Can't Stand The Heat

by Louisa Edwards

  “I love you, too,” she managed to choke out around the obstruction in her throat. “I love the way you blurt things out, and your sexy brown eyes, and your bed head, and every little thing about you.”

  Those eyes flared with heat and a kind of fierce exultation. Adam swooped in for a kiss that turned into three or four. Miranda pushed into the kisses, fingers dancing across his shoulders and back, up into his tousled dark curls.

  “You always get me like that,” Adam gasped. “The way you use words. Makes me nuts.”

  Miranda laughed, all the happy bubbles inside her fizzing up and overflowing into pure joy. “So glad you enjoy that about me, because I don’t think I’d make a very good mute.”

  He traced her mouth with the tip of one finger. The surprisingly delicate touch made her shiver. “I wish I could say something smart and pretty to tell you how much, how big this is to me.”

  Miranda read his frustration in the downward curve of his full bottom lip, the snap of his brows. Hooking one arm behind his neck, she pulled him down close enough to nuzzle the exact spot where his dimple would pop out if she could make him smile again.

  “Don’t tell me,” she urged, breath starting to come in fast, excited pants. “Show me.”

  Adam smiled against her mouth and Miranda grinned in triumph before gladly tumbling back down into pleasure with him.

  Two hours, about a thousand kisses, and one very long shower later, they were jumping off the L train at Union Square, ravenously hungry and exclaiming over the gorgeous June day. Adam threaded his fingers through Miranda’s and dragged her through the bustling midday market.

  After the shower, Adam had declared that man could not live by kisses alone, and besides, there were still the evening’s specials to buy for, so they had to check in at the Greenmarket. Truth be told, he was so flipping happy, he was greedy for more. He wanted to have as many of his favorite things together at once as he could.

  Farmer’s market, perfect produce, Miranda.

  Sometimes, life so did not suck.

  Miranda laughed and went along with it, in that way she’d recently acquired of indulging Adam’s every whim. He wasn’t a fool, he realized this new tendency was an early-stage-of-the-relationship thing, and therefore unlikely to last. He intended to take advantage of it while he could.

  Hence the market at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “I don’t usually like to shop this late,” he told her, weaving them through herds of office girls on their lunch breaks and tourists sauntering down the wide stone pathways, goggle-eyed. “Most of the good stuff gets snatched up early. But I bet Paul over at Siren Falls will have saved something for me.”

  “And if he didn’t?”

  Adam dodged a pair of SoHo moms with double strollers festooned with scarves, and shrugged. “I’ll find something wonderful. I always do. This place is the best inspiration in the world! I get all my ideas for new menu items here.”

  “You really come here every morning?”

  “If we’re starting a new special, then yeah. And that’s almost every day. I like to cook what’s fresh, you know? The stuff that’s growing now is the best to eat now.”

  Miranda gave him a keen look. “So can I take this to mean you plan to open the restaurant tonight?”

  “Hell, yes. That moron, Rob, isn’t screwing me out of two nights’ service. No way. Besides, best way for everyone to get past what happened is to get back in there and start cooking.”

  They fetched up at the Siren Falls Farm stand, where Paul Corlie was selling a couple of pints of tiny, jewel-like raspberries to an older lady in a garish purple cardigan. Paul’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of Adam, then widened in surprise when they slid over Miranda.

  “Hey there,” he said, handing Purple Cardigan her change. “If it isn’t Adam and his little tomato. Everybody’s talking about what happened at Market last night. You look okay to me.”

  “We’re good. Better than good. Paulie,” Adam said repressively, hoping to God the man would mind his manners. “This is Miranda Wake. She’s my . . .” Fuck, what was he supposed to call her? “Girlfriend” sounded way junior high, but “lover” sounded like something out of a soap opera. And “former-nemesis-turned-sweetheart” was a mouthful.

  Miranda saved the awkward moment by arching one expressive brow at him before stepping up and offering her hand to Paul.

  “Hi, I think we’ve met before. You probably don’t remember me, but I definitely remember the beautiful ramps you were selling.”

