Dining with Joy (7 page)

“Joy, psst, what are you doing?” Luke knocked against the stage floor, calling for her to look at him. “Wenda's way ahead of you.”

“Giving her a head start.” Joy tossed the peaches to the bowl. Falling off the stage wasn't an option. She'd already done that stunt. A repeat would look unprofessional. Probably arouse Allison's suspicions and blast Wenda to the moon.

The briny breeze off the river warmed Joy's already hot skin and brushed the hem of her skirt against her shins. A narrow sliver of light cut through the crowd . . . She could run.

“Fifty minutes to go, chefs,” Helen announced.

“Joy.” Allison moved across the front of the stage with her little crew. “Love the juggling and bad comedy bit, but get cooking. The TruReality host should destroy the All Food Network's host.”

“Since when were we at war?” Joy tried to grip the paring knife laid out on the countertop, but her fingers refused to hold on.

“Since she challenged you to a duel. Look, I know Duncan said you have a phobia about this sort of thing, but you're here, onstage, so get going.” Allison backed away, giving Joy a thumbs-up and motioning for Garth to shoot some footage of Wenda.

Okay, Jesus, what should I do? Just, you know, confess? Blurt it out.
“I'm a fraud
. ” The idea paralyzed Joy.
I'm in Your hands here. You can have it all
.

Even you, Joy?

Joy snapped her head up as the wind dipped low and shook the tree limbs. She hesitated, pondering the echo moving across her heart, just as Luke swept past her, his shoulder brushing hers.

“Let's get a plan,” he whispered. “Are you thinking of a peach sauce? How about with pork? We'll have to do chops since we don't have time to do a roast.” He set a food processor on the counter.

Hello, my way out, where have you been?

“Sauce is good. I like pork.” Her fingers tightened around the paring knife.

“For dessert, what about peach ice cream? If we can't get it cold enough, milkshakes.”

“I like milkshakes.”

“Joy, we need to move fast.” Luke's hand covered hers and slipped the knife from her grasp. “Go to the grocery area and pick out four thick chops. Bring some potatoes and rosemary. I have a good idea for them.”

“Why are you doing this?” The fragrance she'd encountered on the stairs the other morning wafted around her head—a textured, warm musk. “Helping me?”

“The first time I was in a competition, I panicked.” He spoke low and melodic as he worked. “My blackened beef was raw on the inside, I cut my hand, and I caught the emcee on fire. And I'd
willingly
entered the competition. Here you are, yanked out of the crowd more or less, all flustered and off-kilter.” His knife slipped clean and smooth through the tender peaches. “Better get going.” His eyes searched hers. “But walk slow, take a few seconds to pull your thoughts together. When you come back, have on your game face and we'll kick Wenda's dish clean out of the lowcountry. You do have a game face, right?”

“I have a game face, but I need blacking for the full effect.”

“Save it for next time.”

There won't be a next time
. Joy stretched out her hand to touch his arm—
thank you, my way out
—but hesitated, folding her fingers to her palm. “Thick chops, you say?”

“About an inch. Less, if you can find them. Hurry, Joy, time is—” He paused all motion, all sound. “Hey, sorry, guess I'm taking over.” Luke backed away from the counter, motioning to the food processor.

“Take over, Luke.” She pressed her hand against his back, pushing him toward the counter. “I'm not such a big ego we can't share the stage. You do your thing . . . food process. And I'll do mine.” Joy smiled at him. “Shop.”

“Hey, hey, hey, what's going on over there?” Wenda's objection sounded over the kitchen station. “Are you cheating, Joy?”

“The only one cheating is you, Wenda,” Joy said, running down the ramp to the grocery station, snatching a waiting wicker basket.

“Helen, what is going on here? Joy is cheating. She can't have kitchen help.”

“Oh, good grief, Wenda.” Helen rose from the judges' table. “You wanted to compete against Joy and you're competing. Be quiet and cook.”

By the time Joy returned to the kitchen with her basket loaded, Luke had the sauce reducing in a pot as he zoomed about the station in chef mode.

As she unwrapped the pork chops, Luke shoved a bowl of flour at her and pointed. “Salt, pepper, dunk in the chops and go. Oil's heating up in the large skillet.”

