On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [98]
“You have the best ideas,” she told him. “The menus will be gorgeous, absolutely unique. They’ll be chock full of X-factor.”
“X-factor” was their code for the elusive element that had been missing from Devon’s cooking, which they were currently restoring through judicious applications of Lilah’s family recipes. Lilah would’ve been happy to keep calling it soul, but for whatever reason, that word made him roll his eyes in embarrassment every time, so . . . X-factor.
“He’s part of it,” Devon said. “A big part of why I’m hosting this dinner. There has to be some tangible evidence of Tucker at that meal. And not for nothing, but the kid can draw. Did you see those sketches he did after we got home from the Met?”
Lilah quietly adored the paternal pride in Devon’s voice. “I hope you’re prepared for the possibility that your fundraiser dinner menus will feature man-eating tigers.”
“The sick part is, I’m sure I’ll think they’re the most wonderful man-eating tigers in the history of illustrated feline violence,” Devon said, somewhat helplessly. “I guess I’m starting to get the hang of this fatherhood thing.”
“You are,” Lilah told him, heart in her throat. “You really, really are.”
“It’s bizarre.” Devon went back to chopping pecans. Lilah had noticed that whenever conversation skirted close to X-factor issues like his feelings for Tucker, Devon talked them through better if his hands were busy.
“What’s that?” she asked, keeping her voice light while making swift, sure passes of the rolling pin over the dough.
“I didn’t think it would be so easy to care of Tucker. I thought . . . being a good dad must be hard, like there was a trick to it I’d never be able to work out. But it’s not hard at all, really. Maybe it’s Tucker. He makes it easy.”
Lilah hummed in agreement, aware that they were very close now to one of the darkest, tenderest spots in Devon’s X-factor.
From the little bits of information she’d been able to piece together, she knew that somewhere along the way, something went badly wrong in Devon’s relationship with his father. Something that had caused lasting damage and colored Devon’s entire perception of his own potential as a parent.
It was about time for Operation Fatherhood, Phase Two to go into effect, she mused. If she could just get Phil Sparks to acknowledge Devon’s success in some way, to show his support . . .
Lilah pondered and rolled out pastry until her hands were numb. It was worth it, though, because by the time the tartlets came out of the oven, she had the inklings of a plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Frankie was right. It would be so much more satisfying to be able to slam down his phone instead of having to hunt and peck the “off ” button.
Devon debated compensating by chucking his cell across the office, but decided against it. He didn’t have time to go pick out a new one.
Still, Devon wished he’d stuck to his policy of avoiding his publicist’s calls.
They’d waited to post the ticket availability until the last minute; Simon had some idea about building anticipation by keeping people on the edge of their seats and not letting them secure their spots right away. A twinge of remorse for the way he’d jerked Simon around lately had Devon agreeing to the scheme.
See? Devon wanted to say. I can be a nice guy. I can be a team player.
Which was all fine and dandy except for the way Simon’s plan sent Devon’s already sky-high stress levels into full-on orbit.
Devon had waited for days to find out if he’d have any guests at all tonight. He’d all but resigned himself to the idea of serving a pack of comped reporters and food bloggers, and picking up the tab for the rest of the dinner himself.
Finding out not an hour before the doors were set to open that, according to Simon, the fundraiser had sold out within fifteen minutes of the ticket availability being posted on the Center for Arts Education’s website