Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [21]
Miranda raised both brows. “Really?”
“Shit, yeah. You know, maybe this doesn’t have to be all bad, having you around. You can be like our ringer; we can get the critic’s take on something before it ever hits the menu.”
“You don’t think that’s cheating?”
“All’s fair in love and cookery, sweetheart. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this place a success.” He pointed both index fingers at her like guns and pulled an ironic face. “Case in point.”
Rolling her eyes, Miranda said, “Fine. But just so you know, I’m not going to censor myself, either. Whatever I think of your food, I’m not going to mince words. So be prepared to deal with it.”
The insufferable man grinned, lazy and devastating, teeth glinting white and even in his handsome face. “Looking forward to it.”
Adam led her over to the pass where Frankie was plating a slice of pork belly. Even after last night and everything she’d said about gimmicky greenmarket restaurants, Miranda wasn’t sure what to expect of Adam Temple’s food.
She’d left the party without trying any of the hors d’oeuvres, too eager to sit down with Claire for a late-night conference about the incredible opportunity that had just opened up.
He was so damn cocky about his cooking, she almost hoped it was terrible.
Adam tried the pork belly first, lifting the spoon to his mouth with a considering air that for some reason struck Miranda as unreasonably sexy. He savored it for a moment, his mouth moving slowly, then he and Frankie were off to the races, talking at each other a mile a minute about braising times and the relative merits of clover versus wild-flower honey. But Miranda couldn’t really follow the discussion; she was too busy having an orgasm through her mouth.
Adam had passed her the spoon when he was done, and she’d innocently, unknowingly, dipped it into the seared, tender creation on the plate before her. Nothing in her experience—and she’d reviewed more than a hundred restaurants in her four years as a food critic—prepared her for what she was about to taste.
Pork belly—humble, fatty uncured bacon—was the current darling of the Manhattan restaurant scene. Every customer wanted it, so every restaurant served it. Mostly, it was oily and tasteless, slippery with pork fat and stringy, meager meat. It was paired with a variety of spices and vegetables, from anise to zucchini, but this.
This.
Was something altogether different. Smooth and dark, thick with meat and juice, tangy with the bittersweetness of apple cider and the round nuttiness of ginger-glazed walnuts. The pork belly was crisp on the outside, the browned top a delicious contrast to the unctuous richness of the braised meat. The sharp notes of acid, the brown sugar on the back of her tongue, forced a sound like a moan out of Miranda’s throat.
Miranda opened her eyes to find Adam regarding her with a look of deep satisfaction.
“I know I said last night you should keep your opinions to yourself, but I’d love to know what that noise meant.”
Miranda swallowed slowly, not allowing herself to be hurried through the moment. When she’d rolled the after-flavors of caramel and cinnamon across the roof of her mouth, she said, “I’m hoping that if I have to eat humble pie, you’ll at least serve it with that sauce.”
“Is this going to be your first time working in a kitchen?” Adam was trying to play it cool, but inside, man, he was giving himself the big high five because this gorgeous, prickly woman with exacting standards liked his food.
It never got old, no matter how many guests he’d sent home with happy smiles on their faces. Nothing was more guaranteed to send Adam into the stratosphere. He’d never get sick of that look, that blissed-out moment of transcendence when someone tasted a dish he’d thought up and prepared with his own hands (or the hands of his crew, because really, those guys were basically an extension of him) and just freaking loved it.
Always a genuine kick, but somehow, the rush this time was even more intense. And he didn’t kid himself; he knew why. It was because it was her.
Miranda Wake, whom