Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [139]
“It looks like you’re performing some sort of science experiment,” Devon told her bluntly. “What are you frying? It smells . . . odd.”
“I found some chicken livers way at the back of that fridge over there. Didn’t look like anyone was gonna use ’em for any fancy dish anytime soon, so I appropriated them.”
“Good God,” Devon said, revolted, as she began lifting golden brown nuggets of fried liver from the oil and setting them on folded paper towels to drain. “You’re not actually planning to serve that to anyone.”
“Hey, now,” she bristled. “This is my Aunt Gertrude’s recipe. It won first prize at the county fair four years running.”
“I don’t care if it won an Emmy, it looks sickening and it smells worse.” Devon had nothing against organ meats, in general; they’d been en vogue among New York chefs for years now. But these humble balls of artery-clogging noxiousness were a far cry from sautéed sweetbreads with butter and sage, or seared foie gras with quince jelly. There was something so . . . peasant about chicken liver. It seemed trashy, in the sense of being destined for the garbage bin. Or possibly a dog biscuit.
“Well, you don’t have to eat it,” the girl said crossly. “Grant asked me to fix up a quick lunch while he talked to his boss, so that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t easy to find anything to make in that larder, either, let me tell you.”
“I find that supremely difficult to believe.” Market had one of the most varied, interesting menus in the city—Adam stocked his pantry and walk-in with the freshest, most beautiful produce the local farmers’ markets had to offer.
“Are you s’posed to be in that meeting?” the girl asked, switching gears abruptly. “I swear, you look familiar. Did Grant introduce us when he brought me by Market yesterday? I know we didn’t spend a lot of time here, and everyone was working in the kitchen and out front, getting ready for dinner and all. Dang, that’s embarrassing. I’m bad with names. Not faces, usually; I can almost always place people. You’re stumping me, though, I hafta say. Wanna give me a hint?”
Devon tucked his tongue in his cheek and tried not to smirk. She didn’t recognize him. She obviously hadn’t been in the game very long; it was no exaggeration that every young line cook and chef wannabe in Manhattan knew Devon’s name.
Not this girl, though. In spite of her egregious assault on Adam’s hapless kitchen, Devon found himself more intrigued by this odd conversation than he had been by anything in a long while. A pleasantly reckless feeling overtook him, and it made him stupid. That was the only way he could account for the words that flew out of his mouth.
“We did meet yesterday. I’m devastated you don’t remember—does this mean you also don’t remember agreeing to have a drink with me tonight?”
Had he lost his mind? This babbling, too-nice woman with no makeup and no cooking skills was completely and entirely not his type. Far from it. But it had been a while for Devon, what with shooting and the restaurant openings and getting that bad review of Sparks Vegas—he hadn’t really been in the mood lately. That had to be it.
Meanwhile, Shirley Temple, over there, looked about as taken aback by Devon’s smooth lie as he felt.
“R-really?” For the first time since she tumbled off the counter and into his arms, she looked flustered. “Wow, now I’m real embarrassed. And a little afraid I might have a brain tumor or something, because I have no memory of any spectacularly good-looking, unfortunately rude guys randomly asking me out yesterday. And you’d think after the dry spell I’ve had, that would be something I’d recall.”
Devon spread his hands innocently and made an attempt at a winsome smile, but it must’ve fallen flat because those pretty green eyes narrowed slightly.
“What did you say your name was again?” she asked.
Before he could decide whether to give a fake name in hopes of continuing this ridiculous