On the Steamy Side (7 page)

Maybe he would have given her that second glance, regardless.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, my life doesn’t really seem to work like that. I exist in a constant state of maybe, almost, and who knows. Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? Are you a customer? It’s pretty crazy you’d choose this place to come and eat, after last night and all. What are the chances? Only we’re closed. I think. You’d have to ask someone who’s been working here longer than five minutes, and they’re all downstairs, having a meeting about something top secret.” Apparently satisfied with the state of the countertop, she turned back and looked at Devon expectantly.

“No, I’m not a customer.”

“Oh.” She got that adorable frown line between her brows. “Are you . . . did you come here for me?” Devon wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings with the truth—that he’d had no idea she was working at Market and if he had, he probably wouldn’t have slept with her in the first place. Nor did he want to lie and say he’d searched high and low for her, or had Paolo track her down, or something equally stalkeriffic that might raise false hopes.

He stood there, trying to come up with a response, and for the first time, Devon noticed the distinctive slightly acrid scent of hot oil—was she frying something? Ugh. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to cough.

“Oh, shoot!” she said, grabbing a large spoon from the counter and whirling to check a large pot of something bubbling away on the stove.

There was a smudge of flour along one high, pretty cheekbone. She didn’t move like any line cook Devon had ever worked with. There was no economy of motion to her, no swift moves at all. She was all elbows and leaning, taking her sweet time, as casual about whatever she was cooking as Devon was about choosing a tie.

It was disconcerting; nothing about cooking had ever been casual for Devon.

“What the hell are you doing with all that oil?”

She looked down as if surprised to see her hand circling the slotted spoon through the frothing, spitting oil. “Cooking lunch,” she replied with a touch of uncertainty. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like you’re performing some sort of science experiment,” Devon told her bluntly. “What are you frying? It smells . . . odd.”

“I found some chicken livers way at the back of that fridge over there; didn’t look like anyone was gonna use ’em for any fancy dish anytime soon, so I appropriated them.”

“Good God,” Devon said, revolted, as she began lifting golden brown nuggets of fried liver from the oil and setting them on folded paper towels to drain. “You’re not actually planning to serve that to anyone.”

“Hey, now,” she bristled. “This is my Aunt Bertie’s recipe. It won first prize at the county fair four years running.”

“I don’t care if it won an Emmy, it looks sickening and it smells worse.” Devon had nothing against organ meats, in general; they’d been en vogue among New York chefs for years now. But these humble balls of artery-clogging noxiousness were a far cry from sautéed sweetbreads with butter and sage, or seared foie gras with quince jelly. There was something so . . .

peasant about chicken liver. It seemed trashy, in the sense of being destined for the garbage bin. Or possibly a dog biscuit.

“Don’t yuck my yum,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s rude. Anyway, you don’t have to eat it. Grant asked me to fix up a quick lunch while he talked to his boss, so that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t easy to find anything to make in that larder, either, let me tell you.”

“I find that supremely difficult to believe.” Market had one of the most varied, interesting menus in the city—Adam stocked his pantry and walk-in with the freshest, most beautiful produce the local farmers’

markets had to offer, and now that it was high summer, the markets were offering quite a bit. All simple stuff that any monkey could cook.

Devon hesitated. “Grant,” he said. “That wouldn’t be Grant Holloway, would it?”

“That’s right.” Pique had pinched her rosebud mouth tight. “I’m staying with him.” Holy fucking shit. Devon had spent the hottest night in recent memory with Grant Holloway’s . . . what, girlfriend? Why else would she be staying with him?

Okay, they could be just friends . . . but as Devon looked at the woman standing beside him, the inherent, unconscious sensuality of her, he knew, in his gut—no red-blooded, heterosexual man would ever be able to be “just friends” with her.

If she wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, Devon thought grimly, it wasn’t because Grant didn’t want her.

“Devon Sparks!”

Devon winced and shot Grant’s maybe-girlfriend a swift sidelong glance, but her eyes were wide with something that looked a lot closer to panic than recognition of his famous name.

Clutching his elbow, she only had time for a quick whispered, “Please don’t mention anything about last night!” before Adam was upon them, his entire crew clomping up the stairs like a herd of rhinos behind him.

