Saturday morning: 8:30 a.m. My first day off after two weeks of back-to-back shifts and I’m already wide awake. The sound of women’s voices, chatting away downstairs like they’re at some cocktail function, has snatched me from the cradle of precious sleep.

Pissed off, and more than a little curious to find out what all the fuss is about, I bolt out of bed, wrap a dressing gown around me, and charge downstairs to investigate.

“Melanie,” Barbara, mom’s best friend and next door neighbor, says in a cheery tone. “Sleep well?”

Not nearly enough.

I shoot her a polite smile while inside I rage at being rudely woken.

Just past Barbara’s shoulder, I see almost the entire female population of the neighborhood congregate inside the kitchen. I rub sleep crust from my eye.

“What’s all this in aid of?” I ask Barbara, looking down at a dish in her perfectly manicured hands.

“The new neighbor has just arrived.”

I stare at her like she’s lost her mind, waiting for her to embellish.

“Mr. De Luca,” she says. “In the flesh. Can you believe it? Moving here . . . to our humble little street.”

Shit, so I never imagined the conversation I had with mom late last night. She was actually being serious.

Barbara gushes some more. “Come on, honey, let’s get you some coffee. Wake up that sleepy head of yours.” She winks at me. “We’re all swapping notes on how handsome he looks.”

As she waddles through to the kitchen, with an animated sway to her curvy hips, I follow.

When I get to the kitchen I draw a sharp intake of breath. It’s like some over the top scene from Desperate Housewives—only in Technicolor! Everyone is dressed to impress, a strong scent of perfume hangs in the air like a toxic cloud of yucky sweetness, and I have never seen so many dishes and plates of food in my life—even at work. Every single woman, from Barbara, to Mrs. Thorn—the seventy-year old head of neighborhood watch—is kitted out in their finest threads. It’s complete pandemonium.

I push through the rabble and charge toward mom. “What’s all this?”

She smiles. “Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?”

Just as I begin to tear a strip off her for the impromptu coffee morning party, I freeze. She looks dressed up for a gala dinner and ball.

I squint. “Why are you wearing that?”

She looks down at the floral summer dress that clings to her body like Christmas wrapping paper. “What, this old thing?”

“Yes, mom. That old thing.What’s going on?”

Her cheeks almost turn the same shade of red as her nail polish. “He’s here.”

I roll my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

She tuts. “Oh do get with the program, Melanie. Remember our talk? De Luca’s just turned up. Mrs. Thorn alerted us all an hour ago on the phone.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“She saw a removal truck pull down the street a little after seven. Those binoculars of hers are amazing.”

God help this poor man. He doesn’t know what he’s in for. He may as well be parachute dropped into the middle of a cannibal tribe in a remote forest somewhere. These women will shred him to pieces if given half a chance.

Suddenly, Annie, from three doors down, jumps up and down by the kitchen bay windows that overlook the street. “He’s on his porch. Quick, let’s all go out and say hi.”

Like a heard of elephants rushing for a watering hole after drought season, a stamped of around a dozen of the neighborhood’s finest housewives charge through the hallway and spill out onto the front yard.

Mom follows suit, dragging me by the arm.

“Mom,” I shout, pulling in the opposite direction.

She stops dead and snaps her gaze to mine. “Come on, Melanie, it’s polite to say hello.”

I sneer. “Can’t remember you making this fuss when the Sullivan’s moved in.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

“Because George Sullivan is not Vincent De Luca.” She pulls at my wrist again. “Don’t you want to meet one of your heroes?”

My heart beats overtime. Of course I want to meet him. But not like this. Not when every woman in the neighborhood is baying for his attention like a group of horny high school cheerleaders after the football champ. And not when I have frizzy bed hair, sleep crust in my eyes, and bad morning breath.

But, as always, when mom wants me to do something I go along with it.

* * *

A line of women wait outside Vincent De Luca’s front door. It’s like the line you’d see downtown for a book signing. The whole spectacle is completely insane.

Looking around the street I see the faces of most of the wife’s husbands look on in bemusement. My sympathy is with them. I’ve never seen anything like it.

As we wait our turn, I pull on mom’s arm. “I’m going back.”

She whips her gaze to me. “This is your chance to introduce yourself . . . tell him you’re a cook.”

“No way!”

“Melanie. Darling. What if he wants you to work for him?”

“Mom, this is madness. I’m not cueing up outside his house for a job interview.”

She starts to rearrange my hair. “You look so messy.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Smoothing down my hair, she smiles. “There . . . much better.”

I clutch my gown tight and shake my head.

As soon as the woman in front of us hands Vincent the tenth platter of food he’s received from the community, she walks away all giddy.

Mom grips my hand tight and practically drags me over. She extends her other hand out to Vincent. “Mr. De Luca,” she starts. “It is an honor to meet you.”

Dressed in a snug blue polo shirt and skinny black jeans, Vincent De Luca looks every inch the sex-god he does on TV. Standing way north of six-foot, his striking black hair is neatly cut and his gorgeous dark brown eyes sparkle.

Staring at the knots of muscle in his arms, and the wide flare of his chest, has me feeling just as giddy as all the other women who made a line to greet him. I feel silly but it’s impossible to deny how handsome and sexy he is, even for a guy in his forties.

Seems the bug has bit me. And yes, as mom said to me, he is my hero—one of the world’s best chefs, and magnetically confident and hot.

Mom motions to me with her hand. “This is Melanie, my daughter.”

Vincent jerks his chin to me.

I tear my gaze away from him and look down at my bare feet.

“Melanie is a chef,” mom says.

I grip her hand tight.

“Oh really?” Vincent says. His voice is smooth, rich, and deep. “Where are you working?”

“She works at Mickey’s—”

I yank on mom’s hand and finish, “It’s just some little café out by the harbor. Nothing special.”

Mom chuckles. “She’s being modest. My daughter is an exceptional cook, Mr. De Luca.”

“Maybe I’ll have to try out your food some time,” he says to me.

Feeling like I’m going to break out into a full-blown panic attack at any moment, I let go of mom’s hand, smile meekly at the hunky chef, and run back inside my house.

Rushing up to my room, I slam shut the door, lock it, and fall face first onto the soft mattress of my bed. Never have I wanted the world to open up and swallow me whole as much as I wanted it to just then.

Mom can be so cringe sometimes.