French Roast Page 8

  “You don’t want me to talk normally to you anymore?”

  “A little romance would be nice.” She toyed with the crystal on her necklace. She’d dug into her top dresser for the black box holding the heart-shaped one he’d given her for graduation, but she hadn’t been able to put it on. To her, it still symbolized the end of their friendship. She didn’t want to jinx their happiness by wearing it yet.

  He rolled his eyes. “Listen, if we’re going to work together, I can’t be Casanova and Wolfgang Puck at the same time.”

  Now she snorted. “No, you have much better hair.”

  “Okay, smart ass, as I was saying, I need more space in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.” She ran a finger down his blue V-neck sweater. God, flirting with him and knowing where it was going to lead made her feel bold and sexy.

  He swatted her hand aside, putting a damper on her enjoyment. “Jillie, you can’t negotiate like that if we’re seriously going to form a business partnership.” He blew steam from his coffee before sipping it. “I mean it.”

  “You’re so stern. Why can’t you have fun with this?”

  “Because sex and business don’t mix well. Trust me I…”

  Her butt scooted to the edge of her seat. “Do I hear the voice of experience talking?”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, adding a sugar cube to his macchiato with incredible concentration. “You’re like a horny teenager. I need your mind on our ideas—and nothing else—when we’re working. We can have fun after. This will only work if we can keep business and pleasure separate.”

  Perhaps they needed to have fun so she could stop being horny. “Fine.” She grabbed the hand-drawn design. “What do you want?”

  “Six more feet for the cooler.”

  Her heels dug in like an oak tree extending its roots. “I need space for the office. I am not working in a cracker jack box.”

  “You can use your office here.”

  “No, I want to be on site.” With you.

  “Doesn’t make sense. You can shuttle back and forth.”

  It usually delighted her the way his brows framed his brilliant eyes. Right now, the line in between them made her want to shred her signature lime green and black napkins into tiny pieces and throw them in the air like confetti.

  “I’ll split the space with you, Bri. It’s the best I can do.”

  “A measly three feet? That’s impossible.”

  The disagreements were giving her an ulcer. Not much had changed since the picnic—even though they were both trying to compromise. The Brian Groupie in her wanted to give in—like she had about a monochromatic scheme, which she hated—but she just couldn’t do it.

  “Give it up, McConnell. That’s the best you’re getting.”

  “Fine, but when we don’t have enough food to feed everyone, Red, I’m going to remind you of this moment.”

  Her fingers squeezed the bridge of her nose—hard. Brian was sipping his espresso, watching everyone but her. They had to find a shared vision. Deep inside she knew they’d fail if they couldn’t find some common ground.

  Her nerves increased. Suddenly, having sex with him didn’t seem as daunting as opening a restaurant together. Her mind pinged back to Mac Maven’s mysterious offer. He’d called again to check in with her, pouring on the charm, but not too hard. She’d told him she was pursuing a business with her childhood friend, but had Meredith been right from the beginning? Was opening a place together putting too much strain on her relationship with Brian?

  The bell chimed, announcing a customer. She was a newcomer—and a stunning one. Her honey-blond hair seemed to bounce lovingly around her exotic face. A cliff diver could have committed suicide off her cheekbones, and her movie-star almond eyes shone in gold and cherry-wood tones. Her full-length black mink wasn’t buttoned—a dangerous choice given all the Colorado environmentalists—exposing a red dress clinging to a frame that should only have been possible with accompanying air brush fairies. The matching four-inch red heels were totally impractical in winter and left snowmelt dots all across the walnut floor.

  Jill’s sigh bordered on a wheeze. Oh, to be so beautiful—even in your forties like that woman. She had to be a California transplant. In a roomful of casually dressed patrons, she looked like she belonged on Rodeo Drive.

  Jill stood to introduce herself.

  Brian grabbed her hand. “Where are you going?”

  “New customer.” She inclined her chin.

