to her parents’ generosity and faith in her experience and vision, it would only be a matter of a few months before Temple Territory would officially become Moore House.
Gillian raised her eyes to meet the dark gaze of Hunt Temple and couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever been mistaken for David Beckham. She’d been warned that the celebrity chef sitting beside her on the steps could be as temperamental in private as he was in the kitchen of a three-star Michelin Guide restaurant. The vein in his throat throbbed as he waited for her response to his insistence that she should hire his friends.
“It’s one thing to come in here and snap up a piece of Texas history, but it’s another altogether to deny jobs to the local folks,” he insisted.
“Allow me to state for the record that I’m hardly snapping up this property—it’s been on the market since before I was born.”
“So, what’s the big hurry? My brother says you’ve insisted on a fast closing and meanwhile I should observe the no-trespassing signs for the first time in my life.”
“I presume your brother is McCarthy Temple.”
Hunt nodded.
“As a courtesy to your family, my local attorney asked for a few days to notify your brother that the bank has accepted my offer.”
Hunt rolled smoky gray eyes skyward and raised his hands in surrender.
“I rest my case,” he huffed.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t have any say about all this, it’s just secondhand information to me. But at least give me a chance to say goodbye to Pap’s place.”
“If the estate means so much to you, why haven’t you bought it yourself?”
“Honestly?” He lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “As you said, it’s been on the market for decades. I guess I always figured my brothers and I were the only people who might ever want it.”
“Well, you figured wrong. I didn’t even need to sleep on it overnight before I made my offer. As the old saying goes, ‘When you snooze, you lose.’”
“What’s your hurry?” Hunt drummed the fingers of his left hand on his knee, impatient for her answer. How ironic that he wanted her to rush her response, just not her actions.
“I have an endless to-do list to get underway and deadlines to meet. Renovations will begin as soon as building permits can be approved.”
Hunt folded his arms, the negative body language stretching a snug-fitting T-shirt tighter across the chest and shoulders of a former athlete. His mouth clamped as if pinching in an argument. She hurried on.
“And regarding your comments about hiring locals, I’m sure I’ll have opportunities for hourly employees, but I had handpicked my management staff before I ever started researching the right property. They’re experienced people I trust, men and women I’ve worked with over the years who are prepared to relocate.”
“Was McCarthy notified about this, as well?”
“There’s no reason why he should have been,” Gillian countered. “Mr. Temple, people are not fixtures that come with real estate just because they happen to live in the same zip code.”
“Will you look around, for cryin’ out loud?” He held both arms out, and then turned his head from side to side, giving Gillian a chance to appreciate his handsome profile.
“This place is huge! No matter how much you trust your handpicked buddies, they won’t figure out in a year what an old-timer in these parts forgot last week. Alma and her husband, Felix, have had their whole lives to become experts on this place, and they’ve taught my brothers and me everything there is to know about Temple Territory.”
“Moore House.” The correction slipped out.
“I beg your pardon?” There was disbelief and an angry edge to the way he asked the question.
She hadn’t meant to bring it up in this conversation. But she couldn’t unring the bell so she might as well get it over with.
“The name for the estate will be Moore House. And that’s just the first of many changes I’ll be making. This old place has to be modernized so it will appeal to my guests.”
Hunt pushed to his feet. He shoved both hands through his tidy crop of dark hair, and then drew in and expelled several deep breaths as he glowered down at her.
“Since you have so many objections to Temple Territory in its historic condition, what is it that actually appeals to you about this place, Ms. Moore?”
Gillian mirrored his action, stood and stretched her spine, determined to deal with Hunt Temple eyeball to eyeball. She’d done her homework, certain this moment would come. She desperately needed his help, but it would be financially fatal if she tipped her hand or let him intimidate her.
“Mr. Temple, these are tough times, and this is strictly business. If you understood anything about running one, maybe you wouldn’t be taking this so personally.”
“And by what right do you assume I don’t understand how to run a business?”
She smiled, armed and dangerous.
“It’s not about assumptions. It’s about the facts.” She began to recite his résumé. “You passed up a full ride to the University of Texas on a baseball scholarship to work your way around the U.K. and Europe as a line cook. You eventually earned your cuisine diploma from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris—though it took longer than usual because you struggled with classic French techniques. You shifted continents, became a pretty hot sous-chef in Costa Rica and finally settled into an executive chef position at the Four Seasons in Cancun. But that doesn’t appear to have worked out since you’re in Kilgore again.” She tilted her head. “And unemployed.”
The gleam in his eyes said she’d made an impression.
“Did I get the facts straight, Chef?”
“Except for that wisecrack about techniques. I didn’t struggle. I just didn’t practice. The French preoccupation with peeling vegetables is moot compared to the perfect searing on a tender strip of flank steak.”
“I happen to disagree. You can get a hunk of grilled meat on any corner in Texas, but fine continental cuisine is not so easy to come by around here.”
“And that’s what you plan to serve in your restaurant, of course.” He lowered his eyes, shook his head.
“Of course,” she answered, convinced she was absolutely on the right track. “Being unique and a cut above the rest is precisely why our dining experience will be appealing. We’ll offer our customers a menu with exquisite choices. In less time than it takes to sing ‘The Eyes of Texas,’ the private celebrations at Moore House will be the talk of the state.”
“Is that a fact?” He was working at being unimpressed.
“It is, indeed. I’ve employed an extremely high-profile event planner who has guaranteed fabulous bookings and media coverage if Moore House is operative by the holidays.”
“Since
