On the Steamy Side (29 page)

Lilah grinned. Aunt Bertie had obviously never spent an entire afternoon mixing, baking, and testing twenty different canapé recipes.

“We have a lot to do,” Devon agreed. There was a bounce in his step that made Lilah’s heart lift. “But it’s all coming together, Lilah Jane, I can feel it.”

“I like this one,” Tucker announced around a mouthful of cheddar date roll.

“Really?” Lilah looked down at him, surprised. The date roll was essential y a buttery, crumbly biscuit flavored with extra-sharp cheddar and wrapped around a sweet date—not the most kid-friendly combination, she would’ve thought. There was even a bit of cayenne in the dough to give it some gumption.

But Tucker nodded so vigorously that his brown hair flopped into his face. Lilah’s fingers itched to smooth it back, but they were covered in dough. He needed a haircut in the worst way.

“S’good.”

Devon reached for one of the date rolls and chewed it thoughtfully. “Who knew? It turns out that an excellent palate is genetic. Tucker’s right, these are perfection—only I think I want them as part of the cheese course, not the hors d’oeuvres.”

Lilah luxuriated in the thrill that coursed through her every time Devon tasted her food and loved it, wanted to share it with the guests at his big, fancy dinner. From the hectic red of Tucker’s cheeks and the brightness of his blue eyes, he was feeling it, too.

There was something exhilarating about basking in the reflected glory of Devon’s rediscovery of food.

“And I was thinking,” Devon went on, blithely oblivious to the palpitations he was causing his kitchen helpers, “we’re going to need a special menu listing all these amazing dishes we’re coming up with. I want it to look cool, maybe some kind of design around the border.” Elaborately casual, he turned to Tucker and said, “Think that’s something you could help me with?” Lilah caught the minute shift of Devon’s weight, the tightening at the corners of his eyes that betrayed nervousness. Maybe he wasn’t as oblivious as she thought.

Tucker, ever his father’s son, didn’t shriek with the joy Lilah could feel coursing through his wiry little frame. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I guess. I mean, I could try to draw something. It probably won’t be any good, though.” His hands opened and closed as if were already reaching for his charcoal pencils.

“Nonsense,” Lilah said firmly. “It will be wonderful! Why don’t you run get started? I think your backpack’s on the coffee table.”

Tucker jumped on that suggestion quick enough to betray his excitement at having Devon ask for his help. In less than five seconds, he was racing from the kitchen to grab his art supplies.

Ignoring the flour all over her apron and the dough on her hands—she was in the middle of rolling out pie crust dough for the miniature savory pecan tartlets she and Devon were playing with—Lilah threw herself into the arms of the smartest, handsomest, most wonderful man she knew.

“You have the best ideas,” she told him. “The menus will be gorgeous, absolutely unique. They’ll be chock full of X-factor.”

“X-factor” was their code for the elusive element that had been missing from Devon’s cooking, which they were currently restoring through judicious applications of Lilah’s family recipes. Lilah would’ve been happy to keep calling it soul, but for whatever reason, that word made him roll his eyes in embarrassment every time, so . . . X-factor.

“He’s part of it,” Devon said. “A big part of why I’m hosting this dinner. There has to be some tangible evidence of Tucker at that meal. And not for nothing, but the kid can draw. Did you see those sketches he did after we got home from the Met?”

Lilah quietly adored the paternal pride in Devon’s voice. “I hope you’re prepared for the possibility that your fundraiser dinner menus will feature man-eating tigers.”

“The sick part is, I’m sure I’ll think they’re the most wonderful man-eating tigers in the history of illustrated feline violence,” Devon said, somewhat helplessly. “I guess I’m starting to get the hang of this fatherhood thing.”

“You are,” Lilah told him, heart in her throat. “You really, really are.”

“It’s bizarre.” Devon went back to chopping pecans. Lilah had noticed that whenever conversation skirted close to X-factor issues like his feelings for Tucker, Devon talked them through better if his hands were busy.

“What’s that?” she asked, keeping her voice light while making swift, sure passes of the rolling pin over the dough.

