On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [21]
“Hey, now,” she bristled. “This is my Aunt Bertie’s recipe. It won first prize at the county fair four years running.”
“I don’t care if it won an Emmy, it looks sickening and it smells worse.”
Devon had nothing against organ meats, in general; they’d been en vogue among New York chefs for years now. But these humble balls of artery-clogging noxiousness were a far cry from sautéed sweetbreads with butter and sage, or seared foie gras with quince jelly. There was something so . . . peasant about chicken liver. It seemed trashy, in the sense of being destined for the garbage bin. Or possibly a dog biscuit.
“Don’t yuck my yum,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s rude. Anyway, you don’t have to eat it. Grant asked me to fix up a quick lunch while he talked to his boss, so that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t easy to find anything to make in that larder, either, let me tell you.”
“I find that supremely difficult to believe.” Market had one of the most varied, interesting menus in the city—Adam stocked his pantry and walk-in with the freshest, most beautiful produce the local farmers’ markets had to offer, and now that it was high summer, the markets were offering quite a bit. All simple stuff that any monkey could cook.
Devon hesitated. “Grant,” he said. “That wouldn’t be Grant Holloway, would it?”
“That’s right.” Pique had pinched her rosebud mouth tight. “I’m staying with him.”
Holy fucking shit. Devon had spent the hottest night in recent memory with Grant Holloway’s . . . what, girlfriend? Why else would she be staying with him?
Okay, they could be just friends . . . but as Devon looked at the woman standing beside him, the inherent, unconscious sensuality of her, he knew, in his gut—no red-blooded, heterosexual man would ever be able to be “just friends” with her.
If she wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, Devon thought grimly, it wasn’t because Grant didn’t want her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Devon Sparks!”
Devon winced and shot Grant’s maybe-girlfriend a swift sidelong glance, but her eyes were wide with something that looked a lot closer to panic than recognition of his famous name.
Clutching his elbow, she only had time for a quick whispered, “Please don’t mention anything about last night!” before Adam was upon them, his entire crew clomping up the stairs like a herd of rhinos behind him.
Being relegated to dirty secret status was a novel experience for Devon. He couldn’t say he liked it much, especially since it added fuel to his suspicions about a possible romantic entanglement between the woman at his side and Grant.
Although why Devon should care was a whole other story.
“Temple,” he said, acknowledging his friend, who was currently doing a great impression of an overgrown Labrador.
Adam bounced over, flush with happiness, excitement radiating from every pore. Normal, mundane day-to-day life tended to get Adam flying like a kite; the guy had the gift of passion, for sure. Still, this was something extra.
“Thanks for doing this, man. Miranda and I, we appreciate it so much! See, Frankie, what’d I tell you?”
“Told me the man would be here. Didn’t venture to say much about whether he’d be staying. Hello there, Lolly.”
The laconic Cockney voice drifted over from the kitchen doors where Frankie Boyd was leaning, fingers of one skinny hand rummaging in the pocket of his painted-on black jeans. Presumably for smokes. Frankie was famously addicted to silk-filtered Dunhill’s; he’d once told Devon he plunked down his hard-earned cash for the outrageously expensive British imports because he took his vices seriously.
Devon sneered a little, more out of habit than real animosity. He and Frankie had butted heads when Frankie was one of his line cooks back at Appetite, but that was years ago. Frankie was Adam’s sous chef now, and by all accounts, an integral part of the kitchen.
“Wait a second.” Devon turned to the woman at his side with an incredulous eyebrow lift.