Page 17 of Chef's Kiss

We hit commercials two minutes late, but there’s not one complaint from the crew. They are literally swaying from side to side, clapping…the room is electric.

“Where’d you come up with that?” I ask her, completely awestruck.

“I read books. Words are my best friends, and making up little rhymes has always been a fun hobby of mine.”

“You’re like Enimem out there in the middle of a rap battle.”

She giggles, and opens the fridge on set, scooping up a bit of French cream and tapping me on the nose with it. “You’re silly.”

“We’re on!” the producer yells, and the crowd wails out the interplay between the two of us.

“And you’re naughty,” I say, grabbing the offset brushed stainless steel icing spatula that she got for me just yesterday and playfully spanking her backside with it.

“I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly,” she sings into the rubber spatula, channeling her best Beyonce, and next thing I know I flip my spatula over and growl, “My body’s too bootylicious.”

There’s not a dry eye in the crowd as I’m completely out of my element. I’m the structured guy who has a script and follows it. I don’t sing. I don’t dance. I’m a damn man, for Pete’s sake. But her youthful exuberance is captivating, overwhelming, and sweeps everyone up in its path.

Next thing I know the show is done seemingly before it’s even started. We high five and the director yells, “Cut!”

The crowd cheers, people high fiving each other and…trading recipes? Seeing people in the crowd from Alaska to Arkansas, Seattle to South Beach, and everywhere in between sharing family secrets like this so freely blows my mind.

But there’s one thing about family that is definitely not a secret when it comes to her…how much I want her to have my babies.

The animalistic side in me comes back out, as I scoop her up in my arms and carry her off set.

“Put me down. I’m too heavy.”

“You’re perfect, and right where you’re supposed to be…in my arms.”

“Call the factory in Italy and see if they can make more. Overtime, doubletime, I don’t care. This girl’s a hit!” the producer yells into the phone.

“Not this girl,” I snarl as we pass. “My girl.”

CHAPTER 11

Charlotte

I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I sure know what I want to get into me.

Him.

I’ve never had so much fun in my life, and I’m not going to lie and pretend like for half an hour there all my anxieties about being around people didn’t completely disappeared. Not only that, Christian didn’t step forward once and try and steal my thunder. And it’s his show!

I wasn’t trying to hijack it, I just started having so much fun, all the tension that’s been inside me for so long melting away that I just couldn’t stop. And Christian was right there behind me, supporting me, letting me fly without even thinking of clipping my wings.

His age, and the maturity that comes with it, were really shining through. And his worldly ways and all that he’s already accomplished leave no desire for him to act in a jealous way. He let me have the whole episode, and now I want to let him have the whole enchilada…me…for the first time.

Christian leads me into his house as lightning slashes through the sky overhead and I feel a raindrop, an extreme rarity for Southern California. Despite my thoughts last night that I’d just sneak out after the show and go back to my normal life, putting a nice bow on this little experience.

Not now.

The minute we’re through the door he grabs me and lifts me up, holding me above his head like a child, the child he’s looking at me like he wants to put in me. His arms don’t even seem to strain and his breathing doesn’t change at all, despite the fact that I’m far from some waifish girl.

His eyes stay locked on mine as he carries me into his dining room, sitting me on the table.

“You keep looking at me like that and you’re going to feel some real thunder real quick,” he says, his voice deeper than the crackle of thunder that he’s promising. His rough words are like sandpaper dragging across my ears, causing my skin to tingle.

My arm tenses and my body shivers, needing to hear more, wanting to feel everything.

“How am I looking at you?” I ask, knowing damn well the look I was giving him, telegraphing my need which was out of control. The odds of getting struck by lightning are slim to none, especially inside a home, but in this instance I knew lightning, thunder and all kinds of powerful forces were about to rain down on me. And these forces all started and ended with him.

“You’re looking at me like you want me to consume you just like that incredible barbecue sauce you made on the show today. Like you want me to tip you back and drink you down all in one go.”

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