On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [110]
“Don’t worry about Tucker,” Devon forced himself to say. “I don’t have much time to inflict the Sparks family brand of parenting on him. His mother, my ex, she’s . . . away on a trip, but she’ll be back in a couple of weeks. He’s only with me until she comes home.”
It was nothing but the truth—well, the truth with a little editing—but the words slashed at Devon’s heart as unerringly as anything his father had said.
In another two weeks, this would all be over. Tucker would go back to Heather. Lilah wouldn’t have any reason to stay.
How the hell had he allowed himself to forget and start playing house? He thought he’d laid the happy family fantasy to rest long ago. The humiliating moment of hope when he first caught sight of Phil tonight told Devon he hadn’t buried those ludicrous feelings as deeply as he thought.
“And let me guess. You won’t have time in the next few weeks to bring the kid out to the neighborhood to visit your mother.”
“Good guess,” Devon said. “Come on, Dad. Look what happens when we’re around each other for five minutes. Part of the reason I never told you about Tucker before was that I didn’t want him exposed to our particular family dynamic. I mean, shit. Just because we’re completely fucked up is no reason he has to be.”
Phil’s mouth tightened ominously. “I know you’re a big shot now, lots of money, fancy apartment, fast car—and I know you look down on the life your mother and I live, but we did our best for you and your brother.”
“Your best. Right.” Bitterness boiled up in Devon’s throat, sour and hot. “What whitewashed version of my childhood are you remembering? Never mind. This conversation is going in circles. Just . . . tell Mom I hope the St. Iggy’s charity thing goes okay. If she wants me to donate something to be auctioned off, she knows how to reach me.”
“She won’t,” Phil growled, ramming his arms into the sleeves of his worn navy jacket. “We don’t need your piles of cash, Devon. And don’t think you can buy yourself a clean conscience, either.”
“Hey, my conscience is fresh as a daisy,” Devon lied. “How’s yours?”
Phil wrenched open the office door. “Don’t bother walking me out; I’m not sure I can stand the sight of you right now.”
Devon shoved away his stupid hurt feelings and covered them with a sneer. “Give them my best down at the union hall.”
Phil paused in the doorway. Devon tried not to notice how old and tired he looked, with his stooped shoulders and ruthlessly combed gray hair.
“I can only thank God your mother didn’t come here with me tonight; the shock of all this would’ve been too much for her. I wish I could say I can’t believe you’d keep our flesh and blood a secret from us, but unfortunately, that’s exactly the kind of selfish behavior I expect from you.”
The dig sliced into Devon like a knife, filleting the flesh from his bones. He stared at his father, a little amazed that the old man’s mouth wasn’t filling up with blood, cut to ribbons by the sharp words.
And the worst of it was, Phil didn’t even stick around after his parting shot to watch Devon bleed out, messy emotion and stupid, pointless hopes all over the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Pacing really wasn’t a very effective tool for managing stress. On her seventeenth pass by the basement stairs, Lilah realized she wasn’t actually going to be able to force Phil Sparks to leave the restaurant using the power of her will alone.
“I’m going down there,” she announced.
“No, you’re not,” Grant countered, the way he had the first five times she’d tried to leave. “I know it goes against your nature, but stay out of it, Lolly.”
Lilah wondered if he might be right. It wasn’t like her meddling had gone very well recently.
Which reminded her that this entire Phil Sparks calamity was her fault. “It’s my mess, I should help clean it up,” she argued.
Grant was inflexible. “Leave it alone.”
Lilah fretted. Glancing over at the grill, where Frankie was attempting to get Tucker interested in how to clean and season the cast-iron slats, she had to wonder how much of her frustration was due