Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [136]
Well, most of his life. There were still a few places left in Manhattan he could go to remind himself of what the real world felt like. A certain dive bar on the Lower East Side, for example. And here. At Market, the all-organic hit restaurant owned and run by his former executive chef, Adam Temple.
Devon deliberately, with the ease of practice, blanked his mind of the spot in New Jersey that could pull him out of the heavens and back down to earth with a single visit.
Adam Temple was a friend. Or as close to a friend as Devon got these days. And he’d never admit it, but part of why he valued Adam was for exactly that lack of interest in Devon Sparks: Star! When Adam talked to his former boss, Devon felt like . . . Devon Sparks: Talented Chef and Ordinary Guy. Considering he hadn’t been either of those things in a long time, and had worked hard to reach that state of affairs, talking to Adam was oddly restful.
Which was why he’d come running when Adam called this morning. Normally, Devon’s hectic television shooting schedule wouldn’t allow a last-minute detour, but with the current and final season wrapped last night, Devon was a free man.
The final season, he thought with satisfaction. The news that the show was cancelled hadn’t hit the public yet, but it was only a matter of time. Until that tabloid explosion, Devon intended to enjoy himself. He could charter a jet to St. Maarten, go out for tapas in San Sebastian, do a London pub crawl, or visit friends in Paris. The world was his fresh, harvested-that-morning-off-the-coast-of-Prince-Edward-Island oyster, with a bonus surprise pearl inside.
So no trumpets at Market. Fine. No red carpet. Check. But was it too much to ask that when he let himself in the front door at ten o’clock Saturday morning, there’d at least be a peon or two polishing glassware and setting tables? Granted, Devon hated waiters of every size and stripe, but they had their occasional uses. For instance, greeting a visiting chef during off-hours and telling him where the hell everybody was.
Instead of the busy, bustling front of house Devon expected, however, he got an abandoned dining room, tumbleweeds all but blowing between the tables.
It was such a different experience, standing in an empty restaurant without the distraction of customers. After designing and opening five fine dining establishments in the last ten years, Devon was a veteran of the decor wars. He could pick out fabrics and choose between leather seat coverings with the best of them.
With a critical eye, he scanned the still, dim Market dining room with its soft moss-green walls and hammered bronze light fixtures with their swirls of vines and leaves. The tables were blond wood, bright and glossy with clean, minimalist lines. Devon liked the banquettes, too, straight-backed and private, in some sort of velvety material that looked very inviting. Striding toward the horseshoe-shaped antique zinc bar that connected the smaller back dining room to the larger front room.
Hoping to find a sous-chef barking orders, a pastry chef kneading dough, a freaking dishwasher, for Chrissakes, Devon pushed through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen.
There were signs of life back there; Devon heard the familiar, comforting clang of a stainless steel pan hitting a cast-iron cooking range, followed by a breathy rasp of sound, almost like a moan.
Devon quirked a brow. The restaurant wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed. He paused, suddenly struck by the fear that he was about to come upon his friend, Adam, in a state of nature with the woman Devon had played Cupid to set him up with.
Well, sort of. Invading his friend’s kitchen with an uninvited camera crew and filming the very private confessions of Adam’s lady love, Miranda Wake, might