On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [51]
Tucker didn’t answer in words; instead, he shuffled forward and perched on the other end of the couch from Devon. Who tried not to move too much or too quickly, as if Tucker were a deer at a watering hole, easily startled into bounding away.
It was only because Devon was so attuned to his son’s every movement and expression that he noticed the flicker of interest when the screen scrolled past the Cooking Channel. Focusing back on the television, Devon winced. It was his show.
He paused in his channel surfing and glanced over at Tucker, who had settled deeper into the sofa cushions and appeared rapt.
“Do you really want to watch this?” Devon asked, incredulous.
Tucker didn’t glance away from the opening credits. “Yeah, I like it.”
Devon ground his molars and forced himself to look back at the screen. He despised watching himself. His idea of hell was to be strapped into a chair with his eyes taped open, à la Clockwork Orange, with One-Night Stand playing on an endless, soul-crushing loop.
They watched in silence for several minutes. Devon remembered this episode. It was from a few seasons back. His challenge had been to take charge of the kitchen at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel during a wedding reception. Two hundred and fifty drunken guests in the Starlight Roof ballroom, half wanting steak tournedos, half wanting grilled salmon, all demanding perfection. They’d gotten a great promo for it, as Devon recalled, using teasers playing up the bride going toe-to-toe with Devon over the prosciutto and melon canapés.
Four million viewers had tuned in to see a tiny woman in a huge white confection of a dress begin her married life by exchanging curses with Devon Sparks. The actual screaming argument had been real; Bridezilla had stamped her little foot and tried to ram through the plebian, unimaginative ham-wrapped melon balls, but she’d thanked Devon later when the smoked duck breast and cherry chutney on chèvre wafers he sent up instead were a huge hit.
What the cameras didn’t catch was the even uglier bout of tears and recriminations near the end of the reception, when the bride, after too many champagne toasts, had cornered Devon in the kitchen and attempted to seduce him. It was astonishing how many of his shoots for the show ended that way. That, plus the evidence of his own childhood observations, was almost enough to make Devon think that all women were turned on by being publicly berated.
All women except for Lilah, he amended with a private smile. His new nanny was more turned on by promises of obedience and gifts of plain pajamas than on-air shouting matches. Not enough to succumb on the very first night of their new arrangement—but he admitted to himself he would’ve been a little surprised if she had.
Devon didn’t know when he’d ever found himself quite so fascinated by a woman. A glance at Tucker reminded him of the last time, and he sobered. Heather Sorensen was Devon’s personal cautionary tale—How Not to Get Your Heart Butterflied and Roasted. Heather had taught him the dangers of getting in deep without really knowing each other.
Thinking of the soft slide of Lilah’s mouth under his, the clean, lemon-thyme scent of her skin, Devon decided that the situation with Lilah was entirely different. He already knew they were compatible in bed. Well, in the shower. He grinned to himself.
She worked for him, sure, but it was only temporary. In a month, she’d be out of his life and things could go back to normal.
He wondered why the prospect turned his smile upside down.
“Take your troubles to bed with you and when you wake up they’ll seem lighter.” Lilah could hear Aunt Bertie singsonging it as clearly as if she were perched on the slick cream damask bedspread.
The phrase had always seemed like cold comfort at night when Lilah was fretting too hard over some teenage drama to get to sleep, but invariably the morning brought renewed proof that Aunt Bertie was one wise lady. This morning