Can't Stand The Heat

by Louisa Edwards

  “No,” Miranda retorted, making Adam’s eyes fly open. “As you enjoy repeatedly reminding me, you’re the boss here. So where is this alleged cooking lesson going to take place?”

  Rattled, Adam made a split-second decision. “My place,” he said decisively. “There’s plenty of room, and I know how everything works.”

  “Your place?” She sounded uncertain. Adam guessed he couldn’t blame her. After that kiss—Down, boy—it sounded a little like an elaborate plan to get into her pants.

  “It’s not like I’m asking you up to see my etchings or something,” he said, attempting to be reassuring. “We’re gonna cook. That’s it.”

  “Hmph. Unless you decide to do something else, just for the fun of it,” she muttered underneath her breath. But she didn’t make any real protest, and the lines of suspicion next to her mouth softened—Christ, I’m cataloguing her expressions, too?—so Adam figured they were good to go.

  Taking off across the street at a slow lope, he called over his shoulder, “I want to hit the market, get some supplies.” When she didn’t move, he turned around and walked backward for a few steps, spreading his arms as a cab zoomed between them, inches from his pelvis. Adam took a moment to be grateful that his dick had absorbed its earlier chastisement. “You coming or what?”

  Primming her mouth like a schoolteacher, Miranda waited very correctly for another car to go by before stepping off the curb and crossing the street. Adam supposed she would’ve preferred to go all the way down to the corner to avoid jaywalking. Something about this woman just tickled the hell out of him, and he knew he was grinning by the time she reached him.

  The Seventy-seventh Street market wasn’t as big or as varied as the Union Square Greenmarket, but it was convenient. Adam knew some of the vendors pretty well from popping over to grab ingredients when he couldn’t wait for his regular suppliers, or when he only needed a tiny amount to tide him over.

  “There’s a good dairy stand,” he told Miranda. “On the far corner. Not as amazing as Dava Whitehurst’s, downtown—this one doesn’t have goat cheese or crème fraîche.”

  “I remember Dava,” Miranda said. “She was quite a unique person.”

  Adam slid her a look out of the corner of his eye, trying to see if she meant that in a bad way. But it didn’t seem like she did. Her face was open and bright, taking in everything with that look that said she was taking reams of mental notes.

  “Dava’s a character,” Adam agreed. “I think you can taste it in her product. There’s something a little different about all her stuff, from the milk and eggs to the chèvre with lavender and honey.”

  Miranda gave him an intrigued, if skeptical, glance. “You can taste that?”

  Adam shrugged. “Maybe it’s all in my head. But it’s not like the brain has nothing to do with taste. Who’s to say my perception of Dava’s dairy produce is less valid just because my knowledge of her as a person influences it? But ‘influence’ isn’t the word I want.” He closed one eye, shuffling through synonyms for the right term.

  “Enhance,” Miranda said. “Your personal relationship with Dava enhances your experience of her food.”

  “Exactly,” Adam said, thrilled. She totally got it. “That’s what I’m trying to do with Market,” he said, getting warmed up. “I want people to feel connected to what they eat, to get that level of enjoyment out of it.”

  They passed a flower stand and Miranda hovered by the peonies before smiling at the vendor and moving on. “But how can you expect people to taste what you taste when most of them will never meet Dava? Are you going to organize tours of the Greenmarket?”

  The idea lit up Adam’s mind like the power burner on his Viking range.

  “I love that.” He beamed. “No, really, I think I might do that. Maybe an early-morning tour of the Union Square Greenmarket, some lessons on picking produce, followed by lunch at the restaurant. You’re a serious genius!”

  He grabbed Miranda by the waist and twirled her around, laughing. She gasped, her cherubic little mouth a perfect O of surprise, before she smacked at his shoulder with one hand.

  “Put me down, you idiot,” she said, tart as vinegar, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  Adam wrinkled his nose at her and let her feet kiss pavement.

  He didn’t unhand her waist, though, and after only a second Miranda’s pretty pink flush kicked in.

  “That’s what I was waiting for,” he said, filled with satisfaction.

