“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, sir.” The calm voice of the cop stopped Devon’s move toward the stairs.
“Why is that?” he ground out, sounding like he was speaking around a mouthful of broken glass.
“Because Ms. Sorensen isn’t asking for bail money. She has voluntarily agreed to enter a rehabilitation center and is asking that you assume temporary custody of one Tucker Sorensen for one month.”
The boy, Tucker, squirmed his hand out of the cop’s grasp and folded his arms across his chest.
Devon stared down at his son, and the expression on his face hit Frankie hard. There was something there, as the man watched his child make the same defensive gesture he himself made on a regular basis. Something torn and bleeding that made Frankie want to stand shoulder to shoulder with Devon and maybe help prop him up.
“I can’t,” Devon rasped into the awkward silence. “I’m not the kind of … I don’t have time for a child. What would I do with him?”
A high, distressed noise came from Frankie’s right. So soft nobody else probably heard it, but it made Frankie turn to look at Lilah. Tears stood in her pretty green eyes, her throat working visibly.
The policewoman—Officer Santiago, her badge said—gave Devon a long, appraising look. Then she glanced down at Tucker, who was staring at his scuffed sneakers. Angling her body away from the boy, Santiago tilted her head to indicate she wanted a private word with Devon.
Stepping forward, Devon leaned in to hear what she had to say. Without thinking twice about it, Frankie followed suit.
“Sir. If I were to understand you to be declining custody at this time, my next move would be to contact Child Protective Services and get Tucker started on the foster-care process. Ms. Sorensen indicated to me that there was no one else, no other family to turn to. Is that your understanding as well?”
Devon’s eyes closed. “Yes. Heather was a runaway. I’m not even sure where she was from originally.”
“And what about your family?” the officer probed. “Do you have anyone who could come stay with you for a few weeks, help out?”
Devon laughed, the sound as harsh as a gunshot. “I haven’t spoken to my family in years.”
“That’s too bad,” Santiago said. “In situations like these, it’s best if the child can stay with a close family member. But if that’s not possible, or if the family members aren’t willing to accept that responsibility, then perhaps foster care is best.”
With that chilling pronouncement, she turned back to Tucker and wrested his hand back into hers. The boy didn’t even look up. Of everyone here, he seemed the least interested in how the evening was progressing.
Until Lilah spoke up, her sweet voice cutting through the hushed tension.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait, don’t leave. Devon wants him. He’ll take custody.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lilah clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late to call the impulsive words back. And really, when she looked into Tucker Sorensen’s suddenly blazing blue eyes, she wouldn’t if she could.
That child needed someone to speak for him.
From the look on Devon’s face when she dared to raise her gaze to it, Lilah realized with a shock that maybe the father needed someone to speak for him just as badly.
Devon looked like someone had just heaved a sack of rocks off his back. A glimmer of relief strong enough to make Lilah’s eyes water crossed his face for a split second before the customary hardness settled over his features again.
His eyes narrowed to slivers of frozen steel as he looked at Lilah. Snared by the intensity of that look, Lilah did her best to stand tal and hold onto the moment when she knew she’d done the right thing for the father as well as the son.
The police officer cleared her throat. “Sir? Can I leave him with you?”
Without sparing the officer a glance, Devon prowled over to where Lilah stood. Her knees went to jelly, but she managed to stiffen her spine.
In a low, vicious voice that sent shivers down her back, Devon said, “Lilah Jane Tunkle.”
She gulped. “Yes?”
“You’re fired.”
No. Not possible. She’d only just started! An angry protest welled up in her chest, but Devon forestalled it with a single raised finger. “If you can keep the kid quiet and out of the way until closing, you’ve got a new job. Nanny.”
Boy, when they talked about life in the fast lane in New York City, they weren’t kidding. Lilah gaped at Devon, feeling like she was spinning out in a racecar doing 160.
Devon crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “Take it or leave it.”
