On the Steamy Side (16 page)

She worked for him, sure, but it was only temporary. In a month, she’d be out of his life and things could go back to normal.

He wondered why the prospect turned his smile upside down.

“Take your troubles to bed with you and when you wake up they’ll seem lighter.” Lilah could hear Aunt Bertie singsonging it as clearly as if she were perched on the slick cream damask bedspread.

The phrase had always seemed like cold comfort at night when Lilah was fretting too hard over some teenage drama to get to sleep, but invariably the morning brought renewed proof that Aunt Bertie was one wise lady. This morning was no exception; Lilah had gone to sleep the night before with her mouth still tingling and swollen from Devon’s lethal kisses, her blood still thick and warm in her veins, throbbing with frustrated desire and nervous excitement. That pulse-pounding thrill was balanced against the nightwear Devon had brought her last night. Tossing back the covers, Lilah looked down at herself.

Far from the tacky ribbon-and-lace confection she’d been dreading, her body was swathed in a pair of blue cotton pj’s straight out of Devon’s own closet. The cotton had the thin softness that only came from repeated wear. The drawstring pants were tight around her hips and too big everywhere else, making her picture them draping Devon’s lean waist and long legs. There was something warm and comforting about wearing clothes that belonged to him.

The issue was clear: Devon Sparks was entirely too dangerous to Lilah’s peace of mind.

Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She’d had oodles of peace and quiet back home, and she’d gotten good and sick of it.

She swung her legs out of bed and made her way to the sumptuous bathroom to brush her teeth. Even the toothbrush Devon provided for his guests was fancier than the plain one Lilah used, which her dentist had given her for free after her last visit.

As she scrubbed away, Lilah thought about Devon. And Tucker. And the fact that for the next month, her life was inextricably intertwined with theirs.

It wasn’t exactly what she’d come to New York City looking for, she reflected. Trading her own family obligations for duties with a new family. And yet, something about this dys-functional pair called to her.

The next month wouldn’t have an excess of peace and quiet, that was for sure.

Lilah debated for all of ten seconds over whether or not to put her clothes from last night back on again. The forest-green shirt and black pants hadn’t been her favorite thing when she first got them, and after wiping up multiple spills, picking up countless dirty dishes, and dropping several trays, Lilah figured the outfit might ought to be thrown out back on the burn pile.

Satisfied with her rationale for wearing the pajamas a little longer, Lilah combed her fingers carelessly through her hair, snagging on the riotous curls, and twisted it into a knot on top of her head. She retrieved her bra from the tangle of clothes and shrugged into it. Comfort was one thing, decency was quite another. Lilah didn’t have the kind of breasts that could go discreetly unsupported. The girls needed hoisting.

Lilah found her new employer and her new charge ensconced on the black leather Bachelor Special in the spacious living room. Their similar features, one face a miniature of the other, were bathed in the flickering blue glow from the television. Devon’s voice, unmistakable, if tinny, drew Lilah’s attention to the screen.

They were watching Devon’s show, she noticed with amusement. At the moment, Onscreen Devon was shouting, red-faced and angry, at a cringing subordinate. Through the bleeped-out curse words, Lilah caught something about the salmon being raw in the middle.

“Morning, boys,” Lilah said, making them both jump.

Tucker gifted her with a quick smile before turning back to the show, but Devon stood up and rounded the back of the couch to greet her.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said easily, his eyes drifting down her body. “There’s something unbearably sexy about a woman in men’s pajamas.”

Lilah plucked at the fabric where it pulled taut at her hips and tried not to color up. “Thanks. I’m going to head down to Grant’s apartment today and get the rest of my things, so you can have these back tonight.”

“I’ve got at least twenty pairs of pajamas,” Devon said, waving a dismissive hand. “Those look better on you than they ever did on me. Keep them.”

“So that’s the show?” Lilah said, gesturing at the television where Onscreen Devon was in a towering rage, throwing his dish towel at the wall, every third word covered by a high-pitched beep.

“That’s the show that made me famous,” Devon agreed, his tone sardonic. “For what it’s worth.”