Being relegated to dirty secret status was a novel experience for Devon. He couldn’t say he liked it much, especially since it added fuel to his suspicions about a possible romantic entanglement between the woman at his side and Grant.

Although why Devon should care was a whole other story.

“Temple,” he said, acknowledging his friend, who was currently doing a great impression of an overgrown Labrador.

Adam bounced over, flush with happiness, excitement radiating from every pore. Normal, mundane day-to-day life tended to get Adam flying like a kite; the guy had the gift of passion, for sure. Still, this was something extra.

“Thanks for doing this, man. Miranda and I, we appreciate it so much! See, Frankie, what’d I tell you?”

“Told me the man would be here. Didn’t venture to say much about whether he’d be staying. Hello there, Lolly.”

The laconic Cockney voice drifted over from the kitchen doors where Frankie Boyd was leaning, fingers of one skinny hand rummaging in the pocket of his painted-on black jeans. Presumably for smokes.

Frankie was famously addicted to silk-filtered Dunhill’s; he’d once told Devon he plunked down his hard-earned cash for the outrageously expensive British imports because he took his vices seriously.

Devon sneered a little, more out of habit than real animosity. He and Frankie had butted heads when Frankie was one of his line cooks back at Appetite, but that was years ago. Frankie was Adam’s sous chef now, and by all accounts, an integral part of the kitchen.

“Wait a second.” Devon turned to the woman at his side with an incredulous eyebrow lift. “Your name is ‘Lolly’? Like, short for lollipop?”

She stiffened visibly, her thick, straight brows drawing down like thunder. “Lilah Jane Tunkle,” she said.

“Do not call me Lolly. Ever.”

Oookay.

Devon cleared his throat and turned back to Adam. “Two weeks, that’s what we agreed on.”

“Yup. You man the helm here for fourteen wonderful days while Miranda and I check out the farmhouse cooking in the German countryside.”

A sound exploded from the woman next to him. That sound could most accurately be described as

“Eep!”

Lilah Jane Tunkle. Christ, what a name. Devon sent her a questioning look only to find that she was gazing back at him with a shell-shocked expression that suggested she was beginning to understand the scope of her faux pas.

Devon was grimly pleased. That’s right, doll face, he wanted to say. You thought it was an anonymous screw with a guy you’d never have to see again? Not so much.

They glared at each other for a moment, Lilah looking more appalled by the minute.

“That was quick,” Frankie put in. “What did you do to take the piss out of our Miss Lolly within ten minutes of meeting her, then? Grant’s not going to be happy.” Devon gritted his teeth at the mention of the restaurant manager’s name. Shit, why was he so ticked?

“Grant can kiss my ass,” Devon growled.

“Grant,” Lilah replied, recovering her dignity, “who, I believe I’ve told you, Frankie, is the only person allowed to call me by that loathsome nickname, is my friend. He got me the job, bussing tables. I start tonight—”

“What a coincidence,” Frankie cackled. “So does Dev, here.” Friend. Ha. Wonder if that’s how Grant sees it?

Then the rest of her statement penetrated. “Wait,” Devon said. “Do you mean to tell me you’re fouling up this kitchen with your disgusting jumped-up dog food and you’re not a chef or a line cook? Not even a fucking dishwasher?”

Lilah pinched her lips together in a disapproving way. “No, I’m not a chef, Mr. Potty Mouth,” she said with flagrant disregard for Devon’s authority. “But I had permission to use the stove.” Devon, who had strong feelings about civilians, superlative kissers or not, infiltrating professional kitchens, was about to respond forcefully when he caught the impatience rolling off of Adam in waves.

The guy was all but dancing in place, like a kid in line for the bathroom. He was clearly ready to get his show on the road.

Evidently Lilah recognized the signs as well. “I think I’ll just take my ‘dog food,’ ” she enunciated with offended gravity, “and find Grant. I’m supposed to get him to start showing me the ropes.”

“Good idea,” Adam said heartily. “He’s still down in my office, probably moaning over the sad state of the menus. Miranda always writes the descriptions of each week’s dishes, but she’s been too busy researching her book and packing our bags to take a look at them.”

