Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [76]
“My boy Christian, here, is a master mixologist,” said Adam. “Any cocktail you can think of, he can make. And probably tell you the history of it, too.”
“Then I’ll let him surprise me.”
“How about I give you what Adam’s getting, then? My own creation, called a Ginger Lemonade.”
“That sounds perfect,” Miranda said. “Thanks.” She reached for her purse, but Adam stayed her hand.
“Nuh-uh. Tonight’s on me, remember?”
“For the crew,” Miranda argued, shaking her wallet at him.
“You’re part of the crew,” Adam said, and the world around Miranda seemed to stop.
That cemented it. There was no way she could publish that book now. She’d gotten too close, lost all objectivity. Maybe it was weak of her, maybe it meant she’d never be a serious journalist, but the relief that flooded her system when she thought of backing out of her publishing contract convinced her it was the right decision.
Adam glanced over and gave her that long, slow smile, the one that lit him from within. Miranda smiled back with no guilty secrets pressing on her heart. It felt so damned good.
While Christian mixed, stirred, shook, and strained, Adam squinted down the bar, checking out the other patrons.
“I think I’ve worked with at least half the guys in here.”
“Cooking is a very incestuous business,” Miranda observed.
Adam whistled low and pointed to the far corner of the bar where a man sat hunched and alone.
“Speaking of guys I’ve worked with,” he said. “Yo, Dev!”
Miranda felt a chill tighten the hair at the nape of her neck. Crap, if this was who she thought it was . . .
With a sense of inevitability, Miranda watched as megastar superchef Devon Sparks raised his head.
He looked strained and exhausted as he scanned the bar, but when his eyes lit on Adam, and Miranda next to him, one sardonic eyebrow rose almost to his hairline. He stood up and Miranda clenched her teeth against a reflexive Oh, shit.
Devon sauntered over, a vision of movie-star handsomeness with his artfully tousled mink-brown hair, ice-blue eyes, and overly articulated bone structure. The collar of his black sport coat was turned up, as if against a cold gusting wind, giving his already dramatic visage a boost of gothic mystery.
“What have we here?” he asked in that smooth, TV-perfect voice. “Two of my favorite people having a cozy little drink in the best bar in town.”
“You ready for another, Dev?” Christian asked, sliding Adam’s and Miranda’s drinks across the bar.
“I’ll have whatever they’re drinking,” Devon said without taking his eyes off Miranda.
There was nothing objectionable in any of his comments or even his manner, but somehow the entire interaction reeked of Devon Sparks’s contempt for Miranda and everything she stood for.
“Chef Sparks,” she said, keeping it as cordial as possible. “I’d never have expected you to frequent a place like this.”
“Oh, Devon’s an old regular at Chapel,” Adam said easily. Was he oblivious to the undercurrents of tension throbbing between his ex-boss and Miranda?
“Yes. And I still enjoy slumming occasionally.” Devon’s lip curled slightly and Miranda revised her opinion of him from Overrated Asshole Chef to just plain Asshole.
“Fuck you.” Adam chuckled. “You can’t go a week without this place. We remind you where you came from.”
“Yeah, before you got all high and mighty,” Christian put in, handing Devon a Ginger Lemonade.
In all the tension, Miranda had neglected to taste her cocktail and the glass was starting to get slippery with condensation. She took a sip and nearly gasped as concentrated spicy ginger burst over her tongue. The sweet, hot ginger and the cool, tart lemon contrasted beautifully with the subtly herbal flavor of the gin, and Miranda knew she was going to have to watch out.
She couldn’t afford a repeat of the rose-berry-vodka incident.
“This is a winner, man,” Adam was saying to Christian. “Perfect for summer. I could drink these all damn night.”
Devon’s attention was still