A large metal desk strewn with papers, files, and an antiquated computer on one side dominated the room. But Grant didn’t head over to sit behind it. Instead, he gestured toward a narrow sofa along one wall and sat down next to Jess.
“So,” he began brightly. “You’re transferring from Brandewine to a school in the city?”
“NYU,” Jess confirmed. “I was studying visual media, graphics, and stuff like that. But I’m actually more into photography, and NYU has a great program with some really awesome professors.”
Grant tilted his head, those light blue eyes uncomfortably piercing. “And that’s why you’re transferring? To take advantage of the NYU program?”
Danger. Jess fought to keep his expression from broadcasting his sudden, intense desire to be elsewhere.
“That’s right,” he answered.
Grant pressed his lips together as if he knew Jess was lying. Sweat prickled at the small of Jess’s back.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Grant said. “Lord knows, it’s not my business. But I don’t like secrets that might come back to bite me in the ass. It’s my job to make sure the front of the house runs smooth as glass. And I aim to do just that, no matter what it takes.”
Jess felt a flash of anger that this total stranger thought he could make Jess say it when he hadn’t even told his own sister, but he swallowed it down. His stomach twisted into knots.
“Look, if you don’t want me here, tell me so. I’ll get out of your way.”
“I didn’t say that. And if you hold up your end, I won’t have to.”
Jess ducked his head, almost dizzy with relief. Grant gave him the shrewd eyes again. “Don’t be so quick to give up on what you want. I assume you do want this job?”
“It’s not only that I want it,” Jess assured him. “I need it. Tuition at NYU is way expensive, and even living with Miranda instead of paying room and board . . . it’s going to be tight. I don’t want to be a burden on her. She says she won’t let me have a job once school starts, because she wants me to focus on my future. But I’m hoping I can change her mind, because the kind of future I want to have involves me being independent and not relying on my big sister to take care of me.” A hot mixture of shame and determination boiled in his gut, but Jess kept going. “I’m not telling you this to be like, ‘Oh, poor Jess,’ or anything. It’s not a sob story. It’s just—you should understand what’s at stake for me. I won’t let you down, I swear.”
Jess met Grant’s eyes dead-on, steeling himself for pity or derision or even indifference. What he saw was more like recognition. And Jess, who’d never believed in “gaydar” or any other sort of sixth sense, suddenly found himself wondering about the restaurant manager. Grant arched a brow, as if he were perfectly aware of the new direction of Jess’s thoughts, and gave him another of those big, easy smiles.
“Good enough.”
Jess blinked, train of thought effectively derailed. “That’s it? That’s the whole interview?”
Grant shrugged. “To tell the truth, I think interviews are a waste of time when it comes to most restaurant positions. You could answer all my questions and smile like a pro, get through the whole conversation slicker than deer guts on a doorknob, but I won’t have a clue if you can really do the job until I see you do the job. Handle the pressure, keep your cool, don’t sass the customers when they get demanding, and you’ll do fine.”
Jess bounced on the sofa cushions, relieved and happy. “I will, I promise. Hey, can I go tell Miranda?”
Grant laughed, but not in a mean way. “Sure thing. They’ll be up in the kitchen, I bet. That’ll be good, you can get the rest of the tour, meet the rest of the . . . oh. Hell.” He studied Jess through suddenly wide eyes.
“What?” The big eyes were freaking Jess out. “Meet who?”
Grant’s gaze was moving quickly over Jess’s features, his apparent dismay growing by the second.
“Hell’s bells,” he said. “Just what we need.”
“What is it?” Nerves rushed back in a torrent.
Grant blew out a breath, loud in the quiet hallway. “Nothing. Maybe. Anyway, it can’t be helped. Like my mama always says, these things are sent to test us. Come on, let’s go find your sister.”
Jess wanted to push Grant for a less cryptic answer, but long-standing habit kept him quiet.
Don’t push. You might not like what you find out.
Of course, the silence on the way back up the stairs gave Jess plenty of time to get worked up again. A couple of times, Grant started to say something but stopped himself, and Jess felt himself getting wound tighter than a drum.
