On the Steamy Side (8 page)

“Why so dismayed?” Lilah wanted to know. “You’ve been after me to find someone new since I turned up on your doorstep with a suitcase and a broken heart.”

“Your heart wasn’t broken, just a little bruised. And I wanted you to find someone wonderful.” Grant scowled.

Lilah started to feel a little protective of Devon, all of a sudden. It was okay for her to find him annoying and arrogant, but for some reason, she didn’t like hearing Grant badmouth him.

“Are we talking about the same person?” she asked. “Tall, dark, and hot like burning?”

“That’s him,” Grant agreed, lip poking out like a petulant child. He’d always been so damn cute, Lilah thought fondly. He’d grown up all controlled and organized, but when he looked like this, she could still see the little neighbor boy who’d tromped down the lane separating their families’ farms, all skinned knees and sun freckles, to ask her aunt could Lolly come out to play.

“Lilah, I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Grant continued, “but Devon Sparks is an asshat.”

“Grant!” Lilah was scandalized. “Language. And anyway, don’t worry. It was strictly a one-time deal; I’m sure he’s as eager to forget all about it as I am.”

Grant gave her a look that clearly stated he knew what she was full of, and it wasn’t rainbows or sunshine, but he didn’t contradict her.

Full of gratitude for the reprieve, Lilah said, “So what were you moaning about when I first came in?” Reminding him of his earlier grievance proved the perfect distraction. “The menus aren’t done!” Grant cried. “Adam’s leaving for two whole weeks and taking Miranda with him, and the menus will never be done right again!”

Lilah held out a hand. “Give me the menus, let me see what I can do.” Clutching them to his chest, Grant gave her a suspicious look. “You’ve never worked in a restaurant in your life. There’s nothing fancier than a fried chicken shack in Spotswood County. How will you know what to write?”

“I taught Hamlet to teenagers, Grant. I think I can handle one stupid menu. Gimme. And eat some of these fried chicken livers before they get cold.”

Grant exchanged the menu for the paper towel full of tender, crunchy morsels with a happy sigh.

“Oh, Lolly. Your aunt’s recipe? I have died and gone to heaven.” Lilah preened a little. Here was a man who knew what was good. Stupid Devon Sparks. What did he know about anything? Nothing, that’s what.

The menu was printed in pretty script on a legal-sized piece of what looked like recycled paper. The heaviness of the paper felt good in her hand, and she liked the nubby texture of it.

Grabbing a red pencil off the corner of the desk, Lilah perched on the sagging couch set against the back wall and started marking it up.

“Your boss? Might need remedial kindergarten,” she commented, changing apetiser to appetizer with raised eyebrows.

“He’s gotten lazy,” Grant slurred, mouth full. “Ever since Miranda came along he’s been unloading this job on her. He had to do it himself today and he rushed it, because he wanted to have it done before Devon got here. To take over our restaurant and turn all our lives into a living hell.”

“Gracious.” Lilah was taken aback by Grant’s vehemence. “Is it really that bad?”

“Bad doesn’t begin to describe it! We’re about to be under the thumb of one of the most famously dictatorial chefs in the industry! I used to work for him, back when he opened his first restaurant, Appetite, and I tried to quit about once a month before I finally managed to make it stick. It’s not going to be good, Lolls. You might want to rethink this whole brand-new beginning you’re trying on for size.

Let me find you a job bussing tables someplace else.”

“No! I want to be at Market. I like it here, all the folks I’ve met have been so kind and welcoming. And you said yourself, no other good restaurant is going to hire someone like me, with no experience at all, and pay a decent wage. I’m willing to impose myself on my oldest, dearest childhood chum like that, but my aunt didn’t raise me to be a charity case.”

Not entirely true—Lilah had felt like a charity case most of her life, living with her aunt and uncle. They hadn’t tried to make her aware of her status in their household, never reminded her that she wasn’t theirs, but she’d felt different from her cousins, all the same.

With Grant, though, Lilah knew herself to be on solid ground. Grant had always just liked her; no duty, obligation, or charity about it.

He smiled at her now. “I’ve loved having you in Manhattan with me. Even if my apartment’s not really set up for two people.”

“It’s cozy,” Lilah said. “Think how nice it’ll be when winter comes.” She was looking forward to the snow. Virginia didn’t see a lot of it.

