Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [129]
Adam watched his crew, humming along better than they had in a while. All the necessary ingredients were mingling and merging in the good way, coming together to make something better than the individual parts, the way eggs and flour and sugar came together to make a cake.
He should’ve been happy. He should’ve been ecstatic.
So why did he feel like a key ingredient was still missing?
Ignoring the scoured-out hole in his chest, Adam rolled up the sleeves of his jacket and immersed himself in work.
THIRTY-ONE
Nerves skittered through Miranda’s stomach like drunken butterflies. It all came down to tonight.
She’d had days to work herself into a frenzy of anticipation and dread. Devon needed the time to make all the arrangements, and she wanted to wait until Frankie was back in the kitchen.
It was a good thing she’d established a new inside source for information on the Market kitchen and its crew. Miranda hadn’t heard a word from Jess or Adam since the book was leaked. Not that she’d expected to.
That’s what this is about, she reminded herself, trying to convince her stomach it didn’t need to empty itself forcefully all over her red satin pumps. They’d worked on Devon, so they were now a talisman, of sorts. She’d plucked them out of the closet tonight without even considering any other options. They went nicely with the black knee-length pencil skirt and lipstick-red short-sleeved silk sweater. The sweater, which had started life as part of a twin set, was that rare shade of red that didn’t clash with her hair.
After tonight, Adam and Jess will have to talk to you. And one way or another, they’ll know how you feel.
“Are you ready for this?” Devon asked.
He looked ludicrously gorgeous under the harsh, unforgiving lights of the camera crew. His short sable hair was artfully tousled, his devastating cheekbones and sensual lips enhanced with subtle makeup.
Lifting his chin away from the dabbing sponge, Devon gestured the makeup artist over to Miranda, who submitted.
This was Devon’s show, after all. She was just the guest star.
“Am I ready to expose myself in front of a roomful of people with good reason to hate my guts? Sure, bring it on,” Miranda replied.
Devon’s steely blue eyes mocked her. “You make it sound like you plan to do a striptease. Oh, please, please tell me you’re going to strip!” He clapped his hands like a delighted child. Miranda had to laugh, even though she wondered if the sharp movement of her diaphragm might dislodge her dinner.
“Only if it looks like I’m not getting anywhere with the true confessions from the soul,” she told him.
“Mmm. Nice. I’m banking on Adam’s stubborn streak.”
The camera crew rushed around, setting up the shot. Devon was going to film an introductory segment on the street outside Market, then they’d head around back and go in through the kitchen door.
They’d timed their arrival to the end of dinner service. Miranda wanted to cause as little disruption as possible, and if they’d interrupted prep, the whole night would’ve been thrown off. This way, the customers had all left and so had many of the servers. The cooks would be finishing their cleanup and prep for the next day. She was certain Jess would stay late to help Grant and to wait for Frankie.
Devon beckoned Miranda with an imperious flick of the wrist. She came over to stand next to him and squint into the lights and fiddle with the wireless mic attached to her collar.
“Let your eyes adjust.” Devon frowned. “You can’t crinkle up your face like that once the cameras get going.”
The camera crew settled into place and started a countdown.
“Understood.” She breathed hard through her nose, concentrating on smoothing her features back to normal.
“It’s going to be all right, you know,” Devon said unexpectedly.
“You think so?” Miranda asked, surprised into betraying her desperate need to believe him.
“Trust me. If anyone understands the effects of high drama on human emotions, it’s me. And this is one very dramatic stunt we’re about