Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [65]
“About last night’s service? I thought it went pretty well.”
Rob snorted. “You would. Chef let you assist on sauté while I was stuck making that freaking stock and running dishes up to the pass all night. It’s not fair! I’m supposed to be learning, and Chef pays more attention to the damn dishwasher than he does to me.”
Miranda gripped her pen tightly. Rob was annoying, no question. The frequently whiny quality of his voice grated on the nerves. But that didn’t mean he was making this stuff up. With her own eyes, Miranda had seen Adam pass Rob over, time and again. And Rob was understandably frustrated.
None of which meant he was an invalid source, Miranda told herself. Information from disgruntled employees was the backbone of many famous news stories. Besides, every night when she got back to her apartment and started to write, she walked a careful line with what could be considered “libel.”
Like that makes it okay.
Firmly squashing the strengthening voice of her conscience, Miranda said, “I’m sorry you’re unhappy at Market. But Rob, I can’t drop everything to come meet you like this unless you have something for the book. We’re both supposed to be at Market right now, getting ready for tonight. I can’t afford to have Adam notice our joint absence and start connecting the dots. You can’t afford that, either.”
“Right,” Rob said, draining his beer and setting it down with a loud clink, as if he’d underestimated the distance between bottle and table. How many had he had? “Guess that means we don’t have time for my dirt on Chef Temple.”
His sly tone gave Miranda a chill. This was the first time Rob had intimated that there was anything negative to say about Adam. Miranda gripped her pen a little tighter.
“What dirt?”
Fingers playing in the condensation rings left by his beer mug, Rob smirked. The snotty expression didn’t quite cover the unhappiness in his squinty eyes.
“I saved the best for last,” Rob said. “Everyone thinks Chef Temple is so perfect, we all have to quake in our clogs when we see him coming down the line, but he’s no better than anyone else.”
Miranda forced a patience she didn’t feel. “Why do you say that?”
Rob leaned forward, lank hair falling across his forehead. “You know how he got the money to open the restaurant?” he demanded.
“He has investors,” Miranda said, taken aback. “That’s perfectly normal, isn’t it?” His financial backer was the one who’d forced Adam to let Miranda into his kitchen, Miranda remembered now. Eleanor Bonning. Claire had described her as “brusque.”
“Chef Temple has one investor. Uno. And he didn’t exactly make an appointment with her and submit a proposal, if you get what I mean.”
Miranda’s heartbeat fluttered into hummingbird speed. She wasn’t sure why. “No, I don’t.”
“Now, I’m not condemning the man. You do what you gotta do to get ahead in this business. But it’s pretty shady, all the same. That investor lady? Eleanor Whatsit? I heard she wasn’t going to give him the money, didn’t think he had enough experience or some shit. Then next thing you know, the chef’s wining and dining her, taking her out, they’re all over town together. The chef gets his deal, she signs the papers, and boom! He drops her like a hot skillet.”
Miranda felt sick. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Chef Temple fucked his way to the top. He did what it took to get his restaurant—not that it was a chore, I bet. That Eleanor chick is decent-looking, in a naughty-librarian kind of way.”
Abruptly unable to handle even one more word out of Rob, Miranda slid from the booth and stood. Her stomach was clenched in enough knots to make her fiercely glad she hadn’t drunk anything.
“Okay, thanks,” she said quickly. “I’ve got what I need, so I’m heading out.”
Rob was already looking past her, searching for the waiter. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Miranda nodded and left the bar, head whirling with unwelcome images.
Adam and Eleanor. They’d had a relationship. Worse than that, Adam had used that poor woman and then ruthlessly discarded her. A chill prickled across