Dear Lord, she prayed silently. Please don’t let me want this too much.
But when Tucker got the system working and scooted onto the couch on Lilah’s other side, when she felt his warm little body curled into hers and Devon’s hard side shifting against her ribs and hip, the heat of his arm behind her neck, she knew.
It was too late for prayers.
There was no help for it; not even divine intervention could stop her from falling for these two.
Another night, another awful dinner service. Devon dispiritedly wiped a few droplets of the truffle foam he’d added to the rib-eye entree from the rim of the white plate.
He didn’t even know why he couldn’t seem to let the chefs go back to cooking the menu Adam had left in place. Pure assholic pig-headedness, probably. But it would feel too much like admitting defeat.
He sent the server off with a tray full of dinners that would probably come back half-eaten and looked over his shoulder to the one ray of light in the gloom-and-doom kitchen.
Lilah had Tucker next to her at a burner near the end of the line. They were out of the way of regular dinner-rush traffic, not that there was much of a rush tonight. Lilah was helping Tuck stir something in a cast-iron Dutch oven.
Curious, Devon called, “Frankie. Get up here and run the pass for a minute.”
He ignored the look the sous chef shot him—seriously, what damn sous chef hated to call the shots at the hot plate? It was insane—and strode up the line to the last burner.
Lilah and Tucker were bent solicitously over something extremely noxious-looking. Devon recoiled a little.
“What the hell is that?”
“Language! Tuck, tell your father what we’re making.”
“It’s green.”
Devon snuck a peek. “Sort of. If you squint. It’s more like the color of sewage. Sludge.”
Tucker did the gagging noises he loved. “Sick!”
“Not green, sugar pop,” Lilah explained with the exaggerated patience of someone who’d made this explanation more than once. “Greens, with an ‘s.’ Collard greens, to be exact. With bacon, apple cider vinegar, and caramelized red onions.”
“And you intend to do what with this toxic mess?” Devon inquired in his politest tone.
Lilah narrowed her eyes at him. “This delicious and nutritious dish is for tomorrow’s family meal. Billy has a late doctor’s appointment, so we’re filling in.”
Evidently misinterpreting Devon’s appalled look, Lilah rushed to add, “Don’t worry! I’ll make a quick buttermilk cornbread to go with it. And the greens will actually be better tomorrow. Like with a stew or soup—the flavors develop and deepen overnight.”
Devon shared an “ugh” face with Tucker. “Yeah, but why would you want to develop any flavor that smells like that?”
Lilah pointed her wooden spoon at Tucker, who stopped cackling immediately. “You. Don’t knock it till you try it. Have I steered you wrong yet?”
By tacit agreement, Lilah had done all the cooking at the apartment after Devon’s disastrous attempt at breakfast. He didn’t care if it made him a coward; he hated the idea of scraping another plate of food he’d prepared into the garbage because his son couldn’t choke it down. No plate sent back to the Market kitchen from an unsatisfied customer made Devon feel like half such a failure as the memory of that breakfast.
Still, he thought Tucker and he might be on the same page this time.
“Come on, Lilah Jane,” Devon wheedled. “Don’t inflict the Sludge of Death on us.”
Shooting him an irritated look, Lilah went back to stirring. “What do you care, anyhow? It’s not like you’ll eat family meal with us.”
Devon drew back, stung. Sure, he had too much to do most nights before service to sit down with everyone, but that’s what it meant to be executive chef. Before he could defend himself, though, Lilah continued.
“And it’s not like you’d taste it even if you did take a bite.”
Devon blinked. “What do you mean by that?”
Lilah blew a damp curl out of her eyes with an aggravated huff. “You hardly eat. And when you do, it’s so rushed you can’t possibly taste anything! It’s as if you don’t even like food.”
The floor shifted under Devon’s feet.
He wanted to deny it, but with a shock that tightened his stomach, he realized he couldn’t actually remember the last thing he’d eaten and enjoyed.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, clearing his throat and attempting to steady himself. “I’m a chef. Liking food is in the job description.”