As they neared the kitchen, he could hear that same throbbing bass beat from before, punctuated by the sounds of metal pots and pans clattering.
“So, kitchen, right?” he prompted Grant, who’d slowed down.
Grant shook himself like a dog coming out of the water, and said, “That’s right. It’s an open kitchen so the guests can peek in. Part of Adam’s food philosophy is about the value of knowing where your food comes from. Listen, Jess . . .”
“Yeah?” Jess pressed his lips together. Here it comes.
“Maybe . . .” Grant appeared to settle something with himself and faced Jess openly. “I don’t know what the kitchen crews were like in other places you worked.”
He paused, obviously waiting for something, so Jess shrugged. “Pretty standard, I guess. What you’d expect from a bunch of guys under pressure in a confined space. Lots of swearing, lots of sweating.”
“Right. Well, here . . . I’ve worked with most of these people a long time. Adam’s known all of them for years, worked with all of them in different kitchens. Whenever he’d move and start running a new kitchen, he’d skim off the best cooks and bring them with him. They’re like family at this point.”
“So. You’re saying I shouldn’t worry if they treat me like an outsider?”
“No. Well, yes, you shouldn’t worry about that, and if anyone tries any hazing, you let me know, especially if there’s talk about a goat.”
Jess’s mouth dropped open, but Grant wasn’t done.
“No, what I mean is that I don’t think that’s going to be your problem. And I just want you to know, if you feel pressured at any time or uncomfortable with how anyone treats you, if anyone’s too friendly, you can come to me. It’s not your job to provide the kitchen with entertainment—your only job is to wait on company and shuttle the food from kitchen to table. Okay?”
Jess didn’t really get how anyone being too friendly could be a problem, but now Grant was the one looking anxious, so he said, “Sure. It’s cool.”
Grant lifted his eyes to the ceiling like he was praying for patience, but then he smiled at Jess and motioned him into the kitchen.
Jess didn’t see what Grant was making such a big deal about. It looked pretty much like every professional kitchen Jess had ever seen, from the chain family place at the mall where he’d worked during high school, to the pretentious bistro in Brandewine that had taught him what a bad idea it was to let anyone really know him. Maybe Market was cleaner and all the tools were more state-of-the-art than Jess was used to, but that was it.
The bustle of the Market kitchen was familiar, comforting. As long as Jess kept his head down, maybe things could be good here.
Jess looked around for Miranda, a tentative curl of hope warming his chest.
Until his gaze snagged and he stopped dead in his tracks, barely noticing when Grant bumped into him with a startled curse, because the Market kitchen was not just like every other professional kitchen Jess had ever seen.
No other kitchen had a cook like him.
Tall, lanky to the point of being skinny, except his upper body was clearly too well developed for that—long, wiry muscles stood out along his forearms as he hefted a hotel pan laden with several whole silver-scaled fish on ice onto a gleaming work surface.
Black hair stuck up in tufts all over his head like he’d head-banged
his way to work, and damn, maybe he had, because he wasn’t wearing a white chef’s jacket like the other cooks. Instead, he had on a skintight black T-shirt with ripped sleeves, showing off a tattoo of a lean, dark-haired figure in a collared shirt and suspenders on his upper bicep. He moved with an economical grace that wasted nothing, every action utterly intent and focused. But his face . . .
Jess gulped and felt his heart race. That face. Lean and angular, pale skin darkened with stubble along a sharp jaw, high cheekbones. His eyes were dark, too, set under a pair of wickedly curved eyebrows that gave him such a devilish look, Jess half expected him to be wielding a pitchfork instead of a cleaver.
The guy standing next to him—shit, it was Adam Temple, Jess hadn’t even noticed him—said something Jess couldn’t hear, but the tall cook threw his head back and shouted a laugh to the ceiling. Jess caught his breath at the sound. Totally free and uninhibited.
“Oh, mercy.”
