Kingston Kitchen
"Celebrity chef Yvonne's Kingston restaurant is booked for months, but when food critic Andrew arrives undercover, she recognizes him immediately—and cooks him a private meal he'll never review."
Andrew thought his disguise was good. Glasses, different hair, fake reservation name.
Yvonne saw through it immediately.
"Mr. Wellington," she said, appearing at his table. "Or should mi say, Mr. Anderson of the Food Times?"
He went pale.
"Relax," she laughed, thick and magnificent in her chef's whites. "Mi cook for you anyway. But first, yuh come to the kitchen."
Her kitchen was chaos organized into beauty. She moved through it like a conductor, that body commanding every station.
"Taste." She fed him jerk pork, straight from the flame.
"My God."
"Better than God. That's Yvonne's." She fed him more. "Now yuh write honest review. Not that undercover nonsense."
She cooked for him all night. Dishes not on any menu. Secrets she'd never shared.
"Why show me this?" he asked.
"Because critics always hide. Yuh the first to actually eat." She sat beside him. "And because yuh cute."
"I'm supposed to be objective."
"Be objective about the food. Be personal about mi."
Personal happened in the pantry. Among the spices and secrets, that thick body pressed against shelves of ingredients.
"Yes! Andrew! There!"
She tasted better than anything she cooked. Her moans sweeter than any dessert.
"Don't stop! Mi need this!"
His review was glowing. Unprecedented. Five stars without reservation.
"Yuh not afraid of bias accusations?" she asked.
"I didn't review your body. Just your food."
"Same thing, in my case."
"Then I'll have to keep researching."
Andrew visits Kingston monthly now. Always sits at the chef's table. Always gets the private menu.
And after closing, the real tasting begins.
Kingston kitchen.
Where the chef serves everything.