Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [20]
Miranda shuddered, his nearness affecting her in unwelcome ways. But she refused to step away. She held her ground, and when Adam straightened, she looked him directly in the eye. She thought she caught a fleeting glimpse of something like respect, but she couldn’t be sure, because in the next instant, he was clapping her on the back and saying, “Come on, scribbler. Let’s go introduce you to the crew.”
SIX
A professional kitchen was almost never completely abandoned; there was always prep to be done. But things were at a low pitch, Miranda could see through the open pass; only three or four cooks worked industriously at their stations. They glanced up at her curiously, but mostly they stayed focused on what their hands were doing.
Adam led her into his large kitchen, saying, “We’re still finalizing the menu for the opening next weekend. Tasting and tweaking, getting it all down so it’s perfect every time. Restaurant cooking isn’t like throwing a dinner party at your apartment—it’s not just about how good the recipe is, or how well you execute it that night. It’s about consistency. Being able to do it perfectly, over and over, so if a guest comes in and loves a dish, he can come back and order that same thing every time and always get exactly what he expects.”
Miranda made a few notes. Her heart pounded with excitement. In spite of Adam’s hostile reception, this was already fascinating.
The cooks were mostly men, dressed uniformly in the standard-issue white jackets and loose, black-and-white-checked pants. They wore leather or rubber clogs on their feet, and they moved past each other in the small confines of the kitchen space like football players on the field, instinctively knowing where everyone else was.
The exception to all of that was leaning over the huge range, holding the lid of a red enameled cast-iron pot. He whooped loudly before turning and throwing a long arm around Adam’s neck.
“Adam!” The voice was raucous and rough, with a Cockney edge. “It’s done, come taste. Hello, hello, what have we here?”
Miranda looked up . . . and up, into a pair of knowing black eyes. Tall, skinny, shock of black hair, muscular bare arms, and a ripped T-shirt sporting a coy, half-naked cow-girl and the words THE NEW YORK DOLLS. She looked back to see Adam close his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience. “Miranda Wake, this is Frankie Boyd. My second in command.”
Frankie grinned, a quick flash of teeth and the tip of his tongue, and said, “Know who you are already, luv. But it’s ever so nice to meet you, all formal like.”
He extended a hand, and Miranda took it cautiously, not sure what to expect. “So . . . you’re the sous-chef?” she asked.
“Sous-chef, informer, enforcer, first mate, punk rocker,” Frankie said extravagantly, “and worshipper at your divine altar, oh, gorgeous one. May I kiss your hand?”
His eyes laughed down at her. Miranda lifted her chin, completely unwilling to be overawed by this tornado of a man.
“Pucker up, buttercup,” she said, and watched Frankie’s eyes widen in comical surprise as he dropped his arm from Adam’s shoulders. Adam laughed, and Frankie bowed low over Miranda’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
“Oh,” he breathed. “I see why you lost your head over this one. I wish you luck, mate; I think you’re going to need it.”
Miranda flushed, acutely aware that it was half embarrassment, half accomplishment, the thrill of holding her own.
Frankie gave her one last cheerful leer, before turning to his boss. “Hate to interrupt, and for once I really mean that, but that braised pork belly you started isn’t getting any nicer sitting in its sauce, going cold.”
“Go on and get it plated, you hooligan, I’m coming.”
Frankie leaped for the stove, grabbing his pot with the towel tucked in the waistband of his black jeans. Adam shook his head, obviously used to Frankie’s ways.
“I’ve got to taste this,” Adam said, gesturing over his shoulder. He cocked his head suddenly and his eyes brightened for the first time since she arrived. “Hey, you wanna taste