Oh, sweet Jesus, I owe You. I owe You
. Joy seasoned the flour with sea salt and ground pepper and covered the pork chops, pressing the flour into the meat like she'd done a dozen times on the show.

When the chops were ready, she flicked a few drops of water into the skillet to check the oil temperature. The hissing sizzle gave her the green light to start frying. Joy arranged the pork chops in the skillet, glanced at Luke fussing with the ice cream maker, then made her escape to the front of the stage.

“Don't you love a man who can cook? The aromas up here are delectable.” Joy released her lavaliere mike and aimed it toward the saucepan. “Can y'all smell it?”

Luke watched her, scooping his cream mixture into the ice cream maker, his gaze piercing. Her heart surged with the passion behind his eyes. What was he seeing, so deep and intense? Surely he couldn't see through to her weak, trembling core.

“Want to check the chops?” He tipped his head toward the skillet.

“Checking on the chops.” Joy hooked the mike back to the edge of her top, picked up a fork, and did a jig as she headed for the stove.

The seasoned juice flowed over the side of the meat into the bubbling oil.

“How do they look?” Luke ran his knife through a pile of rosemary leaves.

“Scrumptious.” Maybe a moment ago, with his acute stare, he saw her. But this time she saw him—kind, selfless, knight in a white chef coat.

The low murmur of conversation faded from her hearing. The grind of boat motors on the river silenced. Wenda disappeared.

Allison and the crew were faraway specks on the horizon.

In Joy's universe, scented with sweet peaches, the only beating hearts belonged to Luke and her.

She pressed her hand against his arm and he straightened. “Are you okay?”

Without a word, she pressed her hand to his chest and touched her lips to his. At first, he didn't respond. He barely breathed. Joy gripped her hand around his collar, pulling him tighter, closer.

When she broke the kiss and stepped back, exhaling, the magic of the moment fading, the heat of realization crept up the side of her neck. She'd apologize the first moment her heart found a sane word.

But before she could back away, Luke captured her with the taut power of his arm, bringing her into him, his lips covering hers. He tasted like flour, vanilla, and cream, like the comforts of home at the end of a long, hard journey.

Allison snatched the collar of Garth's T-shirt. “Please tell me you're getting this. Every last delicious inch of it.”

“I'm getting it. Trust me, I'm getting it.” He might have been taping, but he wasn't watching the stage from behind the camera. Instead, Garth lifted his eyes above the lens, gaining an unobstructed view, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Allison felt downright giddy. Unbelievable. Twenty-five years in the biz, working like a mule, giving up vacations and holidays, letting romances slip through the thin cracks of her heart, leaping over obstacles, crashing through iron doors, lining up for every parade of opportunity television offered, and Allison had finally discovered her own pot of gold.

Right here in the steamy corridors of the lowcountry. In the heart and soul of delectable Joy Ballard.

Oh, God, if You're real, thank You. Even if You're not, thank You
. Allison engaged the camera on her BlackBerry and lifted it over her head. “Garth, look at the screen. Do I have them framed?”

He leaned over, grabbed her wrist, and lifted her arms another inch. “Now you do.”

Allison snapped the shutter just before Luke broke the kiss. It was a sign . . . a sign. Everything was going her way.

Not quite a month into her deal with TruReality, and the starryeyed phase was already over and they were asking Allison for little changes and tweaks. Marketing had gotten involved, advertising and program development. “We need a bigger ‘wow' factor for the show,” they said. “A slightly better angle to fit within our network brand.”

Allison peered at the image of Luke embracing Joy and smiled. She'd been sleepless the last few nights, her mind racing with ideas of how to “wow up”
Dining with Joy
, but on this blessed day, the “wow” factor came to her.

The kiss started out innocently enough, in Joy Ballard's grandstanding style. Allison enjoyed a small tingle of magic musing over the idea of having Luke as a guest on the show.

But then Joy's little peck grew into a bushel as Luke surrounded her, drawing her into him, firing sparks and
amore
into the atmosphere. Beside her, Garth cleared his throat and ducked back behind the camera.

“Jealous?” Allison peeked up at him. Onstage, Joy and Luke were fumbling around.

