Can't Stand The Heat
Page 33
“What did you say your name was again?” she asked.
Before he could decide whether to give a fake name in hopes of continuing this ridiculous charade, or tell her the truth and accept that she might put two and two together and come up with Famous TV Star, Adam’s loud voice rang out through the empty restaurant like a clarion bell.
“Devon Sparks!”
Devon winced and shot Little Miss Muffet a swift sidelong glance, but her eyes were wide with something that looked a lot closer to panic than recognition.
Clutching his elbow, she only had time for a quick whispered, “Please don’t tell them I was standing on the counter!” before Adam was upon them, his entire crew clomping up the stairs like a herd of rhinos behind him.
“Temple,” he said, acknowledging the chef/proprietor of this successful, trendy restaurant, who was currently doing a great impression of an overgrown puppy.
Adam bounced over, flush with happiness, excitement radiating from every pore. Normal, mundane day-to-day life tended to get Adam flying like a kite; the guy had the gift of passion, for sure. Still, this was something extra.
“Thanks for stopping by, man. See, Frankie, what’d I tell you?”
“Told me the man would be here. Didn’t venture to say much about whether he’d be amenable to your little proposition. Hello again, Lolly.”
The laconic cockney voice drifted over from the kitchen doors where Frankie Boyd was leaning, fingers of one skinny hand rummaging in the pocket of his painted-on black jeans. Presumably for smokes. Frankie was famously addicted to silk-filtered Dunhills; he’d once told Devon he plunked down his hard-earned for the outrageously expensive British imports because he took his vices seriously.
Devon sneered a little, more out of habit than real animosity. He and Frankie had butted heads when Frankie was one of his line cooks back at Sparks NY, but that was years ago. Frankie was Adam’s sous-chef now, and by all accounts, an integral part of the kitchen.
“Wait a second.” Devon turned to the woman at his side with an incredulous eyebrow lift. “Your name is ‘Lolly’? Like, short for lollipop?”
She stiffened visibly, her thick, straight brows drawing down thunderously. “Lilah Jane Tunkle,” she said. “Which you’d know if we’d actually met yesterday.”
Busted.