Can't Stand The Heat

by Louisa Edwards

  “Don’t worry. Adam Temple is such an arrogant bastard, I’m actually looking forward to writing it. He’s not going to know what hit him.” She tried to smile, and found that after the first few seconds, it didn’t even feel strained.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said before Claire could respond. “I know I’m supposed to be clearing my desk in preparation for being out of the office for a whole month, but right now I’m taking my lunch break.”

  “Where are you going to eat? Perhaps I’ll come with you.”

  “Someplace I’ve never gone, even though I’ve lived in the city for a year. The Union Square farmers’ market.”

  “Ah. More in-depth research?”

  Miranda stood up. “This may not be the book I’ve always dreamed of writing, but I intend to make it the best damned gossipy tell-all exposé it can be.” She turned on her heel, ignoring Claire’s indelicate snort as she left.

  While it was an accepted fact that no one in the history of ever had moved to New York City for the weather—winter was long, cold, and full of snow that turned to icy sludge as soon as it hit the sidewalk, and summer was long, sweltering, and tended to make the whole city smell like ripe garbage—there were two or three months that made up for everything.

  May was one of them. Adam could never understand why tourists clogged the streets from July to August, or why they flocked to Manhattan at Christmas, when the glories of late May in New York outshone any holiday or vacation he’d ever experienced.

  It had rained the night before and the city looked washed clean, sparkling late-spring sunlight glinting off damp concrete. The market was packed, for a Wednesday, although Adam supposed part of it was that he wasn’t used to seeing the place at noon. Lunchtime was a nutty time of day to hit the Union Square market—full of office drones on break, hunting up stuff for dinner, and hip, young mothers using their baby carriages like battering rams to block other shoppers from the last of the white asparagus.

  Adam wouldn’t normally venture downtown at noon; the travel time on the subway could hit half an hour, easy, and he needed to be up at the restaurant. He liked to get to Union Square at the ass-crack of dawn and open up the Greenmarket, help his buddies from Siren Falls Farm set up their stall. He’d made friends with all his favorite purveyors, so now they let him have first pick of all the produce and even occasionally slipped him tips about specialty items coming into the market.

  Like today. Paul Corlie, one of the Siren Falls boys, had pulled Adam aside and whispered that he’d heard a rumor that one of their friends, a well-known shroomer, had gone on a very successful expedition for morels. Morels, those big, succulent members of the mushroom family, were not easy to come by. They stubbornly resisted all efforts at cultivation and continued to grow only in the wild. Shroomers guarded the secrets of their hunts jealously; it was impossible to predict when one would show up at the market, mushrooms in hand. This shroomer was only going to be in town for a few hours, and Adam couldn’t wait to work up a special using the tender, earthy delicacy. He’d promised Paul he’d meet the guy back at Union Square at noon.

  So here he was. He’d been dreaming of dishes to highlight morels the whole trip down on the C train, so lost in thoughts of what he could do to twist up the traditional pairing with asparagus that he almost missed the transfer at Fourteenth Street.

  Glancing around to orient himself—it was wild how different the market was all packed with people like anchovies in a tin—Adam waved at Dava Whitehurst, one of his supplier buddies. She waved back distractedly, her salt-and-pepper dreadlocks bound up in an intricate bundle on her head. She barely took her eyes off the scale where she was weighing out the lump of creamy white goat cheese one of her many customers had ordered.

  Adam bulled his way through the crowd, trying to move quickly without knocking anyone down. He breathed a sigh of relief when he got to the Siren Falls stall and ducked around behind the table to escape the crush.

  “It’s a madhouse out there,” he whooped, clapping Paul on the back. Broad and stocky, Paul spent a lot of his time in the sun doing backbreaking manual labor, and it showed. He was about Adam’s age, but he looked nearly ten years older, as if he were pushing forty instead of thirty.

  “Yeah, man.” His friend grinned, teeth flashing white in his lined, weathered face. He gestured at the nearly empty table before him. The last time Adam saw it, the table had been groaning under the weight of slim, elegant asparagus spears, sweet baby peas, and the first small wild strawberries. “That’s what we like to see. We’re going home empty-handed tonight.”

