“Give me some of those to carry,” Lilah said, leaning up to peck a soft kiss on Devon’s warm, stubbled cheek. Close enough to his ear for a whisper, so she breathed “You were phenomenal. Prepare to be surprised until you can’t stand up once we get home.”
“Yowza,” Devon said, gaze going liquid silver. “You’re making me wish I hadn’t promised the crew we’d celebrate tonight.”
“Uh, guys?” Tucker’s impatient voice dissipated the cloud of lust threatening to choke Lilah’s good sense. “These bottles are cold. And we’re standing in a big fridge. Can we get out of here?”
“You bet, sugar bear.” Lilah took a hurried step away from Devon’s too-tempting body and juggled her own chilly bottles. “Go on and head back out, we’ll be right behind you.”
Tucker went, rolling his eyes and making gagging noises the whole way.
Devon’s smile was naughty enough to make Lucifer blush. “I get the feeling he knows we stayed in here for a reason.”
“Enough banter,” Lilah said. “If you’re going to kiss me, make it snappy. I can see my breath. And blue is not a great color on your mmph …”
Devon cut her off with a long, hot kiss that opened her up and delved right into the heart of her. Every stroke of his tongue seemed to core her out and leave her breathless, without will or volition or the sense to pull away, even when the condensation from pressing cold glass bottles between their warm bodies dampened the front of her dress and turned her nipples to ice picks.
When he finally lifted his head, Lilah blinked. “Why are you stopping?”
“I thought you were cold,” he teased.
“Not anymore. But I suppose we’d better get out there before Tucker sends a search party in after us.”
They made it out of the walk-in cooler before Frankie and the other chefs started beating on the door, but only just, if the smirks and smiles on the faces around her were anything to go by.
She looked at Devon, who grinned at her, completely unrepentant and unashamed, and Lilah decided, why be embarrassed? So she jumped him in the freezer! There were legions of women out there who watched Devon’s show and would agree that he was eminently jumpable.
The champagne bottles clanged as she set them down on one of the stainless-steel counters. It was the same counter she’d tumbled off of and into Devon’s arms that day after their first night together.
A one-night stand that turned into so much more, she thought, shivering a little at how far they’d come since then.
“Listen up, chefs,” Devon said. “I’ve got to go out front and glad-hand the potential donors a little; I promised the Center for Arts Education lady I would. But before I go, I wanted to pop some wine open and raise a toast.”
With one deft twist, he ripped the foil cap off the bottle in his hand and eased the cork from the neck. He didn’t shake it up or make it spew everywhere; Lilah knew it was a combination of personal fastidiousness in not wanting to be covered in sticky, drying wine, and a reluctance to waste what looked to be a very nice vintage Veuve Clicquot. The fact that she knew that about Devon made her feel kind of squishy inside, as bubbly as the champagne he poured into a water glass.
Raising the glass, Devon looked around the kitchen to include everyone in his toast. “It was a fantastic night,” he said. “You pulled together and rocked it like Springsteen at Madison Square Garden.”
“Nah, like the Ramones,” Frankie shouted, red-faced and sweaty from standing over the grill.
“The Pixies,” Violet, the pastry chef, countered.
“No, no. Sinatra,” Milo argued. Then he licked his lips and said, “I’m talking Nancy Sinatra. Those go-go boots. Rowr!”
Everybody laughed, including Devon. “Okay, okay, simmer down,” he said. “Just let me get through this before the champagne goes flat and I swear I’ll be out of your hair for good.”
He cleared his throat. “You’ve probably all seen my show. The part after the credits where I say …”
“Anything you can do, I can do better,” the cooks all chorused.
“Right.” Devon sighed. “Well, tonight, I couldn’t have done any of it without you. Anything I accomplished with this meal, this fundraiser, it was only possible because of all of you. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to see the back of me. But honestly? I’m going to miss you—this—when Adam comes home tomorrow.”
There was a long silence, punctuated by a sniffle or two, until Frankie finally said, “Fuck that, Chef. You’ll come back and visit, and then when Miranda finally agrees to get hitched we’ll shove them off to a proper honeymoon and have you back at the helm!”
