Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [64]
And with that cryptic comment, he headed into the kitchen, shaking his head the whole way as if he couldn’t believe what he’d agreed to.
“There now,” Frankie purred in smug satisfaction. “Where were we?”
He lowered his head to Jess’s neck, but before he could do more than breathe one scandalously hot sigh over Jess’s skin, Jess grabbed hold of his hair and pulled him back. Stoically ignoring the clingy way Frankie’s tangled spikes wrapped around his fingers, Jess said, “Will he keep his promise? If he tells Miranda, my life will be seriously fucked.”
“Well, it’s a good job you’re not too dramatic.”
Jess made as if to hop down from the barstool, and Frankie hastened to soothe.
“Now, now. Said he’d keep it close, didn’t he? He meant it. Adam’s as straight as they come, in every sense of the word. Unlike us.”
Frankie’s devilish grin was infectious. Jess scrunched his fingers in Frankie’s hair and grinned back when he bumped his head up into the touch like a cat.
“Unlike us,” Jess agreed.
“Yeah, we’re quite bent, us,” Frankie said.
Jess laughed, the near-miss adrenaline mixing with relief and the thrum of electricity that always ran through him like a current whenever Frankie was around.
“I like that. Bent. Is that a technical term?”
Frankie shrugged. “Better than the alternatives, innit? Now, if that’s settled . . .”
The dark, caressing tone in his voice made a quick chill run over Jess’s skin. He relaxed his hold on Frankie’s hair, allowing it to become more petting than restraining, and Frankie made a hum of enjoyment that melted Jess’s bones.
A cacophonous clatter of a large pan dropping and a shout of raucous laughter from the kitchen freaked Jess into a startled jump.
The move knocked Frankie back a step and broke the moment. Frankie half smirked at him while Jess fought to control his galloping heart rate.
“New rule,” he said firmly, very aware of what he was starting. “Never inside the restaurant. Agreed?”
Frankie surveyed him for a moment like a man presented with a feast, unable to decide where he’d like to begin. “Agreed. For the moment.”
“For the moment?”
“What can I say, Bit.” Frankie trailed his long fingers across Jess’s shoulder and turned to go. He tossed the last words over his shoulder, the picture of insouciance.
“I’ve never been much of one for rules.”
SEVENTEEN
Miranda slid into the booth at the back of the empty bar down the street from Market, wincing as the cracked vinyl of the seat scratched at her thighs.
“You’re late,” Robin Meeks accused, his pointed face pinched into an expression of discontent.
“Sorry,” she apologized, trying not to show how flustered she felt. It was an uncomfortable sensation. She could still feel the imprint of Adam’s hands on her skin as she stared across the table at the man who, for the last week, had eagerly spilled every tidbit of gossip or innuendo he could think of about the Market crew.
Rob shrugged jerkily, his thin shoulders bulked up by the white chef’s jacket he wore. They both had to get to Market to start prep for tonight’s dinner service, but he’d called Miranda’s cell to ask for a quick meeting beforehand.
“Do you have something for me?” she asked.
“Right to business, aren’t you?” Rob said, draining his glass. He was drinking something that Miranda at first took to be a soft drink, until she realized there was no ice. Rob gestured to the bartender for another. When the man moved to the tap and began drawing a draft, Miranda raised both eyebrows.
Catching the expression, Rob scowled. “What difference does it make?” he asked, surly. “Not like I have anything complicated to do in that kitchen. A trained monkey could make stock.”
Disdaining to remind him of the events of a week ago, when their stock hadn’t been up to Adam’s standards, Miranda pulled out her notebook and patiently attempted to work back to the main point.
“What’s up, Rob? Why did you ask for this meeting?”
Rob drank morosely. “I don’t know. I wanted to talk.”
Miranda suppressed a sigh. Rob didn’t really want to contribute