  “What?” she asked, a tiny bit breathless as she pulled away and cast a glance around as if hoping no one had noticed her in his arms. Adam could’ve told her that everyone had probably noticed, but no one had cared. This was New York. Weirder shit happened all the time than two happy people in a clinch.

  Instead he said, “That blush. I like it when your cheeks match your hair.”

  She blushed even harder, but stuck her nose in the air and said, “I happen to be very susceptible to changes in altitude. The blood rushed to my head as a purely physical reaction to being lifted.”

  Adam snorted and went back to looking for the dairy stall. “Right. And I suppose you kissed me earlier as a purely physical reaction to being belowground, in a basement stairwell.”

  “I—You kissed me,” she cried. She looked ready to stomp her little foot in frustration.

  “Yeah, but you kissed me back.” Adam thought it was only reasonable to point that out.

  Miranda threw her hands up in despair. Adam noted with interest the way the movement made the crisscrossing fabric of her dress gape a little right at the best possible spot.

  Maybe it made him a pervert, but Adam defied any red-blooded straight man not to sneak a peek at lacy underthings whenever he had the opportunity. Especially if said opportunity took place while the aforementioned lacy underthings were being worn by a smoking hottie like Miranda Wake.

  The prim-and-proper aspiring authoress wore a see-through bra made of aqua netting, with a teeny pink silk rosebud adorning the fabric between her breasts. All this underneath her plain, gray, suitable-for-the-office dress.

  Got to love a woman of contradictions, Adam reflected as they moved through the market. Right next to a stooped, elderly lady selling honey was the dairy stand. A tall black woman wearing a multicolored kerchief studded with gold charms wrapped around her short hair stood serenely behind the folding table.

  “Miss Yvonne,” Adam greeted her. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know,” she said in her slow, rich voice. “It’s going all right. Who’s your girl?”

  “Miranda Wake,” the girl in question said without waiting for Adam to introduce her. She held out a hand and Miss Yvonne took it languidly, casting a sharp eye over at Adam.

  “Pretty,” Miss Yvonne said. “You sure got an eye, boy. But this one’s got a sweetness to her, like fresh milk.” Miss Yvonne nodded her head, making her jewelry chime softly.

  Adam flashed a grin, hoping Miranda didn’t catch that somewhat veiled reference to Eleanor Bonning. Eleanor hadn’t been superpopular with the market vendors—she was a little chilly, a little formal, and a lot picky. Miranda, for all her prickly attitude, was looking around the market like a wide-eyed kid in a toy store, drinking in everything. That kind of openness and interest would endear her to Miss Yvonne faster than anything.

  “Pretty,” Adam agreed, “sure, but she’s a disaster in the kitchen. I’m teaching her to cook, starting with eggs.”

  “I know how to cook eggs,” Miranda protested.

  Ignoring her, Adam said, “Can I have a pound of unsalted butter and a dozen of the free-range ones, freshest you’ve got?”

  Miss Yvonne nodded, but didn’t move. She pursed her lips. Adam followed her gaze to Miranda, who crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You’re right,” Adam said. “Better make it two dozen.”

  Miranda was still fuming when Adam let her into his redbrick townhouse. In spite of her annoyance—a master chef, and all he’d teach
her to make was eggs? What a waste of time—Miranda observed that Adam’s street was quiet and tree-lined, across from a small park with a baseball diamond.

  “Ancient building,” Adam explained as he juggled the shopping bag while trying to get his enormous key to turn. “Chock full of charm, somewhat low on the modern conveniences.”

  “Like a working lock?” Miranda took the shopping bag from his arm, and Adam flashed her a grateful smile. Without the hindrance of a sackful of fragile food items, Adam put his back into it and managed to jimmy the stubborn lock open.

  Stepping aside to let Miranda through, he said, “Keep in mind I wasn’t planning on having any visitors today.”

  He sounded nervous, and Miranda went inside expecting to see some shameful evidence of bachelor living, like porn magazines on the coffee table or empty takeout boxes stacked to the ceiling.