A shouted cheer swelled all up and down the line. Lilah was thrilled to hear it, almost as much as it thrilled her to be standing close enough to hear Devon’s quiet words to Frankie as he poured the sous chef a glass of wine.
“Don’t sel yourself short, Boyd. You could run this kitchen in a heartbeat. The next time Adam needs a day off, let him leave you in charge. I’m serious, man. Thanks for all your help.”
Lilah saw Frankie struggle with the seriousness of the man-to-man moment for a full five seconds before he finally blew out a breath and shook his head. “That kind of responsibility—it’s not for me, mate. So it’s a damn good thing you were here to step in.”
As if unable to take another instant of real emotion, Frankie rocked back on his heels and downed the champagne in a single, impressive gulp. “Whoo!” He shook his head like a horse bothered by flies and made his wild black hair stand up all over. “Let’s get this party started!”
He grabbed the open bottle of champagne and shoved it into Lilah’s hands. She started pouring it out for the cooks while Frankie worked on opening another bottle.
“You’re gonna go talk to the money guys, right?” Tucker asked Devon.
“I don’t want to,” Devon made a face, “but yeah, I guess I am.”
“Can I come? I want to show them my newest drawing. Maybe if they see it, they’ll want to pay for the art classes more.”
Lilah hid a smile as Devon blinked down at his son.
“Tucker. You … How did I spawn such a marketing wiz? That’s a great idea. Come on, let’s go talk some rich people out of their spare cash.”
Lilah watched them go, her heart full to the brim with something that felt every bit as sparkly and effervescent as the wine she was pouring.
Operation Fatherhood was a roaring success!
Everyone in the dining room wanted to talk to Devon. Or maybe they just wanted to coo over Tucker and his drawing.
Devon grinned as yet another bejeweled Upper East Side matron clasped her heavily ringed hands and called Tucker “a little Picasso.” Pablo Jr. didn’t seem to enjoy the attention as much as he’d expected, if the scrunched-up nose was any indication.
Knowing that a good father would rescue his son from such obvious torture, Devon started making their excuses to the fawning lady. “Oh, too bad, so nice to see you, thanks for coming, there’s someone over there I absolutely must go and speak to …”
He gestured across the dining room in a vague sort of way, hoping the lady wouldn’t ask who it was he had to talk to, and suddenly locked eyes with a blue stare identical to the one he saw in the mirror every morning.
Dad.
Devon stilled, the polite words freezing in his mouth like ice cubes. All the blood in his body rushed to his brain, which felt like it shifted immediately into hyper-drive.
What was he doing here? Was Mom with him? Did he come for dinner? What did he think? What the fuck was he doing here?
The woman he’d been speaking to gave a shrill, embarrassed laugh and pinched Tucker’s cheek. Tucker shied away from her, backing into Devon’s hip and stumbling.
Devon looked down at his son, and back up at his father, standing motionless by the exit like he was already thinking about making a break for it. Dad never liked fancy restaurants much, Devon remembered, always seemed ill at ease when the fa
mily went anywhere nicer than a diner or a pizza parlor.
“Sorry.” He ripped his attention away from Phil Sparks and back to the woman whose name he’d forgotten. “You were saying?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just how wonderful the meal was, and how unlike anything I’ve had in the city recently. So fresh and original! However did you come up with the menu?”
“He had help,” drawled a slow, honeyed voice as Lilah came up behind him. “Thank you for coming, won’t you excuse us?”
The guest nodded, looking more relieved than anything else to get away from the sudden odd turn their conversation had taken. But Devon couldn’t seem to get a handle on his emotions, couldn’t seem to force himself to look back across the room and see if his father was still there.
And then suddenly Phil was right in front of him, looking older than Devon would ever have believed possible, weathered and lined and gray.
I shouldn’t have stayed away so long, was all Devon could think. But maybe it doesn’t matter. He came here, to see me. A cautious hope flickered to life in his chest, warming him from the inside out.
