Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be somebody different—someone more exciting? I love my life, but there are days when driving my big blue minivan just doesn’t seem that glamorous.

Daydreams about spicing up my own life led to Miriam Scott, my chef heroine. Her occupation gave me a great excuse to drool over the pictures in food magazines and look up new recipes! Miriam is about to find out what it’s like to reinvent herself, with the help of sexy PR consultant, Dylan Kincaid. I hope you enjoy watching them fall in love as much as I’ve enjoyed writing for the Flipside romantic-comedy line!

I’ve been very grateful for the opportunity to share my stories with Flipside readers. And I’m happy to announce that I will soon be writing for Harlequin NEXT, the dynamic new series of women’s fiction that launches in July. For more information on my upcoming books, please visit me on the Web at: www.tanyamichaels.com.

Wishing you much love and laughter,

Tanya Michaels

“You think I could be sexy?”

“Absolutely,” Dylan said. “We just need some…appropriate wardrobe selections. Like a, er, push-up or lightly padded bra.”

“Ah.” I experienced a moment of dreamlike panic that, if I looked down, I might actually see my unample breasts shrinking. “And maybe I’ll be wearing something lowcut to display this new and improved cleavage?”

“This is simply about body lines and what presents the most photogenic form. I wasn’t stating a personal opinion, Miriam. Er, criticism. You’re…”

Of the two of us, Dylan was definitely the more “unstrung” now. “I’m sorry, I know I said meeting tonight would be a good idea, but maybe I overestimated my—” Don’t say stamina. It wasn’t a word I wanted to think about with him assessing my breasts. “Energy level. I don’t think I’m a good subject to work with right now.”

He nodded. “Perhaps I’m more knackered than I realized, as well.”

Knackered? I assumed from the context that it meant tired. Unfortunately I did know it wasn’t the effect I wanted to have on this man….

Spicing It Up
Tanya Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Jane Mims,

who shares my appreciation of good food and has always appreciated my sense of humor

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tanya Michaels has been reading books all her life, and romances have always been her favorite. She is thrilled to be writing for Harlequin—and even more thrilled that the stories she makes up now qualify as “work” and exempt her from doing the dishes after dinner. The 2001 Maggie Award-winner lives in Georgia with her two wonderful children and a loving husband whose displays of support include reminding her to quit writing and eat something. Thankfully, between her husband’s thoughtfulness and that stash of chocolate she keeps at her desk, Tanya can continue writing her books in no danger of wasting away.

For more information on Tanya, her upcoming releases and periodic giveaways, please visit her Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com.

Books by Tanya Michaels

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

6—WHO NEEDS DECAF?

28—NOT QUITE AS ADVERTISED

HARLEQUIN DUETS

96—THE MAID OF DISHONOR

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

968—HERS FOR THE WEEKEND

986—SHEER DECADENCE

1008—GOING ALL THE WAY

Dear Reader,

For the past twenty months, it’s been our pleasure to bring you fun, witty and amusing stories of love gone wrong—and right!—written by some very talented authors. But all good things must come to an end, and we’re sorry to announce this will be the last month of Harlequin Flipside.

We want to thank everyone who has written to say how much they enjoy the novels, and hope you’ll continue to follow these authors’ careers—and find new lines to enjoy—through our Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

So please pick up a few other titles, grab a latte—or tea, soda or milkshake as you prefer!—and curl up with some wonderful stories about women’s eternal quest to find the perfect man. And how she settles on the one who’s perfect for her!

Keep on reading and enjoying stories on the funny side of life.

All the best,

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Executive Editor

Wanda Ottewell

Editor

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

It’s too easy to fall into a familiar routine that eventually turns stale—whether the routine is in your kitchen, your bedroom or other areas. Sometimes, we gotta spice life up.

—from the foreword to Six Course Seduction by Chef Miriam Scott

SINCE THAT MOMENT in junior-high home ec when I first realized, “Hey, I kick ass at something,” through all the family gatherings where my sanity had been preserved by sautéing in solitude while boisterous relatives drove each other nuts elsewhere in the house, the kitchen has been my refuge. There’ve been nights on the job when I’ve actually had the urge to shuffle from the walk-in freezer to the pastry station proclaiming, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” But why scare the line cooks?

Tonight, I was using the after-hours serenity for a moment of private victory in the silent, stainless-steel surroundings. We’d wowed one of Charleston’s pickier restaurant critics, and the crew had all left for a round of triumphant drinks. I’d taken a rain check, claiming the need to work on a test recipe. From their winks and nudges, it was clear they’d interpreted my excuse as code for clandestine celebration with Trevor. Truthfully, while I don’t have one of those “chef’s temperaments” you hear about, I had enough ego to want to savor the accomplishment alone.

But I wasn’t alone long. “Miriam?”

Startled at the interruption, I glanced up from the pan of ginger consommé I was stirring at the stove. Trevor Baines, whom I’d expected to be working on bookkeeping for another hour, stood shadowed in the doorway. When he stepped into the light of the kitchen, I smiled at how miraculously unrumpled he was in his dark-blue dress shirt and black slacks. The handsome owner of Spicy Seas, Trevor is technically my boss but also my long-term boyfriend. He’s tossed around the description “fiancé” once or twice, but we’ve been too busy with our business plan to discuss wedding plans.

I doubted that was why he’d sought me out now, though.

“We need to talk,” he said. Despite our doing a great night’s business, his expression was medium dire with a side of pity.

In fact, his features were arranged in what I think of as his Poor Baby face, the one that secretly makes me want to smack him in the head with a spatula. Don’t get me wrong, Trevor’s a great guy, but from time to time he can be unintentionally patronizing, especially when giving bad news. As if I need to be handled delicately. He should know better than anyone how staid and dependable I am.

My creative culinary bent and occasional errant thought about spatula violence notwithstanding, I was the one who calmly dealt with the behind-the-scenes crises that almost always arise when launching a restaurant. Trevor contributed family money—which secured us the place—and his sweet-talking ability to charm vendors, prospective clients and the staffs of food magazines. His people skills and my fabulous recipes have made Spicy Seas one of Charleston’s most successful new dining spots. I have as many insecurities as the next vaguely neurotic twenty-eight-year-old American woman trying to have it all, but my cooking isn’t one of them.

I turned off the burner, sensing that whatever he had to say needed my undivided attention. “What’s up?”

“First of all, let me just say you did a great job tonight.” He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “You always do, but that critic really liked the wreck-fish and spicy fruit salsa.”

Wreckfish is a recent South Carolinian delicacy; the salsa, based on tamarind, is a specialty of mine.

“I think the write-up is really going to help us,” he continued. Which was all to the good, but his smile had the same ring of insincerity as a doctor who says, “This shouldn’t hurt,” just before jamming in the hypodermic needle.

“Thanks, Trevor. You know I appreciate the praise, but if there’s something wrong, you don’t have to soften me up first.”

He chuckled. Nervously. “Such a pessimist. What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Certain symbols throughout history have been universally recognized as Bad Signs—a skull with cross-bones, for example. And the words we need to talk. He had to have been really nervous to make such a rookie mistake.

