Can't Stand The Heat

by Louisa Edwards

  “You could get another job, somewhere else,” she tried, knowing already that it was unlikely. Waiting tables at an upscale place like Market was a lucrative proposition for a student. Most restaurants at that level wouldn’t hire someone with Jess’s scant experience, and two weeks at Market followed by a precipitate departure would hardly be inspiring résumé material.

  “Will you at least come home and stay with me?” Miranda asked around the hard, scratchy lump in her throat.

  Jess smiled tremulously, and there he was, the sweet boy Miranda’d raised, not so far under the surface after all. “If you’ll still have me.”

  “Of course I will,” Miranda said, fighting not to sob out loud. He looked almost surprised, but very glad, and Miranda braved another shrug-off to get her arms around him. This time he allowed the contact, and even hugged back, clinging a little.

  “I would never turn you away.” Miranda spoke fiercely into his shirt. “Not for any reason. Promise me you’ll always remember that.”

  “I promise,” Jess said, his voice thick with tears.

  Miranda stroked her baby brother’s back soothingly and closed her eyes.

  She’d always said she’d do anything to keep Jess safe; this was the true test. Would she sell her integrity down the river? Would she betray the people she’d worked with, laughed and talked with, for the last two weeks?

  Would she give up her chance at making up with Adam and getting him to fall in love with her?

  With a sharp shudder of agony, Miranda acknowledged the answer.

  Yes.

  Jess was right. She didn’t have the money to pay for his tuition—unless she delivered that manuscript and cashed the check from the publisher. It all came down to money, in the end. If she had that check, she could afford to send Jess to school. If she had that check, she could talk him into quitting his job at Market, she knew she could.

  If she had that check, she could get Frankie Boyd out of Jess’s life and give Jess a chance to fall in love with someone his own age. To have the freedom to meet new people at school and stretch his wings, to be himself, without being tied to a man who couldn’t truly care for him the way he deserved.

  When she looked at it like that, the decision was really very simple. Heart-wrenching, gut-twisting, but simple.

  Later that afternoon, as her finger hovered over the send button, hesitating to make that one final movement that would deliver her manuscript to Empire Publishing, Miranda berated herself.

  This is no time to get squeamish. Think about what Mom and Dad would’ve wanted. Think about Jess.

  Whatever you do, don’t think about Adam Temple.

  Don’t think about his hands, his quick smile, his happy laugh, oh, God, that dimple . . . Don’t think about the way he makes your whole body buzz with energy or the way he loves to hear you talk. Don’t think about how much you lov—

  She blanked her mind, and pushed the button.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Adam cursed loudly and inventively. A Sunday-night service should not be this fucking busy, it was unheard of, it was ungodly, it was unbelievable.

  It was just his damn luck.

  The restaurant was fully booked, standing room only at the bar, and Grant had signaled him ecstatically earlier to let him know that the three tables they reserved for walk-ins each had an hour-and-a-half-long wait.

  Bountiful Table, another foodie magazine, had come out with yet another article about Miranda and the damn dare. Diners were lined up, presumably hoping to catch a glimpse of a pint-sized redhead screaming invective at Market’s chef. Adam hoped they’d go away disappointed on that score, but thrilled with the service and food at Market.

  Actually, part of him hoped they’d go away, period. Not that he’d ever admit that to Grant, who looked happier than Adam had ever seen him. But then, the tension in the dining room wasn’t thick enough to carve like an ice sculpture.

  The atmosphere in the kitchen, meanwhile, was such that Adam’s frantic cussing went practically unnoticed. Miranda hadn’t called him after she left his place that morning, but he knew from Frankie that Jess was back with her and apparently there to stay, so everything should’ve been hunky-dory.

  Except it so obviously wasn’t. When Miranda arrived for prep, she quietly asked to be put on garde-manger with Milo rather than up at the pass. Adam realized that expediting wasn’t for everyone, but he’d thought she enjoyed working with him before. He’d been hoping that the stellar sex and hard-core closeness they’d shared might outweigh the small spat, but it didn’t take Dr. Phil to figure out that she was avoiding him. Which sucked donkey nuts.

