*Guest Blog, Thanks, Mr. Chef*

She walked in and I knew immediately that it was her. She had some sort of black strappy dress on and she was looking left and right while picking at her nails. I read enough to know that means she’s nervous.

I observe her like I’m hunting her, not wanting her to see me until I’ve had a moment to really watch. She’s fairly short, quite busty and she smiles at everyone who smiles at her. She has amazing bone structure. Her cheeks are flushed and sort of sparkly. Her lips are red. I’m enjoying her not being able to recognize me. She glances at me briefly, raising an eyebrow slightly while smiling appreciatively. I find that I’m particularly happy being hunted by this blond beauty in my own restaurant.

She’s looking like she’s about to bolt so I stand up and watch her turn, slowly. It’s like an explosion that hits you in the chest. When she smiles at you, she smiles into you. Her eyes are green and sparking at me flirtatiously. I have to return the smile because the smirk on her lips is contagious.

There’s something about Jenni. There’s something about the way she makes you feel that makes you want to know her. Sitting in a crowded restaurant and she’s the only woman I notice. Her laugh is intimate, reminiscent of something sexual and it changes my thought process. She’s classically beautiful. All the parts and pieces are pretty and they add up into a woman that’s more than easy on the eyes. Just when you think you’ve got her figured out with her red handbag, she opens her mouth and she’s smart and funny.

I’ve read her blog for so long that I watch for the signs that match my favorite posts. Does she bite her lip (yes). Does she fidget? (yes). Does she notice my freshly shaved head? (she’s sitting on her hands, I’d say yes). She swallows repeatedly when I ask her what she’s hungry for. I like this woman. She’s intense. She’s so sexy. I want to talk to her and I really want to kiss her but I’m determined to wait until she stops playing with her nails.

I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve watched and read about her foodie habit. She has a thing for the men of the kitchen and I intend to make the most of it where the others have failed her, I want to make her write about me.  The last of the tables are leaving and I can see she’s not sure what to think.

• Want to help me cook?

J- Right now?

• Yes

J- Ok.

I threw her an apron and she threw it back.

J- I brought mine.

I thought I was going to smooth talk her, I figured this had to be easy and I was fully armed with all of her hopes and hates………………… but she ties a sexy apron around her neck, smiles at me and turns her back to me with a wink.

J- Tie me?

Any man who thinks they’re going into anything with her with an upper hand are totally mistaken. This lady knows your moves before you make them. I move to tie the white lengths that are hanging at her sides and her perfume envelops me. She smells like the clean air after it rains, and you can only smell her perfume if you’re close to her. Something she knows if the smile on her face is any indication. The clover tattoo between her shoulders is begging to be kissed for good luck. I need a smoke. I hand her some garlic to peel and she rolls the onion back to me.

J- Making me cry on the first date?

I went for a smoke and when I walked back in she was singing along with the music and dancing while she peeled the garlic. She’s at home in my kitchen and its so hot I could sit and watch her but that’s creepy so I get to work. She makes me remember why I loved to cook in the first place and I’m thankful for my apron because shes precocious and having her in my kitchen is a rush. When it got to the point I had to pay attention I poured her a glass of red and sat her on a stool next to me so I could talk to her while I cooked her dinner. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be one more asshole to overcook her steak.

The dining room is dark except for our table which is lit enough that we can eat and talk through dinner. I untie her apron on her way out of the kitchen and she laughs. She brings out the aggressive bastard in me. I want to throw everything off the table and fuck her right there. Fuck dinner, I want to really feed her. I want to put more than words in her mouth and I’m a dick for admitting it. It doesn’t make it any less true and I watch her take her first bite like she’s the worst critic to cross my career. Praying to the food gods she loves it and knowing I’ll read about how bad it was tomorrow if she doesn’t…… but she smiles and says it’s amazing.

She talks about things like hating the snow and loving her kids. She’s funny even talking about painful things. She isn’t the slightest bit damaged by the guys who have tried so hard to use up all the sweetness she brings. She doesn’t like to talk about her blog. She gets quiet and I watch her choose her words carefully. I don’t tell her I was a journalism major in college before I started cooking.

J- It scares all the right people and tempts all the wrong ones.

Fuck, does that make me one of the wrong guys? Maybe so but I’m going to enjoy my date with her either way and her company is hard to relinquish. We drink two bottles of wine laughing about everything from the Octomom to global warming. She’s disarming and she has a look that would give a dead man goosebumps.

I watch her yawn a dozen times before I do the respectful thing and ask if she’s ready to go. She is. Damn. She moves to clear the dishes and I stop her. Where did this woman come from? I walk her to her van and she smiles again.

J- Thanks for dinner, it was absolutely delicious.

I don’t wait. I move in and kiss her. I’m seeing green lights and hoping I’m right. I press her up against the cold metal of her door and hear her moan in my mouth. Feeling her mouth open under mine is the equivalent of the dessert I’ve been wanting since she walked in the door. Kissing her requires three languages to describe. I can see the potential for things getting out of control in a second when she pulls away and smiles.

J- Whoa… I’m actually not dating anymore and I promised myself I’d be single until my sweater is finished. If you want to wait I’d love to see you again but I need to get home.

• Yeah. I’d like that. How much longer until you finish it?

J- Six months or so? Oh…. would you want to guest blog for me? It’s a really rough week and I’ve decided to ask my favorite people to help out. You just made the best steak I’ve had since I saw my Daddy last. Can you write at all?

• I can spell even! Can I kiss and tell?

J- I hope so, the last guy I dated couldn’t kiss his way out of a wet paper bag, there aren’t words to thank you for that kiss goodnight.

• Yes, I’ll do it.

I’ve already broken my promise because I was supposed to keep it under a thousand words, but those lips, that tongue and her laugh make keeping it short and sweet impossible.

Shame on any of you fuckers who would even think about giving her less than she deserves…. which is everything.

Get in line behind my knitting……………..some women require you to climb out of your box to access theirs and my mama didn’t raise no fool.

I’m climbing.