Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [43]
Too bad she had to beard the lion in his lair. Miranda sighed. The staircase down to the private offices was dim, and Miranda noticed for the first time how sore her legs were. This cooking gig was pretty intense on the body, she was starting to realize. Who would’ve thought she’d need cross-training at the gym to be able to get through it?
No one had bothered to give Miranda a full tour, but Jess had pointed out the staff locker room, and he’d mentioned that Adam’s office was at the end of the same hall. Miranda ended up in front of a heavy metal door that looked as if it had been installed as a bomb shelter or something.
There were word magnets all over the door, including a sentence right at eye level that said THE BOSS . . . IS IN.
Fighting down a wave of trepidation, Miranda rapped her knuckles hard against the door.
“What?” came Adam’s voice, muffled by the thick door.
Great. He sounded as if he were still aggravated.
“It’s Miranda Wake,” she called, feeling like a fool. It was awkward to cool her heels outside a closed office, but it would be even more awkward to burst in and find him doing something embarrassing. She couldn’t quite call up a picture of what that might be, but still.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Were you planning on coming in?”
Pressing her lips together, Miranda pushed open the door. Adam was behind a big old-fashioned desk, nearly hidden behind a mammoth computer that looked like it might be the first one ever invented. Like it should have its own room and six men to run it.
Trying not to be obviously in shock over the Stone Age monstrosity Adam was laboriously hunting-and-pecking out keys on, Miranda stood for a moment in the doorway. There was no natural light at all in the basement office, and the greenish reflection from his computer screen should’ve made Adam look sickly and wan. Unfairly, it didn’t. He looked every bit as tanned and delicious as he’d looked every other time she’d seen him, although minus the crackling energy he seemed to exude in the kitchen.
Down here, sweating over what Miranda could only presume to be the books, Adam looked like the definition of stress.
He squinted at the screen, his two forefingers hovering indecisively over the keyboard, and finally blew out a gusty sigh that fluttered the lock of mink-brown hair on his forehead.
Looking up, Adam blinked at Miranda as if surprised to see her standing there.
“Hi,” he said. “Um, you want to sit down?”
“Thank you,” Miranda replied as she moved to the lone chair. Her voice went a little heavy on the irony, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Right. You’re here because . . .” He seemed genuinely lost, and Miranda almost had to laugh. Seriously, she’d been torturing herself in anticipation of this?
“Last night,” she prompted him, not really sure why she was helping except that he was bound to remember at some point. Better to get it over and done with. “The soup?”
His face lit up with recognition. “Yes! Sure. That nasty stock you made.”
Miranda scowled. “I made it the way I was told. It’s not like I was alone on the station.”
“I know, I know.” He waved her defense away. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. I can get kind of . . . intense during service. My crew knows it’s nothing personal—not that I don’t mean it,” he said.
Miranda shook her head, confused. “I’m sorry, but you mean what, exactly?”
“Well, that everything should be perfect,” he said, as if that were eminently reasonable. “That we should always strive for perfection, every night, every minute, and anything less is an insult to the food and the customers. If that’s not the goal, why are we bothering? Perfection is paramount. And that stock?” He looked stern. “Not perfect.”
“I understand,” Miranda said, and she thought she really might be starting to. Despite his unorthodox methods, Adam Temple actually had a decent work ethic. “I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
He winced. “No, no. You don’t get it. Don’t try not to do it again. Don’t do it.”
Frustrated, Miranda said, “All I