  “That rocks, Paulie,” Adam told him. “You’re the man.”

  “Yes, I am,” Paul agreed, smug as all hell. “You’re gonna think so even more in a minute.”

  “Why’s that? The morel guy here already? Tell me he got at least five pounds.” Adam’s head whipped around, searching the crowd for a man with a dirty sack of mushrooms over his shoulder. Surely he’d be pretty conspicuous.

  “Down, boy.” Paul laughed. “He ain’t here yet. Naw, it’s just that I got your back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paul clucked his tongue, clearly enjoying dragging out the suspense. “And man, are you ever gonna owe me. You’ll never look at another guy’s tomatoes again once I tell you this.”

  “Damn it, Paul, when are you going to let me live that down? It was one time! One time,” Adam groused. “And they weren’t even worth it. Pretty to look at, but the texture was for shit.”

  “And let that be a lesson to you,” Paul said. “Just because it looks hot on the outside don’t mean it’s got any flavor or goodness to it at all. Which brings me back to the point.”

  “Finally,” Adam put in.

  Ignoring the interruption, Paul held up a finger. “A certain little redheaded tomato came poking around the stall asking questions, not ten minutes ago. Questions about you, what you like to buy, who you shop with, how much you spend.”

  Adam bristled. He knew at once who the redhead was and his blood started a slow simmer. “You don’t say.”

  “People pointed her over here, and she wanted to know all about how we grow our vegetables, like were we really organic and whatnot. I gave her the farm spiel. She seemed kinda disappointed to hear that we’re all about sustainable agriculture, no pesticides or anything. It was like she wanted to catch us spraying poison all over everywhere.”

  “I’ll just bet she did,” Adam grumbled. “Mother of God, she’s got to be the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever encountered.”

  “The point is,” Paul said, with emphasis, “I didn’t know who she was, so I didn’t tell her anything about you. I mean, for all I knew she was from a rival restaurant, looking to steal your ideas. So I ask her what she’s doing playing twenty questions, and she’s like, ‘It’s for research.’ ”

  “Of course.” Adam was really starting to loathe that word.

  “But it gets better,” Paul promised. “ ‘Research for what?’ I ask, and she says, ‘For a book.’ ”

  Adam rocked back on his heels as if he’d just taken a heavy cutting board to the jaw. “What. The. Fuck.”

  “Yeah, man.” Paul nodded. “A freaking book. So I told her she’d better move on, because I wasn’t talking and she was blocking the line. That was the last I saw of her.”

  Adam felt his slow simmer heating up to a rolling boil. This kept getting worse and worse! First the kitchen invasion, then the brother, and now this? A magazine article would’ve been bad enough, but magazines were, by their very nature, ephemeral. Whatever she wrote would cause a stink for the month the rag was on the newsstands, but after that, it would all die down and he could forget Miranda Wake ever existed.

  A book, though. That was permanent. A book would haunt him for the rest of his career.

  “Did she leave Union Square?” he asked, his voice shockingly calm and low.

  “Don’t know. I kinda doubt it. She had that look, you know? Like she wasn’t gonna be put of
f.”

  “Yeah, she’s a determined little thing.” Adam grimaced. “In fact, I’d lay dollars to doughnuts she’s canvassing the stalls right this minute, looking for someone who’ll tell her I bought a nonorganic zucchini, or a Vidalia onion from Chile. I’ve got to find her.”

  “If you leave now, you’re gonna miss the morel guy,” Paul warned. Adam shook his head, ignoring the sharp twist of regret.

  “Can’t help it. Thanks for looking out for me, man.”

  “You betcha,” Paul said, and waggled his bushy eyebrows expressively. “Just don’t forget what I said about the tomatoes.”

  The sick anger churning in his gut wouldn’t let him laugh, and Adam just shook his head again as he left the stall and reentered the fray.