  And then there was Frankie, who seemed to be going out of his way to be, well, Frankie, talking loudly and throwing himself around the kitchen like he was hyped up on crack. He didn’t directly confront Miranda, oh no, but the performance was definitely for her benefit. Frankie’s oh-so-subtle fuck you in the face of her disapproval. Luckily Jess hadn’t come sniffing around the kitchen yet; Grant and the crowds of customers out front were keeping him hopping. Adam was determined not to borrow trouble, so he wasn’t imagining what might happen if all three of the key players in last night’s drama convened in one room.

  One packed, bustling room where Adam was currently striving to pull his crew out of the weeds through sheer force of will.

  “Milo! You and Miranda need to hustle up with those mixed greens, the table’s waiting on you.”

  “Yes, Chef!”

  Miranda just looked at him. Or, more accurately, looked through him. Christ.

  He turned to Quentin, who’d been pressed into service on the sauté station. “Q, man, I’ve gotta have those shrimp skewers. It looks like you’re getting low on rosemary branches—Billy, check the basement pantry, see if we’ve got more.”

  “You got it, Chef!” “Yes, Chef!”

  “Whoo, you’ve got these lads trained a treat,” Frankie cackled by the grill, his hands a red-hot blur as he flipped and cross-hatched steaks in a complicated pattern.

  Adam wanted to rip his hair out. “Frankie! Quit bullshitting and buckle down. I mean it, we’re in the weeds.”

  He didn’t add, “And it’s all on you,” but he was sure thinking it. From the way Frankie steadied his stance and hunched a bit over the grill, he knew it, too. The crew took their cues from Frankie, always had. His personality tended to overwhelm the kitchen, which could be a great thing, when he was on. When he was being a shit? The whole kitchen went to shit.

  “What should I do, Chef?”

  The unfamiliar voice had him spinning around in a near-panic. He felt like he was balancing a full tray of dirty plates and glasses on the top of his head. One single saucer perched up there with the rest would be enough to bring the whole thing crashing down.

  His spin brought him face-to-face with that metaphorical saucer.

  Oh, yeah. As if tonight weren’t stressful enough, the Market kitchen crew had a brand-new boy to contend with.

  Wes Murphy had taken the train down from the Academy of Culinary Arts that morning. He’d arrived at Market wearing fresh, crisp kitchen whites and a cocky grin.

  Adam had a new extern. God help them both.

  Adam had set him to work dicing vegetables and mixing up salad dressing, the kitchen equivalent of swabbing the decks. Wes handled a knife like a pro, real grace and economy of movement turning the simple chore into a showpiece.

  Noticing Adam watching, Wes had shot him that same smug smile. Adam had sighed and sent him off to help Violet roll out pastry dough for tonight’s special dessert, rustic peach tartlets.

  Wes had done that perfectly, too, his touch with the rolling pin deft and light, ensuring maximum flakiness of the crust.

  Adam had left him to it. He’d tried to keep an eye on the kid, but service lurched out of control so damn quick, he’d lost track of Wes.

  Now here he was, obviously bored and more than a little judgmental of the frenzied state of the kitchen, if the look in his eyes was anyth
ing to go by. Adam stared at him for a moment, trying to pinpoint what it was about the new guy that made Adam want to banish him down to the basement to take inventory of the supplies in the employee john.

  Wes was taller than Adam, but years of friendship with Frankie the Giraffe had inured Adam to the sensation of looking up to catch another man’s expression. And anyway, Wes wasn’t quite as tall as Frankie, but he was broader. Not as wide through the shoulders as Adam, but clearly strong enough to lift heavy pots, which was all Adam cared about.

  He had the tanned, hard look of a guy who spent a lot of time at high temperatures, standing over a hot stove. He had a lot of light brown hair falling over his forehead and a pair of thick, straight eyebrows that gave him a broody look. His sideburns were longish, kinda retro. He had those funny eyes that turned different colors in different lights, green to gold to brown and back again.

