Dishing Up Love Read online

  Her quick glance to my once-again-tented pants and then her satisfied smile tells me it may be a little of both.

  At the sound of everyone coming through the front door, I don’t follow her retreat, narrowing my eyes at her chirped “Moving along!” as I continue to wonder about this confident, sexy, and flirtatious woman. She’s so different than any of the other participants I’ve had on the show. Hell, she’s unlike any woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting before.

  I don’t do relationships. With all my traveling for the show, plus spur of the moment trips to cook for celebrity dinner parties, or cater weddings for socialites and royals, I have zero time to give to a person I feel would deserve my devotion. I love what I do. I worked fucking hard as hell to get to where I am today.

  I’m no celibate saint, but I am also not some love-‘em-and-leave-‘em fuckboy who lets a woman fall for him before dropping her as I hightail it to the next city. I especially never show any kind of interest in the guest I choose for the show. Ninety-nine percent of the time, they’re in a relationship, wanting to cook a meal for their significant other. More often than not, they’re married. But occasionally during my visits to different cities, someone will come along who I want to spend an evening with, but I make it completely clear that night is the only one we will spend together. I have gotten really lucky not to end up with a stalker or two, and I count my blessings nothing has happened to me like my friend Dean, who ended up in the tabloids when that chick claimed she was pregnant with his baby. Not once have I ever had a scare like that, thank God.

  I’ve never met a woman I could see a future with. I’ve never met a woman who made me want to learn her every opinion, her every motivation, her every thought. And I’ve certainly never met a woman who affected my body in the ways Erin does—keeping me on my toes as much as she makes my dick hard. It’s a mindfuck, and I’m enjoying it immensely.

  And it’s during this realization I decide…

  She’s mine.

  Chapter 5

  Erin

  CURTIS PULLS ALL the groceries out of the bags, displaying them neatly across the island before looking around with an expectant look on his face. Spotting the butcher block by the microwave, he chooses one of the knives in order to cut the tape holding the box closed then reveals what’s inside.

  Hefting the gadget out, the silver pressure cooker gleams under the kitchen light as he sets it on the countertop, cutting off all the plastic bubble wrap and tossing it back into the box after finding the instruction manual inside. He takes the time to wash the interior, which is super impressive for any guy if you ask me, before plugging it into the outlet on the side of the island.

  Grabbing the bag of red beans, he finally looks up at the camera and begins to speak. “Some people would end up using canned beans if they didn’t have time to soak their dried ones. But canned beans are full of not-so-healthy things like way too much sodium and preservatives. Normally, you’d want to soak your dried beans overnight to use the next day, but there’s this handy little feature that allows you to quick-soak your beans in the Instant Pot in half an hour.”

  Before he can start rummaging through my drawers, I hand him a pair of scissors out of the pencil holder by the old-fashioned rotary phone sitting on the edge of the counter beneath the cabinets. He smiles at me then snips the bag open, and after requesting a colander and rinsing them off, he pours the beans into the pressure cooker.

  “Put the beans inside, and then fill with water until the level is one inch above the beans,” he instructs, so I pull down a measuring cup, turning on the tap.

  “Does it matter if it’s hot or cold water?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “Nope,” he replies, so I nod and begin the processes of filling the cup with water, turning to pour it into the pot with the beans, and repeating until there’s enough inside.

  “Very good. Now, I got you the Instant Pot Ultra. There are a few other models, but I wanted you to have the quickest one to cook your meals with, so you’d be less tempted to choose a frozen meal.” He winks, and internally I melt, but on the outside, I stick my tongue out at him, making him chuckle. “We close the lid, select Pressure Cook mode, and set the timer for five minutes.” He does all of those things, and then gestures toward it like he’s a model on The Price is Right. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asks, pointing toward the Start button when my face is confused.