  “There’s my smart girl.” Adam laughed. “Buttering up the produce supplier for me. Awesome.”

  Paul’s eyes twinkled. “I remember you, missy, sure enough.” He clapped his bear paws together and said, “Here, try some of these cherries while you look around.”

  “Thanks, we’re starving,” Miranda said, accepting the bag gratefully.

  “First of the Rainiers?” Adam asked, eyeing the creamy, yellow flesh tinged with the slightest pink blush.

  “Yeah, it was a warm spring. So what can I sell the two lovebirds today? Something for a romantic picnic in the park?”

  “Oh, God,” Miranda moaned, her mouth full. “How about a couple more pounds of these cherries?”

  “Good?” Adam grinned, reaching for the bag.

  Miranda tilted it toward him reluctantly. “This is how you know I love you,” she said, “the fact that I’m sharing these cherries.”

  Adam didn’t even try to hide the thrill it gave him to hear her say it like that, out loud, in public. In front of one of his oldest friends, no less. Even his first luscious bite of the fruit, sugar-tart juice exploding on his tongue, couldn’t overshadow the glow he got from Miranda.

  “I’ve never experienced cherries like these,” Miranda said. “They are the pinnacle of cherrydom. The zenith. The apex. The epitome. The mmph.”

  Adam covered her mouth with his hand, winking at Paul. “She turns into a thesaurus when she gets excited. Cute, huh?”

  Miranda shoved him away, laughing. “I’ll show you cute if you ever do that again.”

  They wandered back out into the fray. A few stalls down from Dava’s perennially jam-packed dairy stand, Miranda stopped dead in front of a tray of croissants.

  “Oh. Pretty,” she said.

  They were, all uniformly crescent-shaped and shiny with butter. “You want to get a couple?” he asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “I do, but you don’t have to wait for me,” Miranda said. “Go on, I’ll meet you at Dava’s. I know where it is from last time.”

  Shooing him away with a laugh, Miranda turned to order their pastries. Adam snuck in a quick kiss to the side of her neck before he went, laughing and dancing away from her automatic swat.

  Not into displaying herself in public, his Miranda.

  Lost in thoughts of how he might persuade Miranda to display herself in private, Adam nearly flattened a man he never expected to see at the farmer’s market. After all, it was Adam’s responsibility to buy that day’s produce for the restaurant.

  “Grant!”

  “Adam! Where on earth have you been? No, don’t tell me, you turned off your phone and your cell phone was flushed down the toilet or something.”

  Adam guiltily pictured the sleek little flip-top nestled in the pile of clothes he and Miranda had shed before tumbling into bed last night.

  “Sorry, man, I forgot it.”

  “What is the point of owning one if you never carry it, much less turn it on?” Grant growled. Adam reeled back, taking in the wide, panicked eyes, blotchy cheeks, and untidy hair.

  “What’s up with you?” he asked, concerned. “What are you doing here?”

  Grant laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, nothing. I’ve just been all over hell’s half-acre today, looking for your sorry self. Frankie’s out of commission for at least a few days and you’re nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, the world is caving in.”

  “Wow, drama much? And y
ou talked to Frankie. How’s he doing?” Guilt bit at Adam, sharp and mean.

  Grant shook his head, frustration in every line of his face. “Frankie’s okay. Pissed as hell, but feeling fine. You haven’t seen the papers yet, have you?”

  “No, we woke up and came here. That’s it. Grant, what the hell is it?”

  “Or checked your e-mail.” Grant didn’t seem to have heard him.

  “No.” Adam struggled for patience. “I’m completely in the dark. And you’re scaring the shit out of me. What the fuck is going on?”

  “Miranda. That book she was writing. It got leaked this morning on a blog, some editorial assistant or something.”

  Adam went cold, like all the blood had drained right out of his body onto the ground. Through stiff lips, he said, “How is it?”

