Sweet Heat

By Zuri Day

The Blue-Collar Lover Series
 
They don’t wear suits, but the five Carter brothers work hard to earn a day’s pay—and keep the right woman satisfied . . .
 
No one turns out luscious pies and to-die-for cakes like Marvin Carter. Few outside of the family know about his baking skills, but working as a restaurant line cook is getting old fast. Now he’ll do whatever it takes to win start-up money from a major cooking contest and launch his own business. But his prime competition is making things hot for him in—and out—of the kitchen . . .
 
Naomi Carson is as savory as her soul food and has twice the spice. This confident, large-and-in-charge beauty also has high aspirations, and will work all her skills against the tasty Mr. Marvin to take first place—and stop living with Grandma. As their attraction burns hot, the other contestants can’t take their heat nor their talent, and threaten to burn their dreams to ash. Will the desire be doused—or can Marvin and Naomi find common ground and fire up the chance of a lifetime?
 
 
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
 
“Great escapism.”
—Library Journal on Packing Heat
 
 “Sexy, hot deliciousness . . . this power couple light up the page like a 100-megawatt bulb.”
—USAToday.com on Bad Boy Seduction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: Jun 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781617734304

Zuri Day

Zuri is an award-winning, internationally bestselling author of books that make you think and tingle while wanting to mix and mingle! When not writing (say what???) she loves traveling the globe, being a famous vegan chef (in her own mind), gardening, convincing her ragdoll cat Namaste that she, not he, is the boss, and having similar fun conversations with family and friends.

Book preview

enjoy.

1

Mama, taste this.

Marvin Carter entered his parents’ living room bearing gifts, this baker’s take on a Southern favorite. Traditionally a gooey, white, sugary filling covered in caramel and rolled in chopped pecans, Marvin placed all of the above between the layers of a triple-tiered dark chocolate cake and topped it with a caramel pecan frosting. Enough sugar for Type 3, 4, or 5 diabetes, if such a thing existed, but eaten in moderation it was better than sex.

Elizabeth Carter, whom everybody called Liz, and her husband, Willie, sat in matching La-Z-Boy recliners engrossed in a marathon of Family Feud.

Shh! Quiet, boy. Liz leaned forward, as if she couldn’t see the fifty-five-inch screen. I’ve got to help this family win twenty thousand dollars.

I don’t have a dog in the hunt, Willie drawled, examining the contents of the saucer Marvin gave him. Was just thinking about something sweet, too. This smells good, boy.

It sure does, Liz agreed, her attention drawn away from the television by the tantalizing aroma wafting toward her from the saucer Marvin passed under her nose.

Cake! she yelled, responding to the TV prompt, smacking Marvin’s hand as she threw up a meaty arm.

Dang, Mama! Marvin jumped back, barely saving his creation from a meeting with the carpet.

Didn’t you hear Steve ask her to name something sweet you might eat at a kid’s birthday party? You inspired me, Marvin. I think we’re going to win!

Aware that he was no competition for Steve Harvey, Marvin waited until the game was over. Cake was that category’s number-one answer. Indeed, the family on TV walked away with the prize.

Now, Liz said, huffing with excitement as she settled back against the couch. What do you have over there smelling so good?

My version of a pecan log roll. He handed her the saucer.

A log roll? Liz looked at her husband.

You never had one? Willie asked her.

A big old log roll? Her look turned suggestive. You shared yours with me just last night.

Stop it, girl. A brusquely delivered comment, but a smile spread across Willie’s face as slowly as a squeeze of molasses down a stack of pancakes.

Marvin was not amused. Mom, when it comes to what you and Daddy do behind closed doors, please spare me the details.

If we’d spared those you wouldn’t be here. She took a bite of the dessert. Marvin watched, waited. She took another forkful, chewed more slowly this time.

Lord Jesus. She shook her head, licked frosting off the fork.

