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Dishing Up Love
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Table of Contents
Dishing Up Love
Copyright
Also by KD Robichaux
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
Other Books from Boom Factory Publishing
About Boom Factory Publishing
Copyright © 2020 by KD Robichaux.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dishing Up Love
Published by Boom Factory Publishing, LLC.
Cover Design by Kirstyn Smith
Formatting by CP Smith Designs
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.
Also by KD Robichaux
The Blogger Diaries Trilogy:
Wished for You
Wish He was You
Wish Come True
Club Alias Series:
Confession Duet
Seven
Mission: Accomplished
Knight
Scary Hot (Crossover with Aurora Rose Reynolds’s Until Her Series)
Moravian Rhapsody (Read Me Romance novella)
Doc (Coming Soon)
Standalones:
No Trespassing
Cowritten with CC Monroe:
Steal You
Number Neighbor
KD Robichaux
Dedication
To Chef Curtis Stone. The one-two punch of Trading Spaces followed by your Take Home Chef back in the day was all I needed to help get me through some rough times. I appreciate you, you Aussie cooking god.
Prologue
Curtis
“TAKE IT FROM the top in five, four, three…” Martin, my director, finishes the countdown silently on his fingers then points to me, where I stand in the produce section of Heath’s Healthy Food Market in downtown New Orleans.
With my signature smile in place, I look into the camera and deliver the lines always at the beginning of every episode of my cooking show. “I’m Chef Curtis Rockwell, and this is Chef to Go. I’ll be surprising one lucky shopper with a chance to take me home with them—” I lift a brow, my smile momentarily morphing into a cocky smirk. Ninety percent of the viewers who watch my show are women and gay men just here for my good looks and flirtatious one-liners. “—where I’ll teach ‘em how to cook a gourmet meal.”
I turn a quarter of a circle on my heel and begin strolling down the aisle of fresh vegetables, making sure to stop directly in front of the eggplants. I lean back against the display and cross my feet at the ankles. “Today, we’re in gorgeous and history-rich New Orleans, also known as The Big Easy. Which is perfect, since it’s my job to make tonight’s dinner seem easy for our amateur chef.” I lower my voice, as if it’s a big secret, even though there will be a crew of eight people following me around the store with giant cameras, microphones, and lighting. “Follow me while I pick who I’ll be going home with today.” I flash a sexy grin at the camera before turning away and heading off in the direction of the meat department.
Chapter 1
Erin
I STARE INTO the dark abyss that is my empty freezer and curse myself for not going to the grocery store on the way home from work. I could’ve sworn I at least had some leftovers, dreaming all day about the southwest chicken egg rolls I had brought home a couple nights ago. I even drew little pictures of them in the corners of my notepad as I listened to Sally Stewartson drone on and on about how she hasn’t been able to go out on a date in the past four months because her freaking dog has such terrible separation anxiety that she would come home to her entire house being wrecked. I quirked my head at her like a puppy myself when she asked me if I’d ever shrank a dog before, since clearly her furbaby needed therapy. I’d managed to answer, “Sorry, I’m merely a human psychologist,” without then prescribing Sally a fucking lobotomy.
But alas, I must’ve gotten the drunk munchies last night and eaten the eggrolls in the middle of the night when I got home from my favorite little bar down the street from my creole townhouse here in New Orleans. In all actuality, it’s not technically mine, per se. It’s my best friend Emmy’s family home. But seeing how her world-renowned archeologist parents left it to her when they moved to Egypt, and now she travels the world, cohosting the super-popular travel documentary show No Trespassing with her husband, it’s now basically mine. I had offered to move out once they got engaged, but Emmy wouldn’t even let me finish the thought out loud, stating I had grown up here as much as she had. We’ve been BFFs since we were kids and were inseparable. Plus, she didn’t want to just leave it abandoned for three-quarters of the year while they were off filming their explorations.
I close the freezer with a huff. I had skipped lunch today, so there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep if I try to go to bed without eating dinner. With no other choice, I trudge up the staircases and into my room. When I got home from work a little earlier, I shed my professional outfit of black pencil skirt, a tucked-in, sleeveless, floral button down top, and black pumps, trading them for an oversized tee, sighing with relief as I’d pulled the thong out of my butt and covered my buns with the most comfortable thing I owned: surgery panties. It’s what Emmy and I had dubbed the white mesh boyshort-cut underwear they’d put me in after my surgery last year. They were so freaking comfortable that I asked for a few more pairs before I was discharged from the hospital. And as long as I washed them in my lingerie bag on gentle cycle, they didn’t unravel. My good ole surgery panties.
I pull on a pair of leggings and tie my hair up in a high ponytail, not even bothering to put on a bra, because I plan to just run in and out after grabbing something to eat for tonight. I’ll do an actual grocery run tomorrow. Maybe.
