Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [106]
It was just his damn luck.
The restaurant was fully booked, standing room only at the bar, and Grant had signaled him ecstatically earlier to let him know that the three tables they reserved for walk-ins each had an hour-and-a-half-long wait.
Bountiful Table, another foodie magazine, had come out with yet another article about Miranda and the damn dare. Diners were lined up, presumably hoping to catch a glimpse of a pint-sized redhead screaming invective at Market’s chef. Adam hoped they’d go away disappointed on that score, but thrilled with the service and food at Market.
Actually, part of him hoped they’d go away, period. Not that he’d ever admit that to Grant, who looked happier than Adam had ever seen him. But then, the tension in the dining room wasn’t thick enough to carve like an ice sculpture.
The atmosphere in the kitchen, meanwhile, was such that Adam’s frantic cussing went practically unnoticed. Miranda hadn’t called him after she left his place that morning, but he knew from Frankie that Jess was back with her and apparently there to stay, so everything should’ve been hunky-dory.
Except it so obviously wasn’t. When Miranda arrived for prep, she quietly asked to be put on garde-manger with Milo rather than up at the pass. Adam realized that expediting wasn’t for everyone, but he’d thought she enjoyed working with him before. He’d been hoping that the stellar sex and hard-core closeness they’d shared might outweigh the small spat, but it didn’t take Dr. Phil to figure out that she was avoiding him. Which sucked donkey nuts.
And then there was Frankie, who seemed to be going out of his way to be, well, Frankie, talking loudly and throwing himself around the kitchen like he was hyped up on crack. He didn’t directly confront Miranda, oh no, but the performance was definitely for her benefit. Frankie’s oh-so-subtle fuck you in the face of her disapproval. Luckily Jess hadn’t come sniffing around the kitchen yet; Grant and the crowds of customers out front were keeping him hopping. Adam was determined not to borrow trouble, so he wasn’t imagining what might happen if all three of the key players in last night’s drama convened in one room.
One packed, bustling room where Adam was currently striving to pull his crew out of the weeds through sheer force of will.
“Milo! You and Miranda need to hustle up with those mixed greens, the table’s waiting on you.”
“Yes, Chef!”
Miranda just looked at him. Or, more accurately, looked through him. Christ.
He turned to Quentin, who’d been pressed into service on the sauté station. “Q, man, I’ve gotta have those shrimp skewers. It looks like you’re getting low on rosemary branches—Billy, check the basement pantry, see if we’ve got more.”
“You got it, Chef!” “Yes, Chef!”
“Whoo, you’ve got these lads trained a treat,” Frankie cackled by the grill, his hands a red-hot blur as he flipped and cross-hatched steaks in a complicated pattern.
Adam wanted to rip his hair out. “Frankie! Quit bullshitting and buckle down. I mean it, we’re in the weeds.”
He didn’t add, “And it’s all on you,” but he was sure thinking it. From the way Frankie steadied his stance and hunched a bit over the grill, he knew it, too. The crew took their cues from Frankie, always had. His personality tended to overwhelm the kitchen, which could be a great thing, when he was on. When he was being a shit? The whole kitchen went to shit.
“What should I do, Chef?”
The unfamiliar voice had him spinning around in a near-panic. He felt like he was balancing a full tray of dirty plates and glasses on the top of his head. One single saucer perched up there with the rest would be enough to bring the whole thing crashing down.
His spin brought him face-to-face with that metaphorical saucer.
Oh, yeah. As if tonight weren’t stressful enough, the Market kitchen crew had a brand-new boy to contend with.
Wes Murphy had taken the train down from the Academy of Culinary Arts that morning. He’d arrived at Market wearing fresh, crisp kitchen whites and a cocky