butter—the last one—from a tray next to the bread oven, then tipped the stainless steel mixing bowl next to it to show me it was empty.
“I’ll take care of it.” I didn’t have time to “take care of it,” though. One of my tables needed a refill. I can handle this. I closed my eyes and thought of Joshua’s funeral.
Whenever I was about to blow something out of proportion, I thought of that day. Joshua’s accident had been the most defining moment of my life. Thinking of him lying there helped me realize that whatever was upsetting me wasn’t important in the grander scheme. Remembering how I’d survived the loss of the boy I’d loved for two years helped me stay strong.
The Butter Crisis paled in comparison.
Perspective in place, I walked to the back of the kitchen, stopping short for the dishwasher hurrying by with a stack of platters. Sidestepping him, I turned and nearly ran into the guy at the fryer dropping a batch of soft-shell crabs into a basket.
I will survive this night if it kills me.
And it might.
A broad, well-dressed chest rounded a wall without the helpful call of “Corner!” they’d taught me on my first day. Had I not been seeing red, I might have recognized the blur for what it was—a tie. I didn’t put “tie” and “Devlin” together until after I’d growled, “Excuse me!”
I craned my head, locking eyes with him. His dark eyebrows shot to his hairline, then lowered over his nose.
“Yes. Excuse you.” This might’ve been the first time he’d spoken to me. I swallowed thickly, displaced attraction flooding my chest.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I—butter.” I stepped past him, wincing as I ducked into the walk-in refrigerator. Hopefully the temperature in here would cool my flaming face.
I butter? Really? That’s what I’d replied?
I scanned the plastic bins on the shelves. Some were filled with soaking potatoes soon to be fries, others held fillets of fish on ice, and still others, cut vegetables. As I searched, I muttered “Diet Coke” to myself. That’s why I’d come in the kitchen to begin with. To put in the order and take the woman at table 29 a refill. How many minutes had I been back here now? “Shoot.”
I started to give up and rush from the fridge, but stopped short when Devlin entered, the door whispering shut behind him. The space was large enough for two people, three or four actually, but him in that cool space made it shrink.
The several feet separating us crackled with awareness, and my breaths went shallow again. I hadn’t been aware of a man in four years. Part of my self-imposed penance for leading Joshua astray, for leading the golden boy down the road of ruin, had been to avoid men altogether.
Devlin came deeper into the cooler and I backed up, my ass hitting the shelf behind me. He penetrated my personal space, leaning over me without touching me, his heat blanketing my side. He pulled down a stainless steel bowl wrapped with cellophane, his eyes on mine as he handed it over. I took it, allowing a brief inventory of my helper. Charcoal suit, red patterned tie, shiny shoes. Every inch of him smacked of warmth and power and…
Danger.
My earlier thoughts of Joshua scattered in the wake of Devlin’s presence like a flock of birds spooked by a sound. Joshua’s smile, abandoned for the full set of Devlin’s unsmiling lips. Joshua’s jovial laugh for Devlin’s silence. Joshua’s cold, still body, the color of clay, for Devlin’s sun-kissed skin and thick black lashes.
“What table?” he asked.
My forehead pulled in confusion.
His nostrils flared, his beautiful face hardening like stone. “Diet Coke. What table?”
Oh. Right. “Twenty-nine.”
He left while I remained, metal bowl filled with whipped butter in my hand, my jaw slack. Maybe tomorrow would be better. I yanked the door open and headed into the bustle of the kitchen, nearly plowing into one of the servers yelling for butter.
Then again, maybe not.
Chapter Two
Devlin
The Wilson residence stood on a tree-lined portion of Linney Avenue, the only blue house on the right side. When I’d lived here as a delinquent teen, I mowed the yard and trimmed the shrubs and restacked the bricks around the lush Japanese maple out front—bricks that now lay in a haphazard stack around the neglected tree.
Pulling my leather coat tighter to keep from being pelted by the light rain that would soon turn into snow, I sidestepped several waterlogged newspapers scattered across the drive.
The hedges I’d once perfectly