Dishing Up Love

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.