On the Steamy Side

by Louisa Edwards

  Satisfied with her rationale for wearing the pajamas a little longer, Lilah combed her fingers carelessly through her hair, snagging on the riotous curls, and twisted it into a knot on top of her head. She retrieved her bra from the tangle of clothes and shrugged into it. Comfort was one thing, decency was quite another. Lilah didn’t have the kind of breasts that could go discreetly unsupported. The girls needed hoisting.

  Lilah found her new employer and her new charge ensconced on the black leather Bachelor Special in the spacious living room. Their similar features, one face a miniature of the other, were bathed in the flickering blue glow from the television. Devon’s voice, unmistakable, if tinny, drew Lilah’s attention to the screen.

  They were watching Devon’s show, she noticed with amusement. At the moment, Onscreen Devon was shouting, red-faced and angry, at a cringing subordinate. Through the bleeped-out curse words, Lilah caught something about the salmon being raw in the middle.

  “Morning, boys,” Lilah said, making them both jump.

  Tucker gifted her with a quick smile before turning back to the show, but Devon stood up and rounded the back of the couch to greet her.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he said easily, his eyes drifting down her body. “There’s something unbearably sexy about a woman in men’s pajamas.”

  Lilah plucked at the fabric where it pulled taut at her hips and tried not to color up. “Thanks. I’m going to head down to Grant’s apartment today and get the rest of my things, so you can have these back tonight.”

  “I’ve got at least twenty pairs of pajamas,” Devon said, waving a dismissive hand. “Those look better on you than they ever did on me. Keep them.”

  “So that’s the show?” Lilah said, gesturing at the television where Onscreen Devon was in a towering rage, throwing his dish towel at the wall, every third word covered by a high-pitched beep.

  “That’s the show that made me famous,” Devon agreed, his tone sardonic. “For what it’s worth.”

  “Lordy,” Lilah said, drawn in despite herself. “It’s too early in the morning for that much hollering and carrying on. Unless you made coffee?”

  She clasped her hands and turned pleading eyes on Devon, who laughed.

  “I did. I couldn’t find all the parts to the espresso machine, but I scavenged a French press from one of my cabinets.”

  Lilah laughed. “A French press? Sounds like a medieval torture device. And what do you mean you can’t find all of your coffee maker?”

  Devon arched a brow at her. “I’m far too busy and important to make my own coffee on a daily basis. On weekdays, my assistant takes care of it. And on the weekends …” His voice trailed off and to Lilah’s surprise, Devon’s cheeks went a dull brick red. He flicked a glance at Tucker, who had dragged a tattered spiral-bound notebook from his backpack and started drawing during a commercial break.

  And Lilah got it. The fully stocked guest suite was a clue. Women. Every weekend. And if his behavior with Lilah that first night was any indicator of his MO, it was a different woman every week.

  She was just one of many.

  Stomach twisting and dropping to her knees, she said, “On the weekends you usually have company.”

  The kind of company who never got familiar enough with the kitchen to know where things were put away.

  “Right,” Devon said, sounding relieved. “Company.”

  Lilah was so completely out of her league here.

  “I’ll go pour myself a cup,” she said brightly. “Can I get you anything while I’m in the kitchen?”

  “Lilah,” Devon said, his voice urgent.

  “Nothing? Okay, then, back in a sec. Is the kitchen through there? Right, no problem, I’m sure I can find everything just fine. No need to trouble yourself.” She was babbling. She needed to get a minute alone before she made a complete and utter fool of herself.

  Lilah hurried through the doorway Devon had indicated and found herself in the most beautiful kitchen she’d ever seen outside of a magazine.

  The countertops gleamed with polished black stone flecked with glints of copper and antique gold, providing high contrast to the beautiful red wood of the cabinets. Lilah had to do a double take to pick out the fridge; it was also covered in that same red wood, seamlessly integrated into the expanse of cabinetry.

  The counter on the far side of the large room butted up on a small corner nook set up like a restaurant booth with benches on either side of a rectangular table. Immediately, Lilah flashed on an image of the three of them sitting companionably around the breakfast table, laughing and sharing the paper. Devon would take the Style section, Lilah would pore over the theater reviews, and Tucker would be giggling over the funnies.

