My new neighbor is ridiculously hot. Hotter than he looks on television... and that's saying a lot. He's an inch or so shy of six feet, but with my five foot one and three quarter inch frame, he's more than tall enough. His baby blue eyes twinkle in a way that reflects his good humor, but the way he's looking at me now reminds me of the blue center of a flame. The way he's worrying his lip as he waits for me to answer his question is charming. He's not known for being charming. He's known for eviscerating the hopes of the young chefs who fail to produce anything less than perfect. I can't imagine any woman saying no to his invitation. I've seen him every morning since I got here. He runs on the beach, comes home and does all sorts of horror inducing things like jumping rope, lunges, push-ups, pull ups, crunches on the deck. With his headphones in, singing or rapping along to whatever's blasting in his ears.

It woke me up my first morning here, and I watched with fascination as his sweat drenched upper body flexed and rippled.

I wasn't being dishonest when I said I'm not a morning person. Every morning I’ve gotten up and enjoyed my coffee while I’ve watched him. However, last night, a couple hours after I'd gone to bed, I was awoken by the sound of blaring music and the very distinct thwack of a nails plunging into wood. Rapidly and repeatedly.

I dragged myself out of bed, stuffed my feet into my flip flops, and marched down my walkway. I rounded the fence that separated our porches and stumped up his. I knocked loudly, but I could hear the music from outside and knew I was wasting my time.

I went back to my house, wrote a note that was as scathing as I could manage on my sleep fogged brain and stuck it on his front door.

I didn't expect him to show up here. I hadn't wanted him to. Hot guys with no regard for others were a breed of man I knew very well.

So, his appearance here, his clearly sincere apology, and his invitation to cook me dinner were all unexpected.

"You're going to cook? For me?" I ask, unable to hide my smile. Of course, I along with the rest of the world knew about his spectacular fall from grace. I remember the interview where he swore he'd never cook for "the undeserving public" again.

"Yes, for you," he says in that deep rambling voice that still carries the lilt of his native Colombia. His gaze grows even more penetrating. Even if I wanted to, I’d be helpless to say no, but I most definitely did not want to say no to him.

"I'd love that," I respond. My inner foodie pops champagne as I imagine what he's going to whip up for dinner. I've been living on frozen wonton soup, grapes, pita chips, coffee, wine and sparkling water since I got here. I haven't found the energy to venture to the grocery store and the thought of eating the same old same is so unappealing.

"Wonderful. What are you doing for lunch?" he asks, and I double take.

"Lunch?" I ask surprised.

"Yeah, lunch. Today." He reiterates.

"Uh, well... I usually skip lunch," and dinner I omit.

"You miss the most important meal of the day?"

"I never miss breakfast."

"Oh, that's just a great big propaganda message by the orange juice, dairy, egg and bread lobbyists. Lunch is meal of champions. Breakfast is nothing but something to tide you over until lunch." He says with a straight face and the laughter that bubbles out of me, for the second time this morning feels so... good.

“Well, it's been a very effective messaging campaign because it’s the only meal I don't skip."

"I can't wait to convert you. Let's say one thirty? I can cook here if it would make you more comfortable," he offers.

I think about my bare cabinets, the paper plates, and plastic forks and shake my head.

"No, I'll come around to yours, if that's okay?"

"Sure, any hard limits?" he asks, and I don't miss the innuendo in his tone or the way his eyes linger on my mouth.

My nipples tighten as his blue eyes darken when he meets my eyes again.

"No. I'm easy," I say and slap my hand over my mouth when I realize what I've said, and he bursts out laughing.

"I mean, about food. I'm not a picky eater," I stammer.

He puts one of his big hands on my shoulder, and I can feel his heat through the flimsy fabric of my robe; it sends a wave of warmth through my entire body.

"I know what you meant," he says with a smile that has more than a hint of mischief in it. He lets go of my shoulder and leans against the frame of my door, his broad shoulders nearly filling it, his legs crossed at the ankles. Even in his running clothes, he looks like the poster boy for a high fashion campaign. He’s the walking definition of sexy.

"Now, I'm going to work extra hard to impress you. People who say they're not picky eaters are my favorite because I want them to leave my table pickier than they were before they sat down. I want to give you something that will make everything that comes after me feel inadequate. That'll make you crave seconds." The way he speaks to me makes my toes curl.

Good Lord.

He talks about food the way most people talk about sex. Now, I'm wishing that's what he was talking about. It's been a long time since I've had sex worth the trouble of coming back for seconds.

"I can't wait," I say honestly, and he winks at me.

"Neither can I, Franchesca," he says my name with a smile and then he walks backward down the walk.

"One thirty and come hungry," he winks and then turns and jogs away.

I close my door and lean back against it. Who would have thought the man who struck terror in the hearts of the audience who watched him, as well as the chefs who vied to impress him every night, would be... nice?

This is going to be interesting.