Oh, God. Was Spicy Seas in trouble?

Profits had been promising, particularly for a restaurant less than a year old. Promotion had been well planned, and the critics had been kind thus far. The recent change in seafood suppliers was costing us a bit more, but our new provider’s strict attention to conservation principles would benefit restaurateurs up and down the coast.

Don’t panic. Whatever the problem was, we would deal with it. My friend Amanda had commented once or twice that she didn’t see the sparks between Trevor and me—and we’d subsequently decided that maybe it was better just not to discuss our respective love lives—but sparks or not, Trevor and I made a good team.

“Just tell me what happened,” I prompted.

“All right.” His hazel eyes were full of anxiety, and he glanced away. “The truth is, I don’t think this is going to work.”

“The restaurant?” My worst fears, realized. I was certain my face had gone the same white as my discarded toque, the chef’s hat I’d removed at closing.

“No, not the restaurant, Miriam. It’s doing great. I meant us.”

Spicy Seas was doing great—relief bubbled up inside me like milk at a fast boil. Wait a minute, cancel that order. “Us? As in, you and me?”

He nodded, suddenly looking haggard in a way that was rare for him even after a double shift. “I think the world of you. You know that.”

Well, I’d inferred it, based on our discussing eventual matrimony. Maybe that had been presumptuous.

“You’re a talented chef, too,” he continued, his Poor Baby expression firmly back in place as he oozed flattery, no doubt meant to temper the blow. “And a, um, lovely person. These months with you—”

“While we’re young, Trevor.” I sounded as impatient and demanding as the most dreaded culinary professor, but allowances for snippiness should be made when a girl’s getting…dumped? For a moment, confusion beat out all the other emotions swirling inside. What was going on, and why hadn’t I seen it coming? “Is there someone else?”

I had no idea when he would have found time to cheat on me, but I’d watched him charm dozens of women. Women who showed up at the restaurant in little black dresses and the latest haircuts. The combination of hours spent in a hot kitchen and unflattering, boxy chef’s whites don’t exactly create a Vogue cover look.

Trevor shook his head. “It’s not anyone else. It’s you.”

“Me?” I blinked, indignant. Although I could objectively admit he dealt nightly with more attractive women, I still thought he had a lot of nerve to announce that whatever problem we had was my fault. My right hand felt along the countertop for a spatula.

“Not that you’ve done anything wrong,” he hastened to add. “I talk about us during publicity interviews, and it’s really made me think about our relationship. You and I together, we don’t make sense. Take a rack of lamb—it goes so perfectly with a cabernet sauvignon.”

I was too caught off guard by this conversation to point out that the entire concept of Spicy Seas was more imaginative combinations.

“You wouldn’t pair it with a cheap beer, right?”

I managed to find my voice. A hoarser, angrier version of it, anyway. “You’re calling me a cheap beer. You’re breaking up with me and insulting me? In my kitchen?” He probably had hot plans to crash a convent and harangue nuns next.

Forget whacking him with a spatula, this called for something cast-iron.

“Our kitchen,” he corrected with a surly tone no customer would ever hear. “My reputation’s on the line with this place. I’m somebody in the restaurant community, among the movers and shakers of Charleston. I want you to stay, of course—you’re part of what makes Spicy Seas work—but you aren’t the woman people expect to see on my arm.”

“Trevor, I…” Have no idea what to say. This man who had ardently pursued me now thought I didn’t fit his image and should be cast aside like a freaking cuff link that didn’t look right with his jacket?

He sighed. “I know there’s such a thing as being too blunt, but you deserve the truth. Inside the kitchen, you make some of the spiciest, most creative dishes I’ve ever tasted. But everywhere else, Miriam, you’re a little too bland for me.”

WHEN I ARRIVED HOME—a reasonably priced duplex apartment in North Charleston with nice amenities but entirely too little kitchen counter and pantry space—I was still vacillating between shock and anger. Tomorrow, I might be feeling homicidal, or at least angry enough to submit my résumé to Spicy Seas’ top competitors. Tonight, though, hours of being on my feet and orchestrating the precision timing of entrées had left me too drained to sustain quality rage.

I pitched my keys on the unfinished wooden TV stand in the living room, then plunked myself down on the striped couch, where I went through the motions of shuffling the day’s mail. But I couldn’t truly focus on any of the envelopes in my hand, stuck as I was on the unexpected relationship drama that had unfolded. In this evening’s performance, the part of Arrogant Jackass will be played by Trevor Baines.

I was bland?

Until tonight, I’d been “methodical,” which benefited my cooking and was one of the traits Trevor had claimed to like, part of what made us a good match. Trevor had always been more an ambitious dreamer than a doer, although he had been proactive about our relationship. From the beginning, he had pursued me. Perhaps that in itself should have been a red flag, now that I thought about it. None of the men I’d attracted before—not that their numbers were legion—had possessed Trevor’s looks, money and charisma.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t fall out of the ugly tree or anything, I’ve just never been one to put much energy into attracting attention. Because of my hours sweating in the kitchen, I tended to skip makeup and simply pull back my too-dark-to-be-blond, not-quite-brown hair. My style guidelines came from the health department rather than fashion magazines. Besides, even if I were more fashion-conscious, I’m not exactly a hotbed of potential, with a body just waiting to be draped in the right materials. I exercise frequently to avoid love of food becoming expanse of ass, so I’m not overweight, but I’m not waiflike, either. Or curvy. I have what’s politely called “an athletic build.”

The no-frills exterior hadn’t dissuaded Trevor, though. We’d met when I was working as a sous-chef at an upscale restaurant where the manic executive chef walked out in a prima donna fit one night. I’d received a hasty interim promotion, and Trevor, a regular patron, had noticed the difference. He’d asked to come back to the kitchen and pay his compliments, and we’d started dating soon after.

Now that I thought about it, even his earliest displays of interest had included his conviction that I was destined to be the headliner somewhere instead of an understudy…and hints that he wanted to open a place of his own. Some men schemed to get into a woman’s pants. Guess Trevor had just wanted into my recipe box.

I blinked away a fleeting sense of feminine inadequacy, redirecting my irritation to this month’s bills. But the dove-gray envelope in my hand said Hargrave NonFiction. My fingers trembled slightly, and I dropped everything else on the mosaic-tiled end table. Although it had originally been Trevor’s brainstorm for me to try to have a cookbook published, as a possible promotional tie-in to the restaurant, I’d enthusiastically warmed to the idea. So many months had passed since I’d submitted the pages, however, that I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing back from the publisher. Fine cognacs aged in less time than it took these people to make decisions.

The letter in my hand was thin, and I was half-afraid to open it. Wouldn’t good news have come by phone so that we could discuss details? Then again, if it was bad news, what better time to get it than tonight? All I needed were some black balloons and second-rate wine and I could throw myself a genuine pity party.

