Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [39]
He rolled the soup in his mouth, and identified the problem as it coated his tongue and the roof of his mouth unpleasantly. The stock hadn’t been skimmed enough, there was too much fat, rendering the finished soup’s mouthfeel thick and disgusting.
“Milo!” he bellowed. “Get up here, now.”
The garde-manger station was in charge of cold appetizers, including the soup, and if Milo couldn’t identify what was wrong with this vichy, they were going to have a serious problem. Connected or not, Adam would kick Milo’s scrawny ass back to Trenton.
Milo was at his side in an instant, looking a little pale under his olive complexion. It was never a good thing to be called up to the pass.
“Taste,” Adam said, shoving the spoon toward him.
Milo closed his eyes and took the spoon into his mouth, drawing his brows together in concentration. “The seasoning is . . . I think it’s fine, Chef,” he said helplessly, and Adam could feel a rumbling roar building in his chest.
But then Milo frowned again, smacking his lips together, and said, “Wait. Is that . . . the stock is too . . . something. Oily?”
“Is that an answer, or a question?” Adam responded, hearing the silky warning tones in his own voice.
“Answer. Chef.” Milo was uncharacteristically subdued. “I apologize, Chef, I only tasted for the seasoning and I missed the texture. It won’t happen again.”
Adam relaxed out of full battle mode and said, “Damn right it won’t. You’re fucking lucky the other apps are all salads and won’t be ruined by the delay. Now get back to your station and open up a new container of stock. This is the goddamn reason we make it fresh every day. Use the fresh stuff.”
Milo nodded and turned to go, but paused. “That was the fresh stuff. Sorry, I . . . I was using the leftovers earlier, to get them out of the walk-in. That’s what we did at my last . . . Okay, not here!” He interrupted himself, holding up his hands in surrender when Adam took a menacing step toward him. “I just mean, that last bowl? It’s the stuff that was made today, because we finally went through yesterday’s stock.”
Adam ground his back teeth. “Find some good stock. Now. Scrape yesterday’s containers if you have to. Go.”
Milo hopped to it, leaving Adam seething and staring around the kitchen for a good outlet for this sudden frustration.
The rest of the kitchen was quiet for the first time all night, and it was like the calm at the eye of a hurricane. Everyone was turned away, trying to keep out of the line of fire.
Everyone except Miranda Wake.
She was staring straight at him with an expression of open curiosity, as if he were a clock that had stopped and she wanted to take him apart to figure out why.
That look on her angelic face, plus the knowledge that she’d been the one standing by the stockpot with a spoon in her little hand, built up the hot steam in his head until he was sure it would come whistling out his ears like a teakettle on the boil. His vision narrowed to her face, everything in the periphery like visual static, indistinct and unreal.
“You,” he said, rage constricting his throat so it came out all raspy and hoarse.
That startled her out of her contemplation of his inner workings, he could tell. Those big blue eyes got even bigger, and round like a doll’s. Her pink mouth dropped open, then closed with a snap as he advanced on her slowly, stalking her backward until she was pressed up against the walk-in door, well out of sight of the dining room.
He loomed over her, using his superior height and breadth without remorse.
“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage me?” he snarled. “You think this’ll make for a fun chapter in your book?” He panted for a second, before adding in a strangled tone, “And all this, after you made me miss the fucking morels!”
“What?” she gasped. “Have you lost your mind?”
“The stock,” he pressed, getting himself under control. “It was fine yesterday,