Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [107]
Adam had a new extern. God help them both.
Adam had set him to work dicing vegetables and mixing up salad dressing, the kitchen equivalent of swabbing the decks. Wes handled a knife like a pro, real grace and economy of movement turning the simple chore into a showpiece.
Noticing Adam watching, Wes had shot him that same smug smile. Adam had sighed and sent him off to help Violet roll out pastry dough for tonight’s special dessert, rustic peach tartlets.
Wes had done that perfectly, too, his touch with the rolling pin deft and light, ensuring maximum flakiness of the crust.
Adam had left him to it. He’d tried to keep an eye on the kid, but service lurched out of control so damn quick, he’d lost track of Wes.
Now here he was, obviously bored and more than a little judgmental of the frenzied state of the kitchen, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. Adam stared at him for a moment, trying to pinpoint what it was about the new guy that made Adam want to banish him down to the basement to take inventory of the supplies in the employee john.
Wes was taller than Adam, but years of friendship with Frankie the Giraffe had inured Adam to the sensation of looking up to catch another man’s expression. And anyway, Wes wasn’t quite as tall as Frankie, but he was broader. Not as wide through the shoulders as Adam, but clearly strong enough to lift heavy pots, which was all Adam cared about.
He had the tanned, hard look of a guy who spent a lot of time at high temperatures, standing over a hot stove. He had a lot of light brown hair falling over his forehead and a pair of thick, straight eyebrows that gave him a broody look. His sideburns were longish, kinda retro. He had those funny eyes that turned different colors in different lights, green to gold to brown and back again.
Adam thought Wes probably had the kind of looks that women swooned over; it reminded him of Devon’s polished handsomeness, although not so exaggerated. Devon Sparks was cover-model good-looking. With Wes, it was more his expression, the way he carried himself. Women tended to go for that cocky-as-hell, soulful look; Adam had worked that angle himself often enough when he was younger.
None of this endeared Wes Murphy to Adam. The new guy had sneered at Milo, condescended to Violet, and now he stood in front of Adam, hands on hips and an impatient curl to his mouth. From the vibe of him, Adam could tell Wes was hoping to be ordered up to the pass to work the hot plate with Adam. Get some expediting experience.
This was supposed to be an educational stint for Wes, Adam knew. The guy was in his final year of culinary school, and the externship program was meant to provide practical, hands-on experience before the graduates were shunted out into the real world and expected to earn a living by their knives.
So let him learn, Adam thought viciously. This is my goddamned kitchen. No one gets to do exactly what they want here except me.
“Take over helping on garde-manger. Milo, switch-hitter coming in! Miranda?”
He looked away from the surprised disappointment in Wes’s eyes to find Miranda starting at him, mouth pinched and gaze narrow. Adam ground his back teeth.
“Miranda, with me,” was all he trusted himself to say.
“Yes, Chef.” Wes echoed the crew’s earlier snappy salutes, but somehow, on him, it sounded snotty. Adam shrugged. He could handle attitude, so long as the guy kept bringing his A-game. Wes would settle in eventually; the kitchen was an amazing leveler. Had a way of bringing everyone down to their true nature.
Adam’s gaze fixed on Miranda. The corners of her mouth were turned down unhappily. Something about the look of her made Adam’s shoulders relax. Maybe it was that he couldn’t see himself having trouble making her happy again. Making her not mad was another story, but happiness, Adam could do.
“Sooner rather than later,” Adam said mildly, scanning the next ticket.
With evident reluctance, Miranda moved up to his side. He watched her gaze immediately search out her brother through the open pass to the dining room. The worry