Chapter 1
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Julia
Cleaning the kitchen always made me remarkably calm. There was a routine, a system, that made everything orderly.
I filled the dishwasher, hand washed the pots that didn’t fit, and wiped down the stove and counters. Then I gave the floor a quick sweep, and turned the dishwasher on. It was all methodical. Peaceful.
Feeling productive was incredibly important to me, and kitchen work was a wonderful constant. No matter what else was happening in my life, I could do this the same way every single time.
So much had changed during the past two months that my head was nearly spinning. I had switched jobs from Dad’s law office to my brother’s interior design company, which was incredible for me professionally, but awkward for my family.
I’d also been missing my best friend a bit, since Olive had somehow ended up dating her father’s wealthy investor. It had all happened so suddenly. One moment we were joking that his name was Imaginary Larry, and the next thing I knew, he was flying her to other cities just to take her to dinner or something.
I was ridiculously happy for her, but let’s just say it was in sharp contrast to my own string of underwhelming first dates over the past few months, which had left me exhausted and maybe a little depressed.
The college business courses I took didn’t leave me with much free time, but I tried to date. Nobody kept my interest enough to warrant a second meeting, though. Over the past summer I had tried to go out with anyone who seemed like a genuinely nice guy, I really had.
They all seemed to fall into one of three categories. Cocky guys who assumed I’d be easy, dorky guys who couldn’t believe I’d gone out with them in the first place, and super boring guys who didn’t know how to hold a conversation.
With three older brothers, I was daddy’s little girl, and the only child still at home. Even though I was twenty-one now, it was a big enough house that I had my own space and didn’t feel any rush to move out right away.
Since Mom moved across the country when they divorced three years ago, I wasn’t just the lady of the house, I was the nearest family to Dad now. My brother Ethan lived across the city, and came by for Sunday dinners at least once a month. Adam and Stewart both lived several hours away, and we didn’t hear much from them.
After drying my hands on a dish towel, I grabbed my laptop and folder full of paperwork and went to the dining room. Dad and I used the huge table for big projects like brainstorming, the occasional Sunday afternoon puzzle, and planning his annual fall fundraiser.
For the past several years, I’d been busy with school in the fall and had barely helped at all. This year I was trying to get ahead of everything, and do more than my fair share, especially since things had been a bit strained since leaving Dad’s law firm to work at Ethan’s company.
Paperwork was paperwork, to some degree, but I’d rather be my most productive self in a more interesting environment.
At least, that was how I put it to Dad, and I think he understood. I also needed to stand on my own, and be a woman instead of someone’s little girl. Sure, Ethan was still my boss, but that was a lot different than answering to my father.
It put some distance between Dad and I, and I liked that. So I hadn’t even mentioned that I was working on an incredibly cool restaurant project, and being given more responsibility.
Today, though, I was ready to channel my energy into Dad’s annual fundraiser. Every fall he threw a gala to raise money for our local food bank. He’d volunteered there when he was younger, and saw how important it was, especially for families with small children.
Spreading the pages across the wooden surface, I was excited about this project. This year’s theme for the event was already picked, and the decor and entertainment booked. All that was left this week was to double check everything, and make adjustments when things inevitably shifted at the last minute.
A minute after I heard a car in the driveway there was a sluggish tap at the front door, and I ran to answer it. As soon as it was open a huge plastic box was shoved in my face. Grabbing it awkwardly, I couldn’t even see who was behind it.
“Take that to the kitchen,” a deep voice barked.
I was so taken aback that I simply did as I was told. By the time I got back to the front door, I could see the stranger’s face as he approached again.
Except he wasn’t exactly a stranger.
Matt Swansea. The now world-famous chef who had been catering Dad’s gala for the past ten years.
Naturally I’d seen his face on the programs, but he’d always looked cold, posing for an official headshot. The clip I’d seen recently on a national morning show of him promoting his latest book was far more flattering. Yet nothing could capture the fiery intensity of the man in front of me, shoving another box into my arms.
He didn’t even seem to see me, as I took it and trekked back to the kitchen to set it on the counter with a thump.
“Hey — careful,” he snapped.
I’d assumed Matt would be sending an assistant over with the sample menu. It had never occurred to me that he might come himself.
When his third book made number one on every single best seller list, and his TV special received several awards, I’d wondered if he would even still do the event this year.
I heard the door shut, and turned to see Matt carrying two boxes toward me, setting them on the kitchen counter. Then he finally turned to me, and froze.
It was strange just staring at each other. Those thick, muscular arms, and the fact that he was at least six foot two didn’t register on the photos at all. He was...striking. Those dark green eyes were fascinating. There was no way to explain the energy in his gaze. It was as if he was staring at a ghost or something.