Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [33]
He caught Miranda’s wide eyes, and she straightened away from the table guiltily.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he requested, nearly choking on the civility.
It worked, though, because Miranda nodded warily and followed him when he moved toward an empty, secluded area to the left of the entrance to the square.
Adam didn’t exactly have a plan for how he wanted this encounter to go, and the moment they had even a semblance of privacy, the rolling boil graduated to a full-on explosion, sending the top of his head into the stratosphere.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded. “Every time I turn around, there you are, fucking with me.”
Miranda flinched at his tone, but her eyes were steady on his. “I’ve told you before. I’m doing my job. It’s nothing personal, it’s work.”
Adam sneered. “Yeah, and that’s what you don’t seem to get. My work is fucking personal. It’s who I am, everything I am, and if you mess with it, you mess with me.”
Visibly startled, Miranda let out a slow breath and tried again. “Nothing has changed since the last time we talked. I told you already that I’d be doing as much in-depth research as I could. And since you’ve staked your restaurant’s reputation on the quality and provenance of its ingredients, your suppliers are obviously a key research point.”
“Oh, sure, you’ve been up front about everything,” Adam mocked. “What a shining example of honesty and professionalism you are. I suppose it must’ve slipped your mind that all this so-called research isn’t for some little magazine article.” He leaned in, got right in her face, and saw the dawning realization in her blue eyes. “That’s right,” he said in a near-whisper. “I know. You’re writing a fucking book.”
She swallowed, closing her eyes for a second. “How did you—Right. The man at the vegetable stand. Okay.” Miranda opened her eyes and held Adam’s angry glare.
“Yes. I’m writing a book,” she admitted. “It’s a relatively new development, but I should have told you. But the fact is—” She clammed up, and Adam made an impatient sound.
“The fact is,” she said, more strongly, “I don’t need your permission to write the book. I already have authorization to be in your kitchen, and as for the rest of my research, it’s a free country. I can ask anyone, anywhere, any questions I want. You have very little say in this, so I suggest you get over yourself.”
Frustration and rage churned in Adam’s gut, eating away at his composure.
“I might have to let you into my kitchen, but there are rules,” he snarled. “No pads and pencils, no minirecorders—you’re there to cook. Whatever writing or exposure or other shit you want to get out of this, that’s on your time. Kitchen time is my time. The minute you start slacking off or compromising the quality of my food, you’re out.”
“Agreed,” she said, and put out her hand.
Adam looked down at her delicate fingers, the thin wrists that made him want to feed her, put some meat on her bones. He shook her hand once, firmly, then let go, unwilling to examine why the simple touch burned across his palm.
As she turned to leave, Adam caught a glimpse of her smirk in profile. She looked a little self-satisfied, as if she thought she’d played him well, and Adam couldn’t resist stepping up behind her. She froze, and he bent his head close enough to smell her hair, which was loose and curling softly around her shoulders. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo, something herbal and clean—rosemary and mint? With one hand, he carefully gathered all that heavy auburn silk and smoothed it over one shoulder, leaning down to whisper into the exposed pink shell of her ear.
“I’ll be watching you.”
Adam let her go, but not before feeling the tremor that shook her slender frame. Walking back into the market, he grinned. He was pretty sure if he looked behind him, any trace of a smirk would be gone from that pretty face.
NINE
Opening night at Market.
If Miranda were prone to dramatic pronouncements, she might