On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [71]
“Right, then. Lead the way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There were times in a man’s life when he wanted a beer: kicking back, relaxing after a hard day, maybe with the game on in the background. And there were other times when he could enjoy a glass of wine over a fine meal, like the perfect pairing of Pinot noir with a seared duck breast. There were even times when a cocktail could be fun, and in Devon’s experience, no one on earth mixed up a meaner drink than Christian Colby.
Despite Chris’s presence behind the bar, however, Devon wasn’t drinking cocktails. He wasn’t having wine or beer, either. No. After the day he’d had?
Bourbon on the rocks. Nothing else would do.
Devon swirled the melting ice cubes in his third glass—or was it his fourth?—and lost himself in the rich, golden-brown color of the smoky-sweet liquid.
“Isn’t that your girl?” Christian, idling at Devon’s end of the bar with a ceaselessly wiping cloth and a sympathetic expression, nodded toward a new arrival.
Squinting through the gloom—and seriously, didn’t off-duty cops come in here? Why they didn’t write the place up for breaking the smoking laws, Devon would never understand—Devon could barely make out the curvy form of his own personal Mary Poppins framed hesitantly in the doorway.
“Lilah Jane,” he said, feeling instantly better. She must be magic, he mused. Maybe it was a nanny thing. In books, they always seemed to have special powers of care and comfort. He watched her blearily for a moment, feeling comforted and cared for. Even the sartorial atrocity she called a shirt, overlarge and patterned with unlovely flowers, couldn’t detract from the glow she brought to the dingy bar.
But then, just as he was about to stagger to his feet and wave her over, her face lit up and she began weaving her way to a table on the other side of the room.
Hooking one heel over the bottom rung of the barstool, Devon hoisted himself up high enough to confirm his suspicions. Yep, there she was, chattering away with Grant Holloway.
Devon settled on the stool and turned his back on them. “Hit me again, Chris.”
“Come on, man, I think you’ve had enough.”
Devon sneered. “I don’t pay you to think.”
“You don’t pay me at all,” Christian reminded him amiably. “Your accumulated tab would bankrupt Bloomberg.”
Devon didn’t dignify that with a response beyond tapping his empty glass imperiously on the bar. Christian sighed but poured another round, so Devon decided to forgive him. For the moment.
He couldn’t really afford to alienate anyone else right now.
After the way both services today had gone, Devon was half-surprised he hadn’t been lynched by an angry mob of drunken chefs yet. Maybe they were too tired from pulling a double shift. He’d have to watch out for tomorrow when they were rested up.
It was bad. Beyond bad, well into the realm of farce. If it were happening to someone else, it would’ve been funny.
Devon Sparks, self-proclaimed world’s greatest chef and proprietor of five huge Michelin-starred restaurants across the country, couldn’t manage to get cleanly through a single weekend of service at a 110-cover restaurant.
He’d lost the old magic, he thought mournfully. Hmm, maybe Lilah would rub off on him.
Hoo, down, boy, Devon thought, shifting a little on the stool. The image that danced gleefully into his brain was too delicious to dismiss entirely, even if fulfilling it was starting to look unlikely in the extreme.
Maybe he’d check on Lilah one more time. Righteous, somewhat inebriated, indignation coursed through him. She was supposed to be here meeting Devon, her boss! Not some high school sweetheart who was still panting after her.
Devon teetered a bit and elected not to try climbing his stool again. Instead, he planted both feet on the solid bar floor and stretched to see over the heads of the aggravating people who were in his way.
He got a