“Right,” Lilah nodded. “And thank you again, Adam, for the opportunity. I promise, I won’t let you down.” Carefully folding the corners of the oil-soaked paper towels over the still-steaming chicken livers, Lilah scooped up the nasty bundle and said, “Well, I’ll just leave y’all to your little conversation.” Devon watched her go, torn between annoyance and relief. He didn’t like the feeling of uncertainty about Grant’s prior claim on her, even if Lilah clearly thought of herself as free. Devon controlled his breathing carefully. He detested this type of drama.

Although why he should be so worked up, he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t like it was ever going to be more than a onetime thing with Lilah.

Right?

Lilah seethed with a mixture of sparking nerves, jumpy stomach, and righteous indignation. Along with a healthy dose of dread.

Holy cats, what a mess. Everything was all catawampus. Lilah closed her eyes in distress.

She could just about picture Aunt Bertie laying down the law while deftly rolling out a piecrust. “Lolly,” she’d say, up to her elbows in flour, “Lolly-girl, you’ve gotten yourself in a real pickle this time.” The I-told-you-so would be heavily implied.

Well, there was no use having a conniption over it now. What was done was done. Last night, Lilah had the wildest sex of her admittedly somewhat staid life—and this morning, it turned out that her perfect, mysterious, anonymous lover turned out to be her new boss.

Peachy.

And not only that, but he was a jerk! The things he’d said about her food made Lilah’s fists clench even now, minutes later. And she wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.

Oh, mercy, what if he told everyone about last night? Her cheeks burned at the thought of it. Or what if he wanted a repeat performance, and threatened to fire her if she didn’t comply?

Lilah paused. She couldn’t quite believe he was so bad, but then, what did she really know? Yankees were capable of anything, as her Uncle Roy liked to say.

And everything had been going so well up until now! Lilah loved New York, from Grant’s tiny, cramped studio to the crowded 1 train she rode to get from his place in Chelsea to the restaurant on the Upper West Side, to the amazing liberation of following her heart (and her body) and having (supposedly) anonymous sex last night.

Getting dumped by her boyfriend just might be one of the best things that ever happened to her. It had prompted her to move to New York, which was a good choice, she remembered thinking this morning as the subway swayed around a curve and a businessman jostled her arm, spilling coffee on her hand. New York was exactly what she needed. Everything was going to work out perfectly. Lilah Jane Tunkle’s life had finally begun! She was a sophisticated woman now, hip with the times and comfortable with her own sexuality!

And then Devon Sparks had to go and ruin it all by turning up at Market and being a big horse’s ass.

And by looking unconscionably attractive while doing it.

Lilah sighed, loud and gusty, as she clattered down the kitchen stairs toward the narrow hallway that led to the prep kitchen, storage pantries, staff locker room, and the chef’s office. She went over the layout of the restaurant once again in her head, determined not to get lost.

Of course, it still took her several false starts and one detour into a dark, dank room where curing meats wrapped in linen hung from the rafters before she found the office.

Where her oldest friend in the world, Grant Holloway, was sitting at an ancient green metal desk, banging his head with a hollow sound of despair.

“Why me, God?” he moaned. “Have I displeased You in some way? Mercy, please, I beg you.” Lilah rolled her eyes. “Drama queen! Up and at ’em. Tell Lolly what’s the problem.” Grant raised moist cornflower blue eyes to hers, his mussed blond hair making him look like a cherub recently awakened from his afternoon nap on a passing cloud.

“Lolly! Where on earth have you been?” He rushed to her and threw his arms around her, cracking her ribs with the force of his hug. “I couldn’t find you anywhere last night, and then I had to hear it from Chris . . . from the bartender, that you’d left with Devon Sparks! I didn’t believe him at first, but when you weren’t anywhere in the bar and you didn’t come home . . .” Lilah drank in the familiar cool-water smell of her best friend.

“The bartender had it right,” she said, affecting as much airy unconcern as she could.

“No,” Grant said, pulling back and searching her face as if for signs of demon possession.

“Oh, yes.” Lilah waggled her brows to make her point clear. “I got me some sugar last night.” He went a little green. “Sweet fancy Moses on buttered toast. You had sex with Devon Sparks.”