Snatching my purse up off the bed, I gallop down the stairs, out the front door, take the time to lock it really quick, and then head down the sidewalk on foot toward my favorite store. There’s actually a grocer a little closer in the opposite direction, but I like Heath’s better even though they’re a smidge more expensive. They always seem to have everything I’m looking for. And I never run into anyone I know here, so I won’t have to worry about being embarrassed by my… comfortable appearance.
A few minutes later, I welcome the cold shot of air conditioning as I walk through the automatic doors. The sun may be on its way down, but the temperature on a gorgeous summer day like this doesn’t usually get the memo until well into the wee hours of the night. And even then, it’s still
hot as hell with the humidity to match.
Glancing to my left, I see a crowd of people near the produce section, and it makes me wonder about the last time I ate an actual fresh piece of fruit or vegetable. Probably the last time I saw a crowd of people in the produce section and wandered over to see what was going on, which was a few months ago when the first shipment of cotton candy grapes came in. But I ignore the draw of the hoard and turn to the left, toward the freezer section. I’ll take my chances and hope they’ll have whatever healthy but yummy deliciousness still in stock tomorrow. When I come actual grocery shopping. Maybe.
My cell rings just as I turn onto the frozen pizza aisle, and I glance at my smart watch, expecting to see the name of one of my patients. Instead, it’s Emmy and I pull my phone out of my purse with a wide grin. “Well, good evening, Mrs. Savageman,” I say as a way of greeting.
“Good evening to you too. Um... Erin. Are you sober?” she asks, sounding surprised, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Wow, talk about making me feel like an alcoholic, bee-otch.”
She scoffs, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Oh, shut your face. It’s Friday, your favorite night to go to our pub, drink three-dollar you-call-its, and then flirt with the hottest tourist in the place.”
“Dude. I’m totally an alcoholic ho,” I hiss, as if it’s the first time I’m realizing this.
“Um, excuse me. No talking about my best friend that way. As you’ve always slurred, ‘What’s the point of living in a party place like New Orleans if you’re not going to party?’” she asks, and I twist my lips in thought.
“Says the gal who’d only had sorta-sex with one guy before she met her now-husband.” But she’s right. For several years, I’d made it my mission to speak to as many people who came through town as I could while out, sampling all the different personalities as if they were foods at a Mardi Gras festival. Being a psychologist, I have a thirst for reading people from all over the place and all walks of life, which isn’t hard at all when there are so many tourists in The Big Easy. My favorite are the men—guys visiting for a bachelor party weekend spent on Bourbon Street, or the occasional world traveler here to check off an item on their bucket list.
I get to have an awesome get-to-know-you conversation, the excitement of learning a bit about a complete stranger, and no matter how the night ends, they go back to where they came from, and I’m left with a new personality to mull over after secretly shrinking them. But never locals. It’s just better this way, no chance of getting attached.
“So... why don’t I hear crazy commotion from the bar in the background?” Emmy prompts.
“Ah, no big deal. I just had a late patient today who bored me to tears, like to the point I just wanted to go home. But then I realized I didn’t have anything to eat for dinner, so my ass is currently scoping frozen pizzas at Heath’s.”
There’s a pause, and then Emmy’s teasing tone changes to one more concerned. “You feeling all right? More tired than usual? If you need me to fly home and go with you to the doct—”
“Em, I’m fine. I swear. It was the dog lady who had the late appointment.” I share stories with my best friend, but I never tell her their names. She’s the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met, so I know the tales I share would never be repeated. “She had to postpone her usual morning appointment for one in the evening because she had a spa day with—”
“Let me guess. Her dog,” she cuts in, and I bite my lip to keep from giggling. I try my best to be nonjudgmental when it comes to my patients, but I’m only human.
“Ding, ding, ding! She asked me today if I had an available opening in my schedule to see her beloved Fifi, as in to shrink the fucking dog,” I grumble.
She laughs, making me purse my lips. “I mean, I could give you Cesar Millan’s number if she’s serious. Our network just picked up his show.”
“Oh, she’s serious, all right. But as much as I love that man’s gorgeous salt-and-pepper hair, there ain’t no way I will be whispering anyone’s freaking dog.” It puts me in a sour mood to think about it, and my best friend must hear it in my tone.
“You sure you’re okay, Rin?”
I sigh. “Yeah. I just... I always wanted to be a therapist to help people. To really help them with their problems and be able to watch them go from their lowest of lows to happy and succeeding in overcoming whatever obstacle they needed me for.”
“But?” she prompts.
“But... I feel like we’re all stuck right now for some reason. Not falling behind in recovery, but also not making any progress either,” I tell her, opening the freezer and pulling out a personal-sized supreme pizza.
