Miranda Wake, whom he’d done his best to run off this morning, who had every reason to resist or deny the evidence of her taste buds, who had, in fact, built her living and reputation on finding fault. Who hadn’t even blinked before telling him he was a genius.
Okay, not in so many words, but hey. Adam was prepared to mark this one down as a win for him, no question. Even if she’d immediately regretted her candor, retreating behind a sniffy attitude that said, “You may be able to cook, but you’re still an ass.” Which was fine, because he knew he’d been an ass to her. Damned if it was easy to keep disliking someone who so clearly enjoyed his food, though.
Miranda slanted him a suspicious glance, as if she knew what he was thinking and didn’t entirely approve. Adam took a stab at doing innocent who-me? eyes, but he forgot about that when she said, “Does it matter if I’ve ever worked in a kitchen before? This isn’t a job interview. I’m here for the duration, regardless of your feelings on the matter.”
And the dislike was back, bigger and better than ever. He could feel the blood throbbing in the vein above his left eyebrow. It must make him look like a cartoon villain, about to pop.
“Hey. I’m just trying make sure you’re not going to lose a finger if I ask you to dice veg for the mirepoix.”
She looked away. “I’ve cooked at home. And I spent time at the Academy of Culinary Arts.”
“Seriously?” Adam blinked, surprised. The Academy of Culinary Arts in upstate New York was the most prestigious cooking school in the country. He never would’ve taken her for an Academy grad. “You trained at the ACA?”
She blushed, all up her cheeks and down her neck. Adam wanted to know if the flush extended past the stiff collar of her navy blue suit.
“I worked there. In the offices,” she clarified. “Occasionally, I had the chance to observe the classes, but I was never an official participant in the program.”
Interesting. More clues. Adam was filing them all away, every tidbit she let fall about herself. Never knew what might be useful later. He wondered if that job at the ACA was before or after her parents died. How young must she have been?
“It’s just as well,” he told her. “ACA grads always think they know more than they do. Chances are I would’ve had to teach you everything from scratch anyway.”
“So I’m actually going to be cooking?” she asked.
“What, you thought you’d be sitting around looking pretty and taking notes? No way. Everyone in my kitchen works.”
“Especially you, right, Chef?” Frankie fluttered his eyelashes.
Miranda buttoned up her mouth like she was trying not to laugh. Adam narrowed his eyes at Frankie and said, “No sarcasm in the kitchen. Makes the food taste bitter.”
He tilted his head at Miranda, letting himself loom over her a little. “You know what happens to cheeky cooks in my kitchen, Wake?”
She lifted her chin coolly. “What?”
“They get assigned to make stock.”
There was a chorus of groans around the kitchen. No one liked the daily slog of making the huge pots of veal stock, chicken stock, fish stock, demi-glace and consommé that formed the base for nearly every sauce that made it onto a Market plate. It was repetitive and basic, boring, but they’d all done their time at Adam’s insistence.
“Stock isn’t fun. It isn’t sexy,” he told Miranda. “But it’s essential. Without it, you have only canned, processed sauces that taste like stale chemicals, or thin, watery concoctions that taste like nothing. We use fresh every day.”
“What do you do with the leftovers?”
“Use them for the family meal—the communal dinner the staff eats together before service. Or for testing recipes. Stuff like that.”
He assessed her for a long moment, wondering if he could trust her with the stock. “Might be a good station for you to get your feet wet,” he mused aloud. “It’d be a way for me to see what you’ve got, and it’s simple enough that I don’t really see how you can mess it up. Stocks are Rob’s responsibility right now, and I’m sure he’d love some help.”
She looked around. “Rob? Is he here today?”
“Nope. You’ll like him, though. Academy extern, all uptight and eager to please.” He grinned. “Unlike the rest of my pirates. Come on, let’s do the meet and greet.”
Man, this was going to be fun.
