On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [89]
As for the continued success of his restaurants across the country, it had been years since Devon took credit for them, at least in his own mind. He’d hired great executive chefs to oversee each operation, then stepped back to reap the financial rewards. Sure, there were dishes he’d created on the menus at all of them, but they were all classic Sparks signature dishes. Nothing from the last five years.
The truth took Devon’s breath away.
He wasn’t a chef anymore. He was a fake.
More than the presence of his already demoralized temporary brigade stopped him from exploding. Even more than the innate reluctance to admit such a terrible weakness in front of the son whose good opinion Devon was just starting to earn, it was the look on Lilah’s face that gave him pause.
Straight pity would’ve enraged him; condemnation or derision would’ve given him something to fight against. But there was no fighting the calm acceptance in her eyes.
“Uh, Chef?”
The stammered call came from the front of the kitchen, up by the pass. Devon tore his eyes off Lilah, still reeling, and snarled, “What?”
It was Grant. Great. Lilah’s ex-boyfriend/high school sweetheart/best friend/whatever was not what he needed at this moment.
“Someone here to see you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Again? In the middle of dinner service?” Devon glanced from Grant to Frankie. “Does this happen when Adam’s running the show? People feel free to waltz in, visit the kitchen brigade like the monkey house at the zoo?”
The picture of insolence, Frankie curled his lip. “Nah, must be you, mate. Ever so popular, you are.”
Beside the pass, the door to the dining room swung open and Simon Woolf, Devon’s ex-publicist, pushed past Grant and into the kitchen.
“Dev!” Simon hurried over, pausing for a disconcerted moment when he perceived Lilah and Tucker next to Devon. He squinted at Lilah as if he knew he ought to be able to place her, but couldn’t.
A quick glance at Lilah’s set lips revealed she had none of the same difficulty, but Simon didn’t pause for introductions or reminiscences.
“There you are! Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Simon, I fired you.”
“That’s not important right now.” Simon waved a hand. “I know you didn’t mean it. And even if you did, you must be ready to change your mind.”
“I don’t change my mind. You know that.”
Except sometimes he did. Devon’s gaze went to Tucker attempting to steady himself on Lilah’s shoulder so he could stand on the stool. He glanced back to Simon to find the publicist’s shrewd eyes on the woman and child by the stove.
Devon stiffened. “You’re wasting your time, Si. Worse, you’re wasting mine.”
“Come on, Dev. I’ve got your best interests at heart. Don’t I always?” he said as he sauntered over to the pair at the stove. “So who’s your friend? Want to introduce me?”
Lilah gave the publicist a bland look. “I’ve already had the distinct pleasure of meeting you. I didn’t catch your name, but I did get most of your drink. Down my blouse.”
Carefully turning the heat to low and covering her pot of stewed weeds, she helped Tucker down from the stool and whispered something in his ear that had him bounding up the line to stand by Frankie at the pass. Devon watched him go, surprised to realize how many of the line cooks grinned at Tucker or high-fived him as he ran by.
Simon, with his usual studied poise, reflected none of the embarrassment he probably ought to feel from the reminder of that first encounter. He flashed his sparkling white smile, held out a hand and said, “Simon Woolf, PR to the stars. And you are?”
“Lilah Jane Tunkle. Charmed, I’m sure.”
She gave him her hand, regal as any born-and-bred Southern princess.
Simon held on to her fingers a beat too long to please Devon, who growled, “Drop it, Fido.