On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [4]
Simon gaped after him for a moment, then shrugged and took another drink. Devon sniggered into his glass of straight Kentucky bourbon—yeah, it was that kind of night—and Simon gave him a cross look. “What? It tastes better than it sounds.”
“It would have to,” Devon said. “Come on, spill. What’s so important you braved the perils of the Lower East Side to come and meet me? I know you’re not here for Adam’s going-away party.”
If there were anyone Devon considered a friend, it was his former executive chef, Adam Temple. The other reason Devon had chosen Chapel for his post-shoot decompression was that Adam and his one true love were about to leave the country for an extended vacation. Tonight was Adam’s big sendoff. There was an outside chance it would be amusing.
Simon shook his head. “Right, my news. Are you ready?”
Devon raised a sardonic brow. “This better be the fabulous news you think it is, Si.”
In the past, they hadn’t always been in complete agreement on what constituted a wonderful career move for Devon. But then, Simon’s single-minded intensity of purpose was his biggest recommendation as a PR guy, so Devon supposed he shouldn’t complain.
Looking a little apprehensive—and why wouldn’t he? Devon had more than earned his reputation for intolerance of incompetence both in and out of the kitchen—Simon cleared his throat. “Well. We should’ve asked that rude bartender if he stocks champagne behind the bar. Although, really, what are the odds? We’ll have to celebrate without the champers. You’ll love this! Here, take a look.” With a flourish, he produced a copy of Restaurant USA, a magazine that reported on news and trends in the food industry.
Devon took it and flipped idly through the first few pages. “What? Looks like the standard stats and stories to me. Fewer Families Dining Out. Spain is the New France. What do I care about that?”
Simon grabbed the magazine back and turned to a dog-eared page Devon hadn’t noticed.
“There,” he said, pointing a triumphant finger at the headline.
Devon squinted at the page and felt his blood congeal to the consistency and temperature of gelato.
Cooking Channel Superstar Named #1 Chain Restaurant Operator.
“No.”
Was that weak bleat Devon’s voice?
“You bet,” Simon beamed. “The Sparks brand beat out every fast-food chain in the country. They graded on profitability and name recognition, and you won!”
“Oh, God, there’s art with it,” Devon moaned, snatching the magazine out of Simon’s hand. There beside the article was one of Devon’s publicity stills. Devon stared at his intense blue eyes, his artfully tousled dark brown hair, the seductive expression on the face that had landed him at #23 on that big list of Top Fifty Hottest Men.
Then his gaze drifted to the right and fell on the maniacally grinning white-painted face of the beloved red-haired, yellow-jumpsuit-clad icon.
“You don’t look happy, Dev.”
Was that a hint of nerves Devon detected in his publicist’s voice?
It sure as shit better be.
“Not happy? I’m sharing the limelight with a fucking clown. I beat out the king, the colonel, and the little girl with the red braids. Wait till everyone I know sees this. They’re going to laugh their asses off! Simon. Christ. You’re supposed to be the best publicist in the city—that’s why I hired you. How could you let this happen?”
“This is a good thing,” Simon, ever the Spin Master, protested. He snatched the magazine back and snapped it shut, as if by covering up the evidence he’d dissipate the head of steam Devon was building up. “When people visit New York, or Miami, or Vegas, they want to eat at a Devon Sparks restaurant! You’re the go-to guy. This survey proves your effectiveness as a brand.”
“What if I don’t want to be a goddamn brand?” Devon shouted, uncaring of the heads that turned or the voices that began whispering.
Shouting felt good. He hadn’t let loose in a while.