Dishing Up Love Read online

  All I know is she’s got the most beautiful, unique eyes I’ve ever seen. I supposed one would call them green if they were being general, but up this close, they’re pure gold. Not just flecks throughout the irises, no. They’re solid gold, with a dark ring around the outside, keeping the gorgeous color contained as it surrounds pupils I watch with fascination as they dilate when she seems to recognize my face.

  “Oh hell,” she breathes, and then those golden eyes peer around me, spot the crew, and then glance down at herself as one hand lifts to pat her messy hair. “Ah fuck,” she murmurs even quieter, so low only I can hear.

  “I…” I start, but then I can’t help but chuckle at her potty mouth. When her eyes shoot to mine, with both an annoyed and worried look, I give her my best, winning smile. “I’m Chef Curtis—”

  “Curtis Rockwell. And you want me to take you home,” she cuts me off and finishes my line.

  You have no idea, dollface.

  I grin widely. “I take it you watch my show.”

  “I do. You come on right before my best friend and her husband’s show,” she replies, surprising me.

  My eyes widen, and I turn my head with a shocked face toward Carlos, who is filming the entire exchange. “Well. This… this is new.” I glance back down at her, still so very close, as if it hasn’t occurred to her to take a step back. It occurred to me… but I just didn’t wanna. “Small world. I’m good friends with Dean Savageman, host of No Trespassing here on The Adventure Channel.” I wink over my shoulder at the rolling camera.

  “Yeah. Crazy.” Her small voice pulls my attention back to her. “Ummm… I’m probably not the best candidate though. I’m just grabbing something quick for myself to eat while I watch their newest episode airing tonight.” She shrugs.

  And that’s my cue. A genius idea hits me.

  “Actually, you’re perfect.” Her eyes meet mine, her breath catching at my words. I clear my throat and continue, pushing aside the way that look makes me feel. “Oh, first, what’s your name?”

  “Erin.” She shifts from one foot to the other.

  “Why shouldn’t you eat like a queen, even if you were planning to eat alone, Erin? I can help you prepare something quick and simple yet delicious, while making it a meal for one.”

  She nervously bites her lip, clearly thinking about my offer. Finally, the tension in her stance releases a bit as she visibly gives in. “What the hell. YOLO, right?”

  I smile genuinely, knowing I get to spend the next several hours with the beauty still so close I can smell her floral perfume. “Right, exactly. YOLO. You only live once, and what better place to exercise that way of thinking than in New Orleans?”

  She nods, taking a step back, and then holds up a finger before spinning around. I watch as she walks back to the freezer she’d been scouring when I first spotted her and replaces the pizza where she found it. When she returns, she tells me sternly, “This food better be good or I’m sending you for takeout.”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 3

  Erin

  OKAY, LET’S BE honest here. I’m normally a pretty good-looking gal. On a scale of one-to-ten, I’m a solid 7.6 on any given workday. When I actually put in the effort to look my best, that jacks up to about an 8.4. I hit the jackpot with good genes. My mom’s gorgeous and my dad’s equally as handsome. They met on a photoshoot for a JC Penney catalog in the early ‘80s, where they had to play a couple with two kids who looked nothing like them. Apparently, there were instant sparks as they sat around the fake Christmas tree, pretending to be a happy family opening presents, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

  But I digress.

  Workday, 7.6.

  Maximum effort, 8.4.

  But when I shed all my shit and throw on my comfy clothes to make a grocery run after a hard day of shrinking, that number dive-bombs to about a 6 thanks to the dark designer bags under my eyes and the hangry look I’m sure I have on my face. Still a point above average, because of nice bone structure and being mostly healthy, but I sure as hell don’t warrant the way Chef Curtis Rockwell is looking at me… like he wants to put me on one of his buffet tables and eat me.