  She blinked to clear her vision. Quit it, she ordered herself. You’re acting like a love-struck idiot, painting pretty pictures of domestic bliss with a man who can barely even speak to his own son, and who has more lovers in a month than you’ve had your whole adult life.

  Beyond ridiculous, to imagine one month as a nanny with a crush could turn into a real family. Especially when Devon was clearly more comfortable with relationships that lasted no longer than a few days. Or hours.

  All the same, it was a beguiling image, and Lilah had a hard time eradicating it completely even after she turned her back on the breakfast nook to find the coffee. She located it in a glass container that looked like a tall, slender pitcher on silver legs. Devon had left out a ceramic mug, Lilah saw. She could only assume it was for her, and the gesture warmed her. The mug was gray and green, with graceful abstract lines etched into the sides and a sweetly round belly. Lilah poured a cup and wrapped her cold hands around it, stealing as much warmth for herself as she could.

  It was stupid to be upset. Stupid to feel blindsided. Devon was an almost unbearably attractive man with enough charisma to charm the spots off a leopard, as Lilah knew from delicious firsthand experience.

  As if that weren’t enough, he also had piles of money and a big hit television show. And Lilah knew he wasn’t the kind of man to nobly and chastely refuse to take advantage of his fame.

  Which, perversely, was something she liked about him. Lilah appreciated the fact that Devon was honest about his vices and habits. Back home in Spotswood County, there were a couple of men with their own small-potatoes version of local power and influence who threw their weight around all over the place, meanwhile pretending to a pious humility that set Lilah’s teeth on edge. She much preferred Devon’s unabashed sensuality and the glee he seemed to take in the trappings of his decadent lifestyle.

  Forcefully suppressing memories of her own brief revelry in Devon’s sensuality and decadence, Lilah carried her coffee back into the living room where Devon had resumed his seat on the couch. Her two boys were as far apart as they could be and still be on the same piece of furniture, Lilah saw with a stab of sorrow.

  She noted the way Tucker dropped his drawing the instant One-Night Stand came back on. The way he stared at his father on the television screen, his eyes wide and unblinking, attention caught and held by a show no other ten-year-old on the planet would probably care about. And she caught the frequent glances Devon sent his son’s way, full of confused yearning.

  Lilah shook her head. They wanted to connect, she was sure of it. They just didn’t seem to know how.

  And in a flash, Lilah understood why she’d been so uncontrollably called to inject herself into the discussion about Tucker’s custody. Beyond the fact that she couldn’t bear to see the child shuffled off into the system when he had a father, alive and well and able to care for him standing right there, Lilah saw now that Fate had put her in the kitchen at Market that night for a very specific purpose—to help heal the broken relationship between father and son.

  Everything in her longed to see a happy smile on Tucker’s face when he looked at his dad; to be a part of the moment when Devon finally began to embrace fatherhood and his place in Tucker’s life.

  Lilah took a bracing sip of coff
ee and started hatching plans.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tucker slumped over his empty plate at the breakfast nook, kicking one heel aggravatingly against the table leg.

  Lilah fought the urge to tell him to be stil . He was such a quiet boy, any way he opted to make himself heard probably ought to be encouraged. And the noise was only getting to her because she was unreasonably and stupidly nervous.

  She and Devon and Tucker were about to have breakfast together.

  A small, insignificant thing, by anyone’s standards, and yet Lilah hoped it would have far-reaching consequences. It was the first step toward making that vision she’d had earlier a reality.

  Well, at least the part of it where Devon and Tucker were happy together, she amended hastily. Lilah wasn’t sure she was ready to contemplate her role in that picture just yet, beyond being the wise fairy godmother–type who made it all happen.

  Devon moved confidently around the kitchen, pulling ingredients and setting up his workspace. There was plenty of room for two to cook; it was nothing like the cramped little galley in Grant’s Chelsea apartment. In Grant’s kitchen, you couldn’t stand side by side with another person and whip cream without knocking elbows.