I scanned over the letterhead and obligatory “Thank you for thinking of us” opener. They don’t want it. I read the note twice, then wished I’d stopped at the first pass. The upshot was that my recipes sounded fantastic—but people would never discover this if they didn’t buy the book, and I didn’t have a strong enough marketing hook to stand out among the daunting competition of better known chefs. The editors invited me to try again if I could present a more persuasive selling point, which I took to mean, “Please resubmit if you ever get famous.”

It’s not personal, I told myself. But it sure as hell felt that way, in light of the double whammy I’d received tonight. My lover found me to be not woman enough for him, and now an editorial committee in New York had deemed me not chef enough. My identity was caving in like a subpar soufflé.

I punched a sofa pillow. Normally, my coping mechanism of choice was a therapeutic cooking binge, but for what it would take to make me feel better tonight, my kitchen didn’t have the necessary square footage. I wasn’t sure the eastern seaboard had enough square footage. I knew how everyone else in my family handled crisis—talking. They’d talk it out, then do a recap, followed by lengthy discussion of how much it meant to them that they could have these meaningful conversations.

Big with the sharing, my family.

Mom, Dad and my older brother, Eric, have a patent-pending method of baring their souls as quickly and often as possible. If they could get it registered as an Olympic event, the Scotts would take home gold every four years. I picture it as a lot like the luge, but in the three minutes it takes the team to get to the bottom, they’d have to exchange stories on every date, breakup and medical condition they’d ever had. Judges would base scores on technique around the curves and accurate recall of personal details.

Despite my family’s manic outgoingness—or maybe because of it—I’ve always been a little reticent. There used to be tremendous pressure for me to “open up,” but then my brother married a woman who filled the gaping hole in my parents’ lives, giving them the daughter they’d expected me to be. It’s difficult to tell from my twin nieces’ frequent inappropriate public announcements whether they’ve inherited the legacy, or they’re just being standard-issue three-year-olds.

I’m thinking they came by it honestly. My sister-in-law is not to be trusted in public. I’d been with her at a grocery store a few months ago, bent down to grab a pack of gum, and by the time I straightened, Carrie had launched into a discussion about breast-feeding with the cashier—much to the chagrin of the elderly man ahead of us in line. I may have temporarily blacked out when the words cracked nipples became part of the conversation.

I had to admit, though, that for all my discomfort with the soul-baring Scotts, a sympathetic ear sounded pretty good right now. What I really needed was a sympathetic ear that came with mob ties and an affordable have-your-ex-whacked layaway plan. (I’m kidding, of course. I have my eye on a new set of Calphalon cook-ware I’d spend money on long before I wasted any funds on Trevor.)

Just this once, I gave into genetic coding and reached for the cordless phone. Lord knows Carrie would be elated if I called her. The dial tone buzzed in my ear along with second thoughts. If I confided in Carrie, everyone who’d ever met me would know about my humiliation by noon tomorrow. Besides, my sister-in-law wasn’t part of the Vampire Club—meaning she, like most normal people, would be asleep right now.

Folks who work in the food services and the club/bar scene tend to form a tight-knit group because of our isolating schedules. For instance, my neighbor a few doors down, bartender Amanda White, is my polar opposite in many ways—from her outspokenness to her compulsive dating—but we share the habit of getting home around three in the morning. Over the past four months, we’d become pretty good friends, frequently meeting after hours for breakfast and parting ways before sunrise. Hence the vampire reference, though frankly I’d be lost without garlic.

I knew Amanda hadn’t been scheduled to work tonight; would she still be up? Before I even realized I’d stood, I was opening my front door, still clutching the rejection letter. The summer night air was muggy around me, and I clenched my fists as I strode toward Amanda’s. By the time I reached her front porch, I’d unconsciously crumpled the paper in my hand to roughly the size of a bouillon cube.

Soft lights spilled through the curtains of Amanda’s front windows, so I rapped my knuckles across the door, loudly enough to catch her attention if she was reading in the living room or watching a DVD, but gentle enough that she could ignore it if she was sleeping…or otherwise engaged. She receives amorous offers on a near nightly basis, which, trust me, you’d understand if you saw her. I try never to stand too close to her, for self-esteem reasons.

Footsteps thudded on the other side of the door, followed by a pause. I knew she was glancing through the peephole, and I stood waiting, feeling oddly like a suspect behind a one-way mirror in a police lineup.

The security chain rattled, then Amanda opened the door. Her curly chin-length hair, platinum blond of late, was tousled—very new-millennium Marilyn Monroe—and a pink nightshirt hung to midthigh, her tall, curvy frame making her look like a lingerie model despite the plain cotton. “Hey, Miriam.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Course not. I can’t remember the last time I was in bed this early,” she said, her alert gaze confirming her answer as she backed away from the door.

Once we were both inside, she studied me with a curious expression. “Is everything okay?”

“I, ah…Not really.”

She waved her hand to indicate I should follow her into the oblong kitchen/dining room area. Our floor plans were almost identical, but her furnishing was as modern and fashionable as she herself was. She sat in a straight-backed chair at the black lacquered table. I remained standing, restless despite my fatigue.

“You want to talk about it?” she prompted.

Sort of. I mean, that’s why I was here, but the words didn’t exactly burst forth.

How did my family do this? If I explained how the evening had begun so promisingly, only to end in my being dumped and rejected, wouldn’t it start stinging all over again? Wouldn’t I sound like a pathetic loser? Clearly, if spilling your guts was an Olympic event, I wouldn’t make it past the qualifying round.

Besides, although Amanda was arguably my closest friend, we had an unspoken agreement not to discuss Trevor much. He had never hit it off with her, which I’d found ironic considering the huge number of men she did like. It was a little embarrassing to find out she’d been right.

“Mir?”

I stared at her blankly.

“I’ve got some vino in the fridge,” she offered. “Want me to break it out?”

As long as it wasn’t the type of cabernet sauvignon you were supposed to pair with lamb. “Trevor and I broke up.” The admission got me going—pushed me over the edge and unleashed the building g-forces.

Amanda’s memorable violet eyes widened in shock as I paced around the table, explaining in rapid-fire delivery that I was somehow “too bland” for the man who had proclaimed to love me as recently as…Well, I couldn’t specifically remember the last time he’d said it, but still! Then I talked about how Hargrave NonFiction, people who’d reportedly paid six figures for the biography of a supermodel’s Chihuahua, didn’t want me either.

At some point, Amanda poured us each glasses of white wine. Having had practice with people sharing tales of woe over cocktails, she was a seasoned pro at listening. Mostly, she muttered little sounds of encouragement and, where appropriate, a briefly interjected, “That pompous bastard.” All much appreciated. When I finally wound down, I slumped into one of the matching chairs, realizing I did feel oddly better. Maybe there was something to be said for this talking stuff out.

But they’d be serving sorbets in hell before I worked cracked nipples into a conversation.

“Wow.” Amanda heaved a sigh. “I’ve never heard you say so much at one time. You’re good and truly pissed off.”

“You don’t think I should be?”

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic. I mean, not about the rotten night, but everything will work out in the long run. This just gives you the chance to write an even more kick-ass cookbook. And I never was convinced that Trevor was the right guy for you.”

