“We have permission,” Miranda said. She didn’t try to compete with the shouting match, but somehow her voice carried enough to shut everyone up.
Adam gaped for a second before realization dawned. “You went to Eleanor,” he ground out.
Miranda nodded. The woman who controlled the purse strings and who had a controlling interest in the restaurant, Eleanor Bonning. Since she’d been the one to get Miranda into Market in the first place, she’d been the obvious choice. Once Miranda had groveled suitably, of course.
“She was very helpful,” Miranda said.
“I’ll bet. She’d cheerfully murder a homeless guy if she thought it would get publicity. Helping out the woman who dragged her name, and mine, through the mud, would be nothing to her.” Adam looked thoroughly disgusted.
“Can we start rolling now, or what?” one of the camera guys asked.
Adam practically vibrated with the clear desire to tell them all to fuck off, but he reined it in. “Bonning signs all of our paychecks,” he finally said with ill grace. “We’re stuck. Go ahead with your little dog-and-pony show. But I want to say one thing,” he burst out, pinning Miranda with an accusing eye.
“Yes?” She was determined to take whatever he dished out, knowing she deserved it.
“You knew,” Adam said, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “After what Rob did, you saw what it did to me. He forced his way into my kitchen. He fucking violated this place. What you’re doing now—it’s the same.”
Miranda flinched, eyes going wide as her body absorbed his words like a blow. The stubborn wish she’d been harboring, that this might actually do something to turn her stupid, messed-up life around, withered and died.
“I’m sorry,” she said numbly, fighting through the utter desolation of all her hopes. “I know it’s inadequate, but it’s also true.”
Adam scowled. “But you’re going ahead with this no matter how sorry you are, huh?”
Miranda was vaguely proud of the fact that she was still standing when disappointment was crushing down on her so heavily. “Yes. I understand that nothing I can say will change how you feel about me, but I think I can do some good here. Please, for the sake of your crew, please let us do this. I only want to help, I swear it.”
The impassioned plea seemed to reach Adam. He glared down at her, brows lowered and lips tight, but he didn’t sneer or scoff or shrug her off. Miranda held her breath.
She didn’t legally need his permission to proceed, but she desperately wanted it.
Adam acquiesced with a short nod that sent the camera guys and Devon’s people into a flurry of motion. Miranda barely registered them chivvying the cooks into a group and getting ready to shoot. She closed her eyes, digging down deep for any reserves of strength that would help get her through the next few minutes.
When she opened them again, the room was quiet. Her eyes fell on her brother, who’d come to stand by Frankie. Jess looked worried, pinched and pale, and she sent him a smile that only seemed to increase his distress. He started toward her, but Frankie grasped his arm and held him back.
“Whenever you’re ready, Miranda.” Devon’s voice was oddly gentle.
Miranda blocked out the cameras, the techs, her own fear, and focused on Adam, standing at the front of his crew like a pirate captain defending his ship.
“When I first came to Market, I was shocked by the way the cooks here behaved. They were loud and obnoxious, hostile to outsiders. They were like a primitive undiscovered tribe, communicating in a foreign language and distrustful of change. They cursed. A lot.”
Some of the crew smiled at this. Frankie mouthed something that looked like “Too fucking right.”
Miranda went on. “I soon found that those very qualities that made them such a closed society were the qualities that allowed them to work as a seamless unit in the kitchen, with absolute trust. But that trust had to be earned. My source was someone who never managed to do that.
“Journalists are taught never to give up a source. But I believe there’s no moral imperative higher than common sense. My source was Robin Meeks.”
A gasp went up from the assembled listeners, along with a rumble of unsurprised grumbling.
Miranda panted lightly, pushing through the moment. No matter what she said, or how convinced she was that it was right, it still went against the grain to reveal Rob’s name.
“A week ago,” she said, “Rob Meeks held this very kitchen at gunpoint. He’d been fired for poor performance and carried his grudge all the way back here, gun in hand. One of the cooks was injured as a result of this troubled young man’s actions. Clearly, Meeks was an entirely unreliable source and nothing he told me should be considered true or accurate. As a journalist, I should have worked harder to verify the stories he told me about the staff at Market. I should certainly never have implied anything about the honor of Chef Adam Temple, based on his past relationships. In my heart, I knew that particular bit of gossip to be a lie. Adam Temple is a good man, who built this restaurant with his brains, his dedication to the pursuit of perfection, and his uncanny knack for hiring a crew that would follow him to hell if he asked them.”
Miranda took a shaky breath and met Adam’s eyes across the room. His arms were crossed defensively over his chest, his handsome face set in blank lines she couldn’t interpret. But he was listening.
Miranda took the plunge.
“Although I ultimately thought better of the book and intended to remove it from the publisher’s hands before it ever saw the light of day, I take full responsibility for the lies that have been spread in public about the people in this room.”
That was the bit she and Claire had argued over long into the night. Claire pointed out, quite rightly, that it opened Miranda up to civil suits. Miranda’s feeling was that she was liable anyway; she might as well own up to it.
Swallowing hard, Miranda braced herself for the hardest part.
