a reporter as a way to spend time with you?”
“Stranger things have happened. You also look very different tonight from...the other day.”
“Well, I wasn’t faking it. I’m a reporter, one who has called several times to arrange an interview. Did no one give you the message?”
“They may have, but...”
“I also reached out to your publicist, Cathy Weiss?” He nodded. “Before you suggested it, by the way. She told me you were busy, which considering that you’re opening a restaurant, I understand. But good publicity never hurt a new business, so I thought at the very least you’d find time to answer the list of questions I sent over.”
“I don’t remember getting any questions, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t sent. My emails are overflowing and voice mail stays full. If you really need to reach me Don is your best bet. He’s my personal manager and the only one who can reach me 24/7. I can give you his contact info.”
“I guess I can send him the questions I sent Cathy, since a personal interview is out of the question.”
“Why do you want me so badly? Wait, that came out wrong.”
“Ha-ha. It sure did. To be clear, the editor and another writer are the ones who feel you’re too relevant not to cover. I can think of half a dozen subjects more worthy of the space.”
“Damn, beautiful, why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
“I just did.” She smiled, drawing Pierre’s eyes to her lips. Lips that were full and moist and ready to be kissed, making him wonder if that fiery personality transferred to the bedroom, and how that looked up close. An errant tendril fell across Roz’s eyebrow. Instinctively, he reached up and gently placed it behind her ear. Their eyes met. Was that a flash of desire he saw in the chocolate orbs watching him intently?
She broke the connection, reached into a jeweled clutch and pulled out her cell. “Don...what’s his last name?”
“Sanders.”
Roz’s thumbs flew across the keys. “Number?”
“You haven’t been to the restaurant, right?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Tell you what. We’re closed today, but why don’t I make an exception for you and have you come by around...eight or nine, and I’ll make a few dishes?”
“Why?”
“How are you going to write about my restaurant if you haven’t tasted the food?”
“The food is what everyone is writing about. That’s the obvious angle. I want our focus to be on the man behind the menu.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re turning down a private dinner at the hottest restaurant in New Orleans?”
“I guess so.”
“Come on, now. I’m trying to redeem myself.”
“That’s admirable, but you know what they say.”
“No, what do they say, whoever ‘they’ are?”
“That you never get a second chance to make a first impression.”
“Then will you give me the chance to make an excellent second impression?”
“While conducting an interview?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, I’ll give you that chance. And I have the perfect place to meet. It’s not well-known or highbrow, but they make the best local cuisine anywhere.”
“You mean besides mine.”
“I mean better than anyone, anywhere. Period.”
“You want to bet on that?”
“I’d have no problem taking your money if you want to go that route.”
“Watch yourself now. Remember, you haven’t tried my food. Not a good idea to place a bet that you’re guaranteed to lose.”
“I’m confident enough to call you on it.”
“Okay. What are the stakes?”
He watched Roz ponder the question. “If I win, dinner for my parents at your restaurant. Next week. On the house.”
“Done. And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
“Yes, but just in case I do. What can I have?”
A devilish glint showed in Roz’s eye just before she answered with a question of her own. “What do you want?” And then, as if words had rushed out before she could catch them, much as had happened to him earlier when his thoughts of her beauty were voiced out loud, she rushed on. “Wait. Don’t answer that. The question came out totally wrong.”
“Ha! Too late to back out now.” He watched her catch and nibble a portion of her lovely lower lip. “Nervous?”
“No.”
She warmed him like sunshine. Pierre wanted more of her heat. He pulled out his phone. “What’s the name of this place?”
“It’s called Ma’s. I don’t have the address, but I can text it to you.”
They exchanged numbers. A group of women rounded the corner, headed toward the ladies’ room. Once they saw Pierre he knew privacy was over. “I look forward to our date,” he mumbled as they neared them.
“It’s not a date.” Roz began walking away. Pierre’s touch was tender as he grabbed her arm. She turned around.
“Call it whatever you want to call it, but just remember that when it comes to all things culinary...I usually win.”
“How stupid are you?”
That’s what Roz’s BFF Stefanie asked when told that Roz had turned down Pierre’s invitation for a private dinner after hours in the most sought-after space in town. Roz understood. Stefanie didn’t. She hadn’t met Pierre up close and personal, felt the animal magnetism that kept Roz tossing and turning all night after the ball, and thinking about him for the rest of the weekend. If Stefanie knew all that, then she’d know that meeting Pierre on neutral territory with people around would keep Roz from doing something she’d later regret.
She arrived early and waited in her car, determined to not make a repeat of their past interactions. Placing bets and blurting out leading questions in a direction she totally intended not to go. It wasn’t like her to flip out over a handsome guy. She was neither a starstruck fan nor a bumbling idiot with no command of the English language. She was a serious journalist