Boy, you have outdone yourself this time. She continued a running commentary, softly, as if to herself, and didn’t stop eating until the last piece was gone. His parents now preoccupied with the unexpected dessert treat, Marvin went back into the kitchen to get a slice for himself.

Liz watched Marvin return to the living room and sit down. She eyed his plate hungrily. Why didn’t you bring me another slice?

You didn’t ask for one.

She don’t need one, son, Willie drawled. She’s supposed to be trying to lose a pound or two.

Yeah, but not tonight, she mumbled, then smiled sweetly when Marvin got up and reached for her saucer, quickly returning with another, smaller slice.

Thank you, baby. Liz quickly downed another forkful of goodness. Can’t call it a roll anyway, since it’s a slice. That don’t make sense.

He shrugged. It’s inspired from a recipe for what’s called a pecan log roll. I think it comes from the South. But you’re right. Maybe I’ll call it a pecan log cake, or a Southern pecan log cake.

Or you could shape the cake like a log, Willie offered, which from this retired army sergeant was rare culinary input.

Baby, at the end of the day you can call it whatever you want. Cake, log, whatever . . . it’s heaven on a saucer. Almost as good as Willie’s was last night.

Marvin eyed Liz and scowled.

Oh, I’m sorry. Forgot you didn’t want to know about your daddy’s woody.

Good Lord, Liz. Willie shook his head.

Both were used to Liz Carter’s tawdry outbursts. But neither ever stopped being shocked and amazed.

What? Liz innocently asked. Everybody knows you’ve got one of the best logs—

Hello!

Anybody home?

Saved by the doorbell and two of Marvin’s brothers. Byron and Douglas came through the unlocked door without waiting to be let in.

Douglas walked over to Marvin, now seated on the couch. What’s that?

A pecan log roll, Liz answered, with the type of authority where one would think she’d made it.

Pecan log cake, Marvin corrected.

A Southern pecan log cake, Willie added, his Mississippi drawl an obvious reason why he approved of the geographic nod.

Got any more? Byron asked.

Marvin nodded. In the kitchen.

Byron and Douglas made a beeline for the kitchen island.

You ever had a pecan log roll, Daddy?

Willie nodded. Come to think of it, I believe so. Years ago, when we visited relatives in Arkansas. There was a roadside store that was known for their candy—sweet, sticky white stuff and caramel rolled in pecans. Everything you’ve got in here. He forked the small bite remaining on the plate. Only this is better.

Byron and Doug came around the corner stuffing their faces. You did your thing with this one, Marv, Byron said. Can I take some home with me? I want Cynthia to try it.

Make a move for that door with my cake and I’ll cut you, Liz warned.

It’s worth the risk, Doug quickly countered. I definitely want Jan to try a piece.

They joined Marvin on the couch.

You heard about that cooking contest? Byron asked. You should enter it.

Through the Food and Cooking Network?

Byron shrugged. I don’t know who’s doing it. Just heard some women talking on the bus.

Probably Food Network. I’m not interested. Been there, done that with several of their contests over the years. Sent in audition tapes. Never heard back. So I’m good.

You sure? One of the women said that this was the chance she’d been waiting for and declared that the fifty-thousand-dollar prize might as well already be in her pocket. That there was no way anyone else would win.

Fifty thousand dollars!

A choir couldn’t have exclaimed more harmoniously than Liz, Willie, and Marvin.

That’s what she said. Look it up online. It’s happening here in LA, and from what she said, sounds like it’s happening soon.

I’ll check it out. Marvin stood and headed to the kitchen, empty saucer in hand.

Liz scooped up the last crumbs of her second helping off the saucer and placed it on a side table. She looked at Byron and Doug. What are y’all up to?

I came over to borrow Daddy’s power tools, Doug said. Building a mini-studio for Jan. She thinks I’m building a man cave, but it’s her birthday surprise.

Jan was Doug’s wife, a former postal worker who was now a Grammy-nominated singer.