“I wrote the book in the first place,” she explained, “because I needed the money. My brother was accepted at NYU, and the tuition was more than I could pay.”
She looked up to see Jess shaking his head, and hurried to say, “None of this was my brother’s fault, and it certainly wasn’t his idea. He was and is willing to work his way through college, applying for scholarships and student loans.” She smiled at him. “He’s a very independent young man.
“I hoped, though, that by paying for his school, I’d be able to convince him to quit his job here at Market. I wanted to get him away from a man who works here, who I thought was a dangerously bad influence on my impressionable young brother.”
Adam shifted his weight. Jess linked his fingers with Frankie defiantly.
Miranda lifted her chin and continued. “I was entirely wrong about Frankie Boyd. The night Rob Meeks brought that gun and threatened everyone here, Frankie proved himself a hero. And he proved how much he truly cares for my brother. Not that I have anything to say about it at all, since Jess is of age and mature enough to make his own decisions, but—” Her voice cracked. Jess grabbed a hand towel and pushed through the crowd of onlookers to put his arms around Miranda.
She hugged him, tears threatening again.
“I know that if Mom and Dad were alive, they’d want you to be happy and to be yourself. I know because they loved you every bit as much as I do, and that’s all I want in the world. Since I can’t have the other thing I wanted,” Miranda said, her eyes going to Adam over Jess’s shoulder.
Adam wasn’t opaque any longer. He looked shell-shocked.
“That’s why I sent the manuscript in,” she told him. “I did it the day after Jess was attacked. I’m sorry. It was wrong on so many levels, and two nights later, I decided to pull the manuscript, but it was too late. Rob’s escapades thrust this place into the news again, and I guess it was too attractive a prospect to turn down for some poor, underpaid assistant at the publisher’s offices. But those excerpts on her blog are all anyone will ever see of the manuscript. I re
turned the advance money a few days ago and filed an injunction to have the material removed from the Web site. For all the good that’ll do. If your business has suffered as a result of all this, I’ll do my damnedest to make it up to you somehow.”
She meant every word of that vow, even if she had no idea what she could possibly do, short of promising him her firstborn (a child who was looking extremely hypothetical at this point), so she was a little affronted when Adam laughed.
“I’ll let you know,” was all he said before turning to Devon. “We done here? I need an off-camera word with Miranda.”
That’s it? she thought in disbelief. That was Adam’s big reaction to her arduous soul-baring?
Devon smirked while waving a languid hand in the air, “Oh, I think that’s a wrap. We’ve got plenty of footage.” Turning to Miranda, he said, “It was everything you promised, and more, love. I hope you’ll think of me for all your self-flagellatory needs.”
Under Devon’s direction, the camera crew started to disperse. The Market crew, meanwhile, swarmed Miranda and Jess. The first clap to her back made her wince, but once it became clear that everyone was thanking her and smiling, Miranda relaxed.
“Took guts, what you just did,” Frankie said. “And spunk. I love a woman with spunk.”
“Don’t be gross,” Jess laughed, smacking him.
Miranda was too dazed to follow the thread of innuendo, but it didn’t matter because Adam grabbed her by the wrist and started hauling her away from the group.
“By ‘off camera,’ I meant ‘private,’ ” Adam said. “Get out of here, you miscreants. It’s been a long damn week and you’ve all earned a night out at Chapel. Tell Christian to put a round on my tab.”
A loud cheer went up from the cooks. Miranda looked over her shoulder to Jess, who gave her two thumbs up and shouted, “Good luck!”
From the iron grip around her wrist and the purposeful haste of Adam’s strides, Miranda thought she was probably going to need all the luck she could get.
There was something about Miranda that encouraged Adam to embrace his inner caveman.
Right now, for instance. He was not unaware of his resemblance to a marauding hunter-gatherer dragging his woman off by the hair. But rather than accepting that as a deterrent, Adam let himself enjoy the image.
Because it felt damned good. And Adam had never believed in curbing his impulses.
The pantry was the closest room with a door. He kicked it open and pulled her in after him, slamming it shut with a satisfying bang.
Miranda jumped at the noise, then stuck her chin in the air as if daring him to do his worst. Adam savored the moment. He’d missed her like he’d miss cooking.
“You know what hurt the most?” he asked conversationally. “It was that you didn’t fight for us.”
“I didn’t . . . what?” Miranda was obviously having a hard time switching gears.
Adam elaborated helpfully. “When I left you, that day at the Greenmarket, you just stood there and took it. You didn’t fight back. I’d never known you to lie down and give up before. I thought it meant you didn’t care enough to fight for what we had.”
Miranda closed her eyes, holding herself still. “No. I cared more than I’ve ever cared about anything—enough to plan out an organized attack rather than simply flailing about uselessly.”
Adam nodded, satisfied. That confirmed what he’d read into her little performance piece, too.
“You made up with Jess,” Adam said. “That was good.”
“Yes, it was a huge relief. I hated not being part of his life.”
“I know. But the way you did it, in public like that. In front of the whole world. And that bit at the end, about what you want. That was for me.”
