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There can be more than comfort in food...
What could well-known and wealthy Graham Cooper Jr. have in common with a blogger like Sloane Bradley, a woman with secrets she’s kept firmly out of the public eye? That is, besides a love of food. Sloane still can’t believe Cooper’s the chef at the restaurant she’s been assigned to promote. But she’s boiling to prove to him that her “little blog” can put his place on the map. She can also fall head over heels for the guy, who has secrets of his own, it turns out...except for one thing. She can’t get past the post-traumatic stress disorder that keeps her walled up in her home studio.
“Does that taste like it came from my father’s other restaurants?”
“It’s fantastic,” she answered around another mouthful. “Where did the chef come from?”
He crossed his arms, his face expressionless. “I’m the chef.”
Sloane nearly choked. Graham Cooper Jr., a chef?
“I trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and worked in kitchens that made Gordon Ramsay’s seem like Girl Scout camp.”
Wow. His speech had the scratch of a broken record, as if he was used to giving it to naysayers. What did the heir to the Cooper dynasty have to prove anyway?
“It was all very good.” Sloane squeezed a dollop of hand sanitizer into her hands. “You’ve obviously done a lot of work with these flavor profiles.”
Cooper’s mouth curved into a crooked smile. “No offense, but what does a food blogger know about flavor profiles?”
Sloane’s pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at him.
His grin faded. “Wait. I’m sorry.” He leaned his head in his hands, realized he was still wearing his work goggles and set them on the table. “I think that came out the wrong way.”
“Whatever. It’s fine. Can we get back to work now? I’m sure you also have better things you could be doing.”
Two could play at this game.
Dear Reader,
I’m honored you’ve picked up this book! It was so fun bringing Cooper and Sloane to life and following their journey through food, healing and love. I hope their story reminds you that healing is always possible, even if you have to reclaim it one day at a time.
Warning: this book may cause hunger, so be sure to read with a warm chocolate chip cookie and a tall glass of milk.
PS: I love to hear from readers! You can find me at www.laurietomlinson.com, on Facebook at Author Laurie Tomlinson, or @LaurieTomlinson on Twitter and Instagram. Thanks again for reading!
With No Reservations
Laurie Tomlinson
www.millsandboon.co.uk
LAURIE TOMLINSON is an award-winning contemporary romance author living in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her stories are fueled by faith, steaming mugs of tea, and her belief that life should be celebrated with cupcakes and extra sprinkles. When she’s not writing, she enjoys baking with her two little sous chefs and testing new recipes on her husband—especially if she doesn’t have to do the dishes.
You can connect with Laurie on her website, Facebook page and Twitter.
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To my husband, Jef, for being the ultimate hero inspiration with your strength, love and support. Thanks for being my Huckleberry!
Special thanks to:
My husband and two children for championing my dream and making space for me to write—and to the grandmas for all the babysitting!
Rachel Kent, my agent, for believing in my work; Dana Grimaldi, for discovering this story; my editor, Victoria Curran, for helping me strengthen it; and the rest of the team at Harlequin for their hard and superb work!
All the early readers who breathed life into this story in its early iterations. It wouldn’t be the same without your input.
My ACFW community, writing friends, Alley Cats and my sisters Anne Love, Halee Matthews, Jaime Wright, Kara Isaac and Sarah Varland—they know all they have done.
Kathleen Y’Barbo Turner, Kristin Billerbeck, Carla Laureano and Jessica Patch—I wish that all writers could have author-mentors like you in their lives. Thanks for giving me courage and for making me believe in what I already possessed.
And most importantly, thanks to my Lord and Savior for being the true source of hope, healing and life to the fullest.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Extract
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
A STICK OF Irish butter, cubed into tiny uniform squares. Half-cup portions of white sugar, brown sugar, glittering in the light. And the star of the show, a mixture of chocolate chips and crumbled homemade toffee that was good enough to eat with a spoon. All showcased in sherbet-colored ceramic pinch pots and bowls from the flea market.
The mise en place, as the French said, was complete. Everything was in place.
Sloane Bradley found a calming satisfaction in the certainty that, when these proportions were mixed and baked, they’d turn out the most perfect toffee-chocolate chip cookies in existence. Gooey with just the right amount of crisp.
She was dialing up a crystal clear focus on the ingredients through her DSLR’s viewfinder when her cell phone buzzed against the kitchen table.
Dana—VisibilityNet.
Her account supervisor was early by a full six minutes, which couldn’t be a good thing. She was usually late.