Her hand slowed in its circular motion around the pot. Devon felt time slow down with it, as if his entire life, his whole future, hung on this conversation.
Lilah faced him fully. Her green eyes were wide and mossy, soft with something like compassion. Devon flinched under it like a blow.
“I watch you when you’re up at the pass sending out plates to the customers,” she said. “And I can tell you’re not really tasting those sauces and foams and whatnot.”
She spoke softly enough that the hustle of service kept the rest of the crew from being able to overhear, and yet Devon felt as if every word were being trumpeted through a bullhorn.
He made an instinctual gesture of denial, and Lilah put a hand on his arm to stop him from stepping away. “Oh, you put the spoon in your mouth, you go ‘hmmm,’ ” she said. “But do you really taste it? I don’t think so.”
Shit. Cold sweat prickled along his hairline. Was she right? Had he lost his palate?
For a chef, a good palate was a must. The ability to discern individual flavors and the ways ingredients played off each other could make or break you in this business, and Devon wanted to shout and rage that he never could’ve become so successful, come so far from where he started, if he’d had a shitty palate—but he said nothing.
He stood there in his borrowed kitchen in dumbfounded, horrified silence.
The rumors, the vicious gossip—it was all true. Devon always knew the show was heavily edited, the situations carefully screened before he ever walked into them. This proved it. The show was a put-up job. Every “win,” every episode where he beat the odds and pulled off a fabulous meal … that must all be a foregone conclusion before he ever stepped on set.
As for the continued success of his restaurants across the country, it had been years since Devon took credit for them, at least in his own mind. He’d hired great executive chefs to oversee each operation, then stepped back to reap the financial rewards. Sure, there were dishes he’d created on the menus at all of them, but they were all classic Sparks signature dishes. Nothing from the last five years.
The truth took Devon’s breath away.
He wasn’t a chef anymore. He was a fake.
More than the presence of his already demoralized temporary brigade stopped him from exploding. Even more than the innate reluctance to admit such a terrible weakness in front of the son whose good opinion Devon was just starting to earn, it was the look on Lilah’s face that gave him pause.
Straight pity would’ve enraged him; condemnation or derision would’ve given him something to fight against. But there was no fighting the calm acceptance in her eyes.
“Uh, Chef?”
The stammered call came from the front of the kitchen, up by the pass. Devon tore his eyes off Lilah, still reeling, and snarled, “What?”
It was Grant. Great. Lilah’s ex-boyfriend/high school sweetheart/best friend/whatever was not what he needed at this moment.
“Someone here to see you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Again? In the middle of dinner service?” Devon glanced from Grant to Frankie. “Does this happen when Adam’s running the show? People feel free to waltz in, visit the kitchen brigade like the monkey house at the zoo?”
The picture of insolence, Frankie curled his lip. “Nah, must be you, mate. Ever so popular, you are.”
Beside the pass, the door to the dining room swung open and S
imon Woolf, Devon’s ex-publicist, pushed past Grant and into the kitchen.
“Dev!” Simon hurried over, pausing for a disconcerted moment when he perceived Lilah and Tucker next to Devon. He squinted at Lilah as if he knew he ought to be able to place her, but couldn’t.
A quick glance at Lilah’s set lips revealed she had none of the same difficulty, but Simon didn’t pause for introductions or reminiscences.
“There you are! Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Simon, I fired you.”
“That’s not important right now.” Simon waved a hand. “I know you didn’t mean it. And even if you did, you must be ready to change your mind.”
“I don’t change my mind. You know that.”
Except sometimes he did. Devon’s gaze went to Tucker attempting to steady himself on Lilah’s shoulder so he could stand on the stool. He glanced back to Simon to find the publicist’s shrewd eyes on the woman and child by the stove.
Devon stiffened. “You’re wasting your time, Si. Worse, you’re wasting mine.”
“Come on, Dev. I’ve got your best interests at heart. Don’t I always?” he said as he sauntered over to the pair at the stove. “So who’s your friend? Want to introduce me?”