I was just in the neighborhood, Byron said. Saw Doug when I was coming down Slauson Avenue. Called him up and learned he was headed over here.

What brought you out of your rich-folk neighborhood?

Get out of here with that, Byron said with a grin.

Ever since he’d given in to his wife’s pleading and moved to the upscale home she’d been offered as her parents’ wedding gift, he’d endured his family’s ribbing, often accompanied by someone humming a 1970s TV-show theme song, Movin’ On Up.

You know I’ve been volunteering over at the Boys and Girls Club, right?

No, didn’t know that.

Yeah, a friend of mine asked me to help coach the basketball team. Said they needed more positive role models.

That’s a good move, son, Willie said, with a slow nod. Proud of you for that.

Marvin returned carrying two containers, a large one for Byron and a smaller one for Doug.

Here’s some cake for your families.

Why’d he get a bigger one? Doug asked, annoyed.

Because he gave me the tip that’s going to net me fifty grand. Once I take that first-place prize, I’ll bake each one of y’all a cake.

* * *

Naomi Carson was a thick chick with a well-proportioned body and a pretty face. Until she scowled. Like now, when a ringing doorbell interfered with her cooking. She turned off the burner and headed toward the door, just as the bell rang again.

Coming!

She looked through the peephole and smirked. I knew it was you. She opened the door, then turned back around and sashayed into the kitchen without awaiting a reply.

Hello to you too, grouch. Naomi’s cousin and best friend Kristy stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She followed Naomi into the kitchen. Is that any way to treat a dinner guest?

It is when said guest arrives early and jeopardizes my beurre blanc.

Burr who?

Beurre blanc. A white butter sauce.

Then why didn’t you call it that?

I did, Naomi deadpanned before returning her focus to the saucepan.

Kristy was nonplussed. She and Naomi had been friends almost from the womb. They were next-door neighbors growing up, until Naomi’s world got flipped and she moved in with her grandma. They bonded while sharing secrets, making pinky promises, and assuaging their mutual love for food. She probably knew Naomi’s moods better than anyone but Naomi’s grandmother Nana, and knew that when it came to cooking, no one better stood in front of a stove.

Is that what smells so good? Kristy walked over and placed her nose near the pot.

Get your nose out of there. Might have a loose booger drop in my sauce and get mistaken for a caper. She elbowed Kristy out of the way and reached for a jar on the counter. Unscrewing the lid, she gave her friend a cautionary glance and made a point of examining the creamy concoction before shaking a few capers from the jar into the pot.

I do not have a cold and even if I did, there would be no loose boogers or anything else hanging out in my nostrils. That’s just plain nasty and not the best visual to put out there right before a meal.

As if a distasteful comment would ruin your appetite. Girl, if that was the case growing up around your mama, you would have been passing up every other meal and be skinny as a rail.

It would take more than passing up a couple meals for me to drop all this weight. Kristy sighed as she eased onto a bar chair opposite the counter where Naomi worked. I need to, though. On my last visit to the doctor, he told me my blood pressure was higher than Mommy’s. If it doesn’t go down, he wants to put me on medication. But I don’t want to have to take pills the rest of my life. I think that’s part of what makes Mommy so hard to live with sometimes. Talking foul and cursing like a sailor. Because on most days she just doesn’t feel good.

Naomi nodded as she pulled on a mitt and removed a glass baking dish from the oven. She placed it on the stove, poured the sauce over the baked fish fillets, and put the dish back inside the oven. She pulled a covered cast-iron skillet from the bottom oven rack, set it on top of the stove, and turned off the oven. When she lifted the lid a symphony of aromas wafted up and over the counter and teased Kristy’s nose.

Oh my gosh! That is what I smelled when I walked in here. She slid off the stool and headed toward the stove. What—

Back! Naomi demanded. Holding a cooking fork like a sword, she danced on the balls of her feet and made stabbing motions. Away from my laboratory lest you ruin my concoctions with your boogery nose.