  I shake my head at his antics then give in to the smile wanting to break free across my face. “Why not,” I murmur and reach across him to push the button, my forearm brushing against his rigid stomach, which makes my core clench just thinking about what it must look like beneath his stark-white polo shirt that does amazing things for his surfer boy good looks. I try to put my hormones in check, knowing I’m having a natural reaction as a woman to his obvious virility.

  I don’t realize I’m staring until he asks gently, “You okay?”

  I blink, clearing my throat. “Uh, yeah. The whites of your eyes are just… really, really white,” I say, facing the island and grabbing the empty plastic bag to have something to do with my hands.

  “Ummm… thanks?” He chuckles, and I look up at him once more, seeing the curious look.

  I roll my eyes, propping my hip against the island and facing him, crossing my arms over my chest before I explain, “I’m a psychologist, as we established earlier. And I was momentarily distracted by your many features that completely explain why most of the women on your show end up tripping over themselves and stuttering in your presence. You have one hundred percent of the attributes associated with virility.”

  “Virility? Like… what? Manliness?” He puffs out his chest and then runs his hand through his blond hair, making it stand in all different directions but somehow causing it to be even sexier than it already was.

  “Sort of. It’s the quality of having strength, energy, and a strong sex drive. Masculinity in its purest form. It’s associated with vigor, health, sturdiness, and one’s ability to father children. It’s the male equivalent to a woman’s fertility,” I explain, my heart doing its usual pang when I refer to the subject.

  Suddenly, he steps closer, his hand reaching out to lift my chin when otherwise I’d be looking away in order to hide the twinge of pain he obviously saw in my eyes. “You all right, sugar?”

  One side of my mouth quirks up at the sweet endearment. “Yeah. Totally.”

  He has mercy on me in front of the crew and more importantly the camera, and drops the subject, a look of promise in his eyes telling me that he will be bringing this up in the future if he gets the chance.

  The timer goes off, saving us from any awkwardness. “It’s done already?” I ask.

  “Not quite,” he replies. “Now we wait for the Natural Pressure Release, or NPR. When this little float valve drops that means it’s safe to open it.”

  “Safe? What, is it just like… really hot or something?” I ask. A cook, I am not. I have no clue how any of these fancy gadgets work. A microwave is about as technological as I get in the kitchen.

  “A pressure cooker works by literally building pressure inside of it as the water begins to boil. The boiling water produces steam, and since it’s trapped inside, completely sealed off, it causes the temperature to rise. The high temp and the pressure cause everything to cook quickly. So if you suddenly just busted open a pressure cooker without letting it release slowly, it could cause an explosion. And all that hot liquid inside plus flying parts could cause burns and all sorts of injuries and damage,” he explains.

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Hm. Noted.”

  “Since we have time while we wait for the NPR, why don’t you tell me what these other virile features are?” he asks with a grin, propping his hip against the island and turning his towering body to face me.

  “Well, there are the obvious ones. A narrow waist, a V-shaped torso, broad shoulders, and the fact you’re just… stupidly tall. But then there are smaller details, like the facial featu
res that are built by testosterone. The strong, square jaw, a prominent brow ridge, high cheekbones. It all points to a healthy male who can make babies. Men with higher testosterone tend to be healthier, which women are biologically more inclined to be attracted to. So features indicating health point to a virile male as well. Nice, straight, white teeth, super clear eyes, clean and groomed hair, including facial hair, those sorts of things,” I clarify.

  “Fascinating,” he murmurs, and he truly looks interested in everything I’m telling him, not just trying to fill the wait time with mindless chatter. “I’ve always been interested in psychology. As a matter of fact, cooking started out as a form of therapy for me.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, his eyes close, he slumps for a moment, and then says over his shoulder to the crew, “Fuck, edit that out, would you please, Martin? The last thing I need is tabloid reporters delving into my past more than they already try to.”

  “No problem, Curt,” he replies, pointing at his assistant to make the note, which surprises me.

  One would think tidbits like that would garner more attention for the show, causing higher ratings and in the end more money, and that someone like Martin wouldn’t want to cut something as valuable as that out. It speaks volumes about this team, and even more about Curtis himself, if they are willing to protect him at such a high cost.

