Spicing It Up

“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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