On the Steamy Side (19 page)

Operation Fatherhood wasn’t proceeding exactly according to plan. Lilah had hoped Devon would drop everything the moment he saw Tucker and, well, do what Frankie had done—offer to show him around the kitchen, interact with him, and generally bond and get to know each other.

Instead, Tucker was inside being corrupted in the good-Lord-only-knew what horrible ways by the crazy sous chef while Lilah was stuck out here in a dank, smelly alley, about to have to justify herself to her new employer.

“We picked up my clothes and things from Grant’s apartment, but the stores aren’t open yet to go shopping for Tuck’s things, so I brought him by here to, you know, say hi.”

“Hi,” Devon said, staring down at her.

“Hi.” Lilah waved back weakly.

“So. You thought you’d come hang out at the restaurant until the shops are open?” Seizing on the excuse, Lilah said, “Yes! Only for a little while. I hope that’s okay.” Devon looked at the door into the kitchen. “It’s fine. Here, take this credit card for the shopping trip.”

“Really? I was just going to keep receipts and have you pay me back later,” Lilah said, uncomfortable with the shiny silver of the platinum card.

“I insist. This will make it easier for everyone. Buy him whatever he needs.” Devon appeared to struggle for a moment, then added, “And if there’s anything he seems to want, like a toy or a game or something . . .”

Lilah’s heart swelled. Maybe Operation Fatherhood was on the right track after all. “I’ll let him pick one toy, as a gift from you,” she promised.

Rather than looking pleased, however, Devon scrubbed a weary hand across his face. “A gift. Well, at least it’ll be familiar territory,” he muttered.

“What?”

His jaw tightened convulsively as if he were surprised she’d heard. Still, he answered her. “Tucker’s used to getting gifts from me. It’s been our main form of communication since he was born.” Lilah was conscious of an immediate need to pry. “Oh?” she probed delicately.

“Haven’t missed a birthday yet,” Devon said with a derisive lip curl. “Think that qualifies me as a candidate for Father of the Year?”

“I think it’s always a good thing to let those we love know we remember them on the anniversary of their birth.”

Devon snorted. “Right. And dropping a couple of C-notes every March eighteenth makes up for never seeing or talking to the kid the rest of the year.”

The bitterness in his tone stung like a shot of cayenne pepper in the eye. “I didn’t say that.”

“Christ, Lilah.” He sounded angry, but she couldn’t tell if his rage was directed at her, or himself, or someone else altogether. “What do you want from me?”

Lilah set her mouth in a stubborn line. “For you not to swear so much. That would be an excellent start.

Beyond that . . . I guess I’d like to understand your situation a little better.” Devon appraised her coolly, arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps bulge intimidatingly. “My situation. You mean you want to know how I became famous and successful?”

“More like how you ended up bitter and alone.”

The words dropped into the alley like rocks into a pond. Strung tighter than a fiddle string, Devon still managed to deliver a credible smirk.

“Ah, but that’s easy. The answer to both questions is the same.” Lilah shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

A hard light glinted in his blue eyes, turning them steely. “You’re ready to blame Heather, aren’t you?

Sweet Lilah Jane. If I told you Tucker’s mother blackmailed me into signing my rights away, you’d believe me. If I tearfully confessed how she keeps me locked out of my son’s life, never lets me speak to him or see him, you’d cry for me. But as happy as I’d be to paint Heather as the evil bitch here, and God knows the woman has her issues, it’s just too tired and hackneyed a script. I mean, come on,” Devon warmed to his theme, voice dripping with cold disdain. “Poor, misunderstood guy wants nothing more than to be a great daddy to his son, but vindictive, alcoholic mom won’t allow it.” Bewildered, Lilah said, “So that’s not what happened? Heather didn’t cut you out?” Devon laughed, a cutting noise that scraped over Lilah’s nerves. “Shit, no. I opted out. You think I could’ve built a media empire including a hit TV show, five restaurants, and my own line of cookware if I’d been running around changing diapers and watching Little League games?” Lilah felt like someone had snatched the piece of pavement she was standing on out from under her.

Devon gave up his paternal rights to further his career?

Standing stock-still, Lilah puzzled it through. “Why on earth are you saying this?”