Grant’s mutter broke Jess out of his trance, and he felt heat sear his cheeks and neck. He dropped his eyes to the floor while everything in him ached for another look at the tall chef.
But Grant was watching him, Jess could feel it, and he willed the blush to fade so he wouldn’t make a complete dickhead of himself on his first day at work.
Ignore it. If you don’t react, it’s not happening.
Jess made himself meet Grant’s eyes. Grant was staring at him. Jess could practically see him putting two and two together and coming up with the easy answer. Jess felt his pulse go into warp drive.
“Oh, look, there’s my sister,” he chirped. “Hey, Miranda!”
She was leaning over a stainless steel countertop writing furiously on her notepad, but she looked up when Jess called her name.
Her smile was a little strained, but still a welcome sight as Jess made his way toward her. He studiously avoided looking to the left or right, and breathed out a soundless sigh of relief when he made it to Miranda’s side without any mishaps. With his luck, he was amazed he hadn’t tripped over his own feet and busted his ass on the floor.
Jess gave his sister the biggest, perkiest smile he had in him and hastily shored up his mental defenses. He couldn’t afford to mess up this job the way he’d screwed things up in Brandewine.
Even if temptation incarnate was standing just behind him.
The moment the kitchen door swung open, letting in Grant and Miranda’s kid brother, Adam knew he should’ve fought harder against even letting the kid have an interview.
A soft, low whistle in his ear pierced even the Sex Pistols’ raucous beat. Frankie zeroed in on the new kid, who was a younger, masculine version of his pretty redheaded sister, like a starving man at a feast.
“Well, if that isn’t a bit of all right.”
Frankie actively encouraged his rep as resident Bad Influence. In the last two restaurants he and Adam had worked together, Frankie had regarded the wait staff of both sexes as his own personal dating pool. Anything as fresh-faced and innocent as Jess Wake was exactly the type he liked to corrupt.
As if Adam didn’t have enough problems already.
“Off-limits, dude. I’m serious.” Adam attempted to inject a note of steel, but Frankie just turned to him, all incredulous. As if an impure thought never crossed his mind.
“The bit will be perfectly safe with me, mate. Count on it.” He grinned, showing his trademark flash of tongue, and Adam scowled so hard his eyes nearly crossed.
“He can’t be more than twenty. And his sister’s right there,” he whispered, trying not to indicate her in a really obvious way.
Miranda leaned over her notebook, oblivious. Adam glanced back at the unfolding drama and barely suppressed a groan at the thunderstruck expression on the kid’s face as he gazed at Frankie.
It was like he’d never seen a punk-rock chef before.
“Ah, to relive my misspent youth,” Frankie breathed, laughter running through his tone.
Adam shook his head. “Far as I can tell, you never left it.”
Frankie snorted, and Grant wrinkled his nose at him as he walked up. Jess bounded over to his sister and started talking a mile a minute.
“I’ve hired Jess on a trial basis,” Grant announced.
Adam could actually feel himself going gray, one hair at a time. “For real? I don’t think that’s such a smoking hot idea.”
“Why not?” Grant had the balls to affect a look of innocent surprise, when Adam was sure the restaurant manager knew damn good and well what had just happened.
“Yeah, Adam, why not?” Frankie added in a wheedling tone.
“The kid’s got potential,” Grant pointed out.
“Fucking hell, does he ever,” Frankie breathed.
Grant shot him a quelling glance. “Bottom line: he has experience, but he’s young enough I can train him to do it the way I want it done. And we need him.”
“Christ, mate, it’s like you’re reading my bloody thoughts.” Frankie snickered.
Grant raised a quick hand to smack him on the side of the head, but Frankie ducked away, cackling.
Adam threw up his arms. How often did Grant and Frankie agree on anything? He was obviously outvoted.
“Fine!” he said. “Hire whoever you want. It’s on your head.” Adam’s gaze slid to the pair of interlopers in his kitchen, chatting away without a care in world, and he brooded quietly for a moment. He was really in the shit. A plague of Wakes descending on Market, Frankie in deep shit, and in about two seconds, Grant was going to start nagging Adam for the finalized menu.