“I didn’t think it would be so easy to care of Tucker. I thought . . . being a good dad must be hard, like there was a trick to it I’d never be able to work out. But it’s not hard at all, really. Maybe it’s Tucker. He makes it easy.”

Lilah hummed in agreement, aware that they were very close now to one of the darkest, tenderest spots in Devon’s X-factor.

From the little bits of information she’d been able to piece together, she knew that somewhere along the way, something went badly wrong in Devon’s relationship with his father. Something that had caused lasting damage and colored Devon’s entire perception of his own potential as a parent.

It was about time for Operation Fatherhood, Phase Two to go into effect, she mused. If she could just get Phil Sparks to acknowledge Devon’s success in some way, to show his support . . .

Lilah pondered and rolled out pastry until her hands were numb. It was worth it, though, because by the time the tartlets came out of the oven, she had the inklings of a plan.

Frankie was right. It would be so much more satisfying to be able to slam down his phone instead of having to hunt and peck the “off ” button.

Devon debated compensating by chucking his cel across the office, but decided against it. He didn’t have time to go pick out a new one.

Still, Devon wished he’d stuck to his policy of avoiding his publicist’s calls.

They’d waited to post the ticket availability until the last minute; Simon had some idea about building anticipation by keeping people on the edge of their seats and not letting them secure their spots right away. A twinge of remorse for the way he’d jerked Simon around lately had Devon agreeing to the scheme.

See? Devon wanted to say. I can be a nice guy. I can be a team player.

Which was all fine and dandy except for the way Simon’s plan sent Devon’s already sky-high stress levels into full-on orbit.

Devon had waited for days to find out if he’d have any guests at all tonight. He’d all but resigned himself to the idea of serving a pack of comped reporters and food bloggers, and picking up the tab for the rest of the dinner himself.

Finding out not an hour before the doors were set to open that, according to Simon, the fundraiser had sold out within fifteen minutes of the ticket availability being posted on the Center for Arts Education’s website threatened to unhinge Devon completely.

That’s what we want, Devon told himself. It means you haven’t irreparably damaged your reputation by fucking everything up the last two weeks. You can still pull it out. You can save it.

The added pressure of knowing he had a full house tonight, though? That he could’ve lived without.

Devon hated to admit how nervous it made him to be staking his entire reputation, his entire professional future, on this one dinner.

It had to be the meal of his life.

He’d cooked his heart out getting ready for it, tasting new dishes, discovering new flavor combinations with Lilah, and working with the Market cooks to perfect the recipes.

He was more than a little stunned at how the mood in the kitchen had lifted over the last few days.

He’d let the cooks go back to the old menu for regular dinner service, and he could taste the difference in the quality of food they were putting out. Adam’s menu was pretty frigging delightful without al those flashy, expensive additions, Devon was forced to admit.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud. This X-factor stuff only went so far.

Almost better than the rising quality of food, however, was the rising tide of fun in the kitchen. As the line cooks relaxed, they started joking and messing with each other, and the energy of the place started to hum like a generator. They never got out of hand, Devon didn’t let things slip so far as that, but the difference from the previous week’s funereal atmosphere was palpable.

The food experiments he and Lilah were conducting opened up so many memories in Devon’s mind, tossing him right back to his first restaurant job, a tiny chowder hut on Long Island, where he’d first realized that a kitchen crew was a tightly knit group of compatriots, brothers-in-arms, a family. Love them or hate them, they were there in the trenches with you every step of the way. It was a bond as strong as any Devon had ever encountered.

He put aside the cold, bitter, swearing character he’d believed himself to be and thought about those long-ago nights. He remembered the older, more experienced cooks he’d learned from, had once modeled himself after, and let himself become part of the flow at Market.

Like loving Tucker, it proved startlingly easy.

The unspoken truce he achieved with Frankie was the start of it. Once the icy conditions between Devon and the sous chef began to thaw, the rest of the cooks warmed to him.

A lushly curved body pressed into him from behind, plump, strong arms sliding around his waist.

Devon smiled. His relationship with his brigade wasn’t the only thing heating up.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, turning in the circle of those arms to stare down into the beautiful, wide eyes. He felt immediately soothed on some deep, untouchable level.

