Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [69]
So it was with real sincerity that he said, “I’m serious. I wanted you to learn to cook, and you’re well on your way.”
That made her laugh out loud, the sound tinged with a bitterness that bewildered Adam. What was going on with her?
“Now I know you’re lying,” she accused.
He thought of some of the culinary crimes perpetrated by the lovely woman in front of him, from the overpoached eggs to the scalded-milk debacle to the mess she’d made of a simple roasted chicken, and squinted one eye shut. “Okay, maybe ‘well on your way’ is overstating it. But you’re trying and that’s what counts. You know, since I’m not paying you or being forced to eat your cooking.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and Miranda loosened up enough to slug him in the chest. Adam grinned.
“All I meant was, and ouch, by the way, was that there’s more than one way to work in the kitchen and every job is important. That’s what privileged culinary-school brats like Rob Meeks don’t get. He thinks he’s better than a mere dishwasher because he’s got some classroom training. But Billy Perez has been here since day one, working his ass off doing whatever is asked of him and paying attention. I’d lay you better than even odds he could do nearly any job in here. Whereas Rob can barely manage to show up for his shift on time, and when he is here, he’s usually too busy kissing my ass to do his job.”
“But Rob has had a lot of specialized training,” Miranda pointed out. “It seems like he’d be a more valuable asset than someone with no experience.”
Adam shrugged. “It does seem that way. I don’t know, all I can tell you is that from what I’ve seen, hard work and potential? They trump experience every single time.” He led her up toward the pass where it was quieter, a little out of the way of the cheerful chaos of the kitchen.
“Interesting,” Miranda said. “So, do you think Billy has the potential to do your job?”
Her tone was half teasing, half combative, but Adam took it seriously. “I do, actually. Maybe not tonight, but someday. Yeah. He’s got it.”
“What?” she pushed, frustrated as always with Adam’s inability to articulate.
Adam rocked on his heels, trying to put the indefinable into words. “Billy Perez has ‘it,’ that fire, passion, drive for perfection, insanity”—he laughed—“whatever you want to call it.”
“Ambition?” she asked, trying to pin it down.
“It’s more than that. It’s more than a love of food or cooking, or a need to succeed. I mean, it’s all of those things, but other things, too. Sorry, I suck as an interview subject.” He kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. This was the only time Adam ever felt self-conscious in his whole life, practically, when Miranda was staring at him with those laser eyes, trying to yank a coherent response to some question out of him like tugging the wishbone from a goose.
“No,” she surprised him by saying. “I’ve learned a lot from you these past few days.”
For a moment it seemed as if there were more she wanted to say. He could almost see the words forming in her mouth, but she pressed her lips together in an almost unhappy line instead. And then she flushed a little in that way he loved and it made Adam smile, his momentary awkwardness and her strange air of sadness forgotten.
“And tonight, you’re gonna learn even more,” he said grandly, sweeping one arm out to encompass the long horizontal opening onto the dining room.
“Oui, chef,” she said, saluting smartly, and Adam loved the way her blue eyes sparkled in the harsh kitchen lights. That feeling was back, that top-of-the-world mojo, and he knew down to the soles of his feet that this was going to be a night to remember.
EIGHTEEN
What a difference a week makes, Miranda thought. A few short days ago, she’d confidently believed in the version of Market she’d presented to her publisher, with a cocky, overrated chef, terrible working conditions, and employees who were the very next thing