Lilah gave the publicist a bland look. “I’ve already had the distinct pleasure of meeting you. I didn’t catch your name, but I did get most of your drink. Down my blouse.”
Carefully turning the heat to low and covering her pot of stewed weeds, she helped Tucker down from the stool and whispered something in his ear that had him bounding up the line to stand by Frankie at the pass. Devon watched him go, surprised to realize how many of the line cooks grinned at Tucker or high-fived him as he ran by.
Simon, with his usual studied poise, reflected none of the embarrassment he probably ought to feel from the reminder of that first encounter. He flashed his sparkling white smile, held out a hand and said, “Simon Woolf, PR to the stars. And you are?”
“Lilah Jane Tunkle. Charmed, I’m sure.”
She gave him her hand, regal as any born-and-bred Southern princess.
Simon held on to her fingers a beat too long to please Devon, who growled, “Drop it, Fido. Time to get to the point. Why are you here?”
Unhurriedly letting Lilah go, the publicist gave Devon a wounded look. “I was worried. My biggest client falls off the grid—naturally, I wanted to make sure you were copasetic. And then, of course, when all the rumors started flying, I had to find you.”
“Rumors?” Devon asked sharply. He cursed himself the moment the word flew out of his mouth and he caught the glint of triumph in Simon’s eye, but it was too late. He was caught.
“I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy with Lilah,” Simon said with a speaking glance.
Lilah, who apparently spoke fluent publicist, merely crossed her arms over her chest and planted her heels.
“It’s fine,” Devon said, impatient. “You can say whatever in front of her.”
Simon didn’t look startled, more satisfied—as if Devon had confirmed a suspicion. “All righty, then.” He moved smoothly into his soothing-the-savage-celebrity voice. “I don’t want you to get upset, because there’s an easy fix, but you should know that rumors are circulating that Market has gone downhill since Adam Temple left you in charge.” He paused for a grave moment. “I won’t lie. Your reputation has taken a hit.”
Okay. On some level, Devon knew this was coming. On the heels of Lilah’s blunt assessment and his own realization of the staggering amount of self-delusion he’d been practicing, this new problem merely added to the defeated exhaustion dragging him down. “And you want me to do what about it?
I’m weeded bad here, Simon. The rumors are right, we’re in the shit every night. I’m messing this up like a first-year culinary school grad. Worse! We’ve got an ACA extern who’s doing way better than me.”
Devon heard Lilah’s quiet intake of breath. She was probably in shock that he’d admitted it, but shit, what was the point of fooling himself? If he’d really lost his palate, he was done for. That was a career killer, right there.
“Not so loud,” Simon hissed. “Have I taught you nothing about public perception? You project total confidence at all times, period. Nobody wants to see the man behind the curtain, Dev. You know that.”
This time Lilah snorted, and it wasn’t quiet.
Ignoring her, Simon went on, “Now, Dev, it’s simple, really. All you have to do is hire me back. I’ll arrange everything. You’ll give a public statement with a credible reason for the downturn in Market’s popularity—like alcoholism, for instance.”
Devon winced, eyes zooming to Tucker, laughing at some damn face Frankie was pulling. “Shit. I don’t have a drinking problem.”
“Drugs, then,” Simon said, waving the details away as inconsequential. “Doesn’t matter. Oldest story in the world. You’ll have to go away for a while, of course, for ‘rehab’—it’s a nice opportunity for a vacation, a break from everything, and really, I think it’s the best thing for you. When you come back from vacay, I bet everything will look different.”
It was nothing Devon hadn’t heard before. In the four years since he’d hired Simon to handle public relations for the growing Sparks brand, Simon had engineered countless publicity opportunities for Devon. In the past, Devon had followed Simon’s advice without a second thought—because he knew that he and Simon were driving hard toward the exact same goal.
Yet somehow, standing here with sweet Lilah Jane at his side, Devon wasn’t so sure anymore.
