On the Steamy Side (26 page)

Sometimes Lilah had to bite her lip to keep from laughing—or maybe crying—at the tentative bob and weave of their father-son bonding ritual.

It was slow and a little painful to watch, but progress was being made.

Devon felt it, too, she could tell. Service hadn’t improved much over the past week—customers were still unhappy and reservations had started dropping off as word spread—but Devon didn’t descend into the black despair she’d seen in him that night at Chapel.

He wasn’t thrilled, and obviously wanted desperately to do well at Market—but there was something else in his life now, something that was good and getting better, and Lilah could see the difference it made. Even if he wasn’t aware of it yet.

And every night when he came to her bed and made her writhe and sob and act like a complete hussy, Lilah thought there might be more than Tucker making Devon happy these days.

By Friday, they were all getting tired of running around the city, so they made a quick trip to the magical wonderland of Dylan’s Candy Bar before taking their treats back to the apartment and settling on the couch for a movie.

Lilah wasn’t dumb enough to let Tucker or Devon pick; she had no interest in sitting through Terminator 9 or something. The boys grumbled, united for once in their desire for explosions and car chases, but Lilah was implacable.

“The Goonies is a classic,” she said, leveling a severe frown at the sofa. “It’s disgraceful that Tucker hasn’t seen it.”

Devon’s mouth twisted. “What would you say if I told you I haven’t seen it, either?” Lilah gave a theatrical gasp and fell backward, clutching her heart. She kept very still, eyes closed.

Tucker squawked and jumped off the sofa to kneel by her head. It was hard not to smile or twitch when he poked her, but Lilah managed it.

“You killed her,” he whispered to Devon.

“Good,” said his father heartlessly. “That means we can watch whatever we want. Have you seen the Evil Dead movies?”

Tucker shouted with laughter as Lilah sat straight up, indignant. “Hey! A little respect, if you please. Evil Dead is hardly appropriate when your . . .” She stopped, suddenly uncertain what to call herself, how to relate herself to this unexpectedly warm family moment. “. . . whatever is dead.” She looked at Devon, who looked back at her. The moment stretched like taffy until Tucker, shockingly, broke it by saying, “Our Lolly. And you’re not dead, so I guess we hafta watch the goons, huh?”

“Goonies, you little philistine,” she said, but it came out all scratchy and tear-clogged.

Luckily, Tucker was too busy dealing with the high-tech gadgetry involved in putting on the movie to notice, but when Lilah ducked her head away from him she had to face the couch.

Devon’s knowing gaze was heavy on her face. He laid his arm along the back of the couch in open invitation, and Lilah moved into it, shaky but happy and a little scared.

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.”

“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 Simon 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?