“Because it’s true.” Devon shook his head in mock amazement. “It figures. For once, I’m being ruthlessly honest with a woman and she doesn’t even believe me.” Lilah narrowed her eyes. “I believe you believe it. What I’m trying to figure is if you really are the kind of person who’s so self-involved you couldn’t go to a funeral without wanting to be the corpse—or if maybe, just maybe, you’re every bit as confused when it comes to your own motivations as everyone else on this complicated planet.”

“That’s cute, honey, but I haven’t made an uncalculated move since I was Tucker’s age. Fair warning.” Devon shrugged.

Lilah snorted indelicately. Shoot, she’d really been hanging around these uncouth chefs too much.

“Right. That’s why every time Tucker even comes up in conversation, much less enters a room you happen to be in, you either hem and haw or downright freeze like a raccoon facing down the barrel of a shotgun.”

Devon ground his teeth audibly. The way his jaw tightened made the chiseled planes of his face stand out stark and dangerous. “Look. I’m trying, for once, to be a stand-up guy, and give you all the facts before you start building up dream castles in the sky where I’m the handsome prince under a curse and you’re the only maiden pure and brave enough to break it.”

Ouch. That one hit too close to home. Feeling blood heat her cheeks, Lilah shot back, “It’s a little hard to take you at your word when you’re tel ing me you don’t care about your own child. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Devon. You might be fooling yourself, but you’re not fooling me.” Devon smiled. It was a nasty one. “Wow. Never underestimate the blinders on a do-gooder who happens to be hot for you, I guess.”

A haze clouded Lilah’s vision for a second—long enough for her to make a fist, bring her arm back, and land Devon a good one right on his beautiful, mocking mouth.

He doubled over, probably more in shock than pain.

“I might should’ve prefaced that with ‘Them’s fightin’ words,’ ” Lilah panted. “But I think you got the message anyhow.”

Wringing her sore hand, she turned on her heel and left him in the alley.

What the fuck just happened?

Devon blinked, shaking his head to clear it, and hissed when the motion made pain flare all up through his cheek.

Why did he needle her like that? And that line about never making an uncalculated move. Jesus.

Sometimes things flew out of his mouth like verbal projectile vomit, his brain limping along half a pace behind going, “Wait, no! Aw, crap.”

The truth was, he hated that her opinion mattered to him. He’d made an entire career out of never caring for anyone’s opinion but his own—and one single day after meeting her, Devon had looked into her earnest green eyes and realized his essential self-worth was somehow tied to Lilah Jane Tunkle’s assessment.

Fuck that, he’d thought with a rush of dread-fueled fury. He was bound to disappoint her eventually.

And suddenly, he wanted it over with, wanted her to stop looking at him like he might be someone she could care about, because it was all going to turn to shit anyway.

So he’d told her the ugly truth. He didn’t deserve to call himself Tucker’s father. He never had.

And when that wasn’t enough to set Lilah straight, he’d deliberately provoked her.

Devon touched his tongue gingerly to the tender spot on his lip and tasted copper.

“Holy celebrity death match, Batman, what happened to you?” The low, twangy drawl came from the alley entrance. Devon squinted against the light to see Christian Colby, the new bartender, walking toward him.

“What is this, Grand Central Station?” Devon asked irritably. “Doesn’t anyone use the front entrance anymore?”

Christian’s mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “I thought I’d avoid the front of the house as long as possible, thanks. And way to sidestep the issue, boss! Is it a secret who popped you one, or are we using the old ‘I tripped over a vegetable crate and smacked my face on a drainpipe’ defense?”

“Doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say I had it coming. You ready to work tonight? I need you at your fine dining best. Remember, we’re not at your crappy little dive bar. This is a real restaurant.” Christian didn’t bridle at Devon’s characterization of Chapel as a dive bar. That was one of the reasons the two men got along so well: Devon dished it, and Christian took it. With a minimum of fuss.

Besides, there was no arguing the point—Chapel was a total dive. That just so happened to be what made it great. Chapel was one of the few places Devon could go and still feel like himself.

“I hope I’ll be able to tell the difference,” Christian responded mildly. “As I recall, there’s less stage diving in a restaurant, correct?”

“Very little,” Devon agreed, amused. “Come on. Man up. It’s only for a few weeks.”

“Only you would call me in as a favor and then tel me to ‘man up.’ ” Chris shook his head. “I had to promise Noelle double tips for the month if she’d open Chapel every night and work the bar until I can get there after dinner service.”