  But even with the extra space and scope of Devon’s kitchen, Lilah was still having trouble concentrating on anything other than Devon’s proximity. And surely he could walk past her without brushing against her! Every glancing touch made her suck in a breath, her skin thrilling to it like his fingers were charged with static electricity.

  Devon was watching her, eyes hotter than a summer sky, as if he knew exactly what she was contemplating.

  Giving her shoulders a quick shake, Lilah pinched her lips at Devon in what her students referred to as her “Mean Librarian” expression. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes and gave a sardonic tilt to his perfect mouth.

  Lilah ignored him in favor of addressing Tucker. “What does your mom usually make you for breakfast, Tuck?”

  Tucker stopped kicking the table. “She doesn’t really make breakfast that often.”

  There was something off about the way he said it. Lilah frowned over at Devon, who shrugged.

  “Heather’s not much of a cook,” he said coolly.

  “What about cereal? What’s your favorite cereal, Tuck?” Lilah said.

  Tucker made a face. “I hate cereal.”

  “All kinds?” Lilah questioned, surprised. “Even those sugary ones full of marshmallows?”

  Tucker looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he could rewind the conversation and keep his cereal woes to himself.

  “I guess those are okay,” he said. “I get tired of them, though.”

  “Shoot,” Lilah laughed. “My cousins used to love that stuff so much, my Aunt Bertie once wrapped up boxes of Lucky Charms and put them under the Christmas tree! I didn’t know any kids got tired of eating candy for breakfast.”

  “I don’t mind it for breakfast, but I get sick of it when we have it for lunch and dinner, too.”

  Now Devon was frowning, his hands slowing in their prep work.

  “What other things does your mom cook for you?” he asked, his voice rough.

  Tucker went back to kicking the table leg. “I don’t know. Stuff. Bagels. I like the ones with sesame seeds. And I’m not a baby, I know how to order delivery. We get Chinese a lot. The guy, when I call?

  Mr. Han? He knows what I want just from the sound of my voice. He can tell, like magic, or like he’s psychic or something.”

  It was the most Tucker had said at one time since he arrived in the kitchen at Market, which Lilah wanted to be happy about. But what he was saying was breaking her heart.

  She exchanged another glance with Devon, whose hands were white-knuckled around the handle of the skillet he was putting on the stovetop. He was reading between the lines, too, Lilah knew, putting together Heather Sorensen’s DWI with Tucker’s tale of subsisting on no-cook meals and delivery while she was no doubt too intoxicated to take care of dinner herself.

  Lilah wanted to cry. She wanted to march down to Heather’s rehab center and read the woman the riot act. Most of all, Lilah wanted to demand how Devon could allow his son to stay in a situation like that—but it wasn’t her place, she reminded herself. She didn’t know the whole story.

  And judging by Devon’s teeth-gritting silence, there was definitely part of the story she was missing.

  Trying to smooth over the rough moment, Lilah said, “Well, now that you’re with your dad, the famous chef, you can bet you’re gonna get some yummy meals. Are you hungry?”

  Tucker nodded, which seemed to release Devon from his paralysis, because he started cracking eggs into the cold pan. The eggs were much smaller than Lilah was used to back on the farm.

  “Go ahead and sit down,” Devon told her. “I’ve got this.”

  Lilah took a last look at the weirdly tiny eggs and joined Tucker in the breakfast nook. Within minutes, Devon was setting full plates in front of them.

  Lilah and Tucker stared down at the food, then looked at each other. It looked like loose yellow curds with sour cream and some kind of orange relish.

  “What is it?” Lilah dared to ask.

  “Scrambled quail eggs with crème fraîche and salmon roe,” Devon said. Rather than sitting down with them, he tossed his dirty pans and utensils into the sink and started washing up.

  “Aren’t you going to eat with us? I promise to help clean up after,” Lilah said.

  “A good cook cleans his own station,” Devon said with a quick smile. “Anyway, I don’t eat breakfast. You two dig in, though.”

