at him, though,” Ginny said dreamily, chin in hand as she gazed at the television. “That bod, those eyes.”
Roz gave the screen a cursory glance. Pierre stood at the entrance to his new restaurant, looking the way he had the first time she saw him on an energy drink commercial. Six feet plus of raw sexuality, muscles rippling beneath a tight white shirt as he wrestled a steak off a fiery grill, then reached for a bottle of Intense Energy to refresh him. She remembered being annoyed at how good he looked, and that her body had reacted as though she was a love-starved teen. Truth of the matter was she could use a round of horizontal aerobics, but why tempt fate? It had taken almost a year to get over Delano, her last heartbreak. Today she was in a really good space. She had a job that she loved, covering topics that mattered, a restored twentieth century bungalow, and a terrier named Banner who every day welcomed her home more enthusiastically than any lover ever could. The last thing Roz needed was a pretty boy problem. Especially one that would cause a ten-year journalism vet who knew better to make a comment that bordered on harassment, and reduce sensible women like her coworker Ginny to fantastical would-be nymphs.
“Don’t you binge watch him on the Chow Channel?”
Ginny nodded.
“Then why are you acting like you’re seeing him for the first time?”
“This is different. He isn’t at a television studio in New York. He’s here, in our city. Almost close enough for me to touch. Which I would if there was any chance that I could snag a reservation.”
“I read where there’s a huge waiting list, so good luck with that.”
“Yeah, I saw it posted on their website. But there’s got to be a way to not have to wait three months for a table.”
“Probably, if you have the right connections.”
Roz turned back to her computer and the internet research she’d conducted for a month-long series, “Hurricane Katrina Survivors: Where Are They Now?” Solid, serious journalism about a local catastrophe from which even now, more than a dozen years later, the city was still recovering. Amid recent devastating hurricanes like Sandy, Maria and Harvey, Katrina remained the deadliest and costliest one in America’s history.
“Do you think Brooke got one?”
“Of course.”
“If I know her MO, they’ll be dating within the month.”
“At least in her mind. Everyone watching TV knows she wants to taste him.” Roz delivered the line in Brooke’s signature drawl, causing Ginny to break out laughing.
“Can’t say I blame her. He could cook for me anytime. And not just in the kitchen. Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
“Who?”
“Mickey Mouse, Roz. Who do you think?”
Again Roz glanced at the mounted TV screen as a handsome, smiling Pierre accepted a key to the city before walking into his restaurant with a sold-out crowd of hungry-looking patrons in tow.
“He’s very handsome, I’ll give him that. Probably has several girlfriends.”
Ginny’s look turned wistful as she rested her chin in her palm. “I’d love to be one of them.”
“Along with...her?”
“Who?”
Both women turned around as their editor-in-chief entered the room. A visionary with a Mohawk haircut and a penchant for tattoos, Andy O’Connor had relocated to the Big Easy ten years prior, but his East Coast accent wasn’t the only reminder of his New York birthplace. He preferred chowder to gumbo, soft rock to cool jazz, and when cut, his blood ran Yankee blue. Everyone adored him.
“Who?” he asked again, reaching for a chip from Roz’s bag and munching loudly.
Roz gave him a look. “Help yourself.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” It was said with a wink as he grabbed a handful.
“We’re talking about Brooke Evans making an unprofessional public pass at Pierre LeBlanc,” Ginny said. “I think he should be a feature next week.”
“Should have been this week,” Andy replied. “Next week the restaurant opening will be old news.”
“True, but he won’t.”
“Can’t argue with that, Gin.” Andy swiveled a chair around and straddled it, facing its back. “What would be your angle?”
She shrugged. “The restaurant. His menu. How it feels to be a celebrity chef.”
Andy turned to Roz. “What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“What kinds of questions would you ask the city’s hometown golden boy?”
“So he’s from New Orleans, or just lived here before?”
“Born here,” Ginny said confidently. “I checked.”
“I’m sure you’ve Googled him from here to heaven,” Andy said to Ginny with a laugh.
“Absolutely. There’s a ton of stuff online about his professional life. But very little personal information.”
Roz picked up a pen and idly tapped it against the desk. “Since he’s from here, I’d ask why he moved to Houston to learn about New Orleans cuisine. And since I’m preparing the series for next month’s anniversary, I’d ask him about Katrina. How it affected him and his family. If that was the reason he moved to Houston. How does the New Orleans he returned to compare to the town he left? There’ll be enough stories on his culinary prowess and celebrity stats. My focus would be on the man behind the food.”
“That’s an excellent angle,” Andy said as he rose from the chair. “One I expect you to cover in the first series piece.”
Ginny’s jaw dropped. Roz’s, too.
“Wait! Doing a story on him was my idea.”
“It was Ginny’s idea,” Roz parroted. “She should do the story. She’s already done research. Religiously watched his TV show. Aside from him being a chef and spokesperson for the energy drink, I know nothing about the guy and could care even less.”
“Which is why you’re the perfect one to cover him. No bias. Besides, I’ve got something else for you, Gin.”
“What?” Ginny unashamedly crossed her arms and pouted as though she were two.
“Football.”
“The Saints?”
Andy nodded. “Preseason coverage. I’ve got tickets to the home games, but—”
“Who dat! What? I’m all in.”
“I thought you might be. You’re the only person I know who likes football more than food.”
“Wait
