On the Steamy Side by Louisa Edwards Read Free Book Online Page A

to himself with satisfaction. He didn’t know how he would’ve coped with the five seasons of the show if the shooting schedule hadn’t included these breaks. This one felt long overdue.

    The original plan had been to enjoy himself during his time off; charter a jet to St. Maarten, go out for tapas in San Sebastian, do a London pub crawl, or visit friends in Paris. The world should be his fresh, harvested-that-morning-off-the-coast-of-Prince-Edward-Island oyster, with a bonus surprise pearl inside.

    Instead, here he was at Market, inwardly marveling at his own heretofore-unsuspected mushy marshmallow center.

    Devon frowned, mentally prodding the sore spot.

    He couldn’t quite believe it, but he was actually sweating the fact that after last night’s amazing, no-holds-barred, extremely satisfying sex, his anonymous hookup flew the coop under cover of darkness, leaving Devon to wake up in an empty bed, in an empty apartment.

    Not that this was a new state of affairs, he reminded himself. He didn’t particularly enjoy sleeping with women when there was actual sleep involved. Not that he threw them out when he was done with them; even he wasn’t quite that big a shit. But if they hopped out of bed the moment the afterglow dimmed and started tossing their Dolce & Gabbana dresses back on, Devon didn’t exactly scramble to stop them.

    And nine times out of ten, that was the end of it. He didn’t do reruns, and he had an assistant whose whole job was essentially to block calls from Devon’s legion of one-time bedmates.

    He didn’t even know the woman’s name. When both parties were unwilling to divulge the most basic personal information, that was a pretty good sign it wasn’t a relationship that was going somewhere.

    Which was, of course, exactly what Devon had in mind when he seduced her into coming home with him.

    So why was he still thinking about curly dark hair and laughing green eyes?

    Shaking his head to rid it of useless, unproductive thoughts, Devon concentrated on the reason he was here at Market at ass o’clock in the morning.

    Adam Temple, whose fucking career Devon had fucking well launched by hiring him on at Appetite all those years ago, had called in a favor. And what did Devon do? Come running like a little lapdog.

    Adam wanted a real vacation—the kind a chef with a hit Manhattan restaurant almost never got. A quick jaunt down to Atlantic City? Maybe. Enough time to go someplace anyone with half a brain would actually want to visit? No way.

    Except Adam, being Adam, had found a way. Instead of leaving his precious baby in merely capable hands while he jaunted off to Europe to spend time with the woman of his dreams, Adam had hit on a sweet jackpot of an idea. He’d convinced Devon to step in as executive chef.

    For two whole weeks.

    Devon remembered how his chest had tightened up when Adam first asked him; how disappointed he’d been. Of course Adam wanted something from him. Eventually, everyone wanted something. The notion that any of his so-called friends weren’t simply biding their time for the perfect opportunity to suck Devon dry was laughable. It was always a bad idea to forget.

    Devon glared around the empty dining room. So no one had bothered to roll out the red carpet for his first day at Market. Fine. But was it too much to ask that there at least be a peon or two polishing glassware and setting tables? Granted, Devon hated waiters of every size and stripe, but they had their occasional uses. For instance, greeting a visiting chef during off hours and telling him where the hell everybody was.

    Instead of the busy, bustling front of house Devon had expected, however, he got an abandoned dining room, tumbleweeds all but blowing between the tables.

    Between the emptiness of his apartment this morning and now this, it was like he was cursed. If Paolo hadn’t turned up right on time to drive Devon across town, he would’ve started to wonder if something apocalyptic had