Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [41]
The noise also seemed to startle the two people who were standing together a few feet away from the door, just outside the pool of light cast by the bare bulb hanging over Miranda’s head.
The dark figures stiffened and drew apart. Miranda saw the bright orange glow of a lit cigarette, and logically, she knew it was probably just an employee on a smoking break. But still, she tensed with one hand on the doorknob behind her. No amount of wounded pride was worth getting knifed in a back alley.
The two walked into the light, and Miranda relaxed when she saw Jess. But the other guy made her frown a little. It was the tall, punked-out sous-chef, Frankie. She hoped Jess wasn’t getting too friendly with the cooks. From what she’d seen, chefs were moody at best, certifiably insane at worst.
“Hey, Miranda,” Jess called. “What are you doing out here?”
“The restaurant’s almost ready to close for the night,” she hedged, shooting a glance at Frankie. If he’d managed to miss Adam’s meltdown, she didn’t feel particularly inclined to give him a play-by-play.
“Suppose I’d better get back to it, then.” Frankie sighed, looking like a mournful Goth boy in the harsh direct light.
He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Jess, who said, “Oh. Yeah. Okay, well, thanks for the . . . talk.”
Frankie flashed a grin that startled Miranda with its unabashed wickedness. “Anytime, Bit.”
And then he was through the door, leaving a blast of heat from the kitchen behind him.
“What was that all about?” Miranda asked.
Jess shrugged, but turned his face a little to the side. “Frankie was just giving me a hard time.”
Miranda didn’t like the sound of that. “What was it he called you?”
Her brother made a face Miranda couldn’t quite interpret, sort of half rueful, half pleased. “Bit. I don’t know why, maybe because I’m shorter than he is? But everyone in the universe is shorter than Frankie, so . . .”
An especially evil throb of pain along the arch of Miranda’s left foot distracted her. With a gasp, she stood on one leg and clutched at the offending extremity.
“Are you okay?” Jess rushed over to hold her up just as her balance started to go.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Miranda grumbled. “I should’ve worn different shoes, that’s all. I’ll know better tomorrow.”
Because she would definitely be back tomorrow. If Adam Temple thought he could run her off by yelling at her in front of a crowded room—well, he obviously wasn’t a man to learn from his mistakes.
“In the meantime,” she said, determination giving her a sorely needed shot of adrenaline. “I’m heading out. Are you coming?”
Jess glanced toward the kitchen door for an instant before saying, “Nah. I think I’d better stay and see if Grant needs any help closing down. See you at home later?”
Miranda smiled at his use of the word “home.” “Only if you’re planning to invade my dreams. I’ll be asleep the moment my head hits the pillow. You’re on for breakfast tomorrow, though.”
With a nod, Jess headed back inside and Miranda tottered out to the curb to hail a cab.
Before she could raise her arm, however, she was arrested by a hissed whisper from the building corner beside the alley entrance.
Clutching a hand to her racing heart, she made out the amazing disappearing Robin Meeks, her erstwhile partner in crime on stock detail, gesturing furtively at her.
“As God is my witness,” she swore through gritted teeth, “if one more person jumps out of the shadows at me, I’m going to stroke out. It’s been way too long a night for this kind of nonsense.”
“Sorry,” Rob said, not sounding all that apologetic. “But I wanted to talk to you, outside the restaurant.”
“Oh, is that why you skipped out on me? I thought maybe you knew we’d completely messed up the stock and that Chef Temple was going to lose his marbles over it.”
He groaned. “Shit, what difference does the stock make, anyway? It’s nothing