“Sure, except now it’s summer and we’re baking like two little cinnamon buns in a pan. Seriously, Lols, are you glad you came? I know it’s only been a few days, but it was a big change for you.”

“It was time and past. I needed to experience life outside of the county.” Grant’s mouth twisted. “You never did fit in with those white-gloves-and-pearls Virginia debutantes, did you?”

“No more than you. It was destiny that we became friends.”

“Right, destiny. Or the fact that our family’s farms butted up on the same crick.” Lilah laughed, because Grant wanted her to. He didn’t like to think about his past as a misfit, she’d noticed. When he’d moved to New York right out of high school, Aunt Bertie had shaken her head and made dour predictions about the fate of a country mouse in the big city, but Grant had never looked back. Lilah knew for a fact that she was the only person he still kept in touch with from their high school class—not that many of those bubble-brained jocks and twittering debs had the sense to know what they were missing out on.

They didn’t like Grant because he was different in some way they sensed, but couldn’t define.

And they didn’t like Lilah because she wore clothes that used to belong to her older (male) cousins and refused to follow their lead when it came to Grant. Or, well, anything.

“Have I thanked you for taking me in and letting me stay with you?” Lilah asked.

“At least twice a day since you moved up here,” Grant said. “And from now on, there’s a moratorium on calling your new life ‘an imposition.’ I love having you here. Even if my apartment is tiny enough that even with you over on the pull-out couch, I woke up when you got the hiccups that first night.”

“Missed me last night, didn’t you? Admit it.” Lilah crossed the last T with a flourish and stood to hand the finished product over the desk.

“Gladly,” he told her, taking the menus and casting his eyes over them quickly. “Actually, I missed you more this morning when I had to get my own breakfast for the first time since you arrived. You turned into a damn fine cook while I wasn’t looking. And Jesus, Adam really can’t spell for shit, can he?”

“Your vocabulary has gone down the toilet.” Lilah laughed, a tiny bit shocked. Her sweet little friend was all grown up.

“Yeah, sorry.” Was he blushing? Cutie. “But you’d better get used to it, I’m afraid. My potty mouth is nothing compared to the sewage most of those cooks upstairs spew during an average dinner service.”

“I can’t wait. You gonna share those livers, or what?”

They shared a companionable moment munching happily on the crispy, salty treats with their surprisingly rich, velvety centers. There was a hint of cayenne in the batter, which fired the roof of her mouth and made her throat tingle pleasantly.

She couldn’t believe she’d allowed that condescending man upstairs to knock her off balance.

“So.” Lilah swallowed, unsure of what she was even feeling. She knew it was better to sweep it under the rug and let it stay there, but she wasn’t quite able to let it go. “Devon Sparks. He’s some kind of big shot, huh?”

Grant paused, eyes wide and intent on her face. “You really don’t know? Lolly, he’s a huge deal. He’s got his own show on the Cooking Channel, restaurants from Miami to Las Vegas. Christ, I think Target sells his own special line of spatulas or something.”

Lilah blinked. Well. She already knew Devon was rich, but she hadn’t realized he was a celebrity.

Although it made a certain amount of sense, now that she thought about it—his air of superiority when he talked about food, his chauffeur, his gorgeous apartment.

It was interesting, though, that he hadn’t clued her in on his fame. Lilah remembered how squirrely he got when the subject of names came up, and looking back, she could see he was the one who’d pushed for anonymity. She hadn’t noticed at the time, since it suited her perfectly, but now that she thought on it, she felt it must mean something. Surely a man as arrogant as Grant was making out would’ve been trumpeting his status up and down the bar, expecting groupies to fal all over him.

Instead, he’d coaxed and seduced nervous, clueless Lilah into his bed without mentioning one thing about being famous.

The incongruity of it poked and prodded at her. If her life were a play, this would be highly significant character information about the new leading man. But it’s not a play, she reminded herself. Even if Devon Sparks is more than a perfect face and a towering ego, so what? It was one night of meaningless, albeit enjoyable, sex. And now it’s over.

She couldn’t afford the distraction of trying to be nice to Devon Sparks, the man no one seemed to like.

She had a new life to start, a new job to learn, and new friends to make.