After tonight, I was inclined to agree. Who the hell did he think he was? The encounter at the restaurant had knocked me so off balance that his unexpected criticism had temporarily made me feel lacking somehow. Colorless and insignificant. But the only thing wrong with me were the hours I’d wasted on an ungrateful egomaniac.

I’ll show him colorless.

I slapped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “You know what? I want to get—”

“Sloshed?” She stood to get us more refills.

My friend, the ever helpful bartender. When life hands you lemons, do tequila shots.

“No. Well, maybe.” I was getting there, since I’d been pretty tired even before the first couple of glasses. “But I was going to say even.”

“You want vengeance?” she asked as she walked around the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen.

“Not vengeance.” In the past, I’d channeled my emotions into cooking and had come up with some of my best dishes. Now, my anger had taken a subconsciously productive turn. “Vindication.”

Bland, huh, Trevor?

Not compelling enough for the Big Apple big shots?

Maybe I could roast two ducks with one glaze.

“I have a plan,” I said.

Amanda shook her head. “Can I be like you when I grow up? I’d still be cussing the guy out and cutting up his picture, and here you are already methodically working through your problems and coming up with sensible solutions.”

I winced at the word methodical, wondering if it was code for boring. “I’m not sure sensible is the right word for what I have in mind.”

“Ooo…I’m liking the sound of this. Anything I can do to help?”

“Possibly.” Even though I’m often more of a loner, I couldn’t think of anyone better for helping me brain-storm my bizarre, fledgling idea—the type of idea best mulled over at 3:00 a.m. with a little alcohol buzzing through your system.

“So, what’s your plan?” she wanted to know.

I laughed recklessly. “Sex sells, right?”

2

An appetizer is the first impression—that simple yet delicious moment when your eyes meet across the room and zing!

Six months later

THE PROBLEM WITH temporary insanity is that it’s temporary. Eventually it wears off and you’re left with “What have I done?” Such was the case with me this fine afternoon in mid-January.

Spicy Seas was closed on Tuesdays, so I sat in the empty tavern where Amanda worked. Since the bar didn’t open until happy hour and the early-shift waitress had called in sick, the place was deserted except for me, Amanda and a hunky bar-back named Todd. They were setting up for this evening’s business, and I was swiveling listlessly on one of the stools lined up at the polished teak counter that ran the length of the wall. I glanced past Amanda, a shag-cut strawberry-blonde since Christmas, to the mirrored paneling, trying to reconcile my reflection with the author of the sexy book that would be on shelves at the beginning of February.

What I saw was a woman with stick-straight, shoulder-length hair, a bulky blue cable-knit sweater, and a disbelieving look in her puppy-dog brown eyes.

You’d think I would have adjusted by now to Hargrave NonFiction’s remarkably fast decision to buy Six Course Seduction—once I’d given them the hook they’d needed, they’d jumped on the idea and rushed it into production to get it out for Valentine’s Day marketing. The sale hadn’t quite seemed real when I’d fielded the call from my editor saying they wanted to contract the cookbook and a follow-up, but I’d started to believe it was going to happen after I’d flown to New York in the fall to discuss the release and promotion schedule. However, any adjustment I’d finally made to impending publication, or to my book’s racy new subtitle, had been rendered null and void by the arrival of the dust jacket this morning.

Six Course Seduction: From Hors D’Oeuvres to Orgasm. The cover was currently tucked in the manila folder I’d brought with me, but the image lingered like a visual aftertaste.

While Amanda sliced limes behind the bar, I mulled over Miriam Scott printed in immediate large-font proximity to the word orgasm. Though I was panicking in reserved silence, my feelings must have been clear in my expression. Or dazed lack thereof.

“You’re overreacting,” Amanda chided. “I kind of like it.”

“Your name won’t be on it.” I clutched the folder closer to me as if Todd might have X-ray vision.

I had known the publisher would go with a provocative cover, of course. Provocation was the entire point of the chattier revised version, at least as far as marketing was concerned. But not even my editor, Joan, calling to say, “Now, Miriam, don’t freak out,” had prevented my freaking out.

Against the scarlet background was a neck to mid-thigh photograph of a curvy and airbrushed nude woman. In place of the slim black censor bars you would see on network television, there were a couple of strategically located food items—luckily nothing as cliché and truck-stop stripper as a whipped-cream bikini. The pictures were starker and more suited to my hot recipes. For instance, the single digitally enlarged habanero serving as a fig leaf. If it had been even a millimeter to the left or right, they would have to sell my book in a plastic wrapper.

I sighed. “You don’t look at it and think, porno with peppers?”

At Amanda’s snort of laughter, Todd paused in his trek to the back storage room for more ice, sending a brief worshipful glance over his broad shoulder. She ignored the adoring expression, much as she had the other nine million I’d witnessed in the month he’d worked here.

“It’s not pornographic,” she said when we were alone. “I thought the picture had an artistic simplicity. There are people who would pay good money to hang that in their homes.”

“Yeah, but there are people who like instant mashed potatoes, too.” No accounting for taste.

She rolled her eyes, handing me a stack of napkins. “Here, make yourself useful.”

I began restocking the clustered metal holders Todd would place on the tables throughout the bar’s large one-room interior. Maybe Amanda was right about the artwork being tasteful, excuse the pun. The sensuality in the picture could be viewed as understated…in a bright red, naked kind of way.

“What did you think the book was going to look like?” Amanda asked reasonably.

I ran a hand through my hair. “I hadn’t got that far yet.” Some days, I couldn’t even believe what I’d written, much less imagine it in bookstores across the country.

Ever since I’d received the call that my recipes would be published—actively promoted, according to the in-house publicist scheduling my upcoming appearances—I’d waffled between pride and the fear that no one in the restaurant community would take me seriously again. Which would be a real problem if the escalating tension at work led to my looking for a new job. Trevor and I had not transitioned well from lovers to platonic employee and employer. We had, however, mastered the intricacies of platonic employee and horse’s rear end.

Maybe I should quit, but head-chef jobs don’t drop into a woman’s lap. And why the hell should I walk away when I’d invested as much as he had in the restaurant? Granted, not in the monetary sense, but in more personal ways. I just hadn’t anticipated his recent petty acts of emotional sabotage and passive-aggressiveness.

Now that he no longer had any input on the cookbook, he’d done his best to distance himself from the project. After he’d heard about the racy concept through the industry grapevine, he’d assured me—wearing his best Poor Baby face—that my culinary skills were enough to gain back my reputation if the book flopped and made me a laughingstock. In front of my kitchen crew, he treated me with exaggerated courtesy, giving others the impression that I might still be grief-stricken by his defection and should be handled with kid gloves, which undermined my authority. And he was dating a young blond chef who had worked at a Charleston inn until the place had been mismanaged into a temporary closing, due to reopen in the spring. Clearly Blondie had the image Trevor sought for his love life…and maybe in his restaurant?

“Miriam? Are you aware you’re grinding your teeth?” Amanda asked.