  He jerked like he’d been electrocuted. His color went from normal to white to green in one second flat. She’d only seen this happen three times. When he’d broken his leg skiing. When he’d told her his parents were getting divorced. And when he’d stopped CPR on Jemma.

  “Bri-yan,” the woman singsonged out in a sultry French accent. She sashayed toward them like a glittery Christmas ornament.

  Brian dropped Jill’s hand like it was a hot potato and stood. Venus incarnate reached over and grabbed his face, kissing him ardently.

  Jill felt her mouth fall open like a bad cartoon character’s. When the woman’s tongue swiped at Brian’s lips, she straightened to her full five foot ten inches. She tapped the woman on the shoulder as Brian’s hands finally pushed her back.

  “Simca!” Brian stuttered, breathing hard.

  “You know her?” Jill asked. It was a stupid question after that kiss, but it was the only thing she could think to say.

  The woman’s perfect red lips curved into a knowing smile. “We were involved. In New York. Brian, I told you I was coming.”

  He’d been in touch with this goddess? Her hand gripped the chair. “You were?” She looked at Brian for confirmation, but his eyes were fixed on the mystery woman.

  “Yes. He did not tell you?”

  “No, he told me he didn’t have a girlfriend.” And this omission felt like a betrayal.

  He looked from Simca back to her, his pupils wide. “Well…that wasn’t…what I called her. Jill…I’m sorry.”

  As an explanation, it sucked. Why did he think he could withhold vital information about an ex, particularly an ex who was coming for a visit? An apology improved nothing.

  Simca linked her arm through his. “In my country, we don’t use childish descriptions. We were lovers.”

  “Jill…” Brian broke off, rubbing his throat.

  Seeing him with this gorgeous, blond woman—so much prettier than she was—made all the old insecurities rear their head, just like when he’d chosen perky blond Kelly Kimple over her.

  After a few seconds of silence, the woman tsked. “Ah, Brian, you are overcome at seeing me again. Let me introduce myself to your friend. I’m Simone Moreau. My closest friends call me Simca.”

  How could he not have told her about this woman? And she was older! Jill’s spinning mind conjured up images of the two of them together. So not what she needed.

  “How did you meet?” she made herself ask. Part of her wanted to know. The other part…

  Brian cleared his throat. “Simca was…ah…one of my restaurant bosses.”

  “Really? I seem to remember you saying a restaurateur’s life was mostly for men.” She turned to Simca. “I take it you’re an owner, not a chef?”

  “No, I am a chef, too.” She settled comfortably against Brian’s side like a French Barbie and her American Ken doll.

  Becoming aware of all the stares focused on them, Jill broke out in a blush. In a small town like Dare, the news would travel as fast as a forest fire. Her questions would have to wait.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Jill muttered through tingling lips.

  The woman’s gold bracelets clicked together. “Brian, let’s go somewhere and catch up. I’ve missed you so much.”

  Jill ran into an empty table before sailing out of her shop. She listened for the door chimes to ring again as her boots slapped the sidewalk. Surely, Brian was coming after her.

  When nothing rang except the ding to Smith’s Hardware, tears ga
thered in her eyes. Dammit. She would not cry over him again. She’d get mad instead. Let the pain sear through her like a hot poker, heating her freezing body. He’d lied about having someone special. Hell, he’d invited her here. And to top it all off, she was an older, beautiful French woman with a sultry accent.

  She felt like a fool. The new life she’d spun for them might as well have been made of toothpicks.

  Chapter 9

  Brian watched Jill stride down the street like she was taking on the blustering north wind in the boxing ring. She wasn’t even wearing a coat. Shit, he thought, tugging his hair. This was bad.

  Simca’s fingers, those delicate instruments that could filet a twenty-pound fish or make a man beg himself hoarse, caressed his collarbone. He pushed her hand aside.

  “What are you doing here?” He felt as loopy as when he’d taken a baseball against his temple in junior year of high school.