Ew, Nay, shut up with that! Kristy backed up with a frown-filled face. What is up with you today and this fixation? I think you might need to go and blow your nose.

Naomi laughed. I have no idea what started that, but agree that I need to give it a rest. Want you to sit back down though, because the food is ready. No, actually I can put you to work. Get two plates out of the cabinets. Silverware is in there. She nodded toward a drawer on the opposite counter.

Like I don’t know my way around this kitchen. I’ve only been in it a million times.

There are cans of soda in the fridge. I’ll take a strawberry. No, a grape.

Kristy placed cans of soda next to each plate on the counter. She retrieved silverware and napkins, sat back down and opened her drink.

Oh, those are pork chops. I see that now.

Not just chops, my special kind of stuffed pork chops. I’m calling them Pork-U-Pines because they’re stuffed with minced kale, goat cheese, and tiny bits of pineapple, then brushed with a maple glaze.

She carefully lifted the perfectly done, juicy, cheese-oozing chop from the skillet and placed it on a platter, I baked the vegetables in the same skillet so they’d be flavored by the meat.

After removing the other chops, she scooped up several heaping spoonsful of slightly charred carrots and potatoes and arranged them around the meat that took center stage, or in this case, center platter. She chopped several sprigs of fresh parsley and sprinkled it over the dish. Back at the stove she carefully lifted out the glass baking dish containing fillets of fish over a bed of rice, all covered with the white sauce. After taking pictures of the dishes with her cell phone, she placed helpings of each on the plates.

She stepped back, crossed her arms as she leaned against the counter. Okay, taste the fish first.

Why can’t I try the pork chop?

The pork chop is spicier, more robust. If you eat it first, you won’t be able to taste the delicate seasonings in the fish dish.

Kristy sank a fork into the fish dish, making sure to get some of the fish, sauce, and rice. She took the bite and ate slowly, her expression thoughtful as she chewed. She took another bite, set down the fork and reached for her napkin. Pretty good, she said and took a drink of soda.

Pretty good? That’s all?

Pretty good from me on a dish like that is saying something. I only like fried catfish or fish sticks, and even those only every now and then. Now this pork chop . . . She picked up her fork. May I taste it now?

Sure, Kristy.

Kristy fixed her with a big smile as she picked up her knife and cut off a bite-sized piece. Seconds after placing the fork into her mouth she jumped up from the bar chair.

Naomi started. What’s the matter?

Kristy started dancing. I’m shouting hallelujah because that bite just made me happy!

Naomi laughed, finally walking over and sitting in front of her plate. No doubt you’d go with the pork chop if made to choose.

Kristy returned to her seat. I don’t like kale and didn’t even know goats made cheese, but this dish right here! She pointed to it with her fork, continuing to eat. So good! Where’s what’s-his-name, Victor?

What made you think of that fool?

Because this dish is inspired by something or someone. I thought maybe it was him.

That dish was inspired by the Cooking Channel and my imagination. I haven’t talked to Vic in a while.

Why, Nay? He was cute!

Yeah, he was fine but couldn’t stuff my pork chop, if you know what I mean.

Kristy almost spewed her bite across the counter. You. Are. Stupid!

No. Horny, though.

Maybe you’ll meet somebody through that contest.

The only meat on my mind next week will be the piece I put in the judge’s hand to get past the general call and on to the preliminaries.

What’s a general call?

Naomi shrugged as she chewed a bite. I’m thinking like a cattle call, but will find out for sure next week. So you liked the pork chop the best, hands down? Not that your answer is unbiased, but . . . you’re my only opinion until Nana gets home.

That pork chop could cure cancer.

The high praise almost made Naomi blush.

I mean that, honey. It was everything. But I thought you told me the prize was a food truck.

It is, plus fifty thousand cash to help with start-up costs.

Hmm.

