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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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?”
“Simon’s still alive and kicking, as far as I know.” Devon smirked. “Although he might be feeling a bit bruised this morning—your new busgirl went for him like a pigeon after a half-eaten bagel.”
“Sweet little Lilah?” Adam blinked in shock.
“Well. To be fair, he doused her in about five different kinds of liquor.”
“Christ, Devon, only you,” Adam said, slinging a casual arm around Devon’s shoulders. Adam was the one person who touched Devon casually, like a buddy, anymore. Celebrity status came with its own bubble of personal space—or maybe it was just Devon and his general vibe of smug superiority. Devon had no illusions about his personal appeal. Luckily, the camera cared more about the shallow exterior than deep internal goodness—and Devon’s exterior happened to be extremely marketable.
“Come on, Adam, you ridiculous puppy. Show me around your kitchen and give me your last-minute instructions. I know you want to.”
Adam laughed. “Yeah, the same way I know you won’t listen to me. But whatever, man, let’s do the dance anyway.”
Devon let himself be tugged away from the stainless-steel counter he’d been leaning on, and as his hand trailed the smooth, cold surface, the image of a curvy brunette balanced above him flashed through his head.
A tremor went through Devon, shocking him down to his bones. He tried to pinpoint what he was feeling, the clarity of every sense, the heavy beat of his blood through his veins. Everything seemed sharp and real, time speeding along at a breakneck pace, and that’s when it hit him.
He felt alive. For the first time in years. And he could date the start of the feeling to a specific moment—when Lilah Jane Tunkle tumbled off a countertop and landed in his arms.
Frankie propped his shoulders against the dirty alley wall, bricks hot from the late summer sun, and blew out a careful smoke ring.
He fucking well loved to smoke. The nonsmokers’ rise to power had relegated smoking to a sort of cultural taboo, a naughty, thrill-seeking behavior that cranked Frankie up just right. They’d gather in alleys and doorways, the smokers, like a cult of danger-loving desperadoes, shivering and sharing a light in the winter, sweating together in the summer. He’d met more interesting people while sharing a fag than on tour with his punk band.
And then there were the times like this. When no one else was feeling the itch just at the moment, and he ended up alone in some out-of-the-way corner, with a lungful of precious, fragrant nicotine and enough space to think.
At the moment, most of Frankie’s thoughts revolved around his new boss, that tosser, Devon Sparks. Sparks was, in Frankie’s unabashedly biased opinion, pretty much the King of the Tossers. An arrogant little pisser playing cock of the walk, with his fancy cars and screaming hordes of women throwing themselves at him like he was John fucking Lennon. It was beyond ridiculous, but then, Frankie supposed he wasn’t exactly the Cooking Channel’s
demographic. He didn’t even own a bleeding telly.
Frankie exhaled and watched the blue smoke dissipate into wisps above his head. The clickety-click of a bicycle slowing to a stop a few meters away made him smile.
Jess Wake.
“Hi,” was Jess’s breathless greeting as he squatted to chain his bike to a drainpipe.
“That the best you can do?” Frankie said, extending a lazy hand. “C’mere and give me a proper hello.”
Jess’s cheeks were flushed, either from the exertion of the bike ride, the heat of the day, or from seeing Frankie. Impossible to tell, and it didn’t matter, anyhow. His perfect milky redhead’s complexion showed even the most minor change in Jess’s body chemistry. Frankie adored it.
Eager as ever, Jess came to Frankie’s hand at once and allowed himself to be folded into the shelter of Frankie’s much-taller frame. The trust implicit in the melting line of his body against Frankie’s made things low and deep in Frankie’s gut go wobbly.
“You took off so early this morning,” Jess said into Frankie’s shoulder. “You should’ve woken me.”
Frankie’s chest tightened at the memory of Jess at dawn, sprawled out over the tasseled sultan’s pillows piled around their apartment like an artist’s garret from the twenties, his sweet mouth slack with sleep.
