Dishing Up Love

“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.