Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [53]
“And there you have it,” he said. “A little salt and pepper, and you have a lovely snack. Go ahead, break it open. See if it’s good.”
Miranda took her fork to the egg and made a soft noise of appreciation when the pristine globe of slippery white parted to let the golden orange yolk run out and soak into the bread.
“Beautiful,” she said with her usual frank appreciation. Adam was never going to get tired of that. “That seems simple enough. Can I give it a try?”
He handed her the wooden spoon with a flourish.
The first attempt yielded an egg hard enough to bounce on the floor.
“The temperature of the water is key,” Adam told a disappointed Miranda. “Remember that the longer the pot stays on the burner, even at a constant setting, the hotter it’s going to get. You gotta adjust for that. Right? Okay, try again.”
Miranda bit her lip in a totally distracting way while attempting to maneuver the egg into the pot, so Adam missed seeing exactly what happened. When he finally managed to tear his eyes away from that plump pink mouth, he saw egg white fanning out over the bottom of the pot in a way that would have been sort of pretty if it hadn’t made Miranda scowl so hard.
“I fixed the water temperature,” she complained. “What went wrong this time?”
“Too hot and you get rubber. Not hot enough, and the white spreads when it hits the water and won’t coagulate into a nice round shape. You went a little too far in the other direction, is all. Remember, it wants to be barely simmering.”
She grumbled a little, but fiddled with the burner until Adam thought it was about right.
But when she carefully—oh so carefully; cracking the eggshell was a surgical act on par with setting a bone—finished her preparations for the third attempt and slid the yellow orb into the water, the white feathered up again, waving its wisps in the current of the simmering pot like algae on the sea floor.
Adam struggled not to show a hint of the amusement he felt at the look of dismay on her face.
“It’s not an exact science,” he soothed her. “Cooking’s not like math. It doesn’t come out the same every single time. That’s part of the fun.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. Adam was starting to adore that particular defensive gesture.
“Not my idea of fun. I have to say, I’m not getting a whole lot out of this.”
Adam considered. He was well aware this cooking lesson was his own brainchild, not something Miranda had come begging for. Maybe she needed extra motivation.
“How about . . .” He hesitated, unsure if he could commit to what he was about to propose, then shrugged.
Fuck it.
“Okay,” Adam said. “For every egg you get perfect, I’ll answer a question. And I’m telling you now, it’s probably the only way you’ll ever get me to talk on the record for that book of yours. So I’d take me up on it.”
And if she never managed to figure out poaching, Adam got moral credit for making the offer, but didn’t have to deliver shit.
“Done,” Miranda said instantly, with a Cheshire-cat smile that made Adam groan around a laugh.
“Christ. I’m in for it now.”
Miranda lost the grin and huffed. “Don’t despair. I’ve yet to come close to getting one of my eggs to look like yours.”
There were no words for what the slight pout of Miranda’s lower lip did to Adam’s brain. Something similar to a short circuit or system overload or something. He didn’t really know tech stuff, but what it felt like was the flare of ceiling-high flame that happened when a cook accidentally sloshed oil over the side of a pan and into the grill.
Instant meltdown. It was the only thing that could account for everything he was letting this cunning little journalist get away with.
“Here, try this.” He rummaged through a drawer until he came up with a slotted spoon. “There are a lot of old wives’ tales about tricks for poaching, like adding vinegar to the poaching liquid, but chemically speaking, that’s all bullshit. The only thing that can