Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [24]
“Yes,” she confirmed. Violet folded the dough in a practiced motion, then picked it up and threw it down again. Miranda managed not to flinch at the loud smack of dough on table, but it wasn’t easy.
“I’ve read your stuff,” Violet said conversationally. “It’s good.”
WHAM.
“Thank you,” Miranda said.
WHAM.
“You know your way around an insult. I respect that.”
WHAM.
Miranda got the feeling Violet’s sweetness of face might be misleading. She slanted a glance at Adam. The dimples were out in full force, whatever embarrassment he’d momentarily felt clearly gone.
“I’m paid to express my opinion in an entertaining and informative way,” Miranda said.
WHAM.
“Hmm. I’m paid to knead, heft, and work with hundreds of pounds of bread dough a day. I’ve got wicked upper body strength, let me tell you.”
WHAM. This time accompanied by a narrow glare.
“That’s . . . nice,” Miranda said, glancing at Adam for help. He shrugged, spreading his hands in a what-can-I-say gesture, but then he clasped Violet’s shoulder and said, “Ease up a little, Vi. You don’t want to overwork that dough.”
As they walked away, Miranda whispered, “Am I imagining things, or did your pastry chef just threaten me?”
Adam chuckled. He was having far too good a time with this. “She’s a kick in the pants. Swear to God, Violet’s the toughest cook in this kitchen, and that’s putting her up against an ex-con, an ex-gang member, whatever the hell Quentin is, and Milo D’Amico. Although Milo’s not really dangerous, himself, are you, buddy?” He swung a companionable arm over the shoulders of a gangly kid standing at the sink rinsing leeks.
“Nah,” the kid said, flashing a grin at Miranda. His straight, white teeth made a striking contrast to his dark Mediterranean complexion. “My family is.”
Milo winked broadly, and Miranda wondered if that was Family with a capital F.
“Milo runs the garde-manger station, responsible for all the salads and cold apps. He’s a whiz with vegetable garnishes.”
The young man twirled a paring knife, boasting, “I can carve a radish to look like your grandmother.”
“Wonderful,” Miranda said, biting the inside of her cheek. “My grandmother would be so pleased. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hey, you, too, beautiful,” Milo said, winking again.
“Knock it off.” Adam wrestled the kid around to face the sink again, laughing. “Back to work, amico.”
Another bank of sinks skirted the corner of the kitchen and Adam bounced over to ruffle the dark hair of a wiry kid in a stained apron who stood over a towering stack of dirty pots and pans.
“This here,” Adam said, “is the most important guy in the kitchen. Without this dude, all is lost.”
The boy turned to Adam with a smile, and Miranda saw that he was older than she’d originally thought. His smooth bronze skin and dark chocolate eyes proclaimed his Latino heritage.
“You only say that to make me work harder,” the young man said with an air of wisdom.
“No one could possibly work harder than you,” Adam retorted. “We can barely keep up.” He shook his head in mock despair at Miranda. “Supplying Billy with a constant stream of dirty dishes is a job of work.”
The young man turned, obviously surprised. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
She could practically see the wheels turning as he took in her uncheflike appearance—no white coat, no clogs, no twinkle of cheerful insanity in her eye.
“Billy Perez,” he said. “I won’t shake your hand ’cause mine’re covered in something nasty.”
“I appreciate that,” she told him.
Adam jumped in and explained who she was and what she was doing at Market, and Miranda tuned him out. She didn’t particularly care to hear him call her an “observer” again. That word was starting to annoy her.
As Adam led her away from the sink he leaned over and said, low, “That kid’s gonna be big.”
She shot him a questioning look, and he shrugged.
“It’s something you know in your gut when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, the ability to spot talent. I wasn’t blowing smoke—the boy’s a