On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [61]
Jess gave him a stern look. It was ridiculously adorable on his gorgeous young face, all narrowed blue eyes, sweet mouth, and floppy auburn hair.
“That depends. On what number cigarette this is for you.”
Frankie groaned. “It’s not gone ten in the morning. Can’t the mothering wait till I’ve at least had a nice cuppa?”
“No. You promised you’d cut back. So how many are you up to?”
“Three,” Frankie confessed grudgingly. “That’s not so bad, is it?”
“At ten o’clock?” Jess looked highly skeptical.
“Fine, don’t come,” Frankie said. “Best go check in with Grant, anyroad. See if anything wants doing.”
Unworthy of him, perhaps, but Jess was after him all the time about the smoking. Maybe dealing with a stroppy Grant would remind him that there were worse fates to befall a young server than standing by the loading dock watching a sous chef smoke a fag.
“Fine,” Jess echoed, sticking out his tongue. “Hey, is Wes here? I want to say hi before I find Grant.”
Frankie couldn’t help the torrent of jealousy that sluiced through his veins at the mention of the younger, closer-to-Jess’s-age chef, but he could damn well keep it from showing on his face.
“Don’t know, Bit, may as well see. I’m off to worship the nicotine goddess.”
Without waiting to see if Jess found his new best friend, Frankie headed for the great outdoors. Devon was still loitering in the alley, Frankie was surprised to see, though the duck deliveryman had long since scarpered.
“All right, there, boss?” he asked, feeling his way.
The man startled out of a deep reverie, seeming to come back to himself from far away. “Oh! Yes. Fine. I’m fine.”
“You look it.”
“Shut your cake-hole.”
“Erudite. Is that the sort of talk that goes over well at your big la-di-dah parties and red carpet soirées?”
“If I didn’t need you on the line today, you piece of shit, I’d . . .”
“What? Toss a few swear words at me? Get in line, Sonny Jim, you wouldn’t be the first nor the last nor the best.”
Without meaning to, Frankie had moved into Devon’s personal space so they were standing toe-to-toe, breathing hard, neither one wanting to back down.
Devon eyed him with loathing, but when his shoulders slumped minutely, Frankie took it as his signal to relax against the brick wall and light up. Confrontation over. Winner? Unclear.
“Heard about Christian Colby,” Frankie offered, pulling in a drag of sweet, dark smoke.
“And I suppose you want to give me shit about it,” Devon said, tensing. “If you think you can do so much better with the hiring, you should’ve told Adam to leave you in charge.”
“No shit here, mate,” Frankie denied, alarmed. “Chris is the best. Adam’s been trying to get him back into a restaurant for years, but he’d never leave Chapel. How’d you convince him?”
“Called in a favor,” Devon said. “After the disaster that was yesterday’s service, I figured we’d need every advantage we could muster going into tonight.”
“So you brought in a ringer. I like it,” Frankie said, flicking ash into a puddle at his feet.
“This is the way we came in last night,” piped a voice from the entrance to the alleyway, near the street.
Frankie looked up to find Devon’s attention riveted on the woman and child outlined against the brightening daylight at the alley’s end.
Squinting, he could just make out a cloud of curly dark hair on the woman, who was clutching the hand of a smallish boy. Bugger, must be Nanny Lilah with Devon’s son.
“Are you sure?” came the sweet voice of Grant’s childhood friend. “Hello?” she called. “Is this the back entrance to Market?”
A swift glance at Devon confirmed that the man was still paralyzed from the hair down, so Frankie called back, “It is! Welcome back, Lolly!”
“Don’t call me that!” she yelled, but she was laughing and pulling the boy by the hand toward them. “I’ve told you and told you, Frankie, I . . .” Lilah broke off when she realized Devon was standing there, staring at them.
An awkward silence fell. Frankie broke it by stubbing out his cigarette and folding himself down to the kid’s level.