Dishing Up Love

Me Curtis.

You Erin.

Oo-oo, ah-ah.

Caveman grunt.

What. The. Fuck?

When she pours several crackers right onto the counter in order to make the process of dipping and devouring a little more streamlined, I laugh and take hold of her hands across the island.

“Don’t fill up on snacks, sugar. You still have a whole meal coming in just… fourteen minutes,” I tell her after glancing at the timer.

Her bottom lip pouts out as she whimpers with her mouth full, “Plus NPR time,” giving me puppy dog eyes.

And I fall for her right then and there.

This sexy yet adorable, playful, spirited woman will be the end of Curtis Rockwell as we know him. From this moment forward, if I have anything to do with it, it’s gonna be Curtis and Erin. Like that one song says, “When they think of me, they think of you.” When everyone thinks about me, they’re going to instantly think of her. If I go anywhere without her, the first thing out of anyone’s mouth is gonna be “Where’s Erin?” Never in my life have I ever wanted an attachment like that. Not once have I ever craved an association between me and another person. Sure, it’s pretty nice having my name come up when people are talking about “the greats” of the chef world, but even being associated with the likes of Gordon Ramsay and Wolfgang Puck doesn’t compare to the idea of pairing up with this beauty, currently making her lip quiver in an attempt to make me let her hands go so she can eat another cracker dipped in cream cheese and pepper jelly, acting as if it’s the finest caviar.

And I can’t deny her. I let her go, and she chomps down on the snack as if she thinks I might steal it out of her hand, grinning at me before pushing the container away.

“Put a lid on that sorcery, please, before I eat the whole damn thing,” she requests, rolling the bag of Wheat Thins before closing the box. “I have so many regrets right now.”

I lift a brow. “Did you eat it too fast?”

“No. I regret I never knew about that deliciousness. Do you know how many jars of jelly with peppers I’ve kept over the years, just waiting for them to expire so I could finally throw them out without too much guilt? At least like… twenty. All this time, I could’ve been enjoying this journey, Curtis,” she says, her face twisted dramatically like she’s actually disappointed in herself.

“Well, from now on, I’ll make sure you don’t miss any more food-related journeys. As long as you trust me, I’ll take those taste buds on a magic carpet ride you’ll never want to end,” I promise, and I watch her face soften for a long moment before I see the window behind her eyes board itself back up.

During the rest of the break, she signs the show’s standard contract giving us permission to air footage of her, and I teach her a quick and easy way to make rice—without burning the bottom half of it, as she warned me she has a habit of doing. I pull bits and pieces of information out of her, enough to learn this girl has walls around her like a fortress. They’re incredibly high and armored, probably after years of reinforcing them. When I try to nonchalantly ask when her last relationship was, she immediately shoots me down with a change in subject, but not before I see a flash of pain in her eyes. Whatever or whoever hurt her must’ve really done a number on her, which makes me admire her more for her profession, wanting to help others even after she’d been hurt herself. It makes me think she’s pretty selfless, but at the same time, I wonder if she might be using her job to distract her from her past instead of dealing with it. To be honest, it makes her even more intriguing that I’m having to work to get to know her. Normally, the women I come into contact with can’t stop talking about themselves.

When everyone comes back from break, we pick up where we left off making the meal.

“Taking our big spoon, I’m going to remove the ham hock from the pot—” I follow my own instructions as I say them out loud. “—and place it on our cutting board.” I put the spoon back into the pot so it doesn’t make a mess on her countertop, since I didn’t see a spoon rest when I was going through her kitchen earlier. “Now, I’m going to chop it up into bite-sized pieces. I’ll do it this time, just because our student here looks like she’s about to fall out and shouldn’t be wielding a knife.” I wink at the camera and then grin at Erin, who looks grateful even as she sticks her tongue out at me. “When that’s done—” I finish the last three cuts. “We throw away the bone, and then take about a cup of the beans out of the pot and put them into a bowl.”