Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [11]
The sound of the front door’s deadbolt made them all turn their heads.
“You’d better be discussing how to make Market an enormous success,” said Eleanor Bonning, stripping off her sunglasses and folding them carefully into their case. She slipped the case into the pocket of her Burberry and looked down her nose at the trio on the floor. “Because I’m not ruining my perfect investment record over you.”
Adam clambered to his feet.
“She’s still got a key? Glutton for punishment, you are,” Frankie muttered under his breath. Adam aimed a swift kick in his direction before approaching Market’s financial backer.
“Eleanor, I didn’t know you were coming by.” He tried for casual and probably missed it by a mile, but what could he do? Eleanor Bonning held the future of Market in the palm of her hand. Pretty fucking far from ideal, given their complicated history.
“We need to talk, so I juggled my schedule to fit it in,” Eleanor said with a tiny frown. Adam resolutely did not look at Frankie; if he had, the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth would bust out. Over the past year, numerous witticisms had been made at the expense of Eleanor’s ironclad schedule.
The dreaded words “We need to talk” pretty well killed any incipient grin, however, and Adam said “Oh?” as evenly as he could manage.
Eleanor was all business today. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the repercussions of your conversation with Miranda Wake,” she said.
Shit. Adam had hoped Eleanor missed that excruciating ten minutes. Or at least that he’d have a chance to set the record straight with Wake and her magazine before he had to face his financial backer.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Frankie and Grant both standing up. They moved to flank him, and the gesture of support fortified his frazzled nerves.
“Yeah, okay. Miranda Wake.”
Red curls, creamy skin, raspberry-stained mouth.
“Precisely. Everyone is talking about your little contretemps with the infamous Ms. Wake.”
Adam could well believe it. For all of New York City’s eight million–strong population, in some ways, it was a very small town. Each neighborhood functioned as a distinct little community; Adam was a born-and-raised West Villager; he had neighbors who’d never been above Fourteenth Street. He knew several dedicated denizens of SoHo who wouldn’t be caught dead in Times Square, and Brooklyners who hated Queens with a passion.
Similarly, the culinary community of Manhattan was tightly knit and incestuous. Everyone knew everyone else, and gossip spread like clarified butter in a hot pan.
“Look, I’ll blow her off and this whole thing will be over in a few days, as soon as Mario Batali pulls a crazy stunt or Tony Bourdain blows back into town or something. If we stay cool and let it die down—”
Eleanor was shaking her head. “No, no, no. That’s exactly what I don’t want.”
“Then what—”
“The buzz, Adam.” Eleanor’s eyes glittered with that intense look she got when discussing the high rate of return on her portfolio. “All those people, those industry professionals, talking and blogging and posting pictures of you and Miranda Wake. You can’t buy publicity like this.” She paused. “Actually, you can, but it’s very expensive. Better to get it for free, if at all possible.”
Adam choked on a laugh. “Are you shitting me?”
Eleanor’s mouth pursed again, and Grant poked Adam, hard, in the back.
“No,” Eleanor replied, familiar disapproval heavy in her tone. “I am not shitting you.” The cuss word sounded extremely dirty in Eleanor’s modulated, Ivy League accent. “And the very last thing you’re going to do to Miranda Wake is ‘blow her off.’ In fact, I’ve already spoken to the editor-in-chief of Délicieux magazine—they’re set to promote it online and in print, maybe even some TV and radio ads.”
A feeling of dread was surging up from Adam’s gut, tightening his belly like bad shellfish. “What, exactly, are they set to promote?” he asked through numb lips.
“Their newest feature. ‘Dish It Out: The Adventures of a Critic