Feeding HerThe LeClarks Trilogy - A Billionaire Culinary Romance
Eva Windsor
© Copyright 2019 - All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Discover More Romance
About the Author
Chapter One
Kaitlyn LeClark pushed her long, red hair out of her face, took one last look around her small Brooklyn apartment, and wondered for the millionth time whether she was making a mistake.
I’m only subletting, she reminded herself. The charming one bedroom, one bathroom unit in the limestone townhouse was still hers. If she and Grayson crashed and burned in New Canton, she could come back to nurse her wounds under its high ceilings.
And if they succeeded, well, she could still come back. Just because Grayson was hellbent on remaking a life in New Canton didn’t mean she had to. She told him she’d come back for a few months. Long enough to get LeClarks up and running again, to make the cookbook—that was it. Of course, she was also hoping it would be long enough for the residents of New Canton to eat their words, but it was the first two things that really mattered.
Kaitlyn felt a familiar tightness between her shoulder blades that meant she was unconsciously tensing her body. She rolled her shoulders back and blew out an irritable breath. She wasn’t even back in New Canton yet and the town was already getting under her skin. If it weren’t for Grayson, she’d happily forget the nasty little pit of undeserved wealth and bitter privilege existed. She’d black it out on the map and tell people she’d been born and raised right here in Brooklyn. “LeClarks?” she’d say if someone happened to mention the restaurant. “Never heard of it.”
Her phone rang, startling her. Kaitlyn looked down and saw it was Grayson. Of course it was her older brother calling to check on her. He was a restaurant manager by profession, and he couldn’t stop himself from managing everything else around him.
“Kaitlyn,” he said calmly. “You’re going to miss your bus if you don’t move it.”
“That’s bullshit,” Kaitlyn glanced first toward the clock that no longer hung on the wall and then down at the slim silver watch on her wrist. “I have—oh.”
“Exactly.”
“How do you know I’m not at the bus stop already?”
Tolerant silence flowed down the line. Finally, he asked politely, “Are you?”
“I almost am.”
“And by almost, you mean…”
“I’m still in my apartment,” she admitted, and he snorted. “But I’m leaving right now.” She grabbed up her duffle bag and swung the apartment door closed behind her loud enough for him to hear it. “See?”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at the station. We can grab dinner before I take you to your apartment.”
“My apartment?” Kaitlyn asked, jogging down the twisting flight of stairs, her hand grazing over the carved wooden bannister just in case. “I figured I’d be crashing with you.
“I thought so, too,” he said. “But something came up.”
Kaitlyn’s eyebrows raised. “Something I assume you’re planning to tell me about?”
“Definitely. Over dinner.”
Kaitlyn hung up and stepped out of the townhouse’s front door. By habit, she mentally counted off the 18 steps to the sidewalk. Grayson thought it was obsessive how often she counted, but she didn’t have his exquisite, innate sense of timing. When he cooked, for instance, he knew the exact moment the bacon for beef bourguignon was perfectly sautéed. It was like food spoke to him. It didn’t speak to her, so she counted. And even now that she’d given up on having her own kitchen, she couldn’t break the habit.
Normally Kaitlyn would have turned and given the three-story building a nostalgic last glance. After all, she’d called it home for the last four years—longer than anywhere since she left New Canton. But Grayson had done what he’d likely meant to and distracted her with the tantalizing bit of information that she was going to have her own apartment. She’d fully expected them to be sharing some cramped, two-bedroom, one bathroom with a view of the alley for the next few months. She had prepared herself for the inevitable misery that accompanied two chefs sharing one kitchen. She’d rearrange his spices so that they were sorted by expiration date rather than alphabetically. He’d criticize her beloved Masamoto knives and keep his Shun Kajis under lock and key. They’d always be fighting for stove time, and God help them both if the stove was electric. In short, she’d fully expected to be miserable.
What financial wizardry could have possibly enabled Grayson to be able to afford two apartments along with the overwhelming expense of starting a restaurant?
Kaitlyn felt a pleasant tingle as she considered the possibilities. Maybe he had gotten more investors than they’d expected. Or maybe he’d won the lottery. That actually seemed more likely than the New Canton elite embracing a LeClarks revival.
Not for the first time, she wondered what Grayson was thinking. Yes, she’d loved LeClarks, too. It had been more than a business. It had been their family’s lifeblood—their inheritance. She’d fallen in love with cooking because she’d learned at the feet of the huge, Dutch oven her grandparents brought over from France. She’d wanted to be a chef because that’s what LeClarks were. For as many generations back as had been recorded, LeClarks had fed people. Her ancestors had worked in castles, owned inns. Then they’d owned a restaurant that had drawn people from all over