“And I appreciate it.”

Christian still looked conflicted. Much as he sucked at playing counselor, Devon put a hand on his arm and said, “Hey, I don’t know what you did to piss Grant Hol oway off, and I don’t care. Work it out. Or don’t. I’m pretty sure you could take him in a fight.”

Christian laughed, but there were lines of tension around his eyes when he glanced at the back door to the restaurant.

Devon knew exactly how he felt. Behind that door were a variety of people who were none too keen on Devon right about now: one resentful sous chef, one panicking maitre d’, one kid unlucky enough to have been born to a shit heel like Devon, and one spitting-mad Southern belle with a hell of a right hook.

Man up, Devon repeated silently. Still tasting blood at the corner of his mouth, he strode up the stairs and into the kitchen, his reluctant bartender trailing behind.

The first thing Devon zeroed in on when he pushed open the door was his kid standing on a stepladder beside Frankie, hanging over the sous chef’s shoulder to peer with evident fascination at several piles of fresh herbs.

While Devon watched, Frankie used the point of his knife to gesture from pile to pile, presumably naming each herb for Tucker. Devon imagined himself in Frankie’s place, how he’d describe the flavors, then have Tucker close his eyes and open his mouth, see if he could identify rosemary, sage, mint, or tarragon by taste alone.

Considering the kid clammed up and/or flinched any time Devon came within two feet of him, that wasn’t likely to happen. Ignoring the herb tutorial, Devon gestured to Christian to follow him into the main dining room so they could go over the layout of the bar. Walking down the line, Chris slapped palms with the chefs, most of whom he knew from late nights at Chapel. Devon noticed that Frankie gave Chris a significant eyebrow wriggle, but if Christian read anything into the unspoken communication, he didn’t choose to share it.

Devon sighed. The undercurrents of tension around here were enough to make any normal guy want to blow his brains out. Sex! Gossip! Intrigue! Backbiting! Who was sleeping with whose ex-girlfriend but hadn’t told her best friend who had a crush on the guy who was flirting with the waitress who put out to all the chefs who nailed anything that moved . . . Devon shook his head. Leave it at home, guys.

Of course, that was before he came face-to-face with his own little slice of drama, perfectly and gorgeously embodied by the lovely Miss Lilah Jane, who was sitting at the bar, showing off her swollen knuckles to Grant. The manager leaned over her fingers with a commiserating “Poor baby,” and Devon’s blood pressure skyrocketed into One-Night Stand levels of aggression. Like, seriously, season-two levels, including that episode when the producers had set him up in the galley of a cruise ship and he’d puked for ten days straight.

Watching the good-looking blond manager coo over Lilah’s hand—a hand she’d bruised on Devon’s fucking cheekbone, no less!—tightened every muscle Devon was aware of into granite.

Shit. Grant really was after Lilah Jane. Worse, he had the advantage of a long, warm friendship with her, rather than a sexy but anonymous fling. And of course, Grant was a good man, while Devon was . .

. not.

Which didn’t mean Devon was ready to give up and just hand Lilah over to him.

Lilah glanced over and met Devon’s gaze. She stilled, alerting Grant to the two men standing in the doorway. The maitre d’ dropped Lilah’s hand and stammered something about getting an ice pack, but Lilah didn’t even move. Her fine, delicate features never tensed as she twisted on her barstool to stare at Devon.

As if aware that Devon’s internal boiling point was closing in, Christian clapped him on the back and ducked behind the bar, saying, “Let me help you with that ice pack, Grant.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I don’t need any help . . .”

“Grant,” Devon cut in. “Take Christian down to the basement and show him where we keep the cases of liquor.”

Thus outmaneuvered, Grant shot a glance at Lilah, as if to confirm she’d be okay left alone on the other side of the bar with the mean, mean man.

Devon wanted to snarl that she’d be fine, but he held his tongue through sheer force of will. Lilah gave Grant a reassuring smile that had Devon catching a rumbling growl in his chest before it could vocalize, and walked over to him.

“Yes, Mr. Sparks?”

She was all chilly formality. So that’s how they were going to play it? Fine, he could work with that.

Working not to snap, Devon said, “I hope your hand is okay. Wouldn’t want you to have cracked a bone or anything.”