I stopped abruptly. “Sorry. Thinking about Trevor has that effect.”

Amanda set down her knife, her gaze as sharp as the blade. “Why are you even wasting thoughts on that cad? I know I don’t have a lot of experience with sustained relationships, but you can’t tell me there was anything there worth missing.”

“No, that’s definitely not the problem.” Miss him? Ha! The more I was around him and his current attitude, the more I wondered how I had allowed myself to go out with him in the first place. It was like looking back on some flavorless, overprocessed, disgustingly fatty junk food you prized as a kid that would turn your stomach if you tried it as an adult.

“So what’s up, then?” Amanda prompted. “Come on, talk to me. It’s what people do in bars.”

I was under the impression people drank in bars, but I’d learned my lesson with that months ago, when I’d woken up with a hangover and the outline for a book I was currently second-guessing—half sex advice and half cooking manual. At the moment, I was second-guessing a lot of things. “I’m a little worried that I handed him a golden opportunity by taking off the next few weeks.”

My publisher wanted me to plug the book’s release with signings in the southeast and a few cooking segments on talk shows. It might not be a full-fledged book tour, but the regional appearances were daunting to someone who had never done any television. Joan assured me a consultant she knew in Atlanta was coming to work with me on media preparation. He’d be here tomorrow. The hope was that, if he did his job right, my public appearances would help sell even more copies, justifying his expenses and paving the way for my as-yet-untitled sequel.

It was all great visibility for me…unless the book tanked and I’d repeatedly linked myself to it up and down the coast.

“What? That toad owes you vacation! You worked nonstop through the holidays.” Amanda balled up her fists on her shapely hips, her eyes narrowed and full of the light of battle. Despite any personality differences, she was extremely loyal to me. Might have made life simpler if I could just date her. “Not to mention the eighty-hour weeks to help get that restaurant of his up and running. Besides, he can’t fire you when he approved the time off. Did he give you crap about it?”

“No, he was eager to approve the time.” That’s what worried me. “Blondie’s gonna be filling in. You think they’re edging me out?”

“The place wouldn’t last a week without you.”

“I suspect he’s trying to prove otherwise.”

After a moment of silent fuming on my behalf, she shrugged. “You should move on, anyway. Sever all ties with Trevor, date more.”

“I’ve dated.” There had even been a couple of kisses good-night over the last six months, but that paltry statistic was more likely to incite Amanda than appease her.

“Barely! I could probably count your dates on one hand, and one of them was nothing more than meeting for coffee. I think working for your ex is hindering your love life.”

Funny. I thought being me was hindering my love life. My hours were weird, I’d been busy writing the second book—or at least telling myself I should be writing it—and most of my social circle was comprised of couples Trevor and I had spent time with. Besides, I wasn’t the kind of woman who had new guys beating down my door. Even though men say they’d love to find a woman who isn’t into constant talking and emoting, many of them are unsettled when they do find someone more reserved.

“Well, we can’t all be romance goddesses,” I answered lightly.

“Better not tell that to your reading public.”

Yeesh. She was right—a certain persona was expected. Even the picture for the dust jacket had been an ordeal. The publisher definitely hadn’t wanted a headshot of me in a white toque. No, I’d been wearing makeup that made my skin feel heavy, and my mousy hair had been teased into big poofy curls I personally hadn’t found any more flattering than my normal do. At least I’d successfully vetoed the photographer’s suggestion that I be nibbling suggestively on a piece of chocolate-dipped fruit.

What would the image consultant be like? Just someone who walked me through the basics of a television appearance, or another person who encouraged large hair and fondued strawberries? If so, I hated him already.

“Maybe I’m not the right person for this,” I mused aloud.

“For what?” Amanda asked as she double-checked her well, the group of commonly used liquors kept in front with plastic pour spouts attached. In the low-cut, long-sleeved red top she wore tucked into jeans, she would make a killing in tips tonight. I should have sent her to New York in my place. And on the publicity tour.

“This book.”

“Little late for that now,” she said. “Besides, you’re the perfect person for the book. You just don’t know it yet.”

Doubtful. I could talk to people about what went on in their kitchens, sure. No problem. I’m your gal. But I’d bluffed my way through the “bedroom” portion of the manuscript—the part that had convinced my publisher to shell out actual cash.

Discuss sex with strangers? I hadn’t been able to talk to my own mother about getting my first period. Rather than tell her, I’d taken quarters to school and stocked up on supplies from the vending machine in the girls’ restroom. It wasn’t that Mom was unapproachable; quite the contrary, I’d had nightmares about her cheerfully telling the cashier it was my inaugural tampon purchase. It sounds like an exaggeration, but I vividly remember her maternal pride on our one and only mother/daughter bra outing. Unfortunately, twelve department-store shoppers probably do, too.

And it had taken almost a month of friendship with Amanda before she’d finally got the “too much information” message when it came to sharing the details of her romantic escapades. I was not a hotbed of racy gossip.

“Want me to pour you a drink?” She glanced at the wide red-leather watch on her wrist. “We open in five minutes, so it’s not really breaking the rules.”

“Oh, no. I have to be careful imbibing around you. A few drinks and an encouraging nod later, I could wind up hosting some bad reality show called Chefs Gone Wild,” I teased. “I blame you for this book in the first place. Friends shouldn’t let friends outline under the influence.”

“You came up with everything,” she countered with an approving grin. “I don’t even know any recipes, so it’s not like I contributed anything but support.”

“Yes, but you’ve gradually corrupted me—all that bar talk. Sex on the Beach. Sloe Screw. Buttery Nipples.” Which, after my initial shock wore off, I discovered was a butterscotch-flavored shot. “And Screaming-Up-Against-the-Wallbangers.”

She laughed. “That belongs in the Bartender’s Guide to Mixed Metaphors. Come on, now. You are happy they’re releasing your book, aren’t you?”

“Giddy.”

Actually, for all my misgivings, I’d worked hard on the cookbook. If I hadn’t proved whatever point I’d set out to make, I’d still given a lot of thought to my culinary instructions and was thrilled to get it in front of people. It’s just that while I’d been penning chapter three, “Soup, Salad or Me?”, I hadn’t considered the reality of anyone actually picking up a copy and reading it. My remarks to the public on how to spice up their cooking and their love lives would be displayed in stores across the country.

I groaned. “Little old ladies are going to see it!”

“Hey, little old ladies deserve to get some, too.”

“The sex part was a marketing ploy,” I reminded my friend. “The book’s about great food.”

Amanda’s violet eyes sparkled. “I meant great food.”

“Sure you did.”

A knock sounded against the locked glass door at the front of the room, and Amanda came around the bar to answer it. But Todd emerged from the storeroom before she’d gone very far.

“I’d be happy to get that for you,” he said soulfully. With that tone, he could have as easily said, “I’d be happy to take a bullet for you,” or “I’d be happy to father your many children.”

As he disappeared toward his left, to the entrance that wasn’t visible from where we sat, I turned to Amanda. I hadn’t said anything about Todd since I’d met him, but couldn’t help myself now. This was getting ridiculous.