Miranda flipped to a new page and shook her fountain pen to make sure there was plenty of ink. Nothing about this day was going quite as she’d expected, from Jess telling Adam about their parents to the chef’s changeable moods and mouthwateringly sensual food. She had no idea what the kitchen staff would be like, although she suspected Adam planned to use them to frighten her into backing out.
“Okay,” Adam said. “You already met Frankie. And once is usually enough for most people.”
“Tosser! I heard that,” Frankie yelled from the walk-in.
Adam grinned and steered Miranda toward a towering black man with burn marks scoring his forearms all the way to the elbow. He was chopping shallots, his knife flashing faster than the eye could follow.
“Quentin, I need a minute.”
“Yo,” Quentin replied. “Yeah, boss. What’s up.” Everything Quentin said was a statement, not a question. He had a deep, slow voice that seemed to resonate up from the pit of his stomach, and his knife never stopped moving as he talked.
“Wanna introduce the newest addition to our kitchen. Miranda Wake, this is Quentin Thomas, master of the sauté, the braise, poaching—basically, anything that involves meat cooked with liquid. Q is the man.”
Quentin slid Miranda a considering look and said, “Yeah. You’re the writer.”
Again, a simple declarative statement, but she found herself nodding anyway. “I’d love to interview you, sometime. Just a few questions—”
Quentin’s big shoulders humped over the cutting board, and Miranda stopped talking, disconcerted.
“Whoops,” Adam said, as he took her elbow and whirled her around. “Moving on. Later, Q.”
“Later,” the large man said, his knife still chopping in unbroken rhythm.
Adam pulled Miranda closer and said in a low voice, “Should’ve warned you. You’re not going to be interviewing Quentin. Like, ever. In fact, don’t address him with a question at all.”
“Why on earth not?” Miranda had never heard anything so preposterous.
Adam shrugged. “He doesn’t like it. Won’t answer.”
“And you haven’t bothered to find out why?” Miranda pursued.
“I respect his privacy. And his knife skills.”
“All right,” Miranda said, refusing to be thrown. “I’ll just observe him, then.”
Adam shook his head, and Miranda caught a hint of dimple. “That’s what you really like, isn’t it? Observing.”
“It’s a necessary prelude to any good writing,” she agreed stiffly, “but especially to reviewing. Details are important.”
“Sure. And I bet you rock at the detail stuff. But that’s not why you like it.”
Miranda arched a brow. “No?”
“Nope. Hey, Violet’s here!” He tugged Miranda toward a wide wooden table along the back wall where a diminutive woman was turning a huge ball of dough out onto the floured surface.
That was it? Miranda wanted to demand just what the hell Adam meant by that remark, but couldn’t bring herself to start a squabble in front of an audience. Twice in two days was twice too many for her.
Besides, there was part of her that wasn’t sure she’d like Adam’s answer.
“Violet Porter is our pastry chef slash bread genius. If there’s anyone who can rival Quentin for number of burn marks, it’s Vi.”
The tiny woman flashed a broad smile and dusted enough flour from her arms to display rows of shiny pink scar tissue. “Ovens are hot,” she said cheerfully. “And bread pans are heavy. Not a great combo.”
She had a round, cherubic face with apple cheeks and sparkling brown eyes that
turned sly when she poked Adam with a floury finger.
“So this is her, right? Your critic.”
Remarkably, Adam colored slightly. Clearing his throat, he said, “This is Miranda Wake. She’s going to be observing”—there was that word again, and now that she was listening for it, Miranda could hear the odd stress he put on it—“and helping out in the kitchen for a few weeks.”
The pastry chef looked Miranda up and down. “Wow. High heels. That’s going to be a barrel of monkeys during service. Délicieux magazine, right?” Violet grabbed the ball of dough in one hand and slammed it down on the table, making Miranda jump.
“Yes,” she confirmed. Violet folded the dough in a practiced motion, then picked it up and threw it down again. Miranda managed not to flinch at the loud smack of dough on table, but it wasn’t easy.
“I’ve read your stuff,” Violet said conversationally. “It’s good.”
WHAM.
“Thank you,” Miranda said.