  Wishing he had some of Frankie’s ridiculous height to help him peer over the heads of the shoppers, Adam decided the best way to find Miranda would be to follow his usual path around the market. She was smart enough to have figured out his favorite suppliers, and with any luck, he’d catch up to her.

  After checking the stand where he got all his jam and jelly products, and the stall with the weird tropical fruits that they grew in a hothouse in the Catskills, he finally fetched up back at Dava Whitehurst’s dairy stand near the front entrance to the market.

  And there she was. Miranda Wake, all buttoned up in one of her crisp suits, leaning on the table and chatting away with hippie Dava like they were old friends. Spotting Adam over Miranda’s shoulder, Dava waved a languid hand, her many bangle bracelets clinking merrily.

  “Twice in one day,” she called, her throaty voice carrying over the noise of the square. “It must be a sign. You’d better let me do your chart tonight, see what I come up with.”

  Adam forced a smile. “Thanks, Dava, but you don’t need to. I’m pretty sure I know what the stars are trying to tell me.”

  He caught Miranda’s wide eyes, and she straightened away from the table guiltily.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” he requested, nearly choking on the civility.

  It worked, though, because Miranda nodded warily and followed him when he moved toward an empty, secluded area to the left of the entrance to the square.

  Adam didn’t exactly have a plan for how he wanted this encounter to go, and the moment they had even a semblance of privacy, the rolling boil graduated to a full-on explosion, sending the top of his head into the stratosphere.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded. “Every time I turn around, there you are, fucking with me.”

  Miranda flinched at his tone, but her eyes were steady on his. “I’ve told you before. I’m doing my job. It’s nothing personal, it’s work.”

  Adam sneered. “Yeah, and that’s what you don’t seem to get. My work is fucking personal. It’s who I am, everything I am, and if you mess with it, you mess with me.”

  Visibly startled, Miranda let out a slow breath and tried again. “Nothing has changed since the last time we talked. I told you already that I’d be doing as much in-depth research as I could. And since you’ve staked your restaurant’s reputation on the quality and provenance of its ingredients, your suppliers are obviously a key research point.”

  “Oh, sure, you’ve been up front about everything,” Adam mocked. “What a shining example of honesty and professionalism you are. I suppose it must’ve slipped your mind that all this so-called research isn’t for some little magazine article.” He leaned in, got right in her face, and saw the dawning realization in her blue eyes. “That’s right,” he said in a near-whisper. “I know. You’re writing a fucking book.”

  She swallowed, closing her eyes for a second. “How did you—Right. The man at the vegetable stand. Okay.” Miranda opened her eyes and held Adam’s angry glare.

  “Yes. I’m writing a book,” she admitted. “It’s a relatively new development, but I should have told you. But the fact is—” She clammed up, and Adam made an impatient sound.

  “The fact is,” she said, more strongly, “I don’t need your permission to write the book. I already have authorization to be in your kitchen, and as for the rest of my research, it’s a free country. I can ask anyone, anywhere, any questions I want. You have very little say in this, so I suggest you get over yourself.”

  Frustration and rage churned in Adam’s gut, eating away at his composure.

  “I might have to let you into my kitchen, but there are rules,” he snarled. “No pads and pencils, no minirecorders—you’re there to cook. Whatever writing or exposure or other shit you want to get out of this, that’s on your time. Kitchen time is my time. The minute you start slacking off or compromising the quality of my food, you’re out.”

  “Agreed,” she said, and put out her hand.

  Adam looked down at her delicate fingers, the thin wrists that made him want to feed her, put some meat on her bones. He shook her hand once, firmly, then let go, unwilling to examine why the simple touch burned across his palm.

  As she turned to leave, Adam caught a glimpse of her smirk in profile. She looked a little self-satisfied, as if she thought she’d played him well, and Adam couldn’t resist stepping up behind her. She froze, and he bent his head close enough to smell her hair, which was loose and curling softly around her shoulders. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo, something herbal and clean—rosemary and mint? With one hand, he carefully gathered all that heavy auburn silk and smoothed it over one shoulder, leaning down to whisper into the exposed pink shell of her ear.