“Dana. Hi.” Any enthusiasm Sloane tried to muster fell flat.
“Sorry, Sloane.” Dana didn’t miss a beat. “I know we’re ahead of schedule, but we had to move some things around today. Kathryn needs to start the meeting early.”
“Kathryn?”
Dana sighed. “Yes. She asked to be on the call.”
Okay, something was definitely up. Why else would the founder of VisibilityNet—the one who was usually just a signature on the checks—need to be in on this call? In the span of a breath, the parts of Sloane’s job she treasured most shuttered through her mind. The subconscious rhythm of arranging ingredients and capturing the finished masterpieces. Her ability to conduct business calls from the comfort of yoga pants. Even the multitiered, color-coded spreadsheets.
Maybe especially the multitiered, color-coded spreadsheets.
Sloane nodded even though her supervisor couldn’t see her and swallowed hard. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Questions zipped through her mind as she smoothed her tailored blazer over her shoulders and sank into the cream-colored, leather dining room chair opposite her laptop. Could her job be in jeopardy?
Certainly not. Sloane was one of the ad network’s most successful accounts. Her blog traffic was higher than ever. Brands paid a pretty penny to work with her. Clicks for third-party ads were on the rise. Email subscriptions were through the roof after her rustic herb pizza crust had gone viral on Pinterest earlier in the week. She liked it much better when VisibilityNet sent her kitchen gadgets to review and left her alone to do what she did best.
Blog.
But there was no time to figure things out now, no time to panic. Just the fizz in her midsection as her computer beeped to announce the incoming call. The video chat screen split in half as it connected. Two contrasting images swam into focus—barely postgrad Dana with her flawless milky skin, auburn topknot, and hipster glasses, and Kathryn with her signature silver-streaked black hair, pillowy lips, and catlike eyeliner tips.
“Good morning, Miss Bradley.” Kathryn’s puffy, plastic lips were slightly out of sync with the audio of her heavy New England accent. “Excuse me for skipping the formalities, but we really need to get to business quickly.”
Sloane nodded, willing her clenched throat to relax. “Good morning.”
“This is a very new deal, so please don’t make this public yet.” Kathryn filled her lungs for effect. “Is it correct that you volunteer for the City on a Hill Foundation?”
“I’ve been volunteering at their headquarters for a few years now.” Sloane was intimately familiar with the organization and did everything she could to promote their efforts to educate low-income families about smart, sustainable cooking and grocery shopping.
“Then you know it’s headed up by the Marian Cooper of J. Marian Restaurants. Well, it’s her ex-husband’s company now.”
J. Marian Restaurants? With the sleazeball CEO who paraded around Dallas like he owned the place? He’d made a fortune selling fast-casual restaurant templates. Make-and-take pizza parlors. Noodle buffets. Cupcake and doughnut boutiques. He could feed a third-world country for a year by selling one of his custom suits—or denying one of his wife du jour’s plastic surgery whims. Marian used to be married to that guy?
Relieved that this conference call was just a preemptive announcement, Sloane zoned out as Kathryn went on about “strategic partnerships” and “trend forecasts.” All Sloane could focus on was her overwhelming urge to reach through the computer screen and adjust Dana’s glasses, which were tilted a few degrees lower on her right eye.
When she heard the words national network spokesperson, however, Sloane’s attention snapped to the nasal, authoritative voice of the VisibilityNet founder.
“Wait. What?” She registered her own deer-in-the-headlights expression on the screen.
“That’s where you come in, naturally,” Kathryn said. “Marian convinced them to hire you specifically. And it’s perfect because you’re local.”
Panic gripped Sloane with razor-sharp claws as her fight-or-flight mechanism went from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. She nodded in the right places and scribbled notes on the pad of paper she’d placed on her makeshift desk for ceremony, never expecting to actually use it.
Son’s restaurant opening this winter.
Recipe development.
Reviews.
Basically, VisibilityNet expected Sloane to shake hands with a lot of highbrow people.
In person. Wearing real pants.
This could not be happening.
Shaky words formed on the tip of her tongue. “And if I choose not to agree to this partnership?” Too late to take them back.
Dana paled, her eyes widening in shock.
“There is no choice in the matter.” Kathryn let out a singsong little laugh.
Great. She thought the whole thing was a joke.
“Listen. We have a pretty good arrangement, Sloane. We increased your revenue percentage and gave you our top-tier accounts because people have been eating out of the palm of your hand with that whole organized food prep shtick.”