  Grant looked like he didn’t know if he wanted to fucking cry or spit nails. “It’s bad, Adam. Real bad. The things she said about the crew—I don’t know how she even found out about half of it, but it’s vicious, catty stuff. Personal. About Milo’s family connections and Quentin’s priors. Frankie’s parents. Violet’s divorce.” He glanced away, eyes narrowed. “And . . . your affair with Eleanor Bonning, man. She makes it sound like you basically whored your way into getting the financing for Market.”

  The bottom dropped out of Adam’s stomach, pitching him into a frozen, black wasteland of nausea and disbelief.

  At that moment, Miranda walked up, carrying a brown paper bag already showing darker spots where the butter from the croissants had soaked through. She was juggling that with the plastic sack of cherries from Paul’s place and a pair of coffees in paper cups, stacked one on top of the other.

  “Whew! Thank goodness. I need a couple more hands.” She smiled up at Adam, who reached for a coffee and the bag of pastries on autopilot, mind still totally consumed with Grant’s bombshell.

  “Hey, Grant,” Miranda prattled on, wiggling her fingers at the restaurant manager. “You want a croissant? I’d offer you cherries, but I’m afraid I’m too selfish to share.” Her smile faded at their silence.

  Grant was looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost. And not one of those wispy lady-in-white type ghosts, either, but a nasty one. Adam could only assume he looked the same. Or maybe Adam looked as gut-kicked as he felt, like he was about to heave in the middle of the fucking Greenmarket.

  “Is it true?” Adam couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was all that mattered.

  “Is what true?” she faltered, but the instant paling of her complexion told its own story. “Adam, is everything okay?”

  She put her hand on his arm and he shook it off, dropping the bakery bag onto the dirty sidewalk.

  “Is it true?” he said, barely able to grind the words out of his parchment-dry throat.

  She shook her head, pretty tears welling up in her dark blue eyes. She looked so confused, bewildered. Adam almost softened, almost reached out to her.

  “The book,” Grant said, his voice harder than Adam had ever heard it. “Did you write a piece-of-filth book full of lies and gossip about the staff at Market?”

  “I’m writing a book, yes, or I was, but it’s not happening anymore. I decided not to do it. I swear.” Her eyes darted around as if she were searching for an escape before resting on Adam in a plea for understanding.

  He couldn’t speak.

  Grant was not similarly afflicted. Nearly hissing in rage now, he said, “Does your publisher know it isn’t happening? Because choice selections from the manuscript appeared this morning on a blog. It’s already been picked up by half the media outlets in the city, and the online celebrity-chef-watcher sites are going nuts. It made Page Six, Miranda. Explain to me how it isn’t happening.”

  Miranda wilted before their eyes, like greens under hot bacon dressing. Tears slid down her white cheeks. He hated that she looked beautiful even when she cried.

  Even when she’d betrayed him.

  “I—I—I . . . Oh, my God.” She shook like a brisk wind had her.

  “Not good enough,” Grant snarled. “Come on, Adam, let’s go. We’ve got work to do to get the restaurant in shape to open tonight. And I will be goddamned if we let all this shit keep us closed.”

  “In a second.” Adam hardly recognized his own voice.

  Shaking his head, Grant moved off, muttering under his breath about crazies with guns and scandalmongers with no morals.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Miranda clutched herself around the middle. “It’s all a huge mistake, those things should never have been published. I’d decided, I was going to break the contract. You have to believe me.”

  “You wrote those things. And you sent them to the publisher.”

  She didn’t deny it. The mute suffering on her lovely face was answer enough.

  Adam forced himself to continue. “You lied to me. You cozied up to me, for what, for material? Jesus. Was I research?” Adam stopped, sickened, and Miranda rushed to fill the gap.

  “No, no. Don’t believe that, I couldn’t stand it if you—I swear, please. Everything I said last night, about how I feel for you, that’s all true. I meant every word, every touch.”

  She was sobbing openly now, attracting attention from passersby. Adam started to feel suffocated.

  “But I don’t know how to tell the difference,” he said, feeling stupid, slow. How was he supposed to get this? “How do I know what was a lie and what wasn’t?”

  “You just . . .” Her mouth worked for a second. “You just trust me. I guess.”

