Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [23]
Man, this was going to be fun.
Miranda flipped to a new page and shook her fountain pen to make sure there was plenty of ink. Nothing about this day was going quite as she’d expected, from Jess telling Adam about their parents to the chef’s changeable moods and mouthwateringly sensual food. She had no idea what the kitchen staff would be like, although she suspected Adam planned to use them to frighten her into backing out.
“Okay,” Adam said. “You already met Frankie. And once is usually enough for most people.”
“Tosser! I heard that,” Frankie yelled from the walk-in.
Adam grinned and steered Miranda toward a towering black man with burn marks scoring his forearms all the way to the elbow. He was chopping shallots, his knife flashing faster than the eye could follow.
“Quentin, I need a minute.”
“Yo,” Quentin replied. “Yeah, boss. What’s up.” Everything Quentin said was a statement, not a question. He had a deep, slow voice that seemed to resonate up from the pit of his stomach, and his knife never stopped moving as he talked.
“Wanna introduce the newest addition to our kitchen. Miranda Wake, this is Quentin Thomas, master of the sauté, the braise, poaching—basically, anything that involves meat cooked with liquid. Q is the man.”
Quentin slid Miranda a considering look and said, “Yeah. You’re the writer.”
Again, a simple declarative statement, but she found herself nodding anyway. “I’d love to interview you, sometime. Just a few questions—”
Quentin’s big shoulders humped over the cutting board, and Miranda stopped talking, disconcerted.
“Whoops,” Adam said, as he took her elbow and whirled her around. “Moving on. Later, Q.”
“Later,” the large man said, his knife still chopping in unbroken rhythm.
Adam pulled Miranda closer and said in a low voice, “Should’ve warned you. You’re not going to be interviewing Quentin. Like, ever. In fact, don’t address him with a question at all.”
“Why on earth not?” Miranda had never heard anything so preposterous.
Adam shrugged. “He doesn’t like it. Won’t answer.”
“And you haven’t bothered to find out why?” Miranda pursued.
“I respect his privacy. And his knife skills.”
“All right,” Miranda said, refusing to be thrown. “I’ll just observe him, then.”
Adam shook his head, and Miranda caught a hint of dimple. “That’s what you really like, isn’t it? Observing.”
“It’s a necessary prelude to any good writing,” she agreed stiffly, “but especially to reviewing. Details are important.”
“Sure. And I bet you rock at the detail stuff. But that’s not why you like it.”
Miranda arched a brow. “No?”
“Nope. Hey, Violet’s here!” He tugged Miranda toward a wide wooden table along the back wall where a diminutive woman was turning a huge ball of dough out onto the floured surface.
That was it? Miranda wanted to demand just what the hell Adam meant by that remark, but couldn’t bring herself to start a squabble in front of an audience. Twice in two days was twice too many for her.
Besides, there was part of her that wasn’t sure she’d like Adam’s answer.
“Violet Porter is our pastry chef slash bread genius. If there’s anyone who can rival Quentin for number of burn marks, it’s Vi.”
The tiny woman flashed a broad smile and dusted enough flour from her arms to display rows of shiny pink scar tissue. “Ovens are hot,” she said cheerfully. “And bread pans are heavy. Not a great combo.”
She had a round, cherubic face with apple cheeks and sparkling brown eyes that turned sly when she poked Adam with a floury finger.
“So this is her, right? Your critic.”
Remarkably, Adam colored slightly. Clearing his throat, he said, “This is Miranda Wake. She’s going to be observing”—there was that word again, and now that she was listening for it, Miranda could hear the odd stress he put on it—“and helping out in the kitchen for a few weeks.”
The pastry chef looked Miranda up and down. “Wow. High heels. That’s going to be a barrel of monkeys during service. Délicieux magazine, right?”