Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [9]
Miranda felt heat scorch along her cheeks and neck, and wasn’t sure if it was from the vodka, the intensity of Adam Temple’s regard, or the gaze of fifty tipsy foodies. Probably a combination of all three.
There was an expectant silence, and the longer it went on, the more insufferably smug Temple’s expression became. Miranda shook herself slightly, attempting to reorient her brain.
What just happened? Did he seriously challenge me to spend a day in his kitchen?
And just like that, she was back.
She’d have to be a whole lot drunker than this to allow the opportunity of a lifetime to pass her by. This was her chance to move beyond magazine writing, to get that insider look that her book proposal was obviously lacking.
She looked him right in his smug, self-satisfied (gorgeous, sexy) face, and said, “I accept.”
He took a step back.
“What?”
“I said, I accept your challenge,” Miranda repeated. She was already itching for her notebook and pen. From here on out, everything was fodder for The Book. A Critic in the Kitchen. Or What the Chef Doesn’t Want You to Know. This was it, the angle she’d been looking for. A serious exposé of the gritty underbelly of American professional cooking, from the point of view of an embedded journalist.
She frowned. It was going to take more research than a single day, though.
Adam was frowning, too. Like a thundercloud.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
Miranda blinked, trying to look as guileless as possible. “I’m taking you up on your offer. Unrestricted access to your kitchen, your crew . . . and you.”
Adam blanched. “I didn’t offer that . . . Wait, what?”
“But yes, I heard you.” Claire appeared at Adam’s elbow, widening her eyes gravely. “You invited Miranda into your kitchen.”
“It was more of a dare, really,” Miranda pointed out, enjoying herself.
Claire waved a languid hand. “As you say. The important thing is that I’m sure Chef Temple would not wish to renege on his offer. Not when so many were here to witness it.”
Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again in a firm line. Miranda studiously avoided noticing how the angry set of his jaw made his dimples pop out.
He attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Maybe we could discuss the details later,” he said, belatedly cautious.
“That would be lovely,” Miranda cooed, already trying to work out how she could finagle a longer stint in Market’s kitchen.
“Certainly,” Claire agreed. “I’ll need to get input from the Délicieux editorial board as to what sort of piece Miranda will do.”
Miranda could almost hear Adam’s back teeth grinding. She smiled, alcohol and excitement fizzing through her veins.
And to think, she hadn’t wanted to come to the Market prelaunch party.
“Last night,” Grant moaned, “was a debacle. I’m so not ready to go clean that mess up. Thanks for having the postmortem at your place, Adam. I couldn’t face Market yet.”
“Not without a pot of strong coffee, no,” Adam called from the spacious kitchen, where he was searching for his French press. After an event like the preopening publicity party, he liked to meet with his top guys, in this case Frankie and Grant, to discuss how it went, what could’ve been better. He expected today’s meeting to be short. What was there to say beyond “we totally screwed the pooch”?
His apartment was actually the first floor of a small brick-front townhouse. It was a weird living space, comprised of two largish rooms. One was the kitchen and the other was the dining/living/bedroom. His bed was partially screened from the rest of the room by a wide bookcase, full of an assortment of cookbooks, science fiction novels, mysteries, and historical fiction—not that he had any down time for reading. All in all, the apartment was a tad cramped for company, but it suited Adam fine.
The