Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [3]
Once she’d tilted her head down it was sort of hard to lift it up. She contemplated her sensible, all-purpose black cocktail dress. The fruits of her first week’s labors at Délicieux magazine. It had turned out to be a good investment; the Ralph Lauren design was a classic, still in style, even a year later. The neckline plunged enough to give her cleavage, but not so much that men spoke to her chest rather than to her face. And the clingy material outlined the waist she worked so hard to keep trim while trying all those innovative desserts for her monthly column.
The shoes, though. Miranda gazed at her crimson pumps, her spirits lifting slightly.
The dress was nice. Serviceable. The shoes were a decadent indulgence. Red satin with black lace overlay, peep toe and wickedly sharp heel. Every time she put them on, she felt just the teeniest bit vampy.
She wouldn’t normally wear them to a professional function, but after the soul-crushing news that yet another publishing house wouldn’t be helping her break into the prestigious, lucrative world of book publishing, and Jess’s dramatic arrival, she’d needed something. The shoes had beckoned her from the back of the closet, whispering about boosting confidence and the lift a woman gets only from a truly stunning pair of heels, and that was it. She’d kicked off the plain black pumps and slipped on the red satin, and left the apartment before she had a chance to reconsider.
God, she so didn’t want to be here right now. Half her brain was still at home in her cozy apartment, staring blankly at her brother’s tight mouth and exhausted eyes, wondering exactly when she stopped understanding the one person she always thought she knew better than anyone else. But no. The rest of her brain was soaking in vodka at this meaningless party for a restaurant that wasn’t even open yet, but would probably close in a year, because way more than half of them did, and what was the point of it all anyway?
“What are you scowling at?” Claire demanded, startling Miranda out of her reverie. “Never mind,” Claire continued, before Miranda could open her mouth. “Drink this.”
She was holding two delicate glasses full of darkly pink liquid. Miranda licked her lips, reaching for one. “Really? I thought you wouldn’t let me have more.” She drank eagerly, making a disappointed noise when she reached the bottom of the glass. The alcohol hit her system like a kick to the head, and the room’s colors suddenly pulsed a shade brighter, going in and out of focus.
“When one has reached the sentimental stage, the only way out is more alcohol. I need you up, not drooping. The show is about to start.”
So saying, she shoved the second drink into Miranda’s hand and pulled her back into the throng of mingling guests.
But even with the renewed buzz of icy sweet vodka burning in her stomach, all Miranda could really hope was that the party would be over soon. Red shoes or not, she was in a dangerously bad mood.
TWO
Man, this is nothing. What are you so jacked up about?”
The guy in the mirror had no answer, just a wild-eyed stare and unruly dark hair.
“Hi, I’m Adam Temple. Welcome to Market!”
The guy in the mirror looked, if anything, more dismayed.
“I know. That sucked. Maybe less enthusiasm?”
The guy in the mirror was clearly desperate enough to try anything.
“I’m Adam Temple, and I want to thank you for joining me in my newest venture.”
A knock on the staff bathroom door saved mirror guy from commenting on that one. He looked relieved.
Adam cursed and ran his hands through his hair one last time, and watched the waves tumble back into place, as messy as ever. His fingers positively itched to be doing something useful, like piling mounds of microgreens on trays and topping them with fresh peach chutney and creamy chèvre. In fact, he’d been in the kitchen, cooking like a fiend and