Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [130]
Miranda had no time to respond before the camera operator reached the end of his countdown and pointed at Devon, who turned and beamed that flawless smile into the lens without pause.
“Hello there, I’m Devon Sparks. If you’ve seen my show on the Cooking Channel, One Night Stand, you know I’m an expert on the way sparks fly and tempers flare in the kitchen.”
Miranda struggled not to roll her eyes. She should’ve known there was no way of getting out of this without several plugs for Devon’s show.
“As chefs,” Devon continued, “we try to confine our shouting matches to the privacy of the kitchen—but sometimes emotions overflow into the dining room and out into public, for the whole world to see. With me tonight is Miranda Wake, restaurant critic for Délicieux magazine and author of a scandalous tell-all revealing the secret lives behind the kitchen door.”
Miranda smiled into the camera. She could tell it was wooden and unconvincing by the way her mouth pulled taut, but she couldn’t do better.
“Cut.”
“The next segment will be a voice-over of me explaining the backstory—the dare, your source inside the kitchen, the book, and how it got leaked after the hostage situation. We’ll play it over some spliced-together footage of the inside of the kitchen, which we’ll take in a minute, some outdoor shots, stills of Adam and the crew.”
“Fine,” Miranda said faintly, feeling out of her depth. This was all a lot more real than she’d bargained for. The presence of the cameras was largely symbolic, in her mind; since the nature of her offense had been so glaringly public, so should the apology be. But now that it was actually happening, she had to fight down panic at the knowledge that this segment would be aired on the Cooking Channel for the delectation of millions of people.
Swept along in the tide of the cameras and technicians and Devon’s various handlers and assistants, Miranda was shocked to find herself in the alley behind Market, poised on the back doorstep.
You can do this, she lectured herself fiercely. This is important. Maybe the most important thing you’ve ever done. Your future happiness depends entirely on the next ten minutes.
No pressure or anything.
Straightening her shoulders, she glanced at Devon, who nodded at her to go ahead. So she sent up a little prayer and pushed open the door.
She could tell at a glance that they’d timed their entrance perfectly. The stereo above the dishwashing station was pounding out some punk rock anthem, telling her that the front of the house was closed for the night. Cooks in dirtied jackets pushed sweaty hair off their foreheads and hustled through their last-minute tasks of wrapping up leftovers and wiping down countertops.
Miranda had only a split second to take it all in before the camera guys pushed her farther into the kitchen, entering behind her. The noise of a dozen people lugging heavy equipment through the narrow doorway brought every head in the kitchen swiveling to face them.
And it sent Adam, whose back was to the door, into orbit. He lunged for the magnetic strips mounted on the wall and came up brandishing a short, wicked-looking meat cleaver. His cry of “Oh hell, no, not again” died in his throat when he whirled and came face-to-face with Miranda.
She threw her hands up in surrender, the instantaneous jolt of fear making her wonder for a panicky second if Adam were really angry enough to take her head off with that knife.
Everyone paused except Devon. He cracked up, cackling like a hyena, before turning to the cameraman and saying, “Tell me you got that.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Adam snarled. He lowered the arm holding the cleaver, but Miranda noticed he didn’t set the knife aside.
Miranda was struck speechless. All she could do was stare at Adam.
He looked good. Well, he looked like he hadn’t been sleeping nearly enough, but even with shadows under his eyes and lines of exhaustion etching his olive skin, he looked good enough to eat.
God, she’d missed him.
The feeling didn’t appear to be mutual. Adam was looking back at her with a