Naomi looked up, convinced there was a wealth of opinion behind that one word. What?

Nothing.

Nothing, what?

I thought you’d focus on your pies to win. What do you call them?

My savory slice pies?

Yeah. Those are good. I can see a lot of people coming to a food truck for those.

That’s simple cooking. The judges are going to be culinary experts. They’re going to be looking for recipes that call for skill, finesse.

"They’re going to be looking for food that tastes good, that folk want to buy. Now I’m sure that baked fish is better for my waistline, but if you can find a way to put that chop on some dough and get people to thinking about more than pizza when they hear the word slice? You’ll win that contest."

Kristy ate, shared her two cents, and left. Nana came home from Wednesday-night Bible study and raved about the pork and the fish. Naomi watched TV and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Kristy’s words wouldn’t let her. They’d prompted her to think more about uniqueness and niche as much as the way the food tasted. The unusual idea that would set her apart from hundreds, maybe thousands who’d be there next Saturday for the contest’s open call. Just after one in the morning, Naomi gave up on sleep, headed for the kitchen, and in the words of her bestie tried to figure out how to put that chop on a slice.

2

Marvin entered the Los Angeles Convention Center’s South Hall and welcomed the blast of cool air that greeted him. April had brought an unusual amount of rain to Southern California, and if this second Saturday was any indication, it looked as though May would bring the heat. After discovering that the contest Byron had mentioned was on the Chow Channel, the newest network to focus on food, Marvin had decided to enter after all. He thought maybe a new network would lead to a different outcome than what had happened with his previous attempts. Plus, as Liz had said, the only way to win a contest was to enter it. So here he was. Marvin lifted his purple-and gold-Lakers ball cap to wipe away sweat, walked over to a list of instructions displayed on a large screen, and then scanned the auditorium for the letter designating which aisle he should enter. He ambled amid at least a thousand others doing the same. With the kind of prizes being offered, he’d figured the turnout would be huge. It was. Looked like every cook in California had come after that prize money. Maybe some from Oregon and Nevada, too.

He spied a large letter C on the room’s opposite side and began working his way through the noisy masses to get there. Each entrant had been asked to bring a single serving of a dish that best represented who they were as a cook or chef. After a week of baking samples, to his family’s delight, and taking votes, he’d brought three individually packaged slices of the pecan log cake. While his brother Byron’s wife had fought diligently on behalf of his sweet potato soufflé, Marvin’s latest creation was the overwhelming favorite. It was Liz’s suggestion to bring several slices in case one got dropped and another got stolen. Forms of sabotage, she’d suggested. Best not to take chances.

Aisle C was crowded, Ca–Cl on one side. Cm–Cz on the other. He reached his area and walked toward a loud-talking woman as she took a step back.

Sassy attitude swung around. Excuse you, dough boy. Watch where you’re going. As big as my behind is, I know you saw it back there.

Had she just called him dough boy, as though she knew him like that? A picture of indignation, getting with Marvin in a way that reminded him of his mama? He did a quick, barely noticeable body scan. Now that she’d mentioned it, that ass was an attention grabber. Liz called them Carter-catchers, because they all were butt men. Marvin didn’t know whether to be insulted or to fall in love. He decided on staying focused, read her name tag and stepped behind her.

You can’t say sorry?

I could, but I’m not. You stepped back at the same time I moved forward. So I could be the one copping an attitude right now and saying you ran into me. And with all this going on—he paused, emphasizing his body—I can see why.

The woman’s shocked expression made him laugh. Clearly, she wasn’t used to getting what she served out dished right back to her.

What’s your name? She leaned forward to read the label stuck to his shirt. Marvin Carter. Figures.

What do you mean?

Common name for a common brother. Trying to work my nerves on the very first day.

Oh, I get it. Working those jaws helps calm your nerves. Might as well get your digs in now, because more than likely this first day of the competition is going to be your last.