  He, on the other hand, I’d like to put on a plate and sop up with a biscuit. Because dear Ayida-Weddo, Voodoo goddess of fertility and rainbows, my lady bits woke up the second I slammed headfirst into the brick wall of his chest. And then when I looked up and saw who it was, I was mesmerized by the fact that he was even more gorgeous in person than he is on TV.

  But I, Erin Bree Bazzara—my parents had a weird obsession with Tolkien—am not some cowering kitten. I am not a shy, wilted flower. I don’t back down, and I didn’t back away. Well, that last part was because he just smelled too damn delicious and was so warm in this cold-ass freezer section. But still, even so, I wouldn’t have turned into a blithering mess either way. That’s just not who I am as a person.

  So even though he’s so towering-tall that my head only reaches the center of his muscular chest, and his jaw was sculpted by Roman gods, and his eyes are as blue as my September birthstone, and his hair is the perfect shade of light blond that I can see is natural and not out of a bottle, coiffed in a way that looks like he had mind-blowing sex and just “woke up like dis”… I threw my minor tantrum after being caught looking like a hobo and quickly got over it.

  I’ve always wondered if the food he cooks is actually good or if they pay the people they find to say it’s super yummy. Like, is it in the contract I’m sure I’ll have to sign to release the footage? “Even if the food tastes like twice-baked dog shit, you must act like it’s the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”

  But at his wonderfully infectious laugh and the confident look in his beautiful eyes as he politely said “Yes, ma’am” when I told him it better be good, I somehow have a feeling his skills are as fine-tuned as the viewer is made to believe. And the way he continues to look at me like he wants to devour me makes me wonder what other skills he might be really good at.

  “So, I know you had your heart set on frozen pizza,” he starts with a mischievous tilt of his sexy mouth, “but how would you feel about a dish more traditional to your… hometown?”

  “Yes, I was born and raised here, and that sounds really nice but definitely a challenge. The dishes here have all sorts of spices and ingredients, and you promised me it would be a simple recipe for one.” I raise a brow.

  He smirks, and my surgery panties go up in flames. “I’ve got a plan.” I nod once and give him the universal gesture for let’s hear it. “We’re going to do a gorgeous traditional pot of red beans and rice.”

  My stomach instantly growls at the thought. I fucking love red beans and rice. But… “Doesn’t that take like… forever?”

  He shrugs. “It can, if you do it on low and simmer it all day or overnight. But you’re actually giving me an opportunity to do something I’ve been wanting to try for a while now.” He grabs my hand, when normally he’d take the reins of the shopping cart the participant would be pushing, and it feels like static zings up to my elbow from our connected palms, making me shiver. He must feel it too, because he stares at our hands with fascination before seeming to snap out of it and pulls me up the aisle.

  I don’t say a word as he takes me three rows down to the utensils aisle. I just follow along and wonder what we’re getting as I try my best to ignore the intense feelings radiating from our connection. A steady zing, zing, zing matches the rapid beat of my heart, filling me up until I’m ready to burst with energy.

  “Here.” He stops, and I’m barely able to halt before I run into him again. I look to where he’s pointing, and an overwhelming sense of loss takes over when he lets go of my hand to reach for the item on the bottom shelf. When he stands, holding it out for the cameraman to see, I tilt my head in confusion.

  “An Instant Pot? Aren’t those for like… making big family meals really fast?” I question.

  “Or one meal really fast,
if you don’t put in as much.” He winks. “But I think I’m going to teach you the art of meal prepping. That way you can make your individual meals that are ready to eat ahead of time, which will taste much better than something that’s been flash-frozen and boxed in cardboard for months.”

  I pooch my lips out, not really sure how I feel about the idea. “You do know that anyone with an ounce of Cajun blood in them would rather die before considering using an Instant Pot to cook an authentic Cajun meal, right?”

  “Do you have Cajun blood?” he asks, tilting his head to the side with curiosity.

  “Not technically,” I admit.

  “Then that means you’ll survive.” He grins.

