Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [5]
Several of the newly hired wait staff passed by, trays full of empty champagne flutes, and Adam swallowed another bubble of angry panic. Loose and relaxed was one thing—out-and-out knee-walking plastered was another. One of the waiters tried to give the single full glass on his tray to Adam, who shook his head and held up both hands to ward him off.
Someone in this joint had to keep his wits about him. Which reminded him, he was searching for Grant. Adam spied a bright blond cap of hair bobbing behind the bar, and headed for it.
The crowd around the bar wasn’t as deep as Adam had feared, probably because most of the drinks were being served by the wandering waiters, but he still had to throw an elbow to get close enough to catch Grant’s attention.
Adam’s restaurant manager was slight of frame and disarmingly boyish. Meticulous in all things, including matters of appearance, it was he who had decreed that Adam must wear the striped silk instrument of torture currently choking off his air supply. So it was something of a shock to see Grant ducked down behind the bar, rummaging frantically for, Adam could only assume, the last bottle of house-steeped vodka with rose petals. He bounced up, triumphant, tie askew and collar open, one end of his shirt untucked from his trousers. Adam gaped for a moment at the wild glint in his normally staid employee’s eye, then took a deep breath.
Wits, he reminded himself. Keep them about you.
“What the hell is going on here?” he yelled over the din. Okay, so he wasn’t great at following his own advice.
Grant started violently and nearly bobbled the vodka. He grabbed at it with both hands and a curse before turning to face Adam with a look of manic aggravation on his face.
Which smoothed out instantly once he saw who it was. The expression that replaced it was closer to joy. Mixed with relief, Adam recognized grimly.
Not a great sign. Any crowd that could ruffle Grant was not a crowd Adam wanted to be within cocktail-garnish-lobbing distance of. And Grant was looking pretty seriously ruffled.
“Boss,” Grant cried. “You’re finally here!”
Adam put his hands on his hips. Yeah, okay, so maybe he’d dawdled. First in the kitchen, and then in the bathroom. But it wasn’t like he’d taken a month-long siesta or anything. You couldn’t tell it by Grant’s rapturous tone, though.
Grant held up a peremptory finger in Adam’s direction, and turned to a hovering waiter, who’d been eyeing the vodka bottle covetously since Grant had unearthed it. With a few terse, low words, Grant handed over the bottle, and shooed the young man toward the kitchen, where the cocktail trays were being staged.
“Supplies are running low and the natives are getting restless. Honestly, where have you been? We’re understaffed. Frankie came out here and said not to serve the food! And then he took off for the Lord only knows where,” Grant said in a rising rush, his relief turning to exasperation faster than Adam could follow.
“His ass better be working the pass, getting everything plated,” Adam seethed. Everything in him ached to storm the kitchen and take care of it himself.
Something of that fervent desire must have shown in his eyes, because Grant interjected a quick, “Stay here! Don’t disappear again.”
Adam huffed and glared around the corner of the bar to the slice of kitchen visible from the main dining room. There was movement, hustle, and his chef senses tingled. It looked like chaos from here, but it wasn’t. Those guys, his crew, they knew what they were doing. More than that, they knew he’d kick some ass come morning if they didn’t get it done. Adam caught sight of his sous chef’s spiky tangle of black hair as Frankie strode down the line, barking orders, and felt the tension