“Dad,” he croaked out. Christ, how humiliating. He sounded like he had laryngitis.
A swift, indrawn breath reminded him of Lilah, who had moved to Tucker’s other side, her hand on the kid’s shoulder. Eyes shining like she’d just gotten the best birthday present ever, Lilah said, “Oh, Devon, is this your father? Mr. Sparks, I’m so very, very pleased to meet you. Thank you so much for coming to the dinner!”
“I skipped the dinner,” Phil said gruffly. “Ate at home; good, plain, simple food. Anything too rich doesn’t agree with me.”
“Ah,” Lilah said, clearly disconcerted. “Well. It was still nice of you to come all this way. Devon, are you going to introduce us?”
Oh, God. Devon squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat, then opened them. There was no way to avoid how much this was going to hurt—but he hadn’t thought it would matter! He never thought his father would show up here, reenter his life in any way. Devon’s head swam, and had to bear down hard to remember how to speak.
“Lilah, this is my father, Phil Sparks. Dad, this is Lilah. My … my friend,” he concluded in a strangled tone.
Lilah turned beet red, but her Aunt Bertie would be proud; she didn’t miss a beat in offering her hand.
Phil shook with Lilah, then turned his attention to the silent boy at Devon’s side.
“And who is this?” Phil demanded. “Out pretty late, aren’t you, for a—how old are you, boy?”
Tucker shrank into Devon’s side but spoke up. “I’m ten. And three-quarters.”
Phil stared down at the kid, and Devon could see the moment when realization dawned over his father’s hard face.
Numb with the inevitability of it all, Devon waited, braced himself.
“God Almighty,” Phil breathed. “I have a grandson.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lilah gasped. Devon squeezed his eyes shut.
Yeah, she read that little dialogue correctly. Devon had never told his family about Tucker.
He didn’t see the point, was all. They hadn’t spoken in years! And it wasn’t like Devon was part of Tucker’s life.
But that was changing, he reminded himself. God, everything was changing, so fast he could barely keep up.
He looked at his father, the familiar bone structure reflected in Devon’s mirror every morning, and in the small, round face starting up at them. The fierce surge of pride in his son nearly brought Devon to his knees.
Please let this go smoothly, he found himself praying.
“Yeah. This is Tucker, my son. Tuck? Meet your granddad.”
When Tucker retreated into the stony silence he favored whenever life threw too many curve balls, Devon realized he should’ve expected it. The kid stared up at Phil Sparks without a flicker of expression.
Phil sent a wry smile in Devon’s direction. “Takes after you, huh?”
Devon wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Um. How’s Mom? Did she come … ?” He craned his neck to search the room, but didn’t truly expect to see his shy, quiet homebody of a mother.
“No,” Phil confirmed. “It’s vestry week at St. Ignatius. You know how hard she works, putting together the charity auction and whatnot.”
Devon knew. And he also knew his dad would never let Angela Sparks miss a vestry committee meeting for something as trivial as their son’s big night. Heavens, no! People might talk.
Forcing down the bitter voice whispering that nothing had changed, Devon looked at his father, whose presence at Market was proof that there’d been at least a tiny shift in the murky waters of his family.
“So. How’s Connor? He’s back stateside, I hear.”
A familiar gleam of pride entered Phil’s eyes. “Your brother’s doing good, real good. He got out of the service about a year ago. Now he’s a cop.”
Devon had to laugh, even as fear for his brother clutched at his guts. Devon knew about the stint in Afghanistan—he’d actually bought body armor for Con’s whole unit, because the thought of his happygo-lucky kid brother out there with nothing between him and death was unacceptable. The anonymous donation helped Devon sleep at night.
He and Connor had emailed occasionally once he’d finished his tour. It had been a while, though, and last Devon heard, Connor was just trying to settle back into civilian life. Figured that rather than taking a well-deserved break from risking his all for God and country, he’d go for one of the highest-risk jobs he could find.
First the army, then the Trenton PD? Little danger junkie. “One of the boys in blue, huh? Who would’ve guessed.”