  Defeat weighted the words so they dropped into the space between them like overworked dumplings, doughy and thick.

  “I think you can see where the logic falls down, there,” he said.

  “I should’ve told you—”

  “But you didn’t. I don’t know why I’m surprised, though. You’ve got to be the most secretive, closed-off woman alive. You never told me anything. About your parents, about your life. Every important thing I know about you, I learned from someone else. Maybe we all only think we know you; all we really know are the stories we tell each other about you. Maybe it’s all lies.”

  Miranda shuddered. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This isn’t what I wanted, what I meant. I love you.”

  His heart fluttered, tried valiantly to make Adam feel something, but he throttled it ruthlessly. Numb was good. Numb was his friend.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, backing away. If anything was going to break through the ice encasing his emotions, it would be that sentence on Miranda’s sweet, treacherous lips.

  “Did you hear me?” she said, desperation roughening her voice. “I said I love you.”

  “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

  She recoiled as if he’d slapped her, but nodded in acceptance. “Sorry. I don’t know what else to say. It’s a switch, right? Me, not having the words.”

  “You don’t have the words because there isn’t anything left to say.”

  Adam walked away.

  He only looked back once before the crowds of market-goers closed between them, blocking his view. She was standing where he’d left her. Her hair shone like a dying fire in the summer sun, casting her face in shadow. The fingers of one hand were white-knuckled on the sack of cherries.

  Adam didn’t think he’d be able to eat another Rainier cherry as long as he lived.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The apartment had that echoy, vacant feeling that told Miranda that Jess wasn’t home.

  She dropped her purse by the door and dragged into the living room, wanting nothing more than a glass of wine and a long soak in a hot tub. Beyond that, she just wanted to forget.

  Forget the mess she’d made of her life. Forget the condemnation in Grant’s face, the hurt in Adam’s eyes.

  He didn’t scream at her, didn’t raise his voice once. After the way he blew up over kitchen mistakes, she’d have thought something like this would make him go nuclear. But now, having lived through both, Miranda was able to categorical
ly state a preference for the yelling and screaming. With Adam, that kind of explosion was fleeting, big and loud and over in an instant. The pain she’d caused today—that wasn’t something he’d let go of overnight.

  As she was about to lower her aching body onto the sofa, she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine.

  Knowing damn well that listening to those messages wouldn’t help with the forgetting plan, Miranda found herself gravitating toward the machine, helplessly snared.

  Be-e-e-e-p.

  “Miranda? This is Claire. You unutterably foolish woman, whatever have you done? The office is abuzz. The editorial board is thrilled with the publicity, of course, but I’m worried about you. Call me.”

  That was nice. Less yelling than she was expecting. Miranda let the messages play and went to get some wine from the kitchen.

  “It’s me.”

  Jess. She poured a big glass with shaky fingers and hurried back to the machine.

  “I can’t believe this. You’re . . . Who are you? My sister wouldn’t do—Frankie, quit it, I’m fine . . .”

  Be-e-e-e-p.

  Miranda knocked back half the wine in one swallow.

  Be-e-e-e-p.

  “Me again. I had to . . . Fuck. It’s still hard. Why is this so hard? Miranda, I moved out. I can’t stay with you, I don’t even know you, howcouldyoudothis? Those people are my friends. I thought they were your friends, or at least Adam was. And Frankie, God, the things you wrote about him. Look, I’m staying with him. You have my cell number. I don’t really want to talk to you right now, but . . . Shit, the machine’s gonna cut me off. Bye.”

  She was going to need a lot more wine.

  Miranda abandoned her wine glass and retired to the sofa, cradling the half-empty bottle of cabernet to her chest.

  Claire hadn’t sounded mad or disgusted, so she was first on the list. Miranda was in desperate need of clearheaded advice, since she was currently drinking away her own clear head and had no intention of stopping.

  The minute Claire picked up, Miranda was seized by a hiccupping fit. Claire seemed to know who it was, regardless. Unless she routinely answered her office phone with the words, “My God, but you’ve made a mess of your life.”