I'm kneeling on the floor, petting Rusty and watching him lick my hands, and my knees are digging into the carpet that is too shaggy to be anything remotely modern—I don't think my parents have replaced it since the 1970s or something, and I'm stunned. I mean really stunned.

This entire day has not gone as expected.

And above all, I'm nervous.

How's this lunch going to go? Is my mom going to say stupid like, so when are you going to give me grandkids, Nicole? Or is my dad going to say something equally stupid like, But surely being a chef isn't a real career, is it son?

And there's no telling what will tumble out of my brother's mouth. I should probably tell you that my brother's an animal, and he doesn't have a filter. I'm being serious when I say anything can happen, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that level of embarrassment. Not now. Not with Palmer.

"You have a lovely house," Palmer says to my mother, and she's eating it up. I've never brought a man home before… and definitely never a man as handsome as Palmer, and I can tell she's just loving it.

Her face is lit up brighter than the sun, and she’s melting into his gaze. She keeps giving him reassuring pats on the shoulder, which is the kind of thing she only does to people she really likes.

I flash him another look that says I'm so so sorry, because let's be honest, I'm sure he doesn't want to be here.

How could he, right? He has better things to be doing right now. He has a high-end restaurant to run.

He'd probably rather have a filling replaced, or get a flat tire on the freeway than be here right now.

And my mom practically held his hand to the flame, and blocked the door, which is so embarrassing it makes me want to die a little inside.

But Palmer just flashes me a smile and something tells me he really doesn't mind. It's as if he does want to be here.

"Can I help you with anything?" Palmer asks my mom.

"Why don't you come in here and help me peel these potatoes."

I roll my eyes. Why can't my mom be a normal human being and just let him sit here as our guest.

This is Palmer we're talking about… a world-class chef. The kind of chef that people have to pay hundreds of dollars just to eat with.

I love my mom. I really do. I love my entire family.

But you don't ask guests like that to peel and wash potatoes, you know?

But again, he's a gracious guest, and I watch him walk over to my mother, wash potatoes, and hold a sharp paring knife in his hands.

He peels the skin with ninja-like speed, and my mom's impressed. Really impressed. I can see it in her eyes.

I hear them make small talk. She's asking him about his restaurant, and where he grew up, and all the normal mom stuff, and he continues to smile and answer everything he throws at her.

"Kitchens aren't always serious and stressed out places," Palmer says, and I crane my neck to hear what he's saying. I'm still sitting there, petting the dog, and pretending to not pay attention, but the truth is I'm trying to listen in harder than I've ever eavesdropped in my life.

He continues, "This one time, a dish guy stretched a heavy duty yellow scrubbing glove over the entire top of his head—I don't know how he did it, but he did—and it looked just like a cock's comb. He proceeded to strut around the kitchen like this."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Palmer tuck his arms into his chest in the shape of chicken wings and bob his head, back and forth.

I can't help but smile at that, and even my mom is cracking up. I mean, she's laughing so hard that she's wiping tears from under her eyes.

"I kid you not, the dish guy was flapping his arms around, bobbing and tilting his head, and clucking like a chicken. It was one of the funniest things I've seen in my whole life."

My mother is barreled over, clutching her sides.

It's so surprising, seeing Palmer like this. He isn't the arrogant asshole chef I knew him to be.

He's funny and warm. And he's charismatic.

And when it's all time for us to sit at the table, even my father seems to love him.

"I'm a huge Buffalo Bills fan—always have been," Palmer says, and my father slaps him on the back.

"A man of my own heart!" my father says. "Any Bills fan is a friend of mine."

For a minute it almost feels like I'm in some alternate universe. Who are these people, and what have they done with my parents? Who is this man?

Things are going so well, and everyone is getting along better than I could've ever hoped for.

For some reason it's stunning… having man like Palmer, sitting here and sharing a simple family lunch with us, in this humble home because of his extreme wealth and fame… and what I thought was arrogance.

But he isn't arrogant at all. He's captivated my family, and they're a tough crowd to please.

This man… Chef Palmer could eat anywhere in the world. He could eat with any chef, and any celebrity.

But he's here. In my childhood home. Sharing a simple meal with a simple middle-class family.

And I love him for that.