Page 3 of Chef's Kiss

Oh, there’s been a spill all right. Clean up in Charlotte’s panties…or at least close.

I’ve never been able to quite get to that point, the elusive one that I just can’t reach. Strangely enough, the only time I’ve ever reached in my panties is when Christian’s show is on, but seeing him on TV doing what he does isn’t quite enough.

This? Now, this is way closer to pushing me over the edge, and there’s not even a finger on me. Although I’d do anything to change that right now.

“Swing by the show today and see for yourself,” he says.

“I can probably just get tickets to be in the studio audience online. I don’t want to waste your time.”

His head shakes side to side as his eyes narrow. “You’re a tough little nut to crack, Charlotte…”

“I just go by Charlotte,” I say, for some reason not wanting to give out my surname. Then again I don’t want him to Google me and potentially see the trauma I’ve been through these past few years. That would for sure be the nail in the coffin and he’d high-tail it in the other direction in a hurry.

But what coffin am I talking about? It’s as if I think he’s…hitting on me?

Come on? He just sees me as the target audience for his show. I’m sure of it. Boring looking, single, and with a few pounds to lose. I get it buddy, now you can just get on out of here before you insult me some more, without even being socially aware enough to realize you’re doing it.

“Okay. My staff will be expecting you, Miss Mystery Girl.”

“Like I said, I can just get tickets online.”

“And I’m saying you will not sit with the people in the audience. You’ll be backstage and get to taste everything first, before the show starts, during if you want, and after when we all wrap and go out to grab a bite.”

I gulp down my nerves.

“This sounds a lot like marketing and a whole lot like not paying,” Alexa pipes up yet again.

“And it sounds like you’re trying to pick her up to me,” a new voice chimes in, but I don’t turn to look and see where it’s coming from. “Can you just ring me up real quick, sweetheart,” the same guy says with a thick New York accent. “I’m in a hurry.”

It’s only then that I realize he’s looking at me, but obviously Christian has already put two and two together, which is very unlike me right now. My brain feels like I’m trying to do advanced algebra after a night of tequila slammers in Cancun, not that I’ve traveled internationally or taken a holiday before, but living vicariously through the Travel Channel has become another pastime of mine since dad passed.

“I’ll ring your fucking bell if you talk to her like that again,” Christian says, turning to face the man who is built like an NFL lineman, but still smaller than Christian is. “She’s clearly with me,” he finishes, leaving off the “right now” part at the end. Or he could have said, “She’s helping me right now,” or, “She’s waiting on me right now.”

Nope.

She’s clearly with me.

“Hey, you’re the guy from Chef’s Kiss,” another customer asks, and suddenly there’s chatter and it’s only then I notice at least five other people have come into the store. I was totally locked in on Christian, and dare I say he was the same with me.

“Here ya go,” he says, tapping his Apple Pay against the terminal, but never glancing in Alexa’s direction, just staring straight at me. “Just one other thing,” he says. “Do you have a rubber spatula and also an offset brushed stainless steel icing spatula?” he asks me.

“I knew you were making French buttercream frosting!” Alexa calls out like she just got a B-I-N-G-O. “I could tell by the ingredients.”

“Do you like French buttercream frosting?” he asks me. It’s like Alexa wants to have a conversation with him, but he only wants to talk to me.

“Is it kinda like a Butterfinger, just frosting?”

“It’s like angels crying on your tongue.”

“That sounds—”

“Like silky-smooth frosting with a mellow sweetness and a rich custard flavor spread perfectly over a chocolate cake and topped with strawberries. And just like what we’ll make when you stop by the show.”

“When I stop by,” I say. It’s forty-nine percent statement, and fifty-one percent question.

I just stand there, frozen in the moment.

“The spatulas, Charlotte,” Alexa reminds me.

“Oh right.”

“They’re on shelf sixty-nine.”

I look at her thinking she’s messing with me, but when I see the annoyance being expelled from every part of her body, I realize she’s not. I swallow hard and turn and quickly make my way toward the back, putting a little extra sway in my hips.

I grab one of every type we have, practically juggling them as I come back to the counter.

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