“We?”
“Huh?” I ask, confused.
“You said, ‘We’re all stuck.’ You included yourself in that statement, not just your patients,” she points out, and I straighten, closing the freezer door and catching my tired reflection in the clear glass.
“Hey, who’s the shrink here?” I joke, my usual line when conversation directed at me turns too heavy. A great listener, yes, but a talker I am not when it comes to myself. I turn and lean my back against the freezer door, the world feeling too heavy for a moment. While my body slouches and I allow the coolness to seep into me through my clothes, I keep my voice perky even if I feel anything but. “Anyway, I promise I’m all good. I’m going to take my bomb-ass pizza back to our bomb-ass house, and then I’m going to watch my bomb-ass BFF in her newest episode of her bomb-ass show. I’ll actually catch it live for once instead of watching it on the DVR. You should feel loved.”
She obliges me with a little chuckle. “Uh huh. I feel loved, all right. Well, I guess since you don’t need our traditional good luck toast over the phone tonight, enjoy your pizza and I’ll talk to you soon. If you need me for anything—”
“I will call you and you’ll be on the next flight home. I know, Em. And I love you too,” I tell her, knowing exactly what she was going to say, since she ends every one of our calls the same way. We say our goodbyes, and I end the call before slipping my cell back into my purse.
Chapter 2
Curtis
GLANCING UP AND down the aisles as I walk across the grocery store, I scan for the perfect candidate to be on the show. The highest rated episodes so far have been ones featuring moms with small children, and men who want to impress a date. The moms are easy to spot for obvious reasons, but the men I can always tell, because they’re either holding a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of wine, or both.
I spot a mom with kids who look around three and six, but seeing the older one punch her mother in the leg before taking off down the aisle, I decide to pass. It’s best to stick with better-behaved children for the purpose of the show or filming can be disastrous. We learned from experience.
I pass up a grandmotherly type, knowing they tend to want to take over the cooking instead of learning something new. There’s a pretty lady in the bread aisle I consider, but when she turns around to place a loaf in her cart, I see she has a cover over her shoulder and her front, with tiny feet sticking out from it near her waist. Not wanting to make a momma breastfeeding her baby feel awkward by approaching her with a camera crew, I smile at the sweet scene of her pulling back the cover for a moment to coo at the little one before I move along.
Just when I’m about to lose hope in my mission, I spot her.
My sights zero in on an angel.
The florescent lights above shine down on her like a sunbeam from the heavens, making her dark hair gleam when she spins in the opposite direction, her ponytail swinging out around her narrow shoulders.
I stand there dumbly, probably looking like a creeper just watching her as she animatedly chats on her phone, hypnotizing me and making me grin like a loon at her facial expressions and gestures. She talks as if whoever the lucky bastard she’s speaking to can see her, and I’m struck by the force of overwhelming jealousy that hits me as soon as I picture a man on the other end of the line.
I clear my throat, shifting on my feet. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I think she’s the one.” My heart does an impressive high-dive, gold-medal-winning flips and all, into my stomach. The one, a voice repeats inside my mind. Mine. But I shake it off, because that’s just crazy.
I don’t believe in love at first sight. Maybe lust… Actually, definitely lust. Because as I watch this stranger as she reaches into a freezer and pulls out a pizza, all I can think about is what her nipples might look like pebbled from the cold.
Yet, when she spins again, this time to lean her back against the freezer as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders, all the lively animation gone from her limbs, it’s not lust that makes me take a step toward her. It’s the urge to comfort her and take every ounce of whatever is bothering her away so she can stand up tall again.
She must tell the person goodbye—I’m still too far away to hear the sound of her voice—because a small smile crosses her beautiful face before she hangs up and tosses her phone into her bag. When she stands up straight, taking steps toward me but not looking up as she reads the pizza box, my body leaps into motion of its own accord.
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and the hair on my arms stand on end as we near, adrenaline making its presence known. I usually get a little zing of excitement and anticipation whenever I’m about to approach a target, but never anything close to this pulse-racing, almost jittery feeling I have right now. I feel like a fucking teenager about to ask his crush to prom. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m so into this unfamiliar feeling that I don’t realize just how close I’ve gotten to her. And when I stop in the middle of the aisle to say my usual opening line, nothing comes out, and since she’s still looking down reading the pizza box, she doesn’t see the idiot human roadblock until it’s too late. She runs right into me, the pizza getting smashed between us, as she gasps. From the coldness of the frozen dinner now pressed against the nipples I was imagining only moments ago, or from running into me, or from the group of several people holding cameras and microphones surrounding us, or from—and I like this option the most—finding me incredibly attractive as she looks up into my eyes with shock, or a combination of all of them, I have no idea.