“You know he’s crazy about you?”

“It’s just one of those older-woman crushes,” she said dismissively.

“He’s what, two, three years younger?”

“Still.” She leaned against the bar stool next to mine. “He’s not…I mean, he’s awfully boyish. I’d feel all, ‘Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me.’”

I laughed. “With that outdated reference, you are old.”

But I knew what she meant. I wasn’t sure why I’d even broached the subject. Maybe her needling me about my slow love life had made me realize how un-characteristically long it’d been since she’d mentioned hers.

“You aren’t seeing anyone these days, are you?”

She started, her eyes wider than normal. “Why do you ask?”

“Seems like it’s been a while since you were telling me about the guy you’re involved with or want to be involved with or are dumping after your brief but torrid involvement.”

“And you’re complaining? I thought you didn’t want to talk about stuff like that.”

Her casual tone seemed forced, and I wondered in a surprising flash if I’d hurt her feelings during some previous conversation. “I don’t need to hear every guy’s exact talents and proportions, but I’m still interested in who’s who in the life of Amanda White.”

“Oh. Good to know.” Her smile was rueful. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time there is a man.”

Speaking of men.

Wow.

Todd had reappeared, jangling the keys to the main entrance door, and behind him—did I already say wow? The patron who’d come inside from the cold was tall with golden-blond hair, striking features, piercing eyes that I was pretty sure were green, a black leather jacket and dark jeans. Literally everything about him made me want to volunteer to warm him up. And I do not mean with my signature cayenne-spiked gourmet hot chocolate.

I can’t even explain what made him so…let’s just say he had a quality. Certainly he had a gorgeous face, complete with a strong chin and jaw that proclaimed masculinity and strength and decisive power. From what I could tell, he also had an amazing body beneath the charcoal knit sweater and perfectly sized jeans, neither tight nor baggy. But it wasn’t any of those things that turned my knees to custard. It was the overall impression he created, something about the way he carried himself. Trying to define it would be like trying to properly explain the taste of truffles to someone who’s never had them.

Standing next to me, Amanda let out an appreciative sigh, and I figured my days of not hearing about her love life were over. Jealousy scalded me, but I smiled in her direction as the source of our mutual—cross-eyed, drooly lust—admiration came toward us.

“He…” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and I doubted her breathy tone was due simply to keeping her voice low.

“Has a certain quality, doesn’t he? Sensual. Confident. Powerful.”

“Jumpable.” She cut her gaze to me. “And, damn, do you need a man.”

This was why I was a chef and Amanda microwaved most of her meals; she wasn’t big on savoring.

“Ladies.” His deep voice was rich, as velvety as a perfectly prepared roux. His smile held none of the arrogance I’d sometimes glimpsed in Trevor when he realized women were checking him out.

“Hello, there.” Amanda had the presence of mind to flash an answering smile. My greeting so far consisted of openmouthed ogling. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” He frowned at her. “Do you work here? I thought…Are you Miriam Scott?”

Amanda’s gaze whipped toward me, and I could feel her shock. Or maybe what I felt was my own shock. This man had sought me out? On purpose?

My heart accelerated when I spoke to him, in that nervously infatuated way I’d assumed people outgrew after puberty. It was difficult to get my pulse back to normal when I was reeling from the surprise of a gorgeous stranger appearing and asking for me by name. “That’s I’m. Me. I’m her. Miriam.”

Was it too late to take Amanda up on her offer of a drink? A gin and hemlock would hit the spot.

The stranger’s green eyes widened. “You’re Miriam? Oh. So sorry about the misunderstanding.” For a millisecond, his puzzled frown not only lingered, it deepened. But then he replaced it with a polished smile. His arm snapped up at the elbow, suddenly bent and extended toward me so that we could shake hands. “Dylan Kincaid, here to get you ready for public appearances.”

He was professional enough not to say what I’m sure all three of us were thinking: And, Lord, do we have work to do.

3

Homey comfort foods definitely have their place, but are they enough to satisfy you? Rich, exotic pleasures are more accessible than you think.

LIKE A PANICKED GENERAL trying to rally the troops, I gathered my thoughts. I needed everyone to report for duty now. “Mr. Kincaid, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I braced myself for the handshake, vowing not to dissolve at his touch. His palm was warm, but not soft, and his fingers wrapped purposefully around my hand. Can I be your love slave? Amanda was right, I did need a man.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” I managed to choke out, awarding myself points for remembering to let go of him.

He smiled apologetically. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you by arriving early. My previous job ended sooner than expected, and Joan mentioned you were a bit nervous about the promotional events.”

His eyes warmed affectionately when he mentioned my editor, and suddenly I wondered what she’d meant when she’d said she “knew him.”

“I stopped by your house,” he continued, “thinking that if you weren’t home I could check in to the hotel and then try your restaurant, but a neighbor told me you’d be here.”

I nodded. That would be Mrs. Asher, widowed busy-body who would no doubt quiz me about the handsome stranger later. “Spicy Seas is closed on Tuesdays, so I was keeping my friend company.” That sounded better than admitting I’d shown up here needing reassurance that my book wasn’t porn. “This is Amanda White.”

“Very nice to meet you,” she said in a voice that stopped just shy of a purr. At my sidelong glance, she cleared her throat. “But I guess I should be getting back to work.”

I’d been so intent on Dylan, I honestly couldn’t have said whether or not the first customer or two had trickled in now that the door was open. I waggled my fingers in a half wave at Amanda as she left us alone. Something about Dylan…

“I’m sorry, but have we met?” I asked.

My question may have sounded like an excuse for further staring on the pretext of trying to place him, but there really was something hauntingly familiar about him. The further staring was just a bonus.

He shook his head, the godlike aura of confidence dimming for a moment, as if my question had made him uneasy. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Even though I was sure he was right, the undeniable sense of déjà vu remained. Oh, well. Maybe any sane woman would have experienced this I-know-you-from-my-dreams spark.

“Why don’t we sit at one of the tables?” I invited. “We can talk about the tour schedule and what I need to do to prepare.”

“A sound plan.”

I told him I was just going to grab myself a soft drink before joining him. Declining a drink of his own, he stepped up into the railed-off side section that ran alongside a small dance floor. Watching Dylan drop his leather jacket over the back of a curved café-style wooden chair, instead of looking where I was going, I nearly collided with Todd as he circled the room to distribute the napkin holders and stacks of cardboard coasters.

When I reached the bar, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had trouble tearing her gaze from the newcomer.

“I can’t believe your luck!” Amanda said. “Putting yourself in his hands for a few weeks? Mmm. When you said your image consultant was a man, I was expecting…”

“What?” I hadn’t given him much thought, too worried about what he’d think of me. Although, the word consultant had conjured vague images of a suit—maybe someone with wire-rim glasses who didn’t smile much. Instead, I got a honey of a man with deep green eyes that crinkled at the corners in tiny, sexy laugh lines when he smiled.

Amanda shrugged. “Well, how many men are renowned for doing makeovers on women? I think I pictured someone a little more Queer Eye for the Publicity Shy.”