Phil went stony. “Me, for one. I always knew he’d end up doing something important. He won’t ever be famous, but we’re damn proud of him.”
Here we go.
“I’m proud of him, too,” Devon said, gritting his teeth against the frustration simmering in his throat. “I get it. What I don’t get is how being proud of him means there’s nothing left over for anyone else. Like there’s a finite amount of pride in our family, and Connor gets all of it.”
“You saying you think what you’re doing here is more important than your brother, out there protecting us all …”
“No, Dad, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Devon interrupted before Phil burst that blood vessel in his forehead.
“My goodness,” Lilah said loudly, catching their attention—and the attention of everyone in a ten-foot radius. “What a shame the whole family couldn’t be here! But I’m sure Tucker will get to meet his grandma and uncle sometime soon. In the meantime, Tuck, do you wanna go in the kitchen with me?
Say good night to the chefs?”
She held out her hand and Tucker took it gratefully. Devon sent her a look that was every bit as grateful. This. This ugliness, this resentment was exactly why he never told Phil about Tucker. Hell, it was why he’d never tried to be a dad himself. Devon hated who he became when he was around his family.
What kind of person begrudged his war hero brother the honest admiration he deserved? It wasn’t like Devon had any illusions about himself. He’d never make the choice to join the armed forces; he’d never want to face what Connor had faced overseas.
The hell of it was, Devon admired his little brother every bit as much as their father did. So why did it sting so badly to be compared to him, and come up short?
Lilah beamed a big, fake smile and pulled Tucker to her side, but Phil wasn’t about to let them out of his sight.
Eyes sharp, he said, “My son’s ‘friend,’ eh? I take that to mean you’re not the mother.”
“No, but …”
“So where is she?”
“Oh! She’s … well.” Lilah bit her lip.
Devon became aware of heads turning in their direction, whispers circulating around the still-crowded room. “Can we move this out of the public dining room to someplace more private?”
Christ, this was going to be all over the pla
ce before he even managed to get his father back on the train to Trenton.
“That’s a joke—you worrying about what people think. You never cared when it was your mother and me who couldn’t hold our heads up on a Sunday morning when anyone at the church with the money for a Post could read about what you got up to on Saturday night.” Phil shook his head.
Devon’s jaw was clenched hard enough to make his neck hurt. “Well, if you don’t want to make Page Six yourself, come down to the restaurant office with me and we can finish having this out.”
Without another word, he turned and strode for the kitchen door. He didn’t check to see if Phil was following—with Devon’s luck, there was no way his dad would just give up and leave.
He banged through the kitchen door and headed straight for the relative privacy of the stairs down to the basement level.
The chefs, who were in the middle of clearing down their stations, froze in mid-clean. Impatient to be away from so many watchful eyes, he barked, “What are you all still doing here? Get finished cleaning and head to Chapel. Tell Christian the drinks are on me—and I’ll actually pay the tab this time.”
“You got it, Chef,” Frankie said, taking a break from scraping up the charred bits of meat from the wood-fired grill. “We’ll see you there later to celebrate, yeah?”
Devon had never felt less like celebrating in his life, but he dragged up his empty Hollywood smile and said, “Sure. Just got one thing to take care of first. Dad?”
Every head in the kitchen swiveled to Phil, who tightened his jaw and sent Devon an unreadable look. Probably he didn’t appreciate being categorized as a chore, but Devon couldn’t make himself care. He just wanted this to be over.
Jerking his head toward the staircase, he said, “You coming?”
Phil took the hint and disappeared down the stairs. Lilah stopped Devon from following with a hand on his arm.
“Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to come with you?”
Devon struggled for a moment, torn between humiliation at being coddled in front of his cooks and gratitude that she wanted to help him. “Sweet Lilah Jane,” he said. It came out sounding sarcastic, and she flinched back. Devon didn’t know how to smooth it over when he felt so jagged. He was all rough, raw edges tearing into everything around him, and he wasn’t sure how to stop it.
On the Steamy Side Page 25
