On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [27]
Adam nodded, eyes downcast. “I’m looking forward to the trip. To some time alone with Miranda, seeing new places and trying new foods, getting new ideas for the menu—but . . .”
“But it’s hard to leave your baby,” Devon finished. “Look. Nothing will change. You built this place from the ground up; it’s your philosophy, your ridiculous idealism, your staff, your food. I’m only here for a short stint, like a stage in reverse.”
In restaurant terms, a stage was like an apprenticeship. A young, up-and-coming cook would work in the kitchen of an established chef, soaking up knowledge and techniques, gaining valuable experience, padding his resume, and generally working like a dog doing all the kitchen’s scut work.
Adam’s lips quirked into a smile. “I suppose I can live with that. Man.” He shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give for a good PR guy right about now. Devon Sparks, the Cooking Channel’s brightest star, doing a stage in my kitchen.”
“Don’t look at me,” Devon said. “I fired Simon Woolf last night. I’m going to have to take care of spinning my own life for a while.”
“Dude.” Adam sounded impressed. “Out of the blue? And he didn’t keel over with some kind of cardiac episode?”
“Simon’s still alive and kicking, as far as I know.” Devon smirked. “Although he might be feeling a bit bruised this morning—your new busgirl went for him like a pigeon after a half-eaten bagel.”
“Sweet little Lilah?” Adam blinked in shock.
“Well. To be fair, he doused her in about five different kinds of liquor.”
“Christ, Devon, only you,” Adam said, slinging a casual arm around Devon’s shoulders. Adam was the one person who touched Devon casually, like a buddy, anymore. Celebrity status came with its own bubble of personal space—or maybe it was just Devon and his general vibe of smug superiority. Devon had no illusions about his personal appeal. Luckily, the camera cared more about the shallow exterior than deep internal goodness—and Devon’s exterior happened to be extremely marketable.
“Come on, Adam, you ridiculous puppy. Show me around your kitchen and give me your last-minute instructions. I know you want to.”
Adam laughed. “Yeah, the same way I know you won’t listen to me. But whatever, man, let’s do the dance anyway.”
Devon let himself be tugged away from the stainless-steel counter he’d been leaning on, and as his hand trailed the smooth, cold surface, the image of a curvy brunette balanced above him flashed through his head.
A tremor went through Devon, shocking him down to his bones. He tried to pinpoint what he was feeling, the clarity of every sense, the heavy beat of his blood through his veins. Everything seemed sharp and real, time speeding along at a breakneck pace, and that’s when it hit him.
He felt alive. For the first time in years. And he could date the start of the feeling to a specific moment—when Lilah Jane Tunkle tumbled off a countertop and landed in his arms.
Frankie propped his shoulders against the dirty alley wall, bricks hot from the late summer sun, and blew out a careful smoke ring.
He fucking well loved to smoke. The nonsmokers’ rise to power had relegated smoking to a sort of cultural taboo, a naughty, thrill-seeking behavior that cranked Frankie up just right. They’d gather in alleys and doorways, the smokers, like a cult of danger-loving desperadoes, shivering and sharing a light in the winter, sweating together in the summer. He’d met more interesting people while sharing a fag than on tour with his punk band.
And then there were the times like this. When no one else was feeling the itch just at the moment, and he ended up alone in some out-of-the-way corner, with a lungful of precious, fragrant nicotine and enough space to think.
At the moment, most of Frankie’s thoughts revolved around his new boss, that tosser, Devon Sparks. Sparks was, in Frankie’s unabashedly biased opinion, pretty much the