  Tucker dipped a wary spoon into the eggs and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes bulged a little, and he appeared to swallow with difficulty. They both snuck guilty peeks at Devon over by the sink, who hadn’t noticed the byplay.

  Tucker cut his eyes up at Lilah. There was a plea in them that let her know she didn’t need to taste it.

  “Sounds delish,” she said brightly. “But maybe a little too rich for my tummy this early in the morning.”

  Devon frowned and wiped his hands. “I could make you something else. I’ve been on a Japanese kick lately; I think my assistant stocked me up with some ume boshi plums and nori to experiment with.”

  Tucker and Lilah exchanged a bemused look. Apparently picking up on the extreme lack of reaction, Devon explained, “Small pickled plums and seasoned dried seaweed. Part of a traditional Japanese breakfast.”

  There was a pause while Lilah and Tucker considered this. Lilah broke it by asking, “You know what? Do you have any flour?”

  Devon blinked. “I think so.”

  “Baking powder? Salt? Buttermilk? Never mind, don’t worry, I can find it. Why don’t you have a seat and visit with Tucker?”

  She started bustling purposefully around the kitchen, keeping a weather eye on Devon’s face. Lilah hadn’t had a lot of truck with professional chefs, but she knew all about the politics and potential drama involved with cooking in someone else’s kitchen. Hopefully Devon wasn’t too territorial.

  Evidently not, because he watched her in silence for a minute before saying, “Help yourself. But I’ve got to go shower before I head over to the restaurant.”

  “This early?” Lilah asked, sniffing a gleaming, stainless-steel canister of white powder. Did all-purpose flour smell different from self-rising? Why was nothing labeled?

  “There’s always work to be done,” Devon replied. “The prep cooks are probably arriving at the restaurant now, starting work on the stocks for the sauces. Deliveries come in from vendors all morning, from fresh fish to specialty items like foie gras. Adam,” he snorted, “likes to pretend he’s saving the world, one menu special at a time. He only orders from within a hundred-mile radius of Manhattan. Reducing his carbon footprint or some similar nonsense.”

  “Yeah, I think Grant mentioned something about that. Market’s all about promoting local, sustainable food and cooking with seasonal ingredients. I grew up on a
farm, so all that sounds kind of ‘duh’ to me. You don’t think it makes sense?”

  Devon leaned one hip indolently against the counter. “I don’t think it’s a smart way to run a restaurant,” he clarified. “This is New York, not California. The growing season here is fairly limited. From October to April, the Union Square greenmarket Adam is so fond of doesn’t offer much in the way of fresh produce beyond root vegetables.”

  He shrugged, drawing Lilah’s eye to his lean chest and broad shoulders under the fitted black T-shirt he was wearing. “Call me crazy, but if I want to do a passion fruit dessert in January, I’m going to fly a shipment in from Brazil and not think twice about it.”

  To Lilah, it sounded like a well-worn debate, an argument Devon had trotted out for his friend, Adam, many times. She wondered how much of it Devon really believed in and how much was a put-on part of his famous bastard persona.

  Then again, maybe it was naïve to continue on in this dogged assumption that there was more to Devon Sparks than the jaded, arrogant mask he presented to the world.

  “Back home in Spotswood County, we cooked with seasonal, local ingredients because that’s all we had,” she said. “And I won’t say there was never a day when I wished for a big supermarket in town that would carry exotic fruits and cheeses and things I’ve probably never even heard of, but there was something wonderful about following the rhythm of the seasons. You could tell the date by what was on my Aunt Bertie’s table: collards and kale braised with a ham hock in the winter, sweet baby turnips roasted with molasses in the spring. And nothing says summer like Silver Queen corn, barely boiled, dripping with butter and salt. You could look at any meal and know your place in the world, where you came from and where you were going.” Even Lilah was surprised at the depth of longing that colored her voice.

  “But that wasn’t enough for you,” Devon said.

  “What?” Lilah said, startled.

  “You left the idyllic pastoral paradise and made your way to the big, bad city. There must’ve been a reason.” He smiled, challenge clear in his eyes. “Love affair gone wrong?”