On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [64]
What the fuck just happened?
Devon blinked, shaking his head to clear it, and hissed when the motion made pain flare all up through his cheek.
Why did he needle her like that? And that line about never making an uncalculated move. Jesus. Sometimes things flew out of his mouth like verbal projectile vomit, his brain limping along half a pace behind going, “Wait, no! Aw, crap.”
The truth was, he hated that her opinion mattered to him. He’d made an entire career out of never caring for anyone’s opinion but his own—and one single day after meeting her, Devon had looked into her earnest green eyes and realized his essential self-worth was somehow tied to Lilah Jane Tunkle’s assessment.
Fuck that, he’d thought with a rush of dread-fueled fury. He was bound to disappoint her eventually. And suddenly, he wanted it over with, wanted her to stop looking at him like he might be someone she could care about, because it was all going to turn to shit anyway.
So he’d told her the ugly truth. He didn’t deserve to call himself Tucker’s father. He never had.
And when that wasn’t enough to set Lilah straight, he’d deliberately provoked her.
Devon touched his tongue gingerly to the tender spot on his lip and tasted copper.
“Holy celebrity death match, Batman, what happened to you?”
The low, twangy drawl came from the alley entrance. Devon squinted against the light to see Christian Colby, the new bartender, walking toward him.
“What is this, Grand Central Station?” Devon asked irritably. “Doesn’t anyone use the front entrance anymore?”
Christian’s mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “I thought I’d avoid the front of the house as long as possible, thanks. And way to sidestep the issue, boss! Is it a secret who popped you one, or are we using the old ‘I tripped over a vegetable crate and smacked my face on a drainpipe’ defense?”
“Doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say I had it coming. You ready to work tonight? I need you at your fine dining best. Remember, we’re not at your crappy little dive bar. This is a real restaurant.”
Christian didn’t bridle at Devon’s characterization of Chapel as a dive bar. That was one of the reasons the two men got along so well: Devon dished it, and Christian took it. With a minimum of fuss.
Besides, there was no arguing the point—Chapel was a total dive. That just so happened to be what made it great. Chapel was one of the few places Devon could go and still feel like himself.
“I hope I’ll be able to tell the difference,” Christian responded mildly. “As I recall, there’s less stage diving in a restaurant, correct?”
“Very little,” Devon agreed, amused. “Come on. Man up. It’s only for a few weeks.”
“Only you would call me in as a favor and then tell me to ‘man up.’ ” Chris shook his head. “I had to promise Noelle double tips for the month if she’d open Chapel every night and work the bar until I can get there after dinner service.”
“And I appreciate it.”
Christian still looked conflicted. Much as he sucked at playing counselor, Devon put a hand on his arm and said, “Hey, I don’t know what you did to piss Grant Holloway off, and I don’t care. Work it out. Or don’t. I’m pretty sure you could take him in a fight.”
Christian laughed, but there were lines of tension around his eyes when he glanced at the back door to the restaurant.
Devon knew exactly how he felt. Behind that door were a variety of people who were none too keen on Devon right about now: one resentful sous chef, one panicking maitre d’, one kid unlucky enough to have been born to a shit heel like Devon, and one spitting-mad Southern belle with a hell of a right hook.
Man up, Devon repeated silently. Still tasting blood at the corner of his mouth, he strode up the stairs and into the kitchen, his reluctant bartender trailing behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The first thing Devon zeroed in on when he pushed open the door was his kid standing on a stepladder beside Frankie, hanging over the sous chef’s shoulder to peer with evident fascination at several piles of fresh herbs.
While Devon watched, Frankie used the