  But there was nothing like that. The place wasn’t neat as a pin, but it wasn’t overrun by dust bunnies, either.

  Honey-colored hardwood floors gleamed under the natural light coming in from a pair of sliding doors at the back of the apartment. She could see that outside there was a postage-stamp patio edging a small backyard, green with foliage and grass.

  Drawn to the unusual sight of an urban garden, Miranda walked over to the glass doors before realizing that put her squarely in the man’s bedroom area. It was cut off from the rest of the apartment by a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, so she hadn’t noticed the low platform bed.

  Rumpled navy blue sheets were twined together with a charcoal gray and blue glen plaid coverlet. The bed itself was wide and soft looking, and Miranda became aware of exactly how little sleep she’d gotten the night before. Surely that was the reason for her sudden, overwhelming desire to crawl in and snuggle down.

  “Bed’s not made, sorry,” Adam apologized, still with that edge of discomfort in his voice.

  “No, I shouldn’t have . . .” Miranda stopped, feeling extremely awkward.

  Why had he kissed her earlier? It made everything so much more fraught and difficult. As if it hadn’t already been tense enough between them.

  Adam cleared his throat and said, “Kitchen’s through here.”

  Miranda followed where he led with relief, barely aware of the living room with its ratty couch and screaming music posters.

  As soon as they hit the kitchen, Adam bounced back from whatever attack of nerves he’d been suffering. Miranda could certainly see why—this kitchen would lift anyone’s spirits.

  “I’ve never seen a kitchen this big in an apartment this size,” she said, marveling at the expanse of granite countertop laid out before her.

  Running a hand over the smooth chocolate-flecked granite, Adam said, “Yeah, it’s awesome. Technically, though, the kitchen isn’t just for this apartment. It used to be the kitchen for the whole house. It’s only in the last year that the building was converted to two apartments.”

  “What a shame,” Miranda said. Catching sight of Adam’s raised eyebrows, she amended, “Well, it’s nice for you, of course! But what a gorgeous place this must’ve been when it was all one home.”

  “It was,” Adam agreed. Something in his voice made Miranda leave off checking out the cabinetry and take a closer look at him.

  He saw her looking and quirked a half-smile. Shrugging his shoulders as if to rid himself of an unwanted burden, he said, “I grew up here. This is my parents’ house. Or it was, before they moved down to Florida.”

  Miranda wasn’t sure how to respond. He obviously wasn’t thrilled about the situation, but he must’ve had his reasons for renting out the top floor.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “And anyway, it’s not a permanent situation. Once the restaurant gets going, I’ll get my house back. And until then, I’m not here all that much anyway. In fact, I think this may be the longest I’ve spent here awake in the past five days.”

  Miranda bit her lip. He was renting out his home to help finance the restaurant. She thought of all the terrible things Robin Meeks had told her the night before, and started to feel a niggle of sympathy for Adam. Starting a new business was extremely expensive. Maybe he’d hired those cooks because he couldn’t pay well-trained employees with no arrest records. Maybe ex-cons and thrill junkies were all he could afford.

  Which works out great for me, she reminded herself. Without those colorful characters, my kitchen exposé would be pretty tame.

  Adam crouched and started searching through the lower cabinets, rattling pots and pans loudly enough to jar Miranda from her thoughts.

  With a triumphant exclamation, he wrestled out a large stockpot and carried it to the sink. He flicked on the water and let it fill the pot about halfway, then heaved the pot over to the stovetop.

  “Hard-boiled eggs?” Miranda guessed. “I hate to tell you this, but I was in charge of the Easter egg hunt at my church, growing up. I know how to boil an egg.”

  “Sure, but can you poach one?” Adam asked. “One of the simplest preparations known to man, but there’s a whole boatload of shit that can go wrong with it.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me. I’ve never poached an egg.”

  “You will today,” Adam stated, cranking the heat up all the way on the burner under the pot.

  “Should I put the eggs in the refrigerator?” Miranda asked.