  Those pouty French lips didn’t lose their small smile, but her sherry eyes narrowed a fraction. “Correcting the worst mistake of my life.”

  Her sultry accent alone had made a slave of him back in New York. It had made him understand why so many people chose to study abroad. A book dropped on the floor, making his head turn. Customers were literally leaning forward on the edge of their seats to get a better look.

  “Let’s take this backstage.” He brushed his hand under her elbow, knowing she would dig her heels in if he manhandled her. Simca led. Men followed. It was a rule of the universe.

  “Margie, I’m using Jill’s office for a minute.”

  He escorted her back there, the itch to follow Jill climbing up his spine. This could ruin everything. The explosive colors in the office added to his headache. Red door. Yellow walls. A new modern art landscape, vibrant with blue and orange.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, sitting on the edge of Jill’s purple desk.

  “I called you. Didn’t you listen to my voicemails?” She closed the door, leaning against it like a starlet. “My divorce is final. You were right. Andre didn’t love me.” The ghost of a smile flickered across that movie-star face. “But you do, mon cher. ”

  “What?” He almost fell off the desk. “You have a hell of a nerve to show up after all this time and say shit like this to me.”

  “Don’t be mad at me. I wanted to contact you when Andre fired you, but my divorce lawyer told me it would hurt my settlement. The minute my divorce was final, I called. I want to be with you again. I want to work with you again—and make amends.”

  His mind buzzed from total shock. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Jesus!” Brian paced. “Why didn’t you help me when he accused me of stealing his recipes? You didn’t say a word!”

  “Yes, I did!” she said, raising her voice. “I told the police you couldn’t have done it. That you were with me.”

  That revelation deflated some of his anger. It explained why they’d dismissed the charges so quickly. “He black-balled me, Sim. Said I was a thief. I couldn’t find a goddamn good job anywhere.”

  “I know. That’s why you had to come home. I’m here to change all that. Think of me as your Food Fairy Godmother.”

  When she pushed off the door, her eyes liquid with desire, he held up his hands. “Give me a damn minute here. This is a lot to take in.” He took a shaky breath.

  “But of course,” she politely murmured.

  It was weird, seeing her in Jill’s space—it was like his two worlds were colliding, and he was caught among the debris. “I came home to rebuild my life, and I’m doing a damn fine job of it.”

  “I am so sorry for everything, cherie. ” Simca twirled her bracelets in a nervous gesture. “I want another chance. I want to open a place together. We were so good together, mon cher. In the kitchen and in bed.”

  He had to shut her down fast. “The girl you met. I’m with her now.”

  “I see. Is it serious?”

  His rubbed his tight chest. “Yes, it’s headed that way.” He realized it was the truth even as the ever-present fear of what that meant stole his breath. “We’re thinking of opening a place together.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  Her brow rose. She watched him gently. Hadn’t she always listened? The ongoing disagreements with Jill about their conflicting visions flickered through his mind. “We’re still working out the details.”

  “You don’t sound convinced. This is a small market. What would you say if I told you I want to open the place we always talked about? I have the capital now from my divorce.”

  His heart skipped a beat. God, he could be part of a Michelin-star restaurant again. His dream. Even though he’d returned to Dare to rehab his rep, he hadn’t been sure how long it would take to get back to that level. And now it was within reach. Now. Plus, he and Simca never disagreed when it came to work—that aspect of their relationship had always been pure harmony. “I don’t know. Jesus, Sim. I was so mad at you. Still am.”

  “I don’t blame you. I want to help. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Her determination had always matched his. His fingers drummed the desk. “I was serious about what I said before. I’m with Jill now. What if I can only work with you in a professional capacity?”

  She caressed her throat. “I would be very disappointed, but would still want to work with you. We French are practical about sex and business.”

  Yes, he’d seen that firsthand. God, could such a thing even be possible? His mind conjured up the restaurant they’d discussed. Trendy lighting, monochromatic décor with simple geometric patterns, an eclectic seasonal menu. Was he really thinking about returning to New York or another big city? And Jesus, what did it mean for him and Jill? Could they do the long distance thing?