  Adam thought Wes probably had the kind of looks that women swooned over; it reminded him of Devon’s polished handsomeness, although not so exaggerated. Devon Sparks was cover-model good-looking. With Wes, it was more his expression, the way he carried himself. Women tended to go for that cocky-as-hell, soulful look; Adam had worked that angle himself often enough when he was younger.

  None of this endeared Wes Murphy to Adam. The new guy had sneered at Milo, condescended to Violet, and now he stood in front of Adam, hands on hips and an impatient curl to his mouth. From the vibe of him, Adam could tell Wes was hoping to be ordered up to the pass to work the hot plate with Adam. Get some expediting experience.

  This was supposed to be an educational stint for Wes, Adam knew. The guy was in his final year of culinary school, and the externship program was meant to provide practical, hands-on experience before the graduates were shunted out into the real world and expected to earn a living by their knives.

  So let him learn, Adam thought viciously. This is my goddamned kitchen. No one gets to do exactly what they want here except me.

  “Take over helping on garde-manger. Milo, switch-hitter coming in! Miranda?”

  He looked away from the surprised disappointment in Wes’s eyes to find Miranda starting at him, mouth pinched and gaze narrow. Adam ground his back teeth.

  “Miranda, with me,” was all he trusted himself to say.

  “Yes, Chef.” Wes echoed the crew’s earlier snappy salutes, but somehow, on him, it sounded snotty. Adam shrugged. He could handle attitude, so long as the guy kept bringing his A-game. Wes would settle in eventually; the kitchen was an amazing leveler. Had a way of bringing everyone down to their true nature.

  Adam’s gaze fixed on Miranda. The corners of her mouth were turned down unhappily. Something about the look of her made Adam’s shoulders relax. Maybe it was that he couldn’t see himself having trouble making her happy again. Making her not mad was another story, but happiness, Adam could do.

  “Sooner rather than later,” Adam said mildly, scanning the next ticket.

  With evident reluctance, Miranda moved up to his side. He watched her gaze immediately search out her brother through the open pass to the dining room. The worry line between her brows made Adam’s heart turn over in his chest.

  He wanted to tell her Jess was fine, that everything would be fine, but they were in the weeds and there wasn’t time.

  Just as he opened his mouth to start barking orders, there was a commotion at the back of the kitchen. A scuffle, a short scream that sounded like Violet at her pastry board by the back door, and Adam thought, Christ Almighty, what now?

  From the moment he glanced over his shoulder, irritated at the new disruption, everything moved into slow motion. His vision sharpened, colors brightened, sounds magnified by a thousand.

  There was a guy waving a gun around Adam’s kitchen.

  Oh, hell no.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Somebody screamed and Miranda’s blood turned to ice water.

  Robin Meeks had returned to Market. And he had a gun.

  His sharp, thin face was damp with sweat or tears, his eyes were wide and rolling. He looked deranged, his grip on the gun none too steady.

  “Hey, I’m here to talk,” Rob said loudly.

  “Fucking hell,” Frankie swore.

  Adam immediately thrust out an arm and pulled Miranda behind him, but she still had a good view of Frankie making a dash for the swinging door that led to the front of house.

  Coward, she thought, genuinely shocked but at the same time darkly pleased to have her bad opinion of him confirmed.

  It didn’t work anyway, because Rob swung toward Frankie and managed to bring his gun to bear. Wavering only slightly, he slurred out, “Not so fast, Frankie boy. This concerns you, too.”

  Frankie froze a few strides from the pass, putting his hands in the air. But even with a gun trained on him, held by a shaky hand, he couldn’t seem to focus on Rob. Miranda saw the glances he kept casting out to the dining room. She couldn’t decipher the look on his face; it was more than simple fear.

  It was hard to tell if the diners even knew what was happening; the kitchen was open, but there was music out there, the noise of plates and silverware, servers circling. She closed her eyes and prayed that someone had noticed, had used a cell phone to call the police. She sent up a further, fervent prayer that Jess hadn’t noticed, that he’d stay out there where it was relatively safe.

  She didn’t have long to contemplate it, however, because in the next moment Adam said, “Come on, man. Be cool. You don’t need that gun to get us to talk to you. Why don’t you put it on the ground, and you and I’ll go down to the office and have a long chat? Whatever you want to talk about.”

