Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [18]
Before she had a chance to berate herself over missing the tasteful copper wall sconces shaped like abstract Art Deco leaves, she was distracted by noise and movement from the main dining room to the right.
Peeking around the bar, she could see that the back wall of the main room had an open pass through to the kitchen, which was teeming with activity.
She glanced back at Jess, who shrugged and motioned her forward. Music was pouring out of the kitchen, a pounding bass beat layered over with screaming guitar. It was the kind of music the bad boys she went to high school with had blasted over the speakers of their souped-up muscle cars.
Moving closer, she saw the mastermind behind this little jewel of a restaurant nodding his head to the beat and mouthing along with the lyrics. Something about being an anarchist.
A young blond man she vaguely remembered from behind the bar the night before stepped up to the pass and caught sight of Miranda and Jess. Eyes widening, the bartender grabbed at Adam Temple’s sleeve to get his attention, gesturing toward the dining room.
Adam looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with Miranda, and she had to gulp in a quick, discreet burst of air.
Damn. She’d really been hoping that was a cocktail-induced hallucination. If there was anything worse than the ego of an executive chef, it was the ego of a good-looking executive chef.
Most chefs had women throwing themselves at them like groupies tossing their panties on the stage at a rock concert, especially in these fallen times, with the rise of the popular television Cooking Channel. Chefs were celebrities, even the ones who didn’t have their own show. And unbelievably sexy specimens like the one in front of her?
Well. The only sensible option was to stay as far away from him as possible. Which shouldn’t be a problem, since he was looking about as pleased to see them as if she and Jess were a party of twenty women with infants in strollers, showing up for a Mother’s Morning Out brunch.
Miranda held her head high and marched forward, Jess trailing behind.
Adam met her at the kitchen door, wiping his hands impatiently on the towel tucked into his apron. His mouth was set, his dark eyes flashing caution, but Miranda wasn’t about to let him intimidate her.
“Chef Temple,” she said breezily, holding out her hand.
“Miranda Wake,” he replied, putting his hands on his hips. He glanced down to her outstretched palm, then back up to her face. “We’ve met,” he said. “You may not remember.”
Heat scorched her cheeks, but Miranda refused to acknowledge it. “Of course,” she said, dropping her hand to her side. “But you haven’t met my brother. This is Jess Wake.”
Jess stepped up, and Miranda felt a momentary glow of pride in his manners. “It’s an honor, sir.” He grinned. “My old boss would have kittens if he knew I was standing here with you.”
Okay, glow-of-pride moment over. “Jess,” she hissed.
But Adam laughed, the hardness melting from his features as if it had never been. “Hey, it’s always good to meet a fan,” he said easily. “Or someone who once worked for a fan. Your boss, he was a foodie?”
“You could say that,” Jess replied. “He owned the self-proclaimed fanciest restaurant in Brandewine, Indiana. I waited tables there for two years. When Miranda told me the news, I couldn’t resist the chance to tag along.”
“Right. The news,” Adam said, his voice noticeably cooler. He slanted a glance at Miranda. “That your sister’s got herself a job peeling potatoes in my kitchen for the next month.”
“Speaking of jobs,” Jess said brightly, “are you still hiring front-of-house staff?”
“Jess recently moved back to the city, and he’s looking for work this summer before he goes back to school,” Miranda said.
Adam’s eyes widened. “Jesus, what is it with your family? Every Wake in the country have a hard-on to work at Market? Should I expect your mother next?