Okay. She’d messed up quite a bit as a busgirl. And hadn’t enjoyed it that much. And this situation here, with little Tucker staring up at her like she could make or break his world with a single word—
okay, she’d pretty much brought that on herself. Lilah looked into those blue eyes, the same shade as his daddy’s and well on their way to being just as shuttered and shadowed, and knew she couldn’t walk away.
“Done.”
Satisfaction gleamed in Devon’s eyes an instant before Lilah held up her own forestalling finger and added, “On one condition.”
He rocked back on his heels. “You’re not in any position to make demands.”
“Bull pucky,” Lilah said bluntly. “You don’t want Tucker getting lost in the system any more than I do. And I understand, with the restaurant and everything”—“everything” being a euphemism for “your incredible self-involvement,” she thought but didn’t say—“you could use some help looking after him. I’m agreeing to be that help. Out of the goodness of my heart, and for the same salary I was promised for bussing tables.”
Devon’s fine mouth quirked. It wasn’t fair he should look so handsome when making such a derisive face. “I haven’t the first clue what a busgirl makes these days, but I’m sure that’s doable. Was that your condition?”
“No,” Lilah said, ticked at Devon’s casual dismissal of the money issue. Her salary might be pocket change to him, but it was all that was keeping the wolf from her door. Shoving it from her mind, she continued firmly, “No, my condition is that you stop referring to Tucker as ‘the kid.’ He’s got a name; use it.”
Devon blinked, obviously taken aback. She braced herself for questions as to why she was making an issue out of this when there were so many other details to discuss, but instead Devon’s gaze flickered toward his son. For a strange, suspended instant Lilah wondered if Devon was going to refuse, but then he shrugged and said in a bored voice, “Fine. Are we through here? We’ve still got an hour of dinner service to go.”
In fact, the kitchen had ground to a complete standstill while the Sparks family drama played out in the back. Lilah saw line cooks hop to at Devon’s words, though, and soon enough the bustle of a working kitchen covered the cop’s transfer of Tucker’s clammy little hand to Lilah’s. Officer Santiago looked well satisfied with the way things had turned out, albeit in a cool, phlegmatic way. Lilah supposed she’d seen lots worse in the course of her career than a self-centered rich guy hesitating to take responsibility for his illegitimate child.
Without a backward glance or a word to Tucker, Devon strode back up the line and started barking out orders, chivvying the cooks along like a hound amongst the hares. He shouted for Frankie, who rolled his eyes and clapped a long-fingered hand on Lilah’s shoulder. She looked up at him, expecting some joke. The serious expression in his black eyes surprised her, but not as much as his quiet voice saying,
“You did a good thing, luv.”
With that pronouncement, he loped back up the line to his station and spun easily into whirling dervish mode, flipping steaks and chops, bending and sliding to a beat only he seemed to hear.
Grant gave Lilah a brief hug and studied her with concern. “You going to be okay?”
Lilah paused, catching her breath and her balance. The world had just tilted sharply to the left and back again, b
ut the cold hand clutched in hers reminded her that this was no time to space out.
“I’m fine,” she said firmly. “We both are. Right, Tucker?”
Devon’s son nodded mutely. Lilah eyed him, wondering if he was too nervous to speak or what.
Grant shifted from one foot to the other. “Lolly. Hon, I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got to get back out front. Lord only knows what the servers have gotten up to, and with the bartender situation, I’ve gotta …”
“Go on,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Shoo. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Great,” he said with relief, and gave Tucker a quick smile before hurrying off.
Leaving Lilah alone with her charge. She looked down at him, and he looked cautiously up at her.
Stalemate.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re gonna have to help me out here. I used to teach kids a few years older than you, and I’ve got lots of younger cousins, but I’ve never nannied before, so if I do something wrong, you hafta let me know.”
Big eyes tracking her every move was her only response.
“My name’s Lilah Jane Tunkle and I’m from a tiny town in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Do you know where that is?”
