On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [55]
There was something off about the way he said it. Lilah frowned over at Devon, who shrugged. “Heather’s not much of a cook,” he said coolly.
“What about cereal? What’s your favorite cereal, Tuck?” Lilah said.
Tucker made a face. “I hate cereal.”
“All kinds?” Lilah questioned, surprised. “Even those sugary ones full of marshmallows?”
Tucker looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he could rewind the conversation and keep his cereal woes to himself.
“I guess those are okay,” he said. “I get tired of them, though.”
“Shoot,” Lilah laughed. “My cousins used to love that stuff so much, my Aunt Bertie once wrapped up boxes of Lucky Charms and put them under the Christmas tree! I didn’t know any kids got tired of eating candy for breakfast.”
“I don’t mind it for breakfast, but I get sick of it when we have it for lunch and dinner, too.”
Now Devon was frowning, his hands slowing in their prep work.
“What other things does your mom cook for you?” he asked, his voice rough.
Tucker went back to kicking the table leg. “I don’t know. Stuff. Bagels. I like the ones with sesame seeds. And I’m not a baby, I know how to order delivery. We get Chinese a lot. The guy, when I call? Mr. Han? He knows what I want just from the sound of my voice. He can tell, like magic, or like he’s psychic or something.”
It was the most Tucker had said at one time since he arrived in the kitchen at Market, which Lilah wanted to be happy about. But what he was saying was breaking her heart.
She exchanged another glance with Devon, whose hands were white-knuckled around the handle of the skillet he was putting on the stovetop. He was reading between the lines, too, Lilah knew, putting together Heather Sorensen’s DWI with Tucker’s tale of subsisting on no-cook meals and delivery while she was no doubt too intoxicated to take care of dinner herself.
Lilah wanted to cry. She wanted to march down to Heather’s rehab center and read the woman the riot act. Most of all, Lilah wanted to demand how Devon could allow his son to stay in a situation like that—but it wasn’t her place, she reminded herself. She didn’t know the whole story.
And judging by Devon’s teeth-gritting silence, there was definitely part of the story she was missing.
Trying to smooth over the rough moment, Lilah said, “Well, now that you’re with your dad, the famous chef, you can bet you’re gonna get some yummy meals. Are you hungry?”
Tucker nodded, which seemed to release Devon from his paralysis, because he started cracking eggs into the cold pan. The eggs were much smaller than Lilah was used to back on the farm.
“Go ahead and sit down,” Devon told her. “I’ve got this.”
Lilah took a last look at the weirdly tiny eggs and joined Tucker in the breakfast nook. Within minutes, Devon was setting full plates in front of them.
Lilah and Tucker stared down at the food, then looked at each other. It looked like loose yellow curds with sour cream and some kind of orange relish.
“What is it?” Lilah dared to ask.
“Scrambled quail eggs with crème fraîche and salmon roe,” Devon said. Rather than sitting down with them, he tossed his dirty pans and utensils into the sink and started washing up.
“Aren’t you going to eat with us? I promise to help clean up after,” Lilah said.
“A good cook cleans his own station,” Devon said with a quick smile. “Anyway, I don’t eat breakfast. You two dig in, though.”
Tucker dipped a wary spoon into the eggs and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes bulged a little, and he appeared to swallow with difficulty. They both snuck guilty peeks at Devon over by the sink, who hadn’t noticed the byplay.
Tucker cut his eyes up at Lilah. There was a plea in them that let her know she didn’t need to taste it.
“Sounds delish,” she said brightly. “But maybe a little too rich for my tummy this early in the morning.”
Devon frowned and wiped his hands. “I could make you something else. I’ve been on a Japanese kick lately; I think my assistant stocked me up with some ume boshi plums and nori to experiment with.”
Tucker and