And if the surface of her skin from her toes to her fingertips tingled at the thought of being that close to Devon again? She’d just have to ignore it.

As she and Grant headed for the staff locker room to don their server uniforms, she asked, “What’s the name of Devon’s show, anyway?”

Idle curiosity, she thought defensively. It didn’t mean she was interested in him as a person or anything.

Grant snorted. The arch look he sent her was clear even in the dim light of the back hallway.

“You know what he does on his show?”

Lilah shook her head.

“He goes to a different restaurant in every episode and does one dinner service there; supposed to prove he can cook any kind of food perfectly, under any conditions.”

“Sounds entertaining enough.”

Tongue firmly in cheek, Grant said, “It’s called One-Night Stand with Devon Sparks.” Lilah’s jaw dropped. Grant grinned, and pretty soon, Lilah cracked a smile, then he snickered and she chuckled, and before she knew it, they were bent double, cackling fit to bust something.

What the heck, Lilah thought, wiping her streaming eyes.

It’s laugh or cry.

Devon felt a smile tugging at his mouth. Damn, that Lilah Jane was a sassy little piece.

“Oi, she had you sussed with one glance, didn’t she? Clever as a cat. Honestly, if it weren’t for Jess, I’d be right tempted. Adam? Have a ball in Deutschland, mate. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Frankie palmed his cigarettes and tapped one out of the pack, grinning cheekily over his shoulder as he headed for the back alley.

Devon gave the departing Brit an irritable glance. The punked-out chef had recently gotten involved with a young photography student/waiter who also happened to be Miranda’s brother.

The staff at Market evidently conducted business as if they were running a soap opera rather than a restaurant. It made his head pound to think about navigating the swamp of high emotion and illicit love affairs.

He deliberately avoided thinking about the fact that he was personally responsible for the latest daytime drama at Market. That was over and done with; they’d both expected never to see one another again. The fact that they were working together changed nothing.

There was no reason to refer to what happened last night, and lots of reasons to pretend it never happened at all.

“What just happened?” Adam looked bewildered for a second, then brightened. “Oh, hey! Never mind.

You know where everything is, right? Or Frankie and Grant can show you. But you’ll be okay?” And there went Devon’s palms again, clammy and cold. In the heat of every moment in Lilah’s presence, he’d forgotten his nauseating stress over tonight.

It had been a while—okay, years—since he ran the same kitchen night after night.

Summoning the bravado that had gotten him through countless disastrous filming sessions, Devon said, “We’ll manage to muddle through while you’re busy on your phoneymoon. Why the hell is it just a vacation again?”

“Please, like I haven’t asked Miranda to marry me a dozen times. But she says until it’s legal for Jess to marry the man he loves, she’s boycotting the whole institution.” He shrugged, one corner of his mouth curled down. “It’s freaking impossible to argue with sisterly devotion, man. I’ve stopped trying.”

“And after all my fine work getting you two paired up, too,” Devon said. When that failed to brighten Adam’s expression, Devon gritted his teeth and made an awkward stab at being reassuring. “It’ll work itself out, I’m sure. Go on, get out of here. Don’t worry about a thing. Market will still be standing when you get back.”

Adam nodded, eyes downcast. “I’m looking forward to the trip. To some time alone with Miranda, seeing new places and trying new foods, getting new ideas for the menu—but . . .”

“But it’s hard to leave your baby,” Devon finished. “Look. Nothing will change. You built this place from the ground up; it’s your philosophy, your ridiculous idealism, your staff, your food. I’m only here for a short stint, like a stage in reverse.”

In restaurant terms, a stage was like an apprenticeship. A young, up-and-coming cook would work in the kitchen of an established chef, soaking up knowledge and techniques, gaining valuable experience, padding his resume, and generally working like a dog doing all the kitchen’s scut work.

Adam’s lips quirked into a smile. “I suppose I can live with that. Man.” He shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give for a good PR guy right about now. Devon Sparks, the Cooking Channel’s brightest star, doing a stage in my kitchen.”

“Don’t look at me,” Devon said. “I fired Simon Woolf last night. I’m going to have to take care of spinning my own life for a while.”

“Dude.” Adam sounded impressed. “Out of the blue? And he didn’t keel over with some kind of cardiac episode?”