On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [97]
Other cooks began to trickle in, the line filling up with the familiar sounds of Milo and Violet’s bickering, Wes’s quick, steady knife chopping shallots, Billy’s quiet laugh.
Devon gave Frankie a genuine smile and moved off to confer with Quentin, something about braising techniques. Frankie tried not to let the smile make his head implode, but really, the entire conversation was a little much to take in all at once.
Love was a tricky bitch, in Frankie’s experience. She could make a man over into a better version of himself, like as seemed to have happened to Devon, the poor sod, but the opposite was true, as well. Love could turn you mean, selfish, blind . . . self-destructive.
Frankie put it out of his mind and determinedly went about setting up his station, but he was aware of it always in the back of his head, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, waiting for him to take it out and look at it again.
Waiting for him to do something about it.
“I declare, I don’t know when I’ve been so run off my feet,” Lilah said, wiping the back of her hand across her damp brow. Aunt Bertie’s voice floated through her head: Ladies don’t sweat, Lolly. Horses sweat. Men perspire. Ladies glow.
Lilah grinned. Aunt Bertie had obviously never spent an entire afternoon mixing, baking, and testing twenty different canapé recipes.
“We have a lot to do,” Devon agreed. There was a bounce in his step that made Lilah’s heart lift. “But it’s all coming together, Lilah Jane, I can feel it.”
“I like this one,” Tucker announced around a mouthful of cheddar date roll.
“Really?” Lilah looked down at him, surprised. The date roll was essentially a buttery, crumbly biscuit flavored with extra-sharp cheddar and wrapped around a sweet date—not the most kid-friendly combination, she would’ve thought. There was even a bit of cayenne in the dough to give it some gumption.
But Tucker nodded so vigorously that his brown hair flopped into his face. Lilah’s fingers itched to smooth it back, but they were covered in dough. He needed a haircut in the worst way.
“S’good.”
Devon reached for one of the date rolls and chewed it thoughtfully. “Who knew? It turns out that an excellent palate is genetic. Tucker’s right, these are perfection—only I think I want them as part of the cheese course, not the hors d’oeuvres.”
Lilah luxuriated in the thrill that coursed through her every time Devon tasted her food and loved it, wanted to share it with the guests at his big, fancy dinner. From the hectic red of Tucker’s cheeks and the brightness of his blue eyes, he was feeling it, too.
There was something exhilarating about basking in the reflected glory of Devon’s rediscovery of food.
“And I was thinking,” Devon went on, blithely oblivious to the palpitations he was causing his kitchen helpers, “we’re going to need a special menu listing all these amazing dishes we’re coming up with. I want it to look cool, maybe some kind of design around the border.”
Elaborately casual, he turned to Tucker and said, “Think that’s something you could help me with?”
Lilah caught the minute shift of Devon’s weight, the tightening at the corners of his eyes that betrayed nervousness. Maybe he wasn’t as oblivious as she thought.
Tucker, ever his father’s son, didn’t shriek with the joy Lilah could feel coursing through his wiry little frame. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I guess. I mean, I could try to draw something. It probably won’t be any good, though.” His hands opened and closed as if were already reaching for his charcoal pencils.
“Nonsense,” Lilah said firmly. “It will be wonderful! Why don’t you run get started? I think your backpack’s on the coffee table.”
Tucker jumped on that suggestion quick enough to betray his excitement at having Devon ask for his help. In less than five seconds, he was racing from the kitchen to grab his art supplies.
Ignoring the flour all over her apron and the dough on her hands—she was in the middle