A collective, combined groan and gasp went up from those who heard him. He watched her raise her brow and take a breath. Darling, she said, her voice changing from a loud, caustic tone to one that was soft, almost loving. I’m going to slice you and the rest of this competition up just like a loaf of fresh bread.

The bread you slice, Marvin countered, will be the award-winning loaf I baked and gave to you as a consolation prize.

Chuckles, oohs and aahs commenced from contestants who stood nearby and more who gathered, egging them on.

Yes, but that award your mama gave you for cooking in her kitchen doesn’t count. It was cute, she hurriedly continued, having gained the audience and the upper hand. Her eyes beamed and he noticed a dimple when she smiled. But it doesn’t count.

Obviously you can’t either, Marvin said, his demeanor relaxed, pausing long enough to let her take the bait.

How do you figure?

She’d chomped on the hook like he knew she would. Time to reel her in. Because if you could—he read her name tag—Naomi Carson, you would have already counted yourself out.

This woman didn’t know he’d grown up in a house with four boisterous brothers and Liz Carter, the ace trash-talker. He could hang with her all day long. Good thing, too, because Naomi wasn’t done.

So, you’re up on your numbers. How about your ABCs? Because you are About. To Be. Chopped. A hand motion was added for emphasis.

I hope you can cook. I really do. Because your chances of making it as a comedian are slim to none.

Boy, bye. I’m done with you. Let’s let our food do the talking. We’ll see who’s got jokes when the day is over.

All right, Ms. Carson. I’ll accept your truce for now.

Naomi’s smile widened as she looked around her. Y’all see how he backed down when I mentioned food? She looked at him. All right, Mr. Carter. She held out her hand. Truce.

He shook a hand that was silky soft to the touch. Their eyes met. His dick jumped. Damn, she had nice lips. All that trash-talking out of such a pretty face. Marvin had never subscribed to society’s beauty standards. He’d dated every size, race, and age, but he had a special thing for big, pretty girls. Probably because his first love was fluffy. Average man would tell you that there was nothing like some fluffy love! Umph! He almost groaned aloud. Best get his mind fixated on something other than her body.

He nodded toward the stainless steel container she held. What did you bring?

A slice of heaven.

You’re a pastry chef?

No, but when it comes to dessert I can hold my own. This is a savory dish, though.

What, a pizza?

Sorta kinda.

Pretty simple, don’t you think?

You tell me. Naomi opened a peephole in the specially sealed container.

Marvin bent down to take a peek. Bent down for a sniff. Came up frowning and fanning his nose. What is that?

Naomi smirked. You know what? I don’t even know you and I can’t stand you. Even at room temperature you know that smells delicious. She smelled it herself. That is some good cooking right there. She looked at the woman in the line next to theirs. Here, smell it.

She complied. Smells good. Goat cheese, right?

Yes.

And pork?

Naomi nodded, then turned to Marvin. The cheese is probably what you smelled but couldn’t identify.

Girl, I know goat cheese when I smell it. I know doodoo when I smell it, too—

Oh my gosh! Naomi burst out laughing, along with some others. I can’t with you!

Marvin laughed, too. I’m just messing with you. Let me check that out again.

No, because you’re probably going to spit in it or try some other way to sabotage me.

Check this out, Naomi. He flipped back the cover to the peephole on the stainless container he held, the same as Naomi’s, a specially made container with a vacuum seal, which was sent out by the contest organizers, designed specifically to keep prepared food fresh and bacteria-free. Marvin held it out to her first, and then to a few others. Comments came from all sides.

Wow, that looks good!

What is that?

I want a piece.

Why don’t you let me break open that container for you? I’m a judge. No, really. I’m in line and all but . . . as a decoy.

Marvin looked at the guy three people behind him who looked all of sixteen. You don’t look old enough to drive, let alone judge.

The contestant went red all the way to his platinum-blond roots. "I might be only eighteen and just graduated high