herself, Lilah felt zero ambiguity.
Devon Sparks might be the sexiest man this side of the Mississippi, and he sure enough had a line of charm on him, but all that pretty packaging couldn’t hide the arrogance inside.
Lilah told herself it was a darn good thing he wasn’t interested in pursuing their attraction . . . thing . . .
whatever. She couldn’t afford to be seen as getting special treatment or attention from the man who was evidently going to be calling the shots around here. It was her first night doing this job, and everyone at the family meal table knew she was only there because she was friends with Grant. Lilah had to focus on proving herself, prove that she could make it on her own—she couldn’t be fretting over Devon Sparks, analyzing his every move for flirtatious intent.
Last night was an aberration, never to be repeated. He’d all but said so.
Now all she had to do was forget it ever happened.
CHAPTER TEN
Devon stood in the Market kitchen and surveyed his new domain. Like an annoying song on endless mental repeat, the shock announcer voice that ended every episode of One-Night Stand popped into his head.
One-Night Stand with Devon Sparks—the best chef in the world. Join us next week as Devon proves his prowess once again, taking a kitchen by storm to cook a menu he’s never seen, with tools he’s never touched, and a staff of chefs he’s never worked with. From four-star French cuisine to humble Indian takeout . . .
And Devon’s image would flash on the screen, cocky half-smile in place. And he’d say, “Anything they can do, I can do better. Watch and see.”
Spoken with utter confidence. Devon had learned how to do that; he could give every outer indication of total and complete self-assurance in any situation. The trouble was that when the cameras were switched off, he didn’t always feel it.
Which occasionally got him into trouble.
Today, for instance. Market’s doors would open to the public in exactly one hour, and Devon would be expected to competently and calmly execute dinner service. Which shouldn’t be a big deal, right? He’d done it, and done it well, at his own restaurant across town for years before he built an international reputation as a chef able to whip any kitchen, however dysfunctional, into shape in the space of an hour-long show.
Sure, the show was staged. But that was the deal with so-called “reality” TV. In general, it bore very little resemblance to reality. Not that One-Night Stand was scripted, exactly, but were the situations manipulated to get good pacing and action, the results the producers wanted? Devon knew they were.
Maybe that’s why this felt so different, Devon mused. There were no cameras here, no production crew to step in and call “Cut!” if things went sour. It was just Devon. On his own. And despite the fact that nothing that happened in the Market kitchen would be televised, Devon felt more exposed and alone than he had in years.
He buttoned his signature white chef’s jacket with the rolled short sleeves, imagining it as armor. His name was embroidered in royal blue silk on the breast, but there was no restaurant logo beneath it. In spite of the fact that it was his name, money, and star power that kept a small empire of restaurants afloat, he was no longer the acting executive chef at any of them. For the past four years he’d been a wanderer, a tramp, bumming from restaurant to diner to banquet hall for that damned show.
Market was just another stop on the railroad for Devon—this kitchen, as vibrant and warm as it felt when Adam showed him around this afternoon, would never be Devon’s home. It was Adam’s show, from opening credits to final shot, and as Devon watched the choreographed hustle the line cooks performed as they finished prep, it ticked him right off that yet again, he was leasing, not buying.
Confident that none of that showed in his expression or body language, Devon was startled out
Devon Sparks might be the sexiest man this side of the Mississippi, and he sure enough had a line of charm on him, but all that pretty packaging couldn’t hide the arrogance inside.
Lilah told herself it was a darn good thing he wasn’t interested in pursuing their attraction . . . thing . . .
whatever. She couldn’t afford to be seen as getting special treatment or attention from the man who was evidently going to be calling the shots around here. It was her first night doing this job, and everyone at the family meal table knew she was only there because she was friends with Grant. Lilah had to focus on proving herself, prove that she could make it on her own—she couldn’t be fretting over Devon Sparks, analyzing his every move for flirtatious intent.
Last night was an aberration, never to be repeated. He’d all but said so.
Now all she had to do was forget it ever happened.
CHAPTER TEN
Devon stood in the Market kitchen and surveyed his new domain. Like an annoying song on endless mental repeat, the shock announcer voice that ended every episode of One-Night Stand popped into his head.
One-Night Stand with Devon Sparks—the best chef in the world. Join us next week as Devon proves his prowess once again, taking a kitchen by storm to cook a menu he’s never seen, with tools he’s never touched, and a staff of chefs he’s never worked with. From four-star French cuisine to humble Indian takeout . . .
And Devon’s image would flash on the screen, cocky half-smile in place. And he’d say, “Anything they can do, I can do better. Watch and see.”
Spoken with utter confidence. Devon had learned how to do that; he could give every outer indication of total and complete self-assurance in any situation. The trouble was that when the cameras were switched off, he didn’t always feel it.
Which occasionally got him into trouble.
Today, for instance. Market’s doors would open to the public in exactly one hour, and Devon would be expected to competently and calmly execute dinner service. Which shouldn’t be a big deal, right? He’d done it, and done it well, at his own restaurant across town for years before he built an international reputation as a chef able to whip any kitchen, however dysfunctional, into shape in the space of an hour-long show.
Sure, the show was staged. But that was the deal with so-called “reality” TV. In general, it bore very little resemblance to reality. Not that One-Night Stand was scripted, exactly, but were the situations manipulated to get good pacing and action, the results the producers wanted? Devon knew they were.
Maybe that’s why this felt so different, Devon mused. There were no cameras here, no production crew to step in and call “Cut!” if things went sour. It was just Devon. On his own. And despite the fact that nothing that happened in the Market kitchen would be televised, Devon felt more exposed and alone than he had in years.
He buttoned his signature white chef’s jacket with the rolled short sleeves, imagining it as armor. His name was embroidered in royal blue silk on the breast, but there was no restaurant logo beneath it. In spite of the fact that it was his name, money, and star power that kept a small empire of restaurants afloat, he was no longer the acting executive chef at any of them. For the past four years he’d been a wanderer, a tramp, bumming from restaurant to diner to banquet hall for that damned show.
Market was just another stop on the railroad for Devon—this kitchen, as vibrant and warm as it felt when Adam showed him around this afternoon, would never be Devon’s home. It was Adam’s show, from opening credits to final shot, and as Devon watched the choreographed hustle the line cooks performed as they finished prep, it ticked him right off that yet again, he was leasing, not buying.
Confident that none of that showed in his expression or body language, Devon was startled out
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