Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [120]
“Sorry, man, I forgot it.”
“What is the point of owning one if you never carry it, much less turn it on?” Grant growled. Adam reeled back, taking in the wide, panicked eyes, blotchy cheeks, and untidy hair.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, concerned. “What are you doing here?”
Grant laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, nothing. I’ve just been all over hell’s half-acre today, looking for your sorry self. Frankie’s out of commission for at least a few days and you’re nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, the world is caving in.”
“Wow, drama much? And you talked to Frankie. How’s he doing?” Guilt bit at Adam, sharp and mean.
Grant shook his head, frustration in every line of his face. “Frankie’s okay. Pissed as hell, but feeling fine. You haven’t seen the papers yet, have you?”
“No, we woke up and came here. That’s it. Grant, what the hell is it?”
“Or checked your e-mail.” Grant didn’t seem to have heard him.
“No.” Adam struggled for patience. “I’m completely in the dark. And you’re scaring the shit out of me. What the fuck is going on?”
“Miranda. That book she was writing. It got leaked this morning on a blog, some editorial assistant or something.”
Adam went cold, like all the blood had drained right out of his body onto the ground. Through stiff lips, he said, “How is it?”
Grant looked like he didn’t know if he wanted to fucking cry or spit nails. “It’s bad, Adam. Real bad. The things she said about the crew—I don’t know how she even found out about half of it, but it’s vicious, catty stuff. Personal. About Milo’s family connections and Quentin’s priors. Frankie’s parents. Violet’s divorce.” He glanced away, eyes narrowed. “And . . . your affair with Eleanor Bonning, man. She makes it sound like you basically whored your way into getting the financing for Market.”
The bottom dropped out of Adam’s stomach, pitching him into a frozen, black wasteland of nausea and disbelief.
At that moment, Miranda walked up, carrying a brown paper bag already showing darker spots where the butter from the croissants had soaked through. She was juggling that with the plastic sack of cherries from Paul’s place and a pair of coffees in paper cups, stacked one on top of the other.
“Whew! Thank goodness. I need a couple more hands.” She smiled up at Adam, who reached for a coffee and the bag of pastries on autopilot, mind still totally consumed with Grant’s bombshell.
“Hey, Grant,” Miranda prattled on, wiggling her fingers at the restaurant manager. “You want a croissant? I’d offer you cherries, but I’m afraid I’m too selfish to share.” Her smile faded at their silence.
Grant was looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost. And not one of those wispy lady-in-white type ghosts, either, but a nasty one. Adam could only assume he looked the same. Or maybe Adam looked as gut-kicked as he felt, like he was about to heave in the middle of the fucking Greenmarket.
“Is it true?” Adam couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was all that mattered.
“Is what true?” she faltered, but the instant paling of her complexion told its own story. “Adam, is everything okay?”
She put her hand on his arm and he shook it off, dropping the bakery bag onto the dirty sidewalk.
“Is it true?” he said, barely able to grind the words out of his parchment-dry throat.
She shook her head, pretty tears welling up in her dark blue eyes. She looked so confused, bewildered. Adam almost softened, almost reached out to her.
“The book,” Grant said, his voice harder than Adam had ever heard it. “Did you write a piece-of-filth book full of lies and gossip about the staff at Market?”
“I’m writing a book, yes, or I was, but it’s not happening anymore. I decided not to do it. I swear.” Her eyes darted around as if she were searching for an escape before resting on Adam in a plea for understanding.
He couldn’t speak.
Grant was not similarly afflicted. Nearly hissing in rage now, he said, “Does your publisher know it isn’t happening? Because choice selections from the manuscript appeared