“Amanda! What a stereotype.” Although, except for relying on further stereotypes, we had no way of knowing what his preference was. I pushed the thought aside, currently unable to bear the notion of Dylan Kincaid off-limits to women. “Guys can be fashion conscious and trendy. Trevor, for instance…”

Then again, I sincerely hoped Dylan Kincaid was nothing like the ex who had punted me from his heart and, given time and opportunity, possibly his restaurant. “Never mind. Just give me a diet soda before he wonders what I’m doing over here.”

I carried my drink to the table, at half my usual pace because all I needed to truly impress the guy was to trip and spill soda all over myself. Was Amanda right about this being a makeover? I hoped Dylan’s advisory capacity would be more akin to a Toastmaster’s tutoring, getting me ready for public speaking. The prospect of his prescribing heavy cosmetics and high heels made my stomach drop.

My expression must have conveyed my uneasiness, because he smiled as I sat across from him. “Don’t worry.”

“Is this where you assure me you don’t bite?” I asked, lifting my glass to my mouth.

“Actually, I do,” he drawled in a wicked tone. “It just doesn’t hurt.”

I choked on the soft drink, coughing as the unique sensation of carbonated bubbles stung the inside of my nose.

“My apologies,” Dylan said, his gaze sheepish. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, it was just a demonstration.”

“Of the inherent dangers in carbonated beverages?”

He laughed. “Of the kind of attitude you’ll want. I haven’t read your book yet—Joan’s expressing a copy to me—but I’ve discussed with her the content and tone. What you’ll need to project is a flippant, sassy magnetism.”

Uh-huh. No wonder he’d thought Amanda was the author.

“Um, Dylan…maybe you’ve noticed how I don’t exactly radiate a come-hither persona?”

“That’s what Hargrave is paying me for.”

It was going to be big hair and oral sex with strawberries all over again, I just knew it. “You know more about PR than I do, but isn’t promotion more successful when the subject is herself?”

That’s what you always hear: be yourself. Unless “yourself” was me.

“But you will be,” he said. “You wrote the book, right? So it’s in there. I’ll simply help you bring it to the surface a bit.”

A bit? I had the feeling it would be more like raising the Titanic.

I CANNOT DO THIS. Even as I thought it, I called myself a coward. This was my family. Not a den of serial killers.

But standing on my parents’ creaky wraparound porch Wednesday night, I found myself physically unable to press the doorbell. Partly because balancing the cardboard box of hardcover books was no easy task, but mostly because handing over the first copy would feel a lot like walking naked into a crowded room. I tried to focus on the positive, reminding myself that my family’s seeing the book in private surroundings might tone down some of the fuss they were bound to make in stores.

Originally, I’d scheduled my leave of absence to begin today because I assumed I’d be working with Dylan. But he’d called this morning to say Joan had sent him a copy of Six Course Seduction. He wanted to read it before we met again so he knew exactly what we were trying to sell with these publicity visits. At loose ends, I’d accepted Mom’s invitation to dinner, relieved that I had more time before I had to face the hot consultant again. January or not, thinking about him made me want to turn on the air conditioner.

I’d been fairly surprised to receive my own box of books from Hargrave this afternoon—why bother sending me a copy of the cover when I’d get to see the real thing twenty-four hours later? But it was no stranger than them overnighting me a set of giveaway pens for a book signing still weeks away, while they sent more important mail, like my contract, by Pony Express, using what I could only assume was a lame pony with no sense of direction. Publishing logic was a mystery to me.

The door of the two-story house swung open suddenly. Carrie stood on the other side, a confused expression on her round, pretty face and a twin balanced on one ample, khaki-clad hip. My sister-in-law is beautiful, but in a different way than Amanda. Carrie has this quintessential-woman glow about her that inspires men to take her home and try to make babies.

“What are you doing standing out here, sweetie? If you needed help with the box, you should have come in and asked Eric to get it.” She glanced over her shoulder past my parents’ living room. “Eric! For pity’s sake, get out here and help your sister.”

I started to tell her assistance wasn’t necessary when my brother, a middle-school teacher, appeared in the hallway behind her. He claims he’s put on a few pounds in the last couple of years, but they’re well disguised on his six-two form. We don’t look much alike, my brother and I. Aside from the height difference caused by my very average five foot four, Eric has Mom’s blue eyes, and his hair is a few shades darker than mine, so that it’s legitimately brown. Plus, I don’t have glasses. Or a goatee.

Eric held a small pink towel and dried his hands as he walked. “I was in the bathroom. Give a man a break.”

Carrie rolled her eyes, scooting out of the doorway. “You’re always in the bathroom. And that better not be one of your mother’s guest towels.”

Eric shot a guilty look at the scallop-edged terry cloth. “Technically, we’re guests.”

I lugged the books as far as the entryway floor, then shut the door behind me. My niece, a dimpled tow-headed cherub who looked like mini-Carrie in overalls, scrabbled down from her mother’s grasp and barreled toward me on unsteady legs. Coordination probably improves with age, but right now, my nieces are propelled by more enthusiasm than grace.

She tackled my legs in what was either a hug or a desperate attempt not to hit the floor. “Aunt Mi’am!”

I scooped her up, ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure this was Lyssa. Her identical sister, Lana, is just a fraction more reticent and, as such, my secret favorite though I would never vocalize a preference, even upon threat of pain. Or, worse, greasy fast food.

The four of us went toward the back of the house, past the staircase that led up to the bedrooms, following the murmur of the evening news and the sound of Lana giggling at my father’s tickle-monster growls. The large kitchen, which had given me some of my best memories in this house, took up the entire right half of the floor plan. To the left was the living room in which we’re actually allowed to sit. The fancy sofa in the front room still has plastic on it and, guests aside, Mom hasn’t allowed one of us to take a beverage in that room since the grape juice spill of 1986. My gregarious parents are free-spirited in many respects, but my mother was born and raised in the South and takes her visiting parlor seriously.

The crisp cinnamon aroma of warm apple pie greeted me at the same time as my mom, her face flushed. She tells everyone, strangers included, that she spends as much time cooking as possible so people will think she’s overheated from baking instead of menopausal hot flashes. “There she is! Our daughter, the soon-to-be-famous author.”

Or soon-to-be-infamous. “Hey, Mom. Thanks for asking me to dinner. I can’t believe you forbid me to bring anything.” Though she obviously needed no help on the dessert front, I would have been happy to bake some bread or whip up a special vinaigrette for the salad.

“When you invite Michelangelo over, you don’t ask him to paint your garage,” my father proclaimed, walking into the room with Lana on his shoulders. He was a hearty bear of a man, undiminished by age, and in his crimson university sweatshirt, he looked almost young. Except for the dashes of silver in his close-cut sandy blond hair.

My mother waved me toward a well-worn kitchen chair. “Sit, sit. Tell us more about this tour. You mentioned your consultant has come to town?”

“Oooh.” Carrie took the seat next to me. “Will you get your own hair and makeup people, too?”