Miranda’s eyes popped open like he’d slipped her a surprise habanero pepper.
“No, I . . . that was to make up for the bad publicity.”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, it turns out. We’ve been turning away customers all week.”
“I’m glad,” she told him earnestly. “I love this place. It made me sick to think I’d hurt it.”
Adam identified with his restaurant as much as the next obsessive chef, but he wasn’t about to let her get away with that.
“For someone so good with words, you’ve got to work on your communication skills. Come on, admit it.”
She colored up nicely, her cheeks and ears vying with her sweater in terms of redness. “I know you don’t feel the same anymore,” she said haltingly, “but I love you. I never stopped.”
Burning satisfaction swept through him. He wanted to howl for joy and get those cameras back in here so he could tell everyone; he wanted to do a victory lap around the kitchen and invent a whole new menu.
He settled for pulling Miranda’s startled body close and kissing her.
She stiffened with shock for only a second. Then, with a soft mewl of pleasure, she sank into the kiss, opening wide for him and sucking on his tongue.
With difficulty, Adam pulled back. Miranda looked dazed, the bright blue of her eyes clouded with bewildered lust.
“You made your big confession in public,” he said hoarsely, “to prove that you could open up. You always held back before, but tonight, you gave it all up, like a gift.”
That spark he loved chased some of the haze from her vision. “It was the only way I could be sure you’d listen,” she said tartly. “I know how stubborn you are.”
Adam grinned. “Stubborn enough to keep loving you, no matter how many mistakes you make.”
“Really?” she breathed, face glowing.
Adam kissed her again for an answer. She took it in the spirit it was intended, twining around him lusciously and making those noises he loved.
When they came up for air a few minutes later, Adam said, “You said something before about making it up to me.”
Miranda blinked, then frowned. “Adam, if you are about to use my heartfelt regret and desire to make restitution as an excuse to cajole me into having sex in this pantry—”
“Not what I meant!” Adam laughed, then pretended to go thoughtful. “Although . . .”
A muffled thud sounded through the pantry door, followed by several giggles. Adam turned the knob and essentially the entire Market crew fell into the pantry with them.
“Shag her blind,” yelled Frankie from the floor.
“That’s my sister,” cried Jess, in tones that suggested he expected Miranda to go to her grave a virgin.
“The pantry’s not the best place for sex,” Violet said critically. “You’d think fifty-pound bags of flour would be soft, but they’re not.”
Milo leered. “Tell us more, Vi!”
“Shut up,” Adam bellowed. “I’m trying to offer Miranda a job.”
That effectively silenced everyone, including Miranda, which wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.
“Come on,” he wheedled. “It’ll be fun. You can do all the menus!”
Miranda took his hand. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
Adam shifted his weight uneasily. Maybe she hadn’t enjoyed writing the menus as much as he thought. But no, she was smiling widely, her eyes as light as a summer sky.
“Somewhere along the way,” Adam said, “I stopped cooking for anyone other than you. When you were gone, it was like all the flavor had drained out of the world. Without you, nothing tastes as sweet.”
Her eyes filled with tears for the second time that night, but this time Adam was pretty sure they were happy ones.
Throwing her arms around his neck, Miranda said, “I guess I’d better accept. You’re at Market all the time; if I don’t work here, too, I’ll never see you!”
He swallowed her smile with a kiss, which prompted a round of catcalls and wolf whistles from his incredibly immature crew, reminding Adam that they were all still there, watching with rapt attention like he and Miranda were their own private soap opera.
Gazing into Miranda’s flushed, lovely face
, he said, “If you all aren’t out of here in ten seconds, I’m revoking that round of drinks at Chapel.”
Within eight seconds, Adam and Miranda were alone in the blissful silence of the pantry.
Adam smiled.
“So. I’ve got this great idea for a book.”
“Oh? Tell me more.”
“It’s about this chef who falls madly in love . . .”
* * *
THE “MIRANDA” COCKTAIL
1 ounce rose-petal-infused vodka
3 whole raspberries
Your favorite champagne or sparkling wine
For infused vodka:
2 cups of vodka
2 large red roses
Remove petals from flowers and wash well. Add petals to the vodka and stir around. Let sit, covered, overnight to allow flavors to steep.
Put the berries in the bottom of a champagne flute or saucer, pour in the vodka shot, and top up with your favorite bubbly! For a drier cocktail, choose brut or rosé; if you want it sweeter, the next level would be a crémant, followed by the sugariest of all, a spumante. Makes one cocktail.
* * *
GINGER LEMONADE
2 ounces gin
1½ ounces ginger syrup (see recipe below)
1 ounce fresh-squeezed lemon juice
Club soda
Mix first three ingredients in a glass with ice, then top up with club soda. For a “mocktail,” increase the amounts of ginger syrup and lemon juice to 2 ounces each—very refreshing! Makes one cocktail.
Ginger Syrup
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 cup peeled fresh ginger, thinly sliced
Bring all ingredients to a boil in a small saucepan, stirring to dissolve sugar. Simmer until reduced by half. Strain out the ginger slices and bring the syrup to room temperature.
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