  I lift a brow, giving him just a little more shit, because I love this banter. “Isn’t meal prepping for body builders or people on a diet? I’m not about that life.” I may go to the gym a few times a week just to keep my muscles a little toned, but most of my exercise comes from walking around my beautiful city. I rarely have to use my car.

  “That’s what comes to mind for most people when they hear the words meal prep, but in all actuality, it’s just a fancier version of reheating leftovers and packing your lunch for the next day,” he tells me with a smile, and dear God I have never seen such a beautiful smile on a man. I need to ask him his teeth-whitening regimen, because his perfectly straight grill is blinding.

  When I snap out of the spell he put me under with his grin, I finally reply, “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds pretty nifty. Let’s do it.”

  At the sexy quirk of his eyebrow, the one only I can see since he’s turned profile toward the camera, I bite my lip and hold in the giggle that wants to escape. He obviously wants to jump on my “let’s do it,” but is forced to stay professional while the cameras are rolling.

  Oh, this could be fun.

  He must see the mischief playing in my eyes, because he gives me the slightest shake of his head, to which I give him a second’s flash of a smirk.

  Challenge: Accepted.

  “So, we should probably get a buggy, huh?” The words are barely out of my mouth before one of the crewmembers returns with one and lets go as she pushes it toward us. Curtis catches it with his one empty hand before swooping it around to take hold of the handle, placing the Instant Pot into the empty shopping cart.

  “Your ‘buggy’ awaits, cher. God, southern girls are adorable,” he says, using his fingers to make quotation marks around the word buggy, and also impressing me with a decent attempt at the term of endearment. Most people want to say it like the singer’s name or “share,” but a true Cajun pronounces it “sha,” meaning dear or sweet.

  I know Curtis is from California from conversations he’s had with other participants on the show, so I tell him, “Nice accent,” as I take the handle of the cart.

  “I had a Cajun sous-chef once. I used to love hearing him talk and would spend our time cooking together trying to mimic his accent,” he explains. “I’m surprised you don’t have much of an accent, since you said you were born and raised here. You sound more… southern.”

  “My parents were from Virginia. But the Cajun accent you’re thinking of is more southwest of here, a place officially known as Acadiana, where a bunch of Canadians settled back in the day,” I explain elementarily.

  He claps his hands and gives a little jump of excitement, making me smile. “Oh! A history lesson. If you’re a fan of the show, you probably know I love hearing all about the history of the place I’m in each episode. So please, tell me all about it while I grab our ingredients.”

  I give a small nod and start to follow him up and down the aisles as he picks out each item we need. “Well, Acadians are the descendants of the French colonists who settled in Canada back in the 17th and 18th centuries. The area is now like… Nova Scotia and that creepy Prince Edward Island place.”

  “Creepy Prince Edward Island place?” He chuckles.

  “Yeah, well, I guess it’s not really creepy to most people, but my best friend Emmy went to check out some abandoned and supposedly haunted spots there while she and Dean were visiting for their show. She told me some stories that were creeeeeeeepy,” I singsong. “Anyway, the Acadians got kicked out because the British thought they were fighting for the wrong team, and they ended up settling down southwest of here along the Gulf of Mexico. The accent is Louisiana French and a crapload of dialects of North American English.” I shrug. “Here in New Orleans though, we have a huge mix of accents, since we’re in the middle of a bunch of different parishes—or counties, as the other states call them. But what’s interesting, at least to me, is the majority of the people from here sound almost like a perfect mix of Southern and working-class New Yorkers.”

  He seems to think about it for a second, and then smiles. “Now that you mention it, that is exactly what they sound like. Hm!” He stops in the middle of the aisle, looking back at me. “Lafayette really nailed the accent on True Blood, huh?”

  I pout my lip. “Rest in peace, Nelsan Ellis. He was seriously my favorite character.”