“Lordy,” Lilah said, drawn in despite herself. “It’s too early in the morning for that much hollering and carrying on. Unless you made coffee?”

She clasped her hands and turned pleading eyes on Devon, who laughed.

“I did. I couldn’t find all the parts to the espresso machine, but I scavenged a French press from one of my cabinets.”

Lilah laughed. “A French press? Sounds like a medieval torture device. And what do you mean you can’t find all of your coffee maker?”

Devon arched a brow at her. “I’m far too busy and important to make my own coffee on a daily basis.

On weekdays, my assistant takes care of it. And on the weekends . . .” His voice trailed off and to Lilah’s surprise, Devon’s cheeks went a dull brick red. He flicked a glance at Tucker, who had dragged a tattered spiral-bound notebook from his backpack and started drawing during a commercial break.

And Lilah got it. The fully stocked guest suite was a clue. Women. Every weekend. And if his behavior with Lilah that first night was any indicator of his MO, it was a different woman every week.

She was just one of many.

Stomach twisting and dropping to her knees, she said, “On the weekends you usually have company.” The kind of company who never got familiar enough with the kitchen to know where things were put away.

“Right,” Devon said, sounding relieved. “Company.”

Lilah was so completely out of her league here.

“I’ll go pour myself a cup,” she said brightly. “Can I get you anything while I’m in the kitchen?”

“Lilah,” Devon said, his voice urgent.

“Nothing? Okay, then, back in a sec. Is the kitchen through there? Right, no problem, I’m sure I can find everything just fine. No need to trouble yourself.” She was babbling. She needed to get a minute alone before she made a complete and utter fool of herself.

Lilah hurried through the doorway Devon had indicated and found herself in the most beautiful kitchen she’d ever seen outside of a magazine.

The countertops gleamed with polished black stone flecked with glints of copper and antique gold, providing high contrast to the beautiful red wood of the cabinets. Lilah had to do a double take to pick out the fridge; it was also covered in that same red wood, seamlessly integrated into the expanse of cabinetry.

The counter on the far side of the large room butted up on a small corner nook set up like a restaurant booth with benches on either side of a rectangular table. Immediately, Lilah flashed on an image of the three of them sitting companionably around the breakfast table, laughing and sharing the paper.

Devon would take the Style section, Lilah would pore over the theater reviews, and Tucker would be giggling over the funnies.

She blinked to clear her vision. Quit it, she ordered herself. You’re acting like a love-struck idiot, painting pretty pictures of domestic bliss with a man who can barely even speak to his own son, and who has more lovers in a month than you’ve had your whole adult life.

Beyond ridiculous, to imagine one month as a nanny with a crush could turn into a real family.

Especially when Devon was clearly more comfortable with relationships that lasted no longer than a few days. Or hours.

All the same, it was a beguiling image, and Lilah had a hard time eradicating it completely even after she turned her back on the breakfast nook to find the coffee. She located it in a glass container that looked like a tall, slender pitcher on silver legs. Devon had left out a ceramic mug, Lilah saw. She could only assume it was for her, and the gesture warmed her. The mug was gray and green, with graceful abstract lines etched into the sides and a sweetly round belly. Lilah poured a cup and wrapped her cold hands around it, stealing as much warmth for herself as she could.

It was stupid to be upset. Stupid to feel blindsided. Devon was an almost unbearably attractive man with enough charisma to charm the spots off a leopard, as Lilah knew from delicious firsthand experience.

As if that weren’t enough, he also had piles of money and a big hit television show. And Lilah knew he wasn’t the kind of man to nobly and chastely refuse to take advantage of his fame.

Which, perversely, was something she liked about him. Lilah appreciated the fact that Devon was honest about his vices and habits. Back home in Spotswood County, there were a couple of men with their own small-potatoes version of local power and influence who threw their weight around all over the place, meanwhile pretending to a pious humility that set Lilah’s teeth on edge. She much preferred Devon’s unabashed sensuality and the glee he seemed to take in the trappings of his decadent lifestyle.