“Made too pretty a picture to disturb, Bit,” Frankie told him. “Besides, wasn’t a thing you could do to get me ready for this morning.”
“Nothing? You sure about that?” Jess pulled back far enough to arch a brow up at Frankie. The bright, mischievous expression on Jess’s puckish face made Frankie’s breath catch hard in his throat. Fucking hell, he was gone over this one. He felt the knob of Jess’s shoulder under his palm, loved the curve of his own elbow round the back of Jess’s neck. Frankie savored the way they fit together. These things were his. For now.
While Frankie was woolgathering, Jess’s cheerful leer smoothed into a more serious look. “So Devon’s here? He’s really running the kitchen tonight?”
Frankie leaned back against the wall once more, giving himself a little distance. He brought his neglected cigarette to his lips with jerky fingers.
“Looks that way.”
Jess scowled. “I still don’t understand why Adam doesn’t leave you in charge while he and Miranda bum around the German countryside. You’re the sous chef! It’s your job to run things when he’s not around.”
Frankie covered the sudden tension in his limbs by propping one combat-booted foot on the wall behind him. “It’s Adam’s choice, innit? He’s the boss.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s right,” Jess said, obstinate as a mule. “He’s not only your boss, he’s your best friend. You’d think he’d have a little more faith in you.”
Closing his eyes briefly, Frankie bought time with another drag on the cigarette. He could feel the frustration pouring off of Jess in waves, the righteous anger on Frankie’s behalf. It was beautiful and humbling and scary as fuck—because Frankie had no idea how to tell Jess the truth.
Adam had offered to make Frankie chef de cuisine. He’d earned it, Adam said, those steady brown eyes watchful on Frankie’s bloodless face. He’d do a good job leading the crew while Adam was away. Adam was proud of him.
And Frankie had turned him down.
Now, looking into the brilliant blue eyes of this young man beside him, so full of life and ambition and potential he was near to bursting at the seams with it, Frankie’s gut churned with a mixture of shame and determination. Jess wouldn’t understand. How could he? Frankie barely understood it himself.
“No snarling at Adam for this,” he cautioned Jess. “It’s his place, his crew. And Devon Sparks is a fine chef.” Frankie was proud of being able to choke that out without a hint of sneer. “And like your sis said when she came up with the scheme, it’s great publicity, yeah?”
“I guess,” Jess grumbled. “But I bet he’s only doing it to prove once again that he’s the best chef in the world.” That last part was said in a faux shock announcer’s voice, ripped verbatim from the intro to Sparks’s blockbuster show.
Forcing a laugh, Frankie ruffled Jess’s dark auburn hair and sucked the last millimeter of goodness out of his cig.
“C’mon, Bit. Give us another kiss before we have to head into the trenches.”
That cleared the stormy look right off Jess’s wonderful face, clouds blowing away in the summer breeze until only sunshine was left.
But autumn is coming soon, Frankie couldn’t help but think. All good things come to an end sooner or later.
CHAPTER NINE
Where did the day go? Lilah wondered dazedly. Hours spent staring at table settings and practicing clearing dishes quietly and efficiently. Now it was time for supper, even though it was only four-thirty. They had to eat early, before the restaurant opened. Lilah didn’t mind; those chicken livers were a distant memory and her stomach was talking.
“We all eat together?” Lilah questioned, nerves making her voice flutter high. She cleared her throat, hoping Grant didn’t notice.
Which was nuts, because not only was Grant a very observing sort of person, he also happened to know Lilah better than anybody in the world. He gave her a sympathetic look, but he was all chin-upand-shoulders-back when he spoke.
“It’s called family meal,” he explained firmly, leading the way back up the dim, poky employee staircase that led from the basement offices and locker room to the kitchens and dining room. “One of the prep cooks usually makes it from whatever’s leftover. At some restaurants it can be pretty grim, but Adam believes serving good food to the employees leads directly to good food for the paying customers.”