  “Man,” he murmurs, running his hand through his hair. “Been a while since I had to get them to cut something for me. You’re just… so easy to talk to. I forgot we weren’t alone for a minute there.” He gives me an almost shy smile.

  “Well that’s a good thing, I guess. Seeing as it’s my job to get people to open up to me.” I reach out and squeeze his forearm in reassurance, since he still looks somewhat flabbergasted he spilled something he obviously usually keeps close to the vest. When his eyes glance down to my hand wrapped around his sinewy arm, I let go, using my still-tingling fingertips to tuck a stray piece of hair back behind my ear.

  “So… what do you do as a psychologist? I assume you’re a therapist, but what is your specialty?” he asks. He picks up the package of sausage and cuts open the wrapper, and I immediately grab the cutting board for him from on top of the refrigerator.

  “I’m a clinical psychologist. So I meet with patients to diagnose their problems, whether it’s emotional, mental, or behavioral. Some, I send to other doctors in the practice I work for, like if I believe they have a certain disorder, but some I keep for myself, if it’s emotional support they need. I’m not a psychiatrist, so I can’t prescribe meds if they need that type of help. But if I believe I can help their issues through therapeutic methods, they become my personal patients,” I explain.

  He begins slicing the andouille into bite-sized disks, making the task seem effortless. When he gets halfway through the first link, he holds the knife out to me by its blade, and I hesitantly take hold of the handle. When he sees how awkward I am, trying to slice it the way he was doing, he steps up behind me, wrapping his long arm around mine and placing his giant hand around my much… much smaller one. I nearly whimper at the feel of his hard body pressed against my back, his heat seeping into my bones and instantly calming me while at the same time my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest.

  “Let the knife do the work,” he says gently, and I can feel his voice rumble in his chest where it rests against the back of my shoulders. He guides my hand to make three cuts, and when he lets go, I try it myself, succeeding in the effort and feeling proud I got it right.

  “Whoa, that is much easier. Usually I end up just sawing through a steak or whatever.” I glance up at him over my shoulder, excitement taking over my expression until I see just how close our faces are to each other. If I suddenly stood up on my tiptoes, we’d end up in that kiss he mentioned earlier, the one he promised would be like none I’ve ever experienced before. And being this close, seeing in high-definition and zoomed in to 200%, I can see just how plump his lower lip is. I can tell that not only are his teeth perfectly straight and white, but his breath is pure spearmint. His hint of a five-o’clock shadow promises just enough roughness to counter the softness of his mouth, and I have no doubt his promise would hold true.

  His eyes are almost turquoise, and they’re focused on my own mouth. And it’s not until his head begins to descend, that the director clears his throat and says loudly, “I saw a porno that started like this once,” that I finally snap out of my Curtis-induced stupor.

  My head whips around to face forward and my body straightens, and Curtis steps to the side, but his hand that was wrapped around mine and the knife gently trails along my arm before resting on the small of my back, sending goose bumps along my skin. The heat from his big palm seems to sink into me then pool directly between my thighs, making them clench together in an attempt to soothe the ache beginning to make itself annoyingly known there. But I try to ignore it, instead focusing on the task at hand. I finish slicing the sausage the way he taught me, placing the knife down next to the pieces of meat on the cutting board.

  “Perfect,” Curtis murmurs, his voice like butter. “I’d like to point out that this is smoked andouille sausage. If you don’t have this available in your area, any smoked sausage will work. This one has a little kick to it, so if you don’t like things spicy, you can always use any other smoked sausage you prefer.”

  As he takes hold of the onion, I hurry over to the refrigerator to grab another cutting board off the top, knowing he’ll probably try to make me cut the evil tear-inducing vegetable myself. That ain’t happening. Instead, I choose the bell pepper from out of the lineup of ingredients, pull out another knife, and try to imitate the way he’s dicing… on the opposite end of the island, as far away from the onion as possible.

