Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [97]
But the waffles were really going to be delicious, and Miranda’s mouth was set in an unhappy line that didn’t invite kisses. Adam restricted himself to a smile.
“Find everything okay?”
She nodded and dropped into one of the chairs he kept near the movable butcher-block cart for when he wanted to sit while performing prep tasks like shucking corn or snapping peas from their pods.
Fingering the shirt with mock disdain, Miranda said, “I’m afraid this relationship is already on the rocks, though. Are you a Yankees fan?”
Her tone suggested that she could have substituted “serial killer” for “Yankees fan.”
Adam gave her a cheeky grin, but inside he was doing a victory dance. She called it a relationship! Score.
Maybe it was weird that he liked that word. At least when it came to Miranda. Adam didn’t know and didn’t care. Something about the matter-of-fact way it came tripping off her tongue nearly made him giddy enough to forget to level the cake flour.
“I’m a born-and-bred New Yorker,” he told her, emptying the hopefully correct amount of flour into the cornmeal mixture. “Of course I’m a Yankees fan.”
“You could be a Mets fan,” she grumbled. “You know, if you had a soul.”
“I enjoy watching a team that wins.” Adam shrugged. “Sue me.”
Miranda sniffed, obviously unconvinced. Adam imagined taking her to a game, buying hot dogs and popcorn and cotton candy and beer, getting all rowdy with the diehards in the nosebleed section, where he liked to sit.
He pictured her perched ramrod straight on the bleachers. Probably wearing a Red Sox jersey, just to make a point. He’d sit back and let the nosebleeders hassle her until she finally got pissed enough to scrap with them. All of which would be better entertainment than any ball game Adam had ever been to. Something about the way Miranda held her own in a fight, never backing down from what she wanted, turned him right the hell on.
Smiling to himself at the thought, Adam whisked in the eggs and the melted butter, taking care to pull the heavy stoneground cornmeal up from the bottom of the bowl and mix it in well.
“What are you making?” Miranda asked. “And what are you wearing?”
Adam looked down at himself, wondering what shirt he’d grabbed.
Ah-ha. He’d thought it was white in the dim light of the bedroom, but out in the kitchen it was clearly pink. The front bore large block letters stating: MEAT IS MURDER. TASTY, TASTY MURDER.
“What?” he said. “You don’t like it? I already know you’re not a vegetarian. That would’ve killed this relationship before it ever got started.”
He took smug pleasure in stressing the R-word.
“No.” Miranda laughed. “Not a vegetarian. There aren’t a lot of successful restaurant critics with hard-and-fast dietary restrictions. Anyway, even if I’d been toying with the idea, one bite of that pork belly you made a couple of weeks ago would’ve converted me.”
“Ah, bacon,” Adam said blissfully. “Fresh or cured, it’s the gateway meat. Speaking of which, can you grab it out of the icebox?”
Miranda unfolded herself from the chair, flashing an enticing length of creamy thigh in the process.
“It’s in the white paper wrapper, a big hunk,” Adam told her. “I got it at the market yesterday. The guy said it was slow cured, then smoked over applewood. We’ll need, like, four thin slices.”
“Okay.”
Miranda pulled the scarred maple cutting board from its hook on the wall, and retrieved an eight-inch blade from the magnetic strip under the cabinets. Adam admitted to himself that it gave him a high like the strongest jolt of espresso to see her moving so confidently around his kitchen.
“To answer your other question,” he said, “we’re making cornmeal waffles. Here, now cut those bacon slices in half. We’re gonna lay them in the waffle iron with the batter, so they fry right in. It’s awesome, the rendered fat from the bacon makes the waffles all crisp and golden, not oily