“Three years I've been filming her show. One hour on the stage and he gets the kiss?”

Allison laughed. “This is my lucky day.”

What motivated Joy to pull such a stunt, Allison didn't know or care. The girl was pure gold. She'd stolen the show right out from under Wenda Divine. It wasn't about food anymore.

Allison forwarded the picture she'd just taken to Dan Greene at TruReality with “Wow Factor” in the subject line. Then she motioned to Garth and the camera. “Upload this clip to YouTube. I'll get it up on Joy's website. Let's get the buzz going, start invoking the magic.”

Seven

Monday evening Luke carried the Frogmore's trash across the sand-and-broken-shell parking lot to the Dumpster.

The dinner rush ebbed a few hours ago and he'd spent the evening prepping the café for Andy Castleton's Tuesday morning return. Luke's tenure as executive chef was complete.

After tossing the Hefty bag into the open container, he walked to the edge of the yard and gazed toward Waterfront Park, his heart straining to see the ghost of his Saturday afternoon kiss with Joy.

For two days his lips had tingled with her phantom taste. She invaded his thoughts. Every time he heard the café's front bells ring out, he craned around the edge of the stove to see if she entered the dining room.

At first, Joy's spontaneous kiss robbed his breath, then morphed to a fun stunt, a dig at Wenda. Bravo, Joy. But then it became something deeper, and when she softened to break away, his heart panicked.
Don't let her go
.

He'd been kissed many times, but not wooed until he drowned in the sensation of being wanted.

Luke's eyes scanned the park one last time before turning back to the café and the waiting inventory. UPS would deliver an early morning shipment of supplies tomorrow, and he wanted the walk-in and stockroom organized and ready to go for his boss.

When Luke entered the kitchen, Mercy Bea eyed him from her propped position on the porch post, cleaning her teeth with a toothpick.

“You got a visitor.” She bent back to toss the toothpick in the trash. “And no, it ain't Joy.”

“Now why would I want it to be Joy?” Luke swung the screen door wide, letting it clap against the tabby wall and paused at the sink to wash his hands. When he reached for the towel, Mercy Bea held yesterday's
Sunday Gazette
under his nose.

“This is why you want it to be Joy.” Mercy Bea flipped through the pages with exaggeration. “Let's see. Who won the Water Festival Cook-Off ? Wenda Divine or Joy Ballard? Gee, I can't find news of it anywhere here in the front section.” She snapped her knuckles against the front page. “But I sure know who Joy Ballard's kissing. What a humdinger. Felt it all the way to the second row.”

Luke mashed down the paper and peered into Mercy's eyes. Enough. He didn't need a reminder. “Where'd you sit my visitor?”

“Back booth.” Mercy tucked the folded newspaper under her arm. “Just so you know, I'm keeping this for posterity.”

“You do that.” Luke exited the kitchen into the dining room, sweeping his gaze around the tables in case
she
happened in while Mercy Bea picked her teeth. Paris waited on a couple of tourists, and Russell bussed the tables left over from the dinner crowd.

And there was no Joy in the room.

But in the back booth, sitting in a wide swath of southern light, sat a petite dark-haired woman.

“Afternoon,” Luke said as he approached. “What can I do for you?” Luke remained standing, his arms folded over his stained chef whites. It'd been a messy day in the kitchen.

“Luke Redmond, I'm Allison Wild.” The woman motioned for him to slide into the booth across from her. “I hope this is not a bad time.”

“No, not a bad time. We're in a bit of a lull. What can I do for you?” Had he seen her before? Maybe. In town? At the cook-off ? In the café?

“I like a man who gets to the point. I'll do the same.” Allison pulled a form from the attaché sitting next to her in the booth. Sharp angles outlined her features, and the glint behind her dark eyes inspired the word
intense
. “I'd like you to join the
Dining with Joy
show.”

Luke tightened his jaw as he settled against the back of the booth, the leatherette seat cool to the touch. “Why would I want to join Joy's show? Better yet, why do you want me to join the show? Because I beat Wenda?”

“Beating Wenda is always a good thing, no doubt about that. And you have a good presence and stellar culinary skills. But until that kiss, you were just another hunky man in a chef coat.”