  “Nah, leave them. They’re perfect for cooking at room temp. If they’re chilled, it takes them longer to catch up to the rest of the ingredients. And for boiling or poaching or anything involving water? Forget about it.”

  “Then I guess I’ve already learned something.”

  “Let’s see how far we still have to go. How would you get a poached egg?”

  She frowned over at him to see if he was kidding. “The truth? I’d order it at a restaurant, usually as part of eggs Benedict.”

  He laughed. “That’s what I thought. But you can have poached eggs right in the comfort of your own home, as long as you have heat, water, and a pan.”

  “And eggs,” she couldn’t resist saying.

  Adam inclined his head gravely. “Correct. Gee, you’re a fast learner. Okay, are you watching the water?”

  “I thought a watched pot never boiled.”

  “All right, that’s about enough out of you.” Adam brandished a wooden spoon he’d retrieved from a drawer, and Miranda found herself actually giggling.

  She struggled to pull a straight face, and Adam cocked his head, watching. “You always do that,” he said. “Stop yourself from having fun, like it’s not allowed or something.”

  A chill skated over her skin. “I’m allowed,” she said, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt. “But I’m on the clock, here. Sort of. I’m only here because of the book, and I have to keep it in mind at all times.”

  Adam’s dark brown eyes watched her, the set of his mouth thoughtful. “Why is this book so important to you?”

  An image of Jess, happy and successful at NYU on the money from this book sale, popped into her head, but Miranda only said, “It’s my career, Adam. Isn’t yours just as important to you?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but that’s cooking. That’s food. What’s a book? Entertainment? Food can be that, too, but food is also life. It’s who we are. People say ‘You are what you eat’ all the time, but that’s not really how the saying goes. It’s not so simple as ‘If you eat bacon, you’re a pig.’ The actual quote is ‘Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.’ Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, a French guy who wrote about taste and gastronomy in the nineteenth century, said it. And he meant that food is like this big clue—how we eat reveals a lot about how we feel about ourselves and our world.” He broke off with a sheepish grin. “And now I’m starting to sound like a public service announcement about nutrition or something.”

  “No,” Miranda told him, feeling strangely moved by his passion. “Not at all. I think I see what you mean. Although I reject the premise that the importance of what you do negates the importance of what I do. Brilla
t-Savarin and his revolutionary ideas are only available to us now because he wrote them down. In a book.”

  A slow smile spread across Adam’s face until his dimples winked into view. “Well played, sweetheart.”

  Miranda’s mouth twitched. She knew she ought to protest the term of endearment, but the liquid warmth spilling over her insides at the look of approval and admiration on Adam’s face made it seem petty and childish to quibble over nicknames.

  Adam picked up his head, an alert look on his face. “Hear that?”

  Miranda drew her brows together, unsure what he meant. She listened hard for a second, and just when she was about to give up, she heard a soft metallic hiss.

  Fiddling with the knob that regulated the burner, Adam said, “It’s the water. About to come up to the boil, which is exactly where you want it for poaching. An actual rolling boil is too jarring for the egg, fucks it all up. Just a steady simmer, that’s what we want. Grab me that spoon, would you?”

  Miranda held it out. It had a long handle that flared to a wide, nearly flat bowl at the bottom.

  “These eggs are so nice and fresh, it should be a snap,” he said, cracking an egg into the spoon Miranda held.

  Which startled her so much, she immediately bobbled the spoon and splattered raw egg all over the counter.

  They both stared at the goopy mess for a second, Miranda with dismay, Adam with a dawning expression of amusement.

  “This is why I got the second dozen,” he said.

  FOURTEEN

  Eggs are kinda magic,” Adam said. “At least, that’s how I think of them.”

  They were standing over the pot, watching to make sure the water didn’t get too hot or too hyper. He’d decided maybe the best thing was to demonstrate the technique first.

  He cracked a new egg into the bowl of the spoon, admiring the freshness of the bright orange yolk, the way the translucent white held in a tight circle around it. So different from a regular, grocery-store egg that it might as well be from another planet. Then he slid the egg carefully off the spoon and into the water with barely a splash to mark its passage. He set a timer for three minutes.