elbows and leaning, taking her sweet time, as casual about whatever she was cooking as Devon was about choosing a tie.
It was disconcerting; nothing about cooking had ever been casual for Devon.
“What the hell are you doing with all that oil?”
She looked down as if surprised to see her hand circling the slotted spoon through the frothing, spitting oil. “Cooking lunch,” she replied with a touch of uncertainty. “What’s it look like?”
“It looks like you’re performing some sort of science experiment,” Devon told her bluntly. “What are you frying? It smells . . . odd.”
“I found some chicken livers way at the back of that fridge over there; didn’t look like anyone was gonna use ’em for any fancy dish anytime soon, so I appropriated them.”
“Good God,” Devon said, revolted, as she began lifting golden brown nuggets of fried liver from the oil and setting them on folded paper towels to drain. “You’re not actually planning to serve that to anyone.”
“Hey, now,” she bristled. “This is my Aunt Bertie’s recipe. It won first prize at the county fair four years running.”
“I don’t care if it won an Emmy, it looks sickening and it smells worse.” Devon had nothing against organ meats, in general; they’d been en vogue among New York chefs for years now. But these humble balls of artery-clogging noxiousness were a far cry from sautéed sweetbreads with butter and sage, or seared foie gras with quince jelly. There was something so . . .
peasant about chicken liver. It seemed trashy, in the sense of being destined for the garbage bin. Or possibly a dog biscuit.
“Don’t yuck my yum,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s rude. Anyway, you don’t have to eat it. Grant asked me to fix up a quick lunch while he talked to his boss, so that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t easy to find anything to make in that larder, either, let me tell you.”
“I find that supremely difficult to believe.” Market had one of the most varied, interesting menus in the city—Adam stocked his pantry and walk-in with the freshest, most beautiful produce the local farmers’
markets had to offer, and now that it was high summer, the markets were offering quite a bit. All simple stuff that any monkey could cook.
Devon hesitated. “Grant,” he said. “That wouldn’t be Grant Holloway, would it?”
“That’s right.” Pique had pinched her rosebud mouth tight. “I’m staying with him.” Holy fucking shit. Devon had spent the hottest night in recent memory with Grant Holloway’s . . . what, girlfriend? Why else would she be staying with him?
Okay, they could be just friends . . . but as Devon looked at the woman standing beside him, the inherent, unconscious sensuality of her, he knew, in his gut—no red-blooded, heterosexual man would ever be able to be “just friends” with her.
If she wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, Devon thought grimly, it wasn’t because Grant didn’t want her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Devon Sparks!”
Devon winced and shot Grant’s maybe-girlfriend a swift sidelong glance, but her eyes were wide with something that looked a lot closer to panic than recognition of his famous name.
Clutching his elbow, she only had time for a quick whispered, “Please don’t mention anything about last night!” before Adam was upon them, his entire crew clomping up the stairs like a herd of rhinos behind him.
Being relegated to dirty secret status was a novel experience for Devon. He couldn’t say he liked it much, especially since it added fuel to his suspicions about a possible romantic entanglement between the woman at his side and Grant.
Although why Devon should care was a whole other story.
“Temple,” he said, acknowledging his friend, who was currently doing a great impression of an overgrown Labrador.
Adam bounced over, flush with happiness, excitement radiating from every pore. Normal, mundane day-to-day life tended to get
It was disconcerting; nothing about cooking had ever been casual for Devon.
“What the hell are you doing with all that oil?”
She looked down as if surprised to see her hand circling the slotted spoon through the frothing, spitting oil. “Cooking lunch,” she replied with a touch of uncertainty. “What’s it look like?”
“It looks like you’re performing some sort of science experiment,” Devon told her bluntly. “What are you frying? It smells . . . odd.”
“I found some chicken livers way at the back of that fridge over there; didn’t look like anyone was gonna use ’em for any fancy dish anytime soon, so I appropriated them.”
“Good God,” Devon said, revolted, as she began lifting golden brown nuggets of fried liver from the oil and setting them on folded paper towels to drain. “You’re not actually planning to serve that to anyone.”
“Hey, now,” she bristled. “This is my Aunt Bertie’s recipe. It won first prize at the county fair four years running.”
“I don’t care if it won an Emmy, it looks sickening and it smells worse.” Devon had nothing against organ meats, in general; they’d been en vogue among New York chefs for years now. But these humble balls of artery-clogging noxiousness were a far cry from sautéed sweetbreads with butter and sage, or seared foie gras with quince jelly. There was something so . . .
peasant about chicken liver. It seemed trashy, in the sense of being destined for the garbage bin. Or possibly a dog biscuit.
“Don’t yuck my yum,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s rude. Anyway, you don’t have to eat it. Grant asked me to fix up a quick lunch while he talked to his boss, so that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t easy to find anything to make in that larder, either, let me tell you.”
“I find that supremely difficult to believe.” Market had one of the most varied, interesting menus in the city—Adam stocked his pantry and walk-in with the freshest, most beautiful produce the local farmers’
markets had to offer, and now that it was high summer, the markets were offering quite a bit. All simple stuff that any monkey could cook.
Devon hesitated. “Grant,” he said. “That wouldn’t be Grant Holloway, would it?”
“That’s right.” Pique had pinched her rosebud mouth tight. “I’m staying with him.” Holy fucking shit. Devon had spent the hottest night in recent memory with Grant Holloway’s . . . what, girlfriend? Why else would she be staying with him?
Okay, they could be just friends . . . but as Devon looked at the woman standing beside him, the inherent, unconscious sensuality of her, he knew, in his gut—no red-blooded, heterosexual man would ever be able to be “just friends” with her.
If she wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, Devon thought grimly, it wasn’t because Grant didn’t want her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Devon Sparks!”
Devon winced and shot Grant’s maybe-girlfriend a swift sidelong glance, but her eyes were wide with something that looked a lot closer to panic than recognition of his famous name.
Clutching his elbow, she only had time for a quick whispered, “Please don’t mention anything about last night!” before Adam was upon them, his entire crew clomping up the stairs like a herd of rhinos behind him.
Being relegated to dirty secret status was a novel experience for Devon. He couldn’t say he liked it much, especially since it added fuel to his suspicions about a possible romantic entanglement between the woman at his side and Grant.
Although why Devon should care was a whole other story.
“Temple,” he said, acknowledging his friend, who was currently doing a great impression of an overgrown Labrador.
Adam bounced over, flush with happiness, excitement radiating from every pore. Normal, mundane day-to-day life tended to get
Similar Books