WHAM.
“You know your way around an insult. I respect that.”
WHAM.
Miranda got the feeling Violet’s sweetness of face might be misleading. She slanted a glance at Adam. The dimples were out in full force, whatever embarrassment he’d momentarily felt clearly gone.
“I’m paid to express my opinion in an entertaining and informative way,” Miranda said.
WHAM.
“Hmm. I’m paid to knead, heft, and work with hundreds of pounds of bread dough a day. I’ve got wicked upper body strength, let me tell you.”
WHAM. This time accompanied by a narrow glare.
“That’s . . . nice,” Miranda said, glancing at Adam for help. He shrugged, spreading his hands in a what-can-I-say gesture, but then he clasped Violet’s shoulder and said, “Ease up a little, Vi. You don’t want to overwork that dough.”
As they walked away, Miranda whispered, “Am I imagining things, or did your pastry chef just threaten me?”
Adam chuckled. He was having far too good a time with this. “She’s a kick in the pants. Swear to God, Violet’s the toughest cook in this kitchen, and that’s putting her up against an ex-con, an ex-gang member, whatever the hell Quentin is, and Milo D’Amico. Although Milo’s not really dangerous, himself, are you, buddy?” He swung a companionable arm over the shoulders of a gangly kid standing at the sink rinsing leeks.
“Nah,” the kid said, flashing a grin at Miranda. His straight, white teeth made a striking contrast to his dark Mediterranean complexion. “My family is.”
Milo winked broadly, and Miranda wondered if that was Family with a capital F.
“Milo runs the garde-manger station, responsible for all the salads and cold apps. He’s a whiz with vegetable garnishes.”
The young man twirled a paring knife, boasting, “I can carve a radish to look like your grandmother.”
“Wonderful,” Miranda said, biting the inside of her cheek. “My grandmother would be so pleased. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hey, you, too, beautiful,” Milo said, winking again.
“Knock it off.” Adam wrestled the kid around to face the sink again, laughing. “Back to work, amico.”
Another bank of sinks skirted the corner of the kitchen and Adam bounced over to ruffle the dark hair of a wiry kid in a stained apron who stood over a towering stack of dirty pots and pans.
“This here,” Adam said, “is the most important guy in the kitchen. Without this dude, all is lost.”
The boy turned to Adam with a smile, and Miranda saw that he was older than she’d originally thought. His smooth bronze skin and dark chocolate eyes proclaimed his Latino heritage.
“You only say that to make me work harder,” the young man said with an air of wisdom.
“No one could possibly work harder than you,” Adam retorted. “We can barely keep up.” He shook his head in mock despair at Miranda. “Supplying Billy with a constant stream of dirty dishes is a job of work.”
The young man turned, obviously surprised. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
She could practically see the wheels turning as he took in her uncheflike appearance—no white coat, no clogs, no twinkle of cheerful insanity in her eye.
“Billy Perez,” he said. “I won’t shake your hand ’cause mine’re covered in something nasty.”
“I appreciate that,” she told him.
Adam jumped in and explained who she was and what she was doing at Market, and Miranda tuned him out. She didn’t particularly care to hear him call her an “observer” again. That word was starting to annoy her.
As Adam led her away from the sink he leaned over and said, low, “That kid’s gonna be big.”
She shot him a questioning look, and he shrugged.
“It’s something you know in your gut when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, the ability to spot talent. I wasn’t blowing smoke—the boy’s a worker. And he’s hungry to learn. It’s a consistently winning combination.”
“Does he have ambitions to be a chef?” Miranda wanted to know.
Adam eyed her askance. “Sweetheart, nobody works a backbreaking shit job like dishwasher if they don’t want to move up in the kitchen. There’s other ways to make minimum wage. Ways that are less smelly.”
Miranda pondered that while flipping to a new page in her notebook. She jotted a few notes, wanting to be able to capture it later. There was some really good stuff here, not the least of which was the executive chef and owner.