“But—”
“Because of us, you get to work with some of the highest-grossing companies in the food industry. And all you have to do is put on a pretty face and post pretty little pictures of your food.”
Sloane sighed. “I know, but I don’t think you understand.”
“I understand this.” A muscle twitched in Kathryn’s face. “You’re contractually bound to do this and breaking your contract would mean severing ties with VisibilityNet. If you don’t do this restaurant opening, then we don’t get J. Marian Restaurants. A partnership with them on a national level.”
“Just be the charming character who’s won over hundreds of thousands of page views this quarter.” Dana upped the pleasantries before Sloane could fight back. “It won’t be a problem for you.”
No problem? Right. They had no clue who they were sending to their front lines. No idea that, if her track record was any indication, their leader in ad revenue was about to be their undoing.
“Besides, the majority of your obligations surround the restaurant launch date. In a few months, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”
A few months. Sloane could handle a few months, especially if the alternative meant losing her primary source of income. The non-compete agreement she’d signed ensured she would never receive so much as a coupon from those companies if she ever left.
VisibilityNet had a list of bloggers who would jump out of a moving train for those accounts. But losing VisibilityNet would change everything for her.
Sloane made nice for the rest of the conversation and ended the call, gulping in a deep breath to try to get the elephant on her chest to budge. No such luck. Her cell phone lit up immediately, and she snatched it before it could buzz.
“Dana, we’re in trouble.”
“What? Who’s in trouble?” It wasn’t Dana’s chirpy voice on the other end.
It was her mother’s.
“Hi, Mom.” She forced a smile in an effort to hide the panic in her voice. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Who’s in trouble?”
Sloane let out a breath slowly. “It’s nothing. Just a new contract they gave me today. Work stuff. It’ll be fine.” She winced at the last word. Fine. Everything was always fine. Only, it wasn’t.
“Does that mean you can’t come home for Thanksgiving? Or Christmas?”
Home. The little town in Indiana hadn’t resembled home to her in ages.
She padded into her bedroom and folded the ironing board with a loud screech. “Yeah, no, Mom. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it this year. Maybe in the spring.”
“That’s what you said last year.”
A stake of guilt punched through Sloane’s heart as she paced to the kitchen. That’s what she’d said for so many years.
“Would it be better if we came to you?”
“Well, with this new contract, life’s going to be pretty busy.” Sloane pulled a dustrag from a drawer and began scrubbing the dishes and props on the rolling wire pantry in her kitchen.
“As long as you’re taking care of yourself, Sloanie. Spending time with your friends. Going to church. You’ve made friends, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Probably not in the sense her mother meant, but she had friends.
By the time she hung up with her mother, two rows of pots and dishes gleamed, and every limb in her body was itching to medicate with a few miles of downtown Dallas pavement. To help her process this new work arrangement as something that was manageable—and now to take the edge off of the reminder of why her mother had called.
It was his birthday.
She bit her lip against the pressure of tears building between her temples and crouched to the immaculate tile floor. Bracing herself, yet again, for the crush of painful memories.
But in a way, Sloane saw a silver lining in the conversation. Another one of her mother’s semiregular attempts to reach out was over.
There was now one less time she had to remind her parents that the daughter they knew was gone. Things would never be the way they used to be.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS RAINING so hard that Sloane only caught glimpses of the buildings outside the car in between broad swipes of the windshield wipers. But according to her phone’s GPS, the brick storefront barely visible from the rear window was the right location for J. Marian Restaurants’ latest franchise venture, Simone.
She grabbed her compact umbrella. “Thanks,” she told the driver, opened the door—and immediately stepped into a gargantuan puddle that soaked her black pants to midshin.
If this was seventy-five and sunny like the local news had forecasted, then Sloane was the queen of England.
Rainwater sloshed in her black flats as she scurried under the awning and through the heavy wooden door.
This couldn’t be right. The inside of this café was nothing like J. Marian Restaurants’ other prototypes—usually sunny and cheerful with modern decor, bright flowers and lots of clean lines. The best way to describe this place was a cozy, inviting cavern with a modern industrial edge to it. The walls were painted a dark gray framed by exposed galvanized piping. Reclaimed wooden tables were paired with mismatched chairs. A fireplace with crumbling brick occupied one of the corners, surrounded by squashy leather couches. Definitely European. And emptier than a ghost town, except for a contractor hammering at the leg of an overturned table in the back.