  “I need to talk to Jill.” It would be like lighting dynamite. “And I need some time to decide what to do.”

  He could feel the walls closing in. If he took her up on her offer to set the record straight, everyone in Dare would know what he’d done. Jill would know. He sat down, exhaustion deflating him like an undercooked soufflé. “Look, no one here knows what happened.”

  “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to.”

  The picture on the wall of Jill with her family made his stomach hitch. They’d been everything to him growing up, and it had hurt like hell to lose them. They wouldn’t understand. No one would. “For all its trendiness, Dare is a small town. What we did was wrong. I’ve grown up.”

  “So I see. It only makes you more attractive.”

  She approached him with a natural shimmy, and the notes of her specially blended Parisian perfume of hyacinth and frankincense consumed him. Few women could carry off a perfume so exotic. She was the embodiment of a sensual goddess, and she knew it.

  “Think about it. I’m staying at The Kenilworth Inn.”

  “Okay.” He walked to the door.

  Her hum lingered in the air like her fragrance. “Á bientôt, Brian.”

  Her see you soon haunted him as he left the coffee shop to find Jill, his mind awash with new possibilities—and what they might cost him.

  Chapter 10

  The snow-covered cemetery looked like a sheet of paper from death’s typewriter, gravestone markers pounded into the ground by its destructive keys, dotting the land with painful stories of lives ended short, long, and somewhere in between.

  Jill walked carefully down the slippery sidewalk, needing her best friend—even if she wasn’t here anymore. The pine trees waved a forlorn greeting, whispering about nostalgia and grief. A fresh bouquet of yellow daisies and pink roses decorated Jemma’s grave. She tucked her arms around herself to ward off the chill. In her haste to get the hell out of Don’t Soy With Me, she’d forgotten her coat. Another smart move.

  Jill knelt and traced the angel on the tombstone, summoning Jemma in her mind. Short blunt hair. Wickedly narrow eyes. Petite frame. Animated hands. A laugh as light and airy as cotton candy.

  “Dammit, Jem. I need to
talk to you like we always did.” The wind blew her hair away from her neck, causing her to shudder. “Brian lied to me, and just when everything seemed to be coming together so well. He had a lover in New York. An older French woman. She’s like something out of a Fellini movie—except she’s French, not Italian. God, it hurts.”

  She gripped the stone, her skin burning from cold. “How could he lie about something like that? Did he think I’d freak out about him being involved with some older chick?” She sniffed. “Of course I am. She’s even hotter than Kelly Kimple. I was going to sleep with him tonight, Jem. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.”

  She sniffled and wished she had a Kleenex. “Did the French chick dump him? Was he too devastated to tell me? Maybe she changed her mind. It sounds like they’ve been talking. Doesn’t that mean he wants her back?”

  She thought of the familiarity of that woman’s heated kiss, and how Brian hadn’t exactly sprung away. He might as well have diced her heart with his chef’s knife. “What am I going to do?”

  Being here made her feel a bit better. It was almost as if she could see her friend staring at her with bright eyes, pushing her bangs out of her face like she always did when she listened. Jill’s knees protested the freezing cold, so she sat on nearby bench. Her body felt like peanut brittle ready to crack.

  She heard a car pull up. Pete Collins—Jemma’s betraying, scum-sucking ex—walked toward her. He held a bouquet of pink, orange, and yellow Gerbera daisies, the flowers he’d always given Jemma before he’d told her he wasn’t ready for marriage, dumping her a few scant months before she died. Jill brushed away her tears, turning her back to him.

  “I was just going to leave these,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Why the hell are you here?” She pointed to the bundle, which was identical to the other bouquets she’d seen at the gravesite over the past few months. “If you think that wipes away your guilt, you’re dead wrong.”

  He laid the flowers down and drilled her with an icy stare. “I’m not going to argue with you.”