Devon opened his mouth to tell his publicist where he could stick it, but Lilah stopped him with an imploring hand.
She undoubtedly meant to grab his elbow, but he shifted at the last second and her palm landed against his lower ribs. The touch jolted his system like a shock, the intimacy of it warm and welcome in the strange crossroads moment where Devon now found himself.
Lilah looked down at the hand on Devon’s side as if surprised to find it attached to her wrist, but she left it there.
If she thought the weight of it would add to the strength of her imploring gaze, she was right. Lilah turned those big, baby-doll eyes on him and Devon was ready to do almost anything to keep her looking at him like that.
“Don’t do that,” she urged. “Oh, please, Devon, don’t say you’re going into rehab. You can’t! What will happen to Tucker?”
A spike of annoyance shot through him. “Why do you assume I would?” he demanded, ignoring the fact that up until a week ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated for an instant.
“Oh. I just thought … I know how much your reputation means to you.”
It was satisfying, the way her gaze slid down and to the side. Her hand dropped, too, though, which wasn’t as good.
He backed away from both Simon and Lilah, tucking his hands under his arms and mustering up the biggest, cockiest smirk he could manage.
Reckless exhilaration swept through him. If Devon Sparks was going down, he was going down swinging.
“Damn straight,” he said. “I worked too long and hard building this reputation to let it all go to shit over one misguided favor for a friend.”
“So you’ll do the press conference?” Simon put in, all eager beaver.
“Bet your ass I will,” Devon said. He savored Simon’s gloating face and Lilah’s disappointment for five deliciously cruel seconds before finishing, “But I won’t be announcing a stay at Betty Ford. I’ll be inviting them all to cover my first annual charity fundraiser—to be held in one week, right here at Market.”
Jaws dropped in tandem. It shouldn’t have given him such a lowdown, delighted tickle, but it did.
If assholery were an Olympic event, I could go for the gold.
“Crank up the PR machine,” he told Simon. “I want everybody who’s been preemptively dancing on the grave of my career here next Saturday for the best dinner any of them have ever tasted.”
Simon press
ed his lips together so hard they were just a thin white line in his pink face, but he produced his beloved PDA from an inner jacket pocket and started tapping away at it furiously.
“We’re going to fill the place up,” Devon went on, “one hundred and ten spots, let’s say eight courses, fifteen hundred dollars a plate. Proceeds to go to …”
He stopped. Thought for a second, then looked right into Lilah’s too-bright eyes, drinking in the tremulous smile on her rosebud mouth.
“All money raised at the event will go to support the Center for Arts Education of New York. Every kid in this city deserves to go to a school with programs like theater and fine arts.”
“Devon Sparks,” she breathed. “You dark horse, you.”
Rocking back on his heels, Devon reveled in the moment. He intended to milk it for everything it was worth.
“Yeah, I’ve been reading up,” he said smugly.
Lilah shook her head slowly, as if to clear it from a disorienting smack.
“Since when? How? Devon, this is so …”
“Do you know how many charity events I get asked to cook for? A celebrity chef bumps up the fundraising power of any nonprofit quite a bit. I have stacks of requests on my desk. After that day at the Met, I had Daniel flag any charities that had to do with the arts and public schools. I was just gonna donate money or something, but this will be so much better.”
Satisfaction spread through Devon like the warmth from swallowing a shot of good bourbon. “We’ll raise awareness for a good cause, redistribute the wealth of some people who can definitely afford it, and I’ll have the chance to show all the two-bit critics and haters out there what I’m made of. It’s perfect.”
He ignored, for the moment, the question of his possibly corrupted palate, his uncooperative kitchen brigade, his apparently unappealing menu.
No one ever succeeded by focusing on the obstacles.
“I could kiss you right now,” Lilah said in a low, intense voice.
“What’s stopping you?” Devon asked, reckless with anticipation of the upcoming battle.
With a grin and an answering recklessness in her eyes, Lilah threw her arms around Devon’s neck and gave a little hop, forcing him to catch her.
On the Steamy Side Page 21