Sloane cleared her throat when the hammering paused and stretched to her tiptoes, watching for signs of life in the window of the door behind the counter. There was an impressive stainless steel espresso machine, a few large glass display cases and huge chalkboard panels spread across the serving counters waiting to be written on then hung behind the cash register.
So the restaurant mogul was up on the current trends. Good. It would make her job easier.
“Sloane Bradley?” The contractor walked in her direction, pulling off work gloves to reveal tan, muscled forearms.
“Yes, I’m here to meet with someone from J. Marian Restaurants.”
They were supposed to be talking strategy about the restaurant’s soft opening scheduled for Saturday. But at this rate, it would never be ready by then with only one worker on the job.
Though he certainly looked capable enough.
“You’re from VisibilityNet, right?”
She commanded control of her wayward focus and nodded. This wasn’t how the next few months were going to go. On the clock, Sloane.
“Is anybody back there?” She pointed to the door behind the counter then clamped her hands around the strap of her bag to make their shaking less obvious.
The man paused for a beat and pushed his protective glasses up to reveal appraising, gold-flecked brown eyes.
Sloane took a step back as her brain clicked into cognition.
No. It couldn’t be.
“You’re early.”
It was. Dana had told her the Cooper family would send one of their PR suits, not their spoiled frat boy of a son. It was the face she’d seen on the magazines in the grocery checkout a few years ago, curled into a perpetual smirk. Accessorized by handcuffs, models and half-empty bottles. Only now, his pale, lanky angles had softened into serious lines.
Professional. Right. She must remain professional.
“I’m right on time, Mr. Cooper.” Sloane zeroed in on the layer of dirt that speckled his hands. “May I call you Graham?”
Don’t shake my hand. Please, don’t shake my hand.
“I go by Cooper, actually. My father is Graham.” He moved behind the counter to scrub his hands in the porcelain sink then disappeared through the door into what she assumed was the kitchen.
Sloane spun around—surely this was some kind of joke—and dropped into a chair at the table closest to the door. Better to make a quick getaway if she needed to.
Cooper reappeared right as she uncapped her trusty bottle of hand sanitizer and squeezed the gel into her palm. In his hands was a tray filled with stoneware dishes and a pair of mismatched mugs. Her stomach rumbled its appreciation for the smells coming from the tray.
Acting of its own accord, Sloane’s gaze flickered over him with the new knowledge of who he was, just long enough to absorb the muscles filling his stained white T-shirt, the two or three days’ worth of stubble lining his jaw and his brown hair mussed by the clear work glasses perched on the top of his head. Just long enough to register that he was even better looking in person as he wiped sauce from one of the plates with the edge of a cloth napkin.
But it was long enough for him to notice.
Heat spread across Sloane’s cheeks as her stomach dipped in response to him. What? Did she think this was some kind of reality show or something? And why was her body choosing now of all times to behave this way? It had to be some kind of fight-or-flight misfire.
Cooper set the tray of food in front of her. “I thought I’d give you a preview of what we’re going to serve at the soft opening in case you want to write about it in your little blog.”
Sloane raised an eyebrow. Little blog? Apparently his good looks weren’t all the gossip headlines were right about. But maybe his arrogance would serve her well. Anger and annoyance always had a way of making her less of an awkward disaster. They helped her maintain control.
She ignored his comment and reached for the crock of soup, focusing on the smell of hearty broth and some kind of caramelized white cheese.
Cooper gripped her forearm. “Careful. I just pulled that out of the oven.”
She snatched her hand back as sparks of electricity scattered up her arm. Forget the hot ramekin. His touch might as well have been the lit end of a July Fourth sparkler.
Cooper unrolled a cloth napkin and placed a fork and a spoon on a saucer, reaching across the table to hand it to her. The silverware clattered against the porcelain in her shaky grip when she took it, as if the restaurant were positioned along an unsteady fault line.
He glanced from Sloane’s hands to her eyes, a line creasing in his forehead as she reached into her bag and scrubbed the cutlery with a wipe before dipping her spoon in the soup.
“So, tell me a little about J. Marian Restaurants’ vision for this place.” She blew on the spoonful of broth, crouton and cheese, willing the soup to keep from dribbling back into the bowl since her hand still wasn’t cooperating. “It’s not like the corporation’s other restaurants, is it?”
One bite of the soup threw Sloane back with an explosive blast of flavor.
Cooper smirked at her reaction. “Does that taste like it came from my father’s other restaurants?”
“It’s fantastic,” she answered around another mouthful, already assembling her third bite. “Where did the chef come from?”