“I don’t think it works exactly like that.” Hargrave had already invested in Dylan’s fee, which I knew was far more financial backing than many authors got. I was investing some of my own money in promotion and image, too, of course, but I was hoarding as much of the advance as possible, the specter of unemployment looming in the back of my mind. “He’s just here to help me polish my image before I go on television.”

My father lowered his granddaughter to play with her sister. With Lana in pigtails and yellow overalls and Lyssa in a ponytail and pink jumper, the girls looked like bookends.

He straightened, beaming at me. “Your mother and I plan to videotape every single appearance.”

Nothing said pressure like knowing any gaffe you made would be forever accessible through the modern miracle of rewind. “That’s…sweet of you guys. But not all of it will be local.”

Some of the cable shows—mostly of the Good Morning variety—were in neighboring states like North Carolina and Georgia and would only air within a certain radius. I was trying to wrap my mind around the task of being coherent at seven in the morning, much less sassy and sensual. Shudder.

Dad headed toward the stove, inhaling the fragrance of Mom’s slow-cook spaghetti sauce. When he picked up a spoon and nudged aside the blue pot lid, however, Mom brandished a plastic spatula at him. (So that’s where I get it from.)

“Stay out of there,” she ordered. “You’ll end up double-dipping and sharing your germs with everyone else.”

Nice to know my family drew the line at sharing something.

As we all pitched in to set the table, I answered questions about the book, even though most had already been asked on previous occasions. Yes, it would be available at all the major bookstores. No, I didn’t expect to become a household name. Yes, I was a little nervous about the interviews, and yes, I still planned to keep my job at Spicy Seas. Granted, that plan was growing more tenuous by the day, but I kept the thought to myself—a concept rarely witnessed under the Scott roof.

“You’re sure it’s such a good idea for you to work there?” my mom asked as she piled noodles on a daisy-print plate. “That Trevor broke your heart.”

“Not really,” I mumbled from the refrigerator, where I was pulling out store-bought salad dressings.

“No need to put on a brave face for us,” Carrie said. “If you ask me, he behaved like a complete j-e-r-k.”

I chuckled at her rated-E-for-everyone editing. If she was going to go to the trouble of spelling out the word, she might as well have used one of the doozies.

“But the two of you were together such a long time,” my mother pressed. “You were planning a wedding!”

“Planning to plan a wedding, Mom.” Sure, we’d been busy with the restaurant, but I saw now that he’d been in no hurry to take our relationship to the next level. Neither had I, to be honest.

“We’re here when you finally decide to talk about it,” my father chimed in as he buckled Lana into one of the two high chairs. My dad was an exception from a generation of men known for limiting conversation to grunted monosyllables during the commercials of televised sporting events.

“Thanks, Dad. But it’s been six months. I think I’m pretty well over it.”

“Wonderful,” my mother said, as we all sat down. “Then you’ll have a new man in your life soon? We’re anxious to hear all about him.”

Thank God my mom is the person from whom I’d inherited my cooking skills—no one could resist digging into a meal she’d fixed, which gave me respite from all the well-meaning conversational prompts.

With equal parts ceremony and exaggerated patience, everyone waited until after dinner before they began demanding a peek at The Book. “We fed you first because we didn’t want to be rude,” Mom said, as we cleared the table, “but the suspense is killing us!”

Nods of assent came from all around the kitchen, general agreement that I was risking their collective lives.

“All right.” I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “But don’t feel like you have to read it. I mean, if cookbooks aren’t usually your thing, anyway, I don’t want you to think that, just because I wrote it, you’re obligated—”

“Nonsense,” Dad interrupted. “My little girl is having a book published. I for one will be reading it cover to cover.”

Shoot me now.

“And I’m ordering dozens of copies,” my mom added. “I’ll give them out to everyone I know!”

That should make for quite the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting.

I went to the foyer and picked up the box, which seemed even heavier than I remembered. I’d no sooner set it on the kitchen table than four pairs of hands reached for the flaps and began extracting copies. My brother got the first one, and his eyes widened at the bright red cover. Lyssa stood on tiptoe to peer curiously over the edge of the table, and Carrie reached out one hand to shield the three-year-old’s eyes.

“Is she wearing anything?” My father, sounding more intrigued than judgmental, stared at the book Eric held.

“Food,” my mom answered, pulling out her own copy.

“Well.” Eric grinned. “Nice rack…of lamb.” He’s often said that being stuck in permanent adolescence is what helps him relate so well to his students.

“Hey!” Mom had opened her book and was inspecting the dust jacket. “There’s a picture of Miriam in here.”

“Is she wearing anything?” Eric smirked in my direction.

My father smacked him in the shoulder with one of the author copies.

Carrie had taken the nonlinear approach of randomly flipping through pages and was reading aloud. “Brownies to Bring Him to his Knees, or any other position you want him in.”

Eric wolf-whistled. “Mom, Dad, maybe you could keep the girls for a weekend sometime soon?”

My cheeks heated. Somewhere in America, there must be parents who would be mortified by their daughter writing Joy of Cooking meets Joy of Sex, but not in this kitchen.

“I wish you’d written this a couple of years ago, honey,” my mother said. “Your father went through this period where—”

“Mother!” I jolted out of my chair, thinking oh, the humanity. “I will never ask you for another thing if you promise not to finish that sentence.”

She blinked at me. “Sorry. I was being supportive. I’m really excited about this book, and the tour. It’s all so unlike you!”

As complimentary as she’d no doubt intended that to be, it somehow felt like a reverse insult.

“Absolutely,” Carrie chimed in. “You’ve always been so closed off, sweetie.”

Closed off? Because I didn’t discuss my sex life over dinner, or sit around asking everyone to analyze a weird dream I’d had or, as Eric was wont to do, pick up a newspaper and make an announcement whenever I headed for the restroom?

When my cell phone chirped, I dove for my purse like a carb-addict for the last croissant. “Miriam Scott.”

“Miriam, it’s Dylan.” His voice poured across the line, whiskey-smooth. “Is this a bad time?”

“In the course of history, there has never been a time this good.”

There was a pause before he chuckled. “Right, then. I wanted to let you know I finished reading your book.”

“Oh.” And what had been his reaction to “Brownies to Bring Him to his Knees”? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“I don’t want to interrupt your evening, but you said you were accustomed to keeping late hours. I’m a night owl, too, actually, so if you aren’t otherwise engaged after the family dinner, would you like to get started tonight? We could meet at your place. You’ll probably be more comfortable there than at my hotel, and we’ll need somewhere private for the videotaping.”

He’d explained last night that one of the first things we would do was tape me, then work from there once we’d viewed the results. Won’t that be fun? I hadn’t been this excited since my root canal in college.

“Or,” Dylan said when it became clear that my un-enthusiastic silence was stretching on with no end in sight, “we can start fresh in the morning. Entirely your choice.”

Spend time with the man who left me tongue-tied, sweaty-palmed and aching to follow every piece of advice between the pages of my book, or stay here and be further traumatized by mental images of my parents’ love life. “How soon can you get to my place?”

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