“You had your shoulders set in your manly aura of hyperfocus way,” Lilah laughed. “I bet I could’ve shaved half your head before you knew I was in the office.”

“Not a chance. No matter what I’m focused on, the minute you touch me everything else goes away.” She hummed, delighted. “I like that.”

“Mm. That’s why I can’t have you in the kitchen tonight. Too dangerous. But hey, you being out in the dining room means you had to dress up, huh? Let me get a look.” Lilah did a self-conscious twirl for him, and Devon’s mouth watered a little at the scrumptious spill of her breasts over the purple bodice of her dress.

“Like it? It’s new. Grant helped me pick it out.”

He’d watched her go off with Grant for a day of shopping, and he hadn’t even felt a twinge of jealousy.

Maybe Grant wanted her, maybe he didn’t—but either way, Devon knew who made Lilah’s eyes sparkle, who made her laugh that husky chuckle, who made her sigh and moan and scream with pleasure. He stared at the dress, and he knew exactly who she was wearing it for.

Devon was the luckiest son of a bitch in the city.

“Yeah, I like it,” he managed to choke out, his eyes glued to the neckline. Was that what a sweetheart silhouette was? For all he’d educated himself on men’s fashions since getting the hell out of Trenton, he didn’t know much about women’s clothes other than how to get them unfastened and tossed aside.

Whatever this neckline was called, Devon decided, it was now his favorite way for any dress to be put together.

“You look very handsome,” Lilah said. “I like you in your chef whites.” Her cheeks were dark red.

“You always do that,” he said, stepping close and palming her jaw. “What?”

“Whenever anyone gives you a compliment, you brush it off like you don’t believe it.” Lilah fussed with the bodice of her dress. “It’s hard, you know? I’m not used to it. Not like my family back home called me names or told me I was ugly, or anything, but when there are that many kids in one house, all fighting and scrapping for attention, it’s easy to fade into the background. I guess I’m still more comfortable there.”

Devon started down at her porcelain brow, long, sweeping lashes and perfectly tiny mouth curving just a bit down at the corners. “Then I’ve got bad news for you, Lilah Jane, because everyone who sees you in this dress is going to notice how exquisitely beautiful you are.”

“Stop it,” she said, laughing and pushing at him a little, but her mouth was curving up now, so Devon didn’t stop.

“It’s true,” he declared. “In fact, I almost want to forbid you from wearing this thing in public—I kind of hate the idea of the whole world catching on to what I see every time I look at you.” Fluttering her lashes coquettishly, Lilah grinned up at him, the hottest pink blush still staining her cheeks. “And what is that, exactly?”

He framed her face in his hands and let his voice show how serious he was. “No matter what you’re wearing, even if it’s one of those hideous, oversized flowered shirts, I just see you. My sweet Lilah Jane.

And I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

She arched up and pressed a swift kiss to his mouth. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse with emotion.

“I swear, Devon Sparks, you could charm the birds from the trees.”

“Is Tuck upstairs?” Devon wanted to show him the final menus, all printed up with the eight delicious courses. They looked awesome.

“Frankie spirited him away the minute we came in the door. Something about teaching him a neat new trick. I shudder to think.”

Devon smoothed her sable curls back from her pretty, heart-shaped face. Smiled when they sprang instantly back into place. “Ah, Frankie’s okay. Not saying I’d hire him as a male nanny—what would that be, a manny?—but he’s all right.”

Lilah gave him one of those laser looks that seemed to sear right through him. “And how are you?”

“Freaking out.” He didn’t really hide things from Lilah anymore. Didn’t see the point.

“Oh, sugar.” Lilah attempted a sympathetic look, but couldn’t quite pull it off given her own obvious excitement. She’d been almost jittering ever since she came in.

“Looks like you’re thrilled enough for the both of us,” he noted.

“I might be,” she said with an air of exaggerated mystery. “I might, just possibly, have a surprise for you later. But only if you’re very good.”

“I am loving the sound of this,” Devon purred.

“Not that kind of surprise!” She hit him on the arm. “Okay, well, maybe that, too. Would it make you less nervous to be thinking about . . . that instead of concentrating on all the people out in the dining room?”