  Miranda reached out and clutched the back of Adam’s chef jacket in her fist. She did not want him going off alone with Rob, gun or no gun. The guy was obviously on something.

  “Shut up!” Rob lurched in their direction, bumping Milo, who cursed and stepped out of the way quickly. Rob turned on him clumsily, and stood blinking in confusion at the man standing next to Milo.

  “Who are you?” Rob asked.

  “Murphy,” the new cook said, eyes never leaving Rob’s limp gun hand. “Wes Murphy. Just started tonight.”

  Rob started to laugh, sending a visible shock through the room. “Oh, shit, that’s funny. You’re the new me.”

  “Say what?” Wes Murphy said, his tone icy enough to make Miranda nervous.

  “The new extern, right? From the Academy?”

  “That’s right.” The guy’s eyes snapped.

  Rob’s harsh laugh sounded like a sob, and she wasn’t surprised when he brought up a hand to swipe at his cheeks with his sleeve. It was the hand holding the gun. Everyone in the kitchen jumped and gasped as the barrel flailed wildly in Rob’s loose grip. Every muscle in Miranda’s body tightened at once.

  “You can go, if you want,” Rob said. He seemed distracted, tired of talking to Wes, or maybe as if he were coming down a little from whatever he’d taken. “You weren’t part of this. Didn’t do nothing to me. You are me. We’re the same. So you can leave.”

  “No, thanks,” Wes said, disdain in every syllable. Miranda caught her breath, wondering what the hell he was playing at.

  She wasn’t the only one. Rob stared, arrested. “No? Ooooh, I get it. You think if you stay, it’ll make them like you. Think they’ll respect you for it or something, let you into the club. Well, I got news for you, man, no one gets in this club. They’ve all been cooking together since dinosaurs roamed the earth, man, they’re tight, tighter than a nun’s ass. They’re never going to let you in.”

  Miranda could see the muscles in Wes’s chiseled jaw working. “All the same, I think I’ll hang around.”

  Adam spoke up cautiously. “Maybe, Rob, if you’re okay with Wes going, he could head out into the dining room, round up the guests, get them out of here. They don’t have anything to do with this, either, right?”

  Rob squeezed his eyes tight and pressed the butt of the gun to his forehead, missing the look Adam telegraphed across
the kitchen. Miranda saw it, though, and so did Wes, who nodded slightly in acknowledgment.

  “Fine, fine, whatever,” Rob said peevishly. “Shit, my head.”

  Wasting no time, but not running, Wes hurried out the swinging door. Miranda could sense him moving through the dining room behind her, heard movement and low voices. Chills coursed down her spine. Please, she prayed, get Jess out of here. Please, please, please.

  “You ready to talk now, Rob?” Adam asked. “Why don’t you give me the gun, and we can get you some aspirin or something?” He took a step closer, hand outstretched. Miranda held her breath.

  “I don’t want you to talk to me,” Rob spat, opening his eyes and bringing the gun to bear on Adam. “You had your chance. Now I want you to fucking listen. Can you do that, boss?”

  Adam held up his hands placatingly. “Sure, sure I can do that. Whatever you say. Just put the gun down.”

  “No. If I don’t have the gun, no one will listen to me.”

  “I’ll listen, I swear it.”

  “No! No one listens. Except Miranda. Hey, where is she? That you, Miranda? You hiding from me?”

  Adam shifted in front of her, shielding her more closely with his body, but Miranda could hear the increasing desperation in Rob’s voice. They had to keep him calm.

  “I’m right here,” she said, controlling the tremor in her voice and stepping out from behind Adam. She kept her grip on his jacket, though. Maybe it was weak, but she needed the anchor of that connection. Suddenly, exactly when Adam knew what and whether or not he chose to tell Miranda seemed monstrously unimportant. Even the all-encompassing guilt about the book faded into the background of this horrific situation.

  Adam made a muffled sound of protest as she exposed herself to Rob’s view. She couldn’t look up and meet Adam’s eyes; that would break her calm façade for sure.