  I see his grin even though he tries to hide it. He’s so tall even ducking his head can’t disguise it from my shorter height. He knows exactly what I’m doing, but again, he shows mercy and doesn’t make me cut the onion. He’s finished dicing it in warp speed, before I’m even halfway done with the bell pepper.

  “Bowls?” he asks, running his pointer finger along the flat sides of the knife to clear off the remaining pieces of onion before setting it down.

  My head nudges toward the cupboard above the microwave. “Bottom shelf of that cabinet.”

  He opens the white wooden cabinet door and collects several bowls we usually use for ice cream. When he comes back to the island, he scoops the onions into one bowl, the sausage into another, and then begins to chop up the green onion. He’s starting on the celery as I finally finish with my bell pepper. It took me even longer because I kept stopping to watch with fascination how effortless he made it all look. If I tried to do it as fast as him, there would be a little part of me in every dish, and I don’t mean a figurative piece of my heart.

  I couldn’t even catch what he does with the little bulbs of garlic. One second they looked like the fake white roots in net bags they have hanging around Italian restaurants for decorations, and the next, they look like off-white almonds. And then he took the flat of the knife and smashed them before mincing it all up.

  “I didn’t even know you could use a knife like that,” I say, my face contorted in puzzlement, I’m sure.

  “You’d be surprised all the different ways you can use kitchen utensils, other than their normal purpose,” he murmurs, a teasing smile lifting one corner of his lips as his eyes meet mine for a split second, long enough for me to catch the naughty gleam in them.

  Visions of him spanking me with a spatula immediately come to mind, followed up by a weird one of him moving a rolling pin up and down my back. I shake my head. Obviously, I’m not creative enough to come up with anything remotely sexy the way he seems to be able to, if the chuckle he tries to hide is any indication.

  Just then, the Instant Pot goes off, letting us know the NPR is finished. “Now, we just press the Cancel button, and we can open the lid safely.” He pushes the button, and then he carefully lifts the lid. “Drain,
and then they’re ready to cook.” Which he does, pouring the beans in a bigger bowl I set on the counter for him.

  “Next, we set this bad boy in the Sauté mode. We’re going to brown the sausage in two tablespoons of vegetable oil.” At that instruction, I hand him the little set of measuring spoons connected together with a plastic ring, but he winks at me, shaking his head. “What kind of teacher would I be if I did all the work for you? The rest is all you, sugar.”

  My nose scrunches up as I pout. “Fiiine,” I drawl, grabbing the bottle of vegetable oil and filling the largest of the measuring spoons before dumping it in the pot. I take the bowl of sausage we cut up, and put that in as well. When I go to close the lid, he stops me.

  “We don’t have to close it just to brown the meat. We leave it in for about five minutes, continuously moving it around so it gets cooked evenly,” he explains. “When that’s done, we’ll use a slotted spoon to remove just the sausage, leaving all those delicious juices in the bottom of the pot for our other ingredients to cook in.”

  No one could ever describe me as graceful if all they had to go by was watching me brown the meat inside the pot. I am pretty proud I don’t spill anything or burn myself when I move the sausage from the pot to the bowl though.

  “Now, add in the onion, celery, bell pepper, and garlic we prepared while the beans were soaking,” he instructs, and when I’m finished, he tells me to use the same motion I did to brown the meat to now sauté the veggies until the onions are translucent, which takes another five minutes. “Perfect. Now, add one teaspoon of dried thyme… half a teaspoon of cayenne pepper… a teaspoon of salt… and one teaspoon of black pepper.” He pauses between each ingredient, allowing me time to measure everything out with my handy little spoons. “And then we’ll just stir that up for about thirty seconds to get the veggies nice and coated in our concoction we’ve created here.”

  “I didn’t realize we’d actually like… cook inside the pot. I thought it was more like a crockpot, where you just toss everything inside and forget about it for a few hours,” I admit, looking up at him as I stir. “But I have to say, it smells amazing, and it hasn’t been hard at all.”