Tucker shook his head, dark curls trembling against his round cheeks. He was really an uncommonly adorable boy. Not surprising, considering he owed at least half of his genetic material to Devon Sparks.
Lilah glanced toward the front of the kitchen where the chef was plating food with single-minded determination, his broad shoulders set in lines so tense they looked about ready to snap.
She didn’t understand the gulf that existed between Devon and Tucker. Why could Devon barely look at his own son? Why didn’t he have joint custody already? And what was with this mute kid? Her cousins never seemed to quiet down.
“Virginia,” she told him now. “The Blue Ridge is part of the Appalachian Mountains, one of the oldest mountain ranges in America.”
Tucker didn’t appear to be listening to her; instead, his gaze had followed hers to the pass. He was staring at his father like Devon was a stranger, or a puzzle he couldn’t work out. It made Lilah’s heart squeeze like a wrung-out washcloth.
“We’ll see your dad later,” she said, steering the boy gently toward the stairs leading down to the locker room and office. She figured they’d be better off to get out of the way.
But Tucker showed his first sign of life, twisting his hand free of hers and planting his feet like a baby mule.
Lilah raised her brows. “What? You want to stay up here?”
Tucker cast her a sidelong glance and, quick as that, the scared kid melted away, buried under a sullen expression.
At a loss, Lilah gestured around them. “Tucker. Come on, this can’t be fun for you. Come on downstairs with me and we’ll …” Damnation. Lilah had no idea how to finish that sentence. What on earth were they supposed to do for the next hour?
Panicking, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “We’ll play hangman!” Her cousins liked to play the word game on long car trips, Lilah knew.
The kid snorted, a look of deep scorn arching his brows. Lilah stared. If she’d had any doubt about his paternity before, those doubts were now assuaged.
“Look, kiddo. Everything I know about nannying comes from movies like Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music—I realize it’s your job to start out surly and untrusting and I’m supposed to win you over with my charm and warm heart and incomparable singing voice, but unfortunately for both of us, Tuck, I am so not Julie Andrews. So what do you say we skip that part and head straight for being buds?”
Tucker looked at her blankly. Dear sweet Lord in heaven, was it possible the child didn’t know what she was talking about?
While she was still struggling with the horror of a kid who didn’t know who Mary Poppins was, Tucker opened his mouth and dispelled any worries she’d had about his ability to speak.
“You talk weird, Lolly.”
His ability to speak politely, however, was still in question.
“I’m from the South,” Lilah said. “As I think I already mentioned.” She struggled for a moment against the hated nickname, then reluctantly added, “And that’s ‘Miss Lolly’ to you.”
Tucker stared at her chal engingly. “Does everyone down there take so long to say stuff? You sound like the big chicken in the cartoons.”
Oh, he did not just compare her to Foghorn Leghorn.
Trying to be glad that the child was familiar with Warner Bros. cartoons—at least he had some grounding in the classics—Lilah pursed her mouth and said, “Maybe no one ever explained this to you before, but making fun of the way someone talks is not a great way to make a friend.”
Tucker shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t care about making friends. And I don’t want to play hangman, either.”
“Well, what do you want to play?” Lilah felt like she was at sea in this conversation. Who would’ve thought one ten-year-old would be more challenging than a roomful of hormonal teens?
“Hide-and-seek,” Tucker said, smiling for the first time. The grin transformed his pointed face, bringing a sparkle to his eyes and revealing a previously hidden dimple in his left cheek.
Hoping to encourage this kinder, cuter Tucker, Lilah smiled back. “Okay, that sounds like fun. But there are rules, right? Every game has rules.”
Tucker cocked his head, giving every appearance of listening carefully. Gratified, Lilah went on. “The first one is the big one: No getting underfoot.”
He squinted. “No kidding. I don’t want to be stepped on.”
“Not literally under someone’s foot,” Lilah said, chuckling. “I mean don’t get in anyone’s way.”