  “I’ll be watching you.”

  Adam let her go, but not before feeling the tremor that shook her slender frame. Walking back into the market, he grinned. He was pretty sure if he looked behind him, any trace of a smirk would be gone from that pretty face.

  NINE

  Opening night at Market.

  If Miranda were prone to dramatic pronouncements, she might’ve called this the first night of the rest of her life. It felt epic, this step she was taking away from the small, confined world of magazine writing toward the large, open spaces of book publishing.

  According to Jess, who’d spent some of the past week taking reservations, Market was booked solid for the first three weeks after its official grand opening. Obviously the same buzz that had gotten Miranda her book deal was also working in Adam’s favor. Squeezing shampoo onto her palm, Miranda worked it into a lather. Would the evidence of Market’s reservation book be enough to make Adam happy to see her today?

  Somehow, she thought not.

  She couldn’t believe he’d found out about the book deal so quickly. Obviously, it would’ve come out sooner or later, but there had to have been a better way for him to get wind of it. Who could’ve predicted that those suppliers would all count themselves among Adam’s friends? And while she was on the subject, was there anyone in the entire city who didn’t like Adam Temple? The task of digging up dirt on him was looking more daunting by the day, as every person she spoke to either refused to answer her questions, or had nothing but glowing things to say about the man.

  Miranda made a face. She’d be willing to bet that none of Adam’s many friends had been raked over the coals by him, repeatedly, the way she had. That scene at Union Square! Adam was forcing Miranda to redefine “undignified.” She couldn’t help wishing she’d had the chance to tell him about the book deal herself. Maybe she could’ve spun it so it didn’t sound so much like she was taking advantage of him. Maybe that confrontation would’ve ended differently.

  Miranda finished soaping her hair and ducked under the shower to rinse. The thick strands were heavy with water, slip-sliding down her back. She shivered despite the warmth of the water, remembering Adam’s hard hand gently pushing her hair aside, the heat of his strong body along her back, the murmur of his breath against the side of her face.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. It’s not like he was whispering sweet nothings in your ear—pretty far from it, in fact.

  She’d do her hair in a French braid tonight, she decid
ed. To keep it out of the way and ensure she wouldn’t be reminded of that strange almost-embrace by the tickling of hair on her shoulders. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d be doing in the kitchen, and she couldn’t afford any sort of distraction.

  “Come on!”

  Jess rapped on the bathroom door, his excited voice muffled but distinct.

  Miranda smiled to herself. Even if they hadn’t managed to sit down and have that serious talk she knew they’d eventually need to have, it was still lovely to be living with Jess again. Even the daily ritual of fighting over who took longer in the shower hadn’t lost its glow.

  She turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower cubicle, whisking one towel around her hair, another around her body.

  When she opened the bathroom door, Jess was momentarily enveloped in a cloud of steam and he coughed exaggeratedly as he pushed past her.

  “You’re not the only one who wants to get clean, you know,” he said, stripping off the ratty T-shirt he wore to sleep in.

  “I know. What happened to you at Brandewine, Jess? You never used to spend so much time every day beautifying. Is there a cute girl you want to impress at Market?” she teased, hopeful.

  She happened to catch Jess’s slight, momentary wince in the bathroom mirror, and it made Miranda pause and replay what she’d just said, searching for hidden meanings. Oh, dear, maybe he was still smarting from whatever happened with that Tara girl, despite what he’d told Miranda.

  “I’m sorry, kiddo,” she said sympathetically. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. Hey, what do you think of Grant?”

  Miranda squinted at the abrupt change of subject. “I don’t know. He seems very competent. And he’s been good to you, hasn’t he?”

  “He has. I like him. I mean, he’s a good guy. You know, I think he might be gay.”

  “Oh?” Miranda felt a bit at sea in this conversation. “What makes you think so?”

  Jess shrugged, bending over to fiddle with the drain in the tub. “I’ve heard stuff.”