Grant turned to him as if on cue, determination firming his chin, and Adam felt a grin start to tug inescapably at his mouth. Energy zinged under his skin like electric pulses and he soaked up the pandemonium of his kitchen like a damp dishtowel. It was all good.
If he’d wanted a boring life with fewer risks, he would’ve been a lion tamer.
EIGHT
Miranda hung up the phone with a shaking hand and stared sightlessly at her desk. Manic excitement coursed through her so strongly, she had to share it with someone. She picked the phone back up and was already dialing the apartment before she remembered that Jess was at Market, being trained by Grant on server procedures or something.
Crap. She drummed her fingers on her desk, and a memo from her editor caught her eye. Brightening immediately, Miranda pushed back her chair and nearly danced down the hall to Claire’s office, pushing inside without even knocking.
Claire raised her eyebrows at Miranda’s exuberant entrance, but her only verbal response was a mild, “Can I help you?”
“Oh, Claire, don’t go all stiff and proper French right now!” Miranda hugged herself. “I’ve got huge news.”
“Which you are clearly bursting to tell me, so why don’t you have a seat?” Claire said with an amused look.
Miranda shook her head. “Can’t sit, I’m too edgy. Claire, I got the call!”
“What call?”
“The call,” Miranda repeated with emphasis. “From the publisher. About my book!”
“Ah, that call. From your expression, I take it this call was more satisfying than your previous interactions with Empire Publishing?”
“Yes.” Miranda paused, savoring the moment. “They want to publish my book.”
“Darling, that’s wonderful,” Claire said, genuine delight suffusing her voice. “I’m so proud of you. What made them change their minds?”
“The month I’m spending at Market! All the buzz about that, and the in-depth research I’ll be able to do. I made some notes based on my first day there, and the editor just ate them up. She loved the characters.”
Claire furrowed her brows. “The characters? I thought it was a serious work of nonfiction.”
“Well,” Miranda hedged, “the book they want isn’t exactly what I was intending to write when I first submitted the proposal to them. But it’ll still be nonfiction; I meant ‘characters’ in the sense of how over-the-top and wacky some of those cooks are.”
“What do you mean, the book isn’t what you intended?”
In typical editorial fashion, Claire immediately zeroed in on the weakest part of Miranda’s story. Miranda tried not to be annoyed at having her happy moment picked apart, thread by thread.
“I’ve just had to adapt my original idea, that’s all. No big deal.” It came out a little sharper than she meant it to. Claire tilted her head down and gazed at Miranda over the tops of the wire-rim glasses she wore for reading.
“This new idea,” she pressed, “what makes it different?”
Miranda camouflaged the urge to squirm by taking the seat Claire had offered earlier. “It’s . . . a bit less serious,” she admitted. “Less of an examination of restaurant culture, more of an exposé. Kind of a gossipy tell-all book, about what it’s really like behind the scenes at a major restaurant.”
“I see,” Claire said. It was uninflected and her expression didn’t change, but somehow Miranda felt a wave of disapproval wash over her. She slumped a little in her chair.
She felt a pang when she thought of the proposal she’d sweated over for so long, the one that would’ve studied the way people related to food and chefs, the one she would’ve written so brilliantly that she would’ve become an internationally renowned expert on gastronomy.
That was a fantasy. It was time to grow up and face the real world.
“I know,” she said, raising her hands. “But this is what they’re willing to pay me for! I need the money for Jess’s tuition, and I need it fast—I won’t let him work his way through college the way I did. He shouldn’t have to do that.”
“Miranda,” Claire started, then stopped as if she weren’t certain of what she wanted to say. When she continued, it was in the gentlest voice Miranda had ever heard from her brisk, no-nonsense friend. “You shouldn’t have to do something you won’t be proud of. Jess wouldn’t expect it of you, I’m certain, and neither would your parents.”
The kindness in Claire’s usually stern face nearly broke Miranda. She swallowed hard around the painful lump in her throat.
Can't Stand The Heat Page 7