“Oh,” Tucker said, his mouth curving down into an expression far too bitter and adult for his age. “No problem. I’m good at that.”
Hating the way his mouth curved into an unhappy bow, Lilah hurried to clarify. “I mean the dining room and the kitchen are both off-limits. Got it?”
Tucker shrugged again. Evidently, he liked to shrug. If Lilah had shrugged at her Aunt Bertie, she’d have been snatched bald-headed. Lilah reminded herself that it had been a traumatic evening for Tucker, and that maybe Yankee children were raised differently than she had been. Allowances could be made.
When he took off running, though, with no warning other than a toothy grin that seemed to say
“Sucka!” Lilah pressed her lips together and considered that, Yankee or not, a rude kid was a rude kid.
When she caught that Tucker, he was getting a lesson in manners he wouldn’t soon forget.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Devon blinked sweat out of his stinging eyes and panted, hands planted on the stainless-steel counter. His right palm edged up against something sticky the color of plums, which part of his weary brain recognized as the port wine demiglace for the grilled rib-eye entrée. He hung his head and watched the reduced sauce stain his hand purple and just could not be bothered to move.
Every muscle ached, in that trembling sort of exhaustion he hadn’t experienced outside of the weight room at Clay, the ungodly expensive gym he trekked downtown to use religiously five days a week.
The worst service of his entire life was over, and all Devon could feel was a numb dread that it was only the first night of a full two weeks of torture.
All around him, cooks were cleaning up their stations in morose silence. Devon watched them mopping up spills and shuffling leftovers into the walk-in coolers and knew he ought to say something. Anything. About how tonight sucked ass, but tomorrow was a brand-new day. Blah blah blah.
Instead, he forced his hands up to the buttons on his soiled, stained chef’s jacket and started working toward freeing himself from the thing. He imagined once he got it off his shoulders it would feel like being released from a straitjacket.
He wanted, desperately, to go to Chapel and get obliterated. Shrugging out of the jacket, he happened to look up and catch Frankie’s baleful eye.
Yeah, the Chapel plan wasn’t going to happen. Frankie’s punk band was playing on the bar’s dingy stage later that night; with a single glance, the sous chef made it clear Devon wasn’t wanted.
A perverse desire to thrust himself into unwelcoming company almost sparked Devon’s natural defiance, but he shrugged it off. Devon didn’t like to admit mistakes; he hadn’t gotten where he was today by being liberal with apologies. But he was honest with himself, always, and he knew the lion’s share of the blame for tonight’s debacle rested squarely on his shoulders.
Not only had he introduced new menu items at the last second, as if he were running a challenge on a reality TV show rather than a restaurant kitchen, but he’d let his personal life throw him into the biggest tailspin imaginable.
The image he’d been trying, with varying degrees of success, to suppress al night came shooting back to the forefront of his mind.
Tucker. His son. Standing right in front of him, looking up at Devon like he was some guy off the street.
Devon barely recalled a word of his exchange with the police officer who’d brought Tucker in. He counted it as a minor victory that he seemed to have carried on a coherent conversation when his mind was filled with nothing but static. From the moment it became clear that Heather was asking him to take Tucker—Jesus, what the hell kind of trouble was she in, anyway? She swore she’d never do this—Devon’s feet had felt nailed to the floor, his mouth coated in super-glue, his brain stuffed with buzzing cotton.
And it had taken the worst busgirl in the history of the restaurant business to break him out of the trance.
Remembering the stricken look on Lilah Jane’s face when she realized she’d just inserted herself into Devon’s fucked-up family politics, he had to smile. Fuck it all, he hoped no one ever knew how close he’d come to bending her over his arm and kissing her senseless for that little bit of meddling.
The woman was a breath of sweet, fresh, uncomplicated air in the restrictive, claustrophobic prison that was Devon’s life.
On the Steamy Side Page 10