  “Right? That actually made me really sad when I heard he passed away. Like, most of the time you hear about a celebrity dying, and it’s like, aw, that sucks, and you kinda just go about the rest of your day. His made me genuinely sad that we wouldn’t see him around anymore,” he tells me.

  I’m nodding my agreement before he’s even done speaking. “Same.”

  We just stand there staring at each other for long moments, basking in the fact that we totally get each other in this conversation, and it’s not until someone who I assume is the director yells “Cut!” that we snap out of it and turn to look at him.

  “Y’all went off on a bit of a dark path there for a lighthearted cooking show. Can we get back to the happier shit please, Casanova?” he aims at Curtis, and I bite my lip to keep from giggling.

  Curtis rubs the back of his neck before nodding. “Yeah, sorry. That was kinda weird, huh?”

  The director just shakes his head and points at him. “Action.”

  “Okay, so let me show you everything I’ve collected so far,” Curtis says, coming to stand next to the cart. “In the spice aisle, I grabbed bay leaves, garlic, cayenne pepper, black pepper, thyme, and salt. And down a ways on the same aisle, I got some vegetable oil and chicken broth.” He holds up each item for the cameraman to zoom in on. “I also got a bag of red beans and a bag of white rice. Now we just need to hit the produce section and the meat department.”

  As we start up the aisle, I murmur for only Curtis to hear, “Hm… I thought we were already in the meat department.” And when he turns wide eyes to me, I smirk, glance down at his ass then back up, and wiggle my eyebrows, and he throws his head back and laughs. As many innuendos as he usually throws out on the show, I’ve never once seen anyone do anything but get red-faced and flustered around the man. I’m happy to be the one who finally dishes them out to him—pun intended.

  When we’re standing in front of the pork section, he gestures toward some gnarly looking hunks of meat wrapped in clear plastic. At my sneer, he smiles. “This is a ham hock.”

  “Looks like a prop out of one of the Saw movies,” I comment, and he bites back another laugh.

  “This is what gives the otherwise bland red beans and rice that delicious smoky and hearty flavor. Those little bits of meat you get in every bite comes from the pork literally falling off the bone while it cooks,” he explains.

  “Hm,” I chirp with interest. “Learning has occurred.”

  He takes a few steps down and gestures at the many different varieties of sausage, and at my evil grin, he clears his throat and bites his lip, visibly collecting himself before stating, “There are literally hundreds of different sausages to choose from, but only one is just right for this dish.” He sends a heated look directly to my pussy, and I swear to God my leggings nearly melt down my thighs.

  Touché, motherfucker.

  Curtis

  I have a hard-on in the sausage section of
a health food grocery store like some kind of twelve-year-old pervert, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Any attempt at readjusting would not only be seen by the impish beauty in front of me, but it would also be caught on camera and live on, archived for my humiliation for years to come.

  So I do what any rational man would do in this situation.

  I grab hold of Erin and pull her in front of me, facing the sausages and turning our backs to the camera, even though that’s a no-no in TV Hosts 101. I hear her little intake of breath when she feels the… pickle I’m in, pressing into her lower back, but I try to recover the scene and point to the ingredient we need.

  “That, I’m sure you know, is the only sausage for the job, being a NOLA native and all,” I tell her, and she coughs into her fist and nods, sending her ass back into me as she bends over to grab one. My knees nearly buckle at the feel of her round globes encased in tight black material pressing against the front of my thighs. And it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to grab hold of her hips and grind into her. I only pray that the angle we are to the camera makes it impossible to see just how close we are. When she stands again, she turns to face me, my throbbing erection now pressed into her soft stomach.

  “Andouille,” she states, and I nod.

  “Super delicious, and even more fun to say. An-dooo-wee,” I singsong, and she giggles, her stomach muscles flexing and making me groan. I literally cannot take anymore.

  I take a step back and say without looking toward my crew, “Cut. I need a bathroom break.” And glaring at Erin’s muffled cackle, I turn on my heel and head toward the back of the grocery store, the tented front of my jeans leading the way.