She nods, taking a step back, and then holds up a finger before spinning around. I watch as she walks back to the freezer she’d been scouring when I first spotted her and replaces the pizza where she found it. When she returns, she tells me sternly, “This food better be good or I’m sending you for takeout.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 3
Erin
OKAY, LET’S BE honest here. I’m normally a pretty good-looking gal. On a scale of one-to-ten, I’m a solid 7.6 on any given workday. When I actually put in the effort to look my best, that jacks up to about an 8.4. I hit the jackpot with good genes. My mom’s gorgeous and my dad’s equally as handsome. They met on a photoshoot for a JC Penney catalog in the early ‘80s, where they had to play a couple with two kids who looked nothing like them. Apparently, there were instant sparks as they sat around the fake Christmas tree, pretending to be a happy family opening presents, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.
But I digress.
Workday, 7.6.
Maximum effort, 8.4.
But when I shed all my shit and throw on my comfy clothes to make a grocery run after a hard day of shrinking, that number dive-bombs to about a 6 thanks to the dark designer bags under my eyes and the hangry look I’m sure I have on my face. Still a point above average, because of nice bone structure and being mostly healthy, but I sure as hell don’t warrant the way Chef Curtis Rockwell is looking at me… like he wants to put me on one of his buffet tables and eat me.
He, on the other hand, I’d like to put on a plate and sop up with a biscuit. Because dear Ayida-Weddo, Voodoo goddess of fertility and rainbows, my lady bits woke up the second I slammed headfirst into the brick wall of his chest. And then when I looked up and saw who it was, I was mesmerized by the fact that he was even more gorgeous in person than he is on TV.
But I, Erin Bree Bazzara—my parents had a weird obsession with Tolkien—am not some cowering kitten. I am not a shy, wilted flower. I don’t back down, and I didn’t back away. Well, that last part was because he just smelled too damn delicious and was so warm in this cold-ass freezer section. But still, even so, I wouldn’t have turned into a blithering mess either way. That’s just not who I am as a person.
So even though he’s so towering-tall that my head only reaches the center of his muscular chest, and his jaw was sculpted by Roman gods, and his eyes are as blue as my September birthstone, and his hair is the perfect shade of light blond that I can see is natural and not out of a bottle, coiffed in a way that looks like he had mind-blowing sex and just “woke up like dis”… I threw my minor tantrum after being caught looking like a hobo and quickly got over it.
I’ve always wondered if the food he cooks is actually good or if they pay the people they find to say it’s super yummy. Like, is it in the contract I’m sure I’ll have to sign to release the footage? “Even if the food tastes like twice-baked dog shit, you must act like it’s the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”
But at his wonderfully infectious laugh and the confident look in his beautiful eyes as he politely said “Yes, ma’am” when I told him it better be good, I somehow have a feeling his skills are as fine-tuned as the viewer is made to believe. And the way he continues to look at me like he wants to devour me makes me wonder what other skills he might be really good at.
“So, I know you had your heart set on frozen pizza,” he starts with a mischievous tilt of his sexy mouth, “but how would you feel about a dish more traditional to your… hometown?”
“Yes, I was born and raised here, and that sounds really nice but definitely a challenge. The dishes here have all sorts of spices and ingredients, and you promised me it would be a simple recipe for one.” I raise a brow.
He smirks, and my surgery panties go up in flames. “I’ve got a plan.” I nod once and give him the universal gesture for let’s hear it. “We’re going to do a gorgeous traditional pot of red beans and rice.”
My stomach instantly growls at the thought. I fucking love red beans and rice. But… “Doesn’t that take like… forever?”
He shrugs. “It can, if you do it on low and simmer it all day or overnight. But you’re actually giving me an opportunity to do something I’ve been wanting to try for a while now.” He grabs my hand, when normally he’d take the reins of the shopping cart the participant would be pushing, and it feels like static zings up to my elbow from our connected palms, making me shiver. He must feel it too, because he stares at our hands with fascination before seeming to snap out of it and pulls me up the aisle.