Adam Temple. Captain of this motley crew, fearless leader, and coconspirator all rolled into one. Miranda looked up from her notes to find he’d been drawn into a conversation with Frankie. It looked fairly serious, their two dark heads bent close together, examining something in a copper pot on the range. Adam was adding pinches from Frankie’s assembled bowls of ingredients and stirring them in with a long wooden spoon. After every addition, they’d each grab a clean tasting spoon and sample the new mixture.
Next to Frankie, Adam should seem short—the sous-chef had at least four inches on him. And yet, there was something in Adam’s stance and presence that was undiminished, no matter who he stood beside. He radiated vitality and an intense interest in all the doings and workings of the kitchen. Every cook, every ingredient, every tool—he was proud of it all, and his passion for what he was doing fascinated Miranda.
It was so foreign to the way she approached her work. Writing restaurant reviews was a job. A good job, one she’d pushed hard to get, and continued to strive to do well. But it was still, in the end, work.
Adam didn’t work in the kitchen. He lived it, breathed it, embodied it.
What worried Miranda—the thought that was going to keep her awake tonight—was the fact that a part of her yearned toward the warmth of Adam’s intensity. To be the focus of so much passion . . . Miranda shivered, ruthlessly quashing any speculation on the way Adam’s blunt callused hands would feel on her skin.
It was pointless to speculate. Adam Temple, Miranda was beginning to suspect, was a true believer. A fanatic, in his way, and that passion of his was all reserved for Market. Any woman hoping to bask in his warmth would have to be content with the reflected glow off his love for the restaurant.
Not that Miranda was that woman. Not at all. Besides the fact that he’d made it clear he resented every moment he was forced to spend in her company, she was a professional.
She was here to do a job. Nothing more.
Firming her mouth, she snapped the notebook shut and ignored the slight ache of longing. She’d learned the trick of it a long time ago, and she’d do well to remember it now. The key to happiness, or at least, the key to contentment.
Don’t want what you can’t have.
SEVEN
Market’s nonpublic areas were cooler even than the dining rooms. Jess thought so, anyway. He liked to see the things most people didn’t have access to, the dim, poky back stairway, the changing room, the unisex bathroom the staff shared.
Grant had given
him the abbreviated tour on the way to Adam’s office where they’d do the interview. The restaurant manager was younger than Jess would’ve expected for someone in that position, especially in a hot new Manhattan eatery. Disconcertingly good-looking, in a preppy way, with his sunny blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Not that Jess was going to do anything about that.
Here, with people Miranda knew? Not to mention around people he himself would hopefully be working with.
Jess was going for the super straight-arrow vibe in a big way.
“This could all work out real well,” Grant was saying. “We’ve been having kind of a tough time staffing front of house, and Adam mentioned you have some experience with fine dining?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, yes. I waited tables through high school, upstate where we grew up, and I worked at the best restaurant in Brandewine for two years.”
“Brandewine?”
“Where I went to school. It’s in the Midwest.” Jess tensed in expectation of the full interrogation, but Grant only nodded and changed the subject.
“Boss’s office is back here. It’s a hike—I’m real thankful the kitchen’s not down here, too. I’ve worked restaurants in Manhattan that were set up like that, and they were hell on the knees, let me tell you. All that running up and down stairs in the middle of rush dinner service! Awful.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, and Jess let himself smile. Not too much; there were all kinds of cues, and Jess knew how to project the ones he wanted.
“But what can you do in Manhattan?” Grant continued. “Space is at a premium, you can only build up or down. We use the basement mostly for storage. Some pantry items are kept down here, and there’s a walk-in cooler. And of course, office space,” he finished, as they reached the end of the hall.
There was a handwritten sign posted on the metal door that said BOSS IS in large black letters, and beside it, a cockeyed paper tag that read IN THE KITCHEN. Scattered around the door were other possible ends to the sentence. Jess read HAGGLING WITH SUPPLIERS, AT THE UNION SQUARE GREENMARKET, and A WANKER, before Grant pushed open the door and led him inside.
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