Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [123]
Miranda sat up on the couch, wine forgotten, heart starting to pump battle endorphins into her blood.
She’d never been very good at giving up.
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
The next few days were spent in a flurry of phone calls and planning. Miranda did her level best not to watch the clock and think about what she’d be doing if she were at Market. It was strange not to be there. After only a few weeks, the routine of prep and service, cooking and expediting, was like a physical presence in her body. Her palm ached for the comforting heft of a well-balanced knife, her fingers itched to be arranging garnishes. It was a weird sensation that served to bring home to her exactly how much she stood to lose.
It was harder to avoid thoughts of Market once normal business hours were done, and she had no more cajoling, pleading, bargaining phone calls to occupy her mind. Only visions of Adam in his chef whites, a dark whirl of motion as he bounced from station to station, checking that everything met his standards of perfection.
Miranda distracted herself by dressing carefully for her final and most important meeting. It was tricky. What did one wear to debase oneself before an enemy in hopes of being granted a favor?
Miranda tried to see the upside. Tonight couldn’t be worse than apologizing to Eleanor Bonning, the woman she’d essentially labeled a duped sugar momma. And then hearing, in no uncertain terms, that Eleanor broke off the relationship herself, because, while she appreciated Adam’s dedication from an investor’s standpoint, she didn’t enjoy competing with Market for his attention.
That one had stung.
Staring into her closet, Miranda decided she wanted to look competent and serious, but not in an uptight way. Unfortunately, her wardrobe didn’t really lend itself to that. She regarded her conservative gray dresses, sweater sets, and suits with dissatisfaction. None of those things worked for the place she was going.
Finally, she grabbed a pair of jeans, so dark blue they were almost black. She topped them with a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Leaving it untucked, she decided, made her look a little less Brooks Brothers. For luck, she slipped on the same red satin pumps she wore that first night she met Adam. As always, they made her feel sexy and a bit dangerous, and now, they had the added benefit of reminding her of the hot look in Adam’s brown eyes when he took them in.
Aware that she was fussing over her appearance purely as a stalling tactic, Miranda rushed through her makeup and left her hair down to curl around her shoulders.
She checked the clock one last time. Edging past ten; the Market crew would be winding down, sending out more desserts than mains. The kitchen would be starting to clean up, set things for the next day. She knew the process by now, knew she’d have time to make it downtown before Market officially closed for the night.
But not if she dawdled around much longer. With a last, nervous glance in the mirror, Miranda was on her way.
Twenty minutes later, she was walking into Chapel. The place wasn’t marked at all; if she hadn’t known it was there, she never would’ve found it. As it was, it took several turns around the old, abandoned church on the corner of Grand and Orchard before she noticed a heavy wooden door that looked familiar.
The inside of the bar wasn’t as loud or as smoky as she remembered, probably because the place had just opened. There weren’t any roving bands of cooks or punk rockers yet. But Miranda had hope that the man she wanted to see would be there, propping up the bar. He’d been an early bird the first time she went to Chapel. With any luck, that was his pattern.
Blinking in the dimness, Miranda made her way toward the bar. She could barely make out the silhouette of Christian Colby, the long-haired bartender. He was slicing limes, quick and efficient, but he looked up when she got closer and let out a low whistle.