which they were loath to share. Julia didn’t even let other people clean hers.
She pressed the nib of the pen to the page. This was it. She either signed now or forever held her peace. Her lungs felt swollen, as though she’d sucked in a huge breath and forgotten to let it go. Yes, this was it, and in her opinion, there was really only one option.
Julia signed quickly and handed the pen back. Donovan’s fingers brushed against hers, hotter than the metal. Suddenly, that metal didn’t feel quite so impersonal. Her eyes darted up to meet his. He smiled and she felt a flicker of interest rise up, tamped it back down and looked at his hands instead.
Hands were safe. They told a person’s story without words.
Donovan gripped the pen, lightly but firmly. In perfect control. And made a series of long, artful swoops as he added his name to the document. A man who wasn’t afraid to be noticed, a man who wasn’t afraid to demand it as his due. He wouldn’t be the type to hide in the back, away from the lights, wouldn’t be afraid to ask for what he wanted and expect to get it.
She took note of the scar on one knuckle and the thickness of his fingers. Donovan’s hands weren’t sleek and buffed, not polished within an inch of their lives. They didn’t look long and elegant like those of a pianist or a doctor. They were manly hands. Ones that looked as if they’d be just as confident swinging a hammer or using a saw as signing a life-altering contract. And strong. And sexy.
Julia looked away and tried to pretend that wasn’t her stomach doing a long, slow flip-flop and her brain wondering if those hands could hold a woman’s body just as easily.
* * *
SASHA MET HER at the door when she walked into the kitchen, a splotch of sauce on the shoulder of her white chef’s jacket. “So? Everything go okay?”
Julia nodded. Everything except the lingering attraction that had followed her all the way to the restaurant. She’d decided against taking a cab, hoping a walk in the cold afternoon would chase the feeling away, but the chill outside had only highlighted the heat building within her and the certain knowledge of one thing.
She liked his hands.
Julia had always liked hands. Even when she was small, she could remember watching her mother as she stood over the stove, stirring with one hand, dipping a finger into whatever she was making with a practiced swirl. Twisting the top off a piping bag and then squeezing the first drops of frosting into Julia’s waiting mouth, using her thumb to wipe away any that might get on Julia’s face.
Julia had chosen her first boyfriend because of his hands. Chris Wright had been tall and thin with glasses and a quiet way in class. His father owned a successful construction company and Chris spent his summer working for him. His hands were thick and muscled, a working man’s hands. Julia had found them fascinating, and when he’d asked her out she’d agreed.
Hands were a calling card. Chris’s scarred knuckles and rough edges told her he wasn’t afraid of hard work. What they didn’t tell her was that he was also capable of creating the most delicate wooden animals. Woodland creatures he whittled from leftover pieces at the work site.
She’d expected Donovan’s hands to be soft and manicured like those of the other men she’d met who’d been born to families where trust funds were the norm. But she seriously doubted he’d ever seen the inside of a nail salon. She wondered what other secrets he hid.
“It was fine.”
“You were there a long time.” Sasha’s eyes swept over her, halting on her hair, which was still pulled back in an elegant twist.
Julia’s hands rose to touch it. “We negotiated.” Which was one way of putting it. In fact, Donovan had explained the marketing plan that was to be implemented over the next two months and the role she would play in it. While her first instinct was to refuse—to explain that she was a chef, not a celebrity—she’d held her tongue.
The truth was that chefs today were more than creators of food. They were arbiters of style and taste. Name and face recognition were a considerable asset in the industry. As much of a draw as the food and decor. And the Fords wanted to use her.
Better yet, the Fords wanted to tie her to La Petite Bouchée and to tie her so intrinsically that there could be no separation. When she’d asked why, Donovan had explained it was all part of the branding push they needed to do to bring the restaurant out of the shadows. “We need to show everyone that it’s not the same old restaurant. It’s young and fresh and headed by a beautiful chef.” Then she’d had to remind herself not to get all twisted up simply because he’d called her beautiful.
It was probably all part of his ploy to make her agree. It worked.
Julia