Barely paying any attention to Grant’s lecture, Lilah twitched her shoulders uncomfortably in her spanking-new forest-green shirt. All the front-of-the-house staff, from Grant as maitre d’ to Lilah as the lowly new busgirl, wore the same uniform of black pants and green button-up top. When Grant had handed her the shirt, she’d been sure it was too small, that when it buttoned she’d have what her Aunt Bertie called “gap-osis” pulling across her chest and exposing her serviceable cotton bra, but she should’ve trusted her friend. Grant would never deliberately set out to make a laughingstock of her, if for no other reason than that they shared the mutually assured destruction of knowing each other’s deepest, darkest secrets.
Anyway, the shirt fit fine, no unsightly tugging or puckering, but it still felt oddly tight, more tailored than she was used to.
“Relax, hon,” Grant said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Why so tense?”
“It’s like stage fright,” Lilah said. “Opening-night jitters. Don’t worry about me, I’ll do what I always told the kids before a show.”
“What, imagine everyone in their underwear?”
“No! Gross. And ineffectual. Stage fright actually comes from a feeling of being unprepared. Spend a few minutes before you go on stage running through what you’re about to do in your head, and you’ll be fine.”
“So you’re standing there thinking to yourself over and over: ‘I’m about to go eat a yummy meal with some very friendly people who are all going to love me’?”
“Pretty much. And see? Feeling better already.”
“Then let’s hit it.”
Not giving her any more time to wring her hands, Grant pushed open the door to the big, gleaming kitchen. Lilah rushed past the counter she’d tumbled off of earlier that afternoon without looking at it, sure that if she did, a hot red blush would give her away.
It took a lot to embarrass Lilah Jane Tunkle; a childhood living on hand-me-down affection got a person used to all manner of little humiliations. But taking a tumble off a countertop straight into the arms of the God’s-truth handsomest—and, as it turned out, most unpleasant—man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet? Well, Lilah wasn’t superhuman, after all. Just the memory of his warm, steely arms and the surprise in his shockingly blue eyes was enough to make her squirm.
She and Grant s
tepped up to the long U-shaped bar where the staff was gathered. A strange and wildlooking assembly assessed her with varying degrees of interest. If she were a more fanciful person, she might think of Oberon’s court in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—this crew was that foreign and strange to Lilah’s admittedly unsophisticated eyes.
Oh, sure, none of them had horns—although tall, lanky Frankie’s black hair stuck up every which way, giving him a decidedly demonic appearance. And the boy next to him, all big blue eyes, fair skin, and dark red hair, had something elfin and spritely about him. Frankie, who’d already made a strong impression with his loud welcome and brash manner, was the sous chef, sort of like the second-incommand. Frankie, Grant, and Adam were the triumvirate of power behind Market.
The boy sitting so close to Frankie was called Jess, she thought, or something similar. Lilah was pretty sure she’d met him briefly at Chapel. He was wearing green and black, like Lilah, so he must be a server.
A diminutive woman with round cheeks and short cropped hair bounced over and threw an arm over Lilah’s shoulders.
“What’s up, bitches?”
Lilah could feel her mouth primming up. She’d never heard so much cussing in her life! Not without being able to send someone to the principal’s office for it, anyhow.
The woman at her side gave her a casual squeeze and bumped hips with her. Lilah remembered her from the round of meet and greets the day before. A flower name, something incongruously demure—
Lily? Rose?
“Yo, Vi, baby!” A slim Mediterranean-looking fellow hailed the newcomer. “Don’t bogart the new girl. Some of us want to get to know her better.”
He accompanied this greeting with a grin and an overblown eyebrow waggle that made Lilah laugh.
“Shut it, Milo. We’re doing girl talk,” the woman shot back. Milo had called her “Vi,” which jogged Lilah’s memory. Violet Porter, the pastry chef, Lilah remembered.
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