Free Recipe for Desire by Cheris Hodges

busy with our lunch.”
    Marie rolled her eyes at him, but held her tongue. Thelma, who was the oldest of the women, tapped Marie on the shoulder. “I hope you have another pair of shoes. It gets pretty messy and wet in here.”
    “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Marie replied as she glanced down at her four-inch heels. Thelma shrugged and headed over to her work space. Devon waved for Marie.
    Sighing, she crossed over to him. “Yes?”
    “I need you to get the seasoning tray, the pots, and ...” He glanced down at her feet. “You’re not going to make it in those shoes.”
    “Well, what am I supposed to do? These are the only shoes I have with me.”
    It didn’t take long for Marie to find out that four-inch heels on a slippery kitchen floor were a bad idea. She’d slipped when she put the basket of vegetables in the middle of the counter. She’d turned her right ankle when Devon told her to get the knives.
    “Are you all right?” he asked her when she limped over to him with the silverware. He wiped his hands on his soiled apron, then scooped Marie up in his arms in one quick motion. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said to his students as he carried Marie out of the kitchen.
    “I can walk,” Marie said quietly as she felt her heart beating like a steel drum.
    “I just want to make sure,” he said as he sat her on an ottoman in the lobby. “Hold your leg out.”
    “You’re a doctor now?” she asked, but did what she was told.
    “I’ve nursed many ankles of women wearing ridiculous shoes in my kitchen,” he replied as he gently squeezed her ankle, searching for a knot. “You’re going to have to get sensible shoes while working here. I think you should be fine for the rest of the day, since we’re about to head to the restaurant.”
    “So, you keep your women in heels in your kitchen while you cook at home? Because OSHA would shut you down if you did that in the restaurant,” Marie said. “That’s pretty sexist.”
    “First of all, when I cook for a woman, she doesn’t enter the kitchen,” he said. “I just happen to work with hardheaded women like yourself. Tomorrow, wear flats.”
    “Do I look like I own a pair of flats?” she quipped. As Devon gave her a slow once-over and offered her a sly smile, Marie felt a heated explosion between her thighs that made her look away from his brown eyes.
    “Yeah, you don’t wear flats,” he said. “You’re probably five foot nothing and just too afraid to let people see the real you.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked with one sculpted eyebrow raised.
    “Just what I said. Who comes to do community service in high heels, expensive clothes, and a fresh hairdo? No one needs to be impressed by how you look.”
    Marie folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, feelings of desire for this man waning slightly. “A cook, a doctor, and a dime-store psychologist. Is there anything that you don’t do?”
    Devon shook his head from side to side. “You know what I don’t do: deal with diva attitudes,” he said. “Since you can walk, why don’t you head across the street and see if the van is ready?” He turned and went to the kitchen, and Marie felt as if she’d been dismissed by her principal. Men didn’t treat her this way. They were oftentimes in awe of her and leapt to do her bidding. Who did Devon Harris think he was?

Chapter 7
    When Devon and his crew arrived at Hometown Delights, he smiled at the excitement bubbling through the ladies from My Sister’s Keeper. Even Bria was showing signs of enthusiasm, despite trying to keep her face neutral.
    “Hey, Devon,” his sous-chef, Daniella King, said when she greeted him at the door. “Are these the ladies I’m taking care of today?”
    “Yes,” he said, then pointed to Marie. “She’s going to be your assistant for the taping.”
    Marie rolled her eyes, but didn’t say a word as Daniella crossed over to her and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Daniella.”
    “Marie