Forcefully suppressing memories of her own brief revelry in Devon’s sensuality and decadence, Lilah carried her coffee back into the living room where Devon had resumed his seat on the couch. Her two boys were as far apart as they could be and still be on the same piece of furniture, Lilah saw with a stab of sorrow.

She noted the way Tucker dropped his drawing the instant One-Night Stand came back on. The way he stared at his father on the television screen, his eyes wide and unblinking, attention caught and held by a show no other ten-year-old on the planet would probably care about. And she caught the frequent glances Devon sent his son’s way, full of confused yearning.

Lilah shook her head. They wanted to connect, she was sure of it. They just didn’t seem to know how.

And in a flash, Lilah understood why she’d been so uncontrollably called to inject herself into the discussion about Tucker’s custody. Beyond the fact that she couldn’t bear to see the child shuffled off into the system when he had a father, alive and well and able to care for him standing right there, Lilah saw now that Fate had put her in the kitchen at Market that night for a very specific purpose—to help heal the broken relationship between father and son.

Everything in her longed to see a happy smile on Tucker’s face when he looked at his dad; to be a part of the moment when Devon finally began to embrace fatherhood and his place in Tucker’s life.

Lilah took a bracing sip of coffee and started hatching plans.

Tucker slumped over his empty plate at the breakfast nook, kicking one heel aggravatingly against the table leg.

Lilah fought the urge to tell him to be stil . He was such a quiet boy, any way he opted to make himself heard probably ought to be encouraged. And the noise was only getting to her because she was unreasonably and stupidly nervous.

She and Devon and Tucker were about to have breakfast together.

A small, insignificant thing, by anyone’s standards, and yet Lilah hoped it would have far-reaching consequences. It was the first step toward making that vision she’d had earlier a reality.

Well, at least the part of it where Devon and Tucker were happy together, she amended hastily. Lilah wasn’t sure she was ready to contemplate her role in that picture just yet, beyond being the wise fairy godmother–type who made it all happen.

Devon moved confidently around the kitchen, pulling ingredients and setting up his workspace. There was plenty of room for two to cook; it was nothing like the cramped little galley in Grant’s Chelsea apartment. In Grant’s kitchen, you couldn’t stand side by side with another person and whip cream without knocking elbows.

But even with the extra space and scope of Devon’s kitchen, Lilah was still having trouble concentrating on anything other than Devon’s proximity. And surely he could walk past her without brushing against her! Every glancing touch made her suck in a breath, her skin thrilling to it like his fingers were charged with static electricity.

Devon was watching her, eyes hotter than a summer sky, as if he knew exactly what she was contemplating.

Giving her shoulders a quick shake, Lilah pinched her lips at Devon in what her students referred to as her “Mean Librarian” expression. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes and gave a sardonic tilt to his perfect mouth.

Lilah ignored him in favor of addressing Tucker. “What does your mom usually make you for breakfast, Tuck?”

Tucker stopped kicking the table. “She doesn’t really make breakfast that often.” There was something off about the way he said it. Lilah frowned over at Devon, who shrugged.

“Heather’s not much of a cook,” he said coolly.

“What about cereal? What’s your favorite cereal, Tuck?” Lilah said.

Tucker made a face. “I hate cereal.”

“All kinds?” Lilah questioned, surprised. “Even those sugary ones full of marshmallows?” Tucker looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he could rewind the conversation and keep his cereal woes to himself.

“I guess those are okay,” he said. “I get tired of them, though.”

“Shoot,” Lilah laughed. “My cousins used to love that stuff so much, my Aunt Bertie once wrapped up boxes of Lucky Charms and put them under the Christmas tree! I didn’t know any kids got tired of eating candy for breakfast.”

“I don’t mind it for breakfast, but I get sick of it when we have it for lunch and dinner, too.” Now Devon was frowning, his hands slowing in their prep work.

“What other things does your mom cook for you?” he asked, his voice rough.

Tucker went back to kicking the table leg. “I don’t know. Stuff. Bagels. I like the ones with sesame seeds. And I’m not a baby, I know how to order delivery. We get Chinese a lot. The guy, when I call?

Mr. Han? He knows what I want just from the sound of my voice. He can tell, like magic, or like he’s psychic or something.”