Dishing Up Love

“Most definitely. It’s on every tour I’ve ever taken,” I reply, trying to get my body to calm its tits… especially my tits. My nipples could cut glass, and it reminds me I never put on a bra after we got home from the grocery store. “Holy shit.”

He stops in his tracks. “What’s wrong?” he asks, hearing the worry in my tone.

“I never put on a freaking bra, and we just recorded a whole fucking episode of your show. The entire world is going to be staring at my boobs when the show airs,” I squeak, starting to hyperventilate.

He doesn’t look fazed and shakes his head. “Nah, you’re all good. I kept an eye on them the whole time, and your nipples didn’t make their grand entrance until about three minutes ago when you were basically fapping to me washing your dishes.” He smirks.

For the first time in my entire life, I’m speechless.

There is no comeback to that.

Instead, after my teeth click shut, I spin on my heel and rush up the stairs to my room, hearing him laugh behind me. I rip my shirt over my head and scramble around, looking for the bra I wore to work today. When I find it tangled up in the shirt I’d been wearing, I flap it around in the air until it pulls loose, hooking it in front before spinning it around my body then sticking my hands through the straps. I hike my boobs up inside the cups then scramble through my dresser drawer to find a cute tank top. If I’m going to be walking around in the humid evening air, I’m going to need less fabric on my body.

I change my leggings out for jeans shorts in record time, just in case the sexy chef decided to follow me up the staircases while checking out all the stuff Emmy’s parents have collected during their excursions.

Catching a glance of myself in the dresser mirror, I let out a squeak and yank the ponytail holder out of my hair. This time, I actually take a second to brush it to get it somewhat smooth before piling it on top of my head in a messy bun. I slap on a fresh layer of deodorant and spritz on a little bit of my One in a Million body spray from Bath and Body Works, because I will no doubt be sweating my tits off soon. It just won’t be clear whether it’s from being around Curtis Rockwell, celebrity chef, or because of the NOLA heat.

Chapter 8

Curtis

“BUT… THEY’RE SUPPOSED to be the best in New Orleans. In the world, even,” I pout as Erin takes hold of my wrist and drags me past Café du Monde.

“That they are, mon ami. But they’re also open twenty-four hours. And we’ve got just eight minutes to meet up at the tour spot. You see that line?” Erin asks, and I glance back as her little body continues to haul me down the sidewalk in Jackson Square heading toward the French Market.

“You mean the one that’s about sixty-people deep and reaches all the way to where the two guys are break-dancing and sliding across the makeshift dance floor on the top of their freakin’ heads?” My jaw had dropped when I saw the first performer do it, sliding fifteen feet across what I assume is plastic. Otherwise, I have no idea how he could’ve slid… On. His. Head.

“Yep, that one. The line goes pretty quickly, but not quick enough that we can wait in it, find a table, order our food, receive and eat it, and then make it to the tour,” she explains, looking back and up at me. She reads the disappointment clearly on my face, and hers softens from the sternness it’s been harboring since we left her house, as I’ve wanted to stop to oo-and-ah over every little thing like the tourist I am. She sighs. “I promise after the tour you can treat me to some beignets and café au lait.”

I grin. “I can treat you, huh?”

“That’s right. You’re the one who dragged me out tonight, when all day today I had dreams of an early bedtime after eating my easy frozen meal. So I will go on this tour with you and eat the beignets and coffee you provide, and then I guess I’ll finally get some sleep. I’ll just do something I never, ever do tomorrow,” she says, and I lift a brow, fully planning on keeping her out way later than what she’s expecting. It’s NOLA on a Friday night, after all.

“And what’s that?” I prompt.

“Sleep in.” She shrugs.

Visions of spending all night with her then curling up to sleep all day together flash through my mind. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday.

“You don’t usually sleep in?”