Thoroughly Kissed

by Kristine Grayson

  She reached for the connecting door.

  Michael glanced at her hand. “May I offer you a nightcap?”

  “You travel with liquor?”

  “No,” he said. “But there are tiny bottles in my refrigerator.”

  “Tiny expensive bottles.”

  “And a pop machine down the hall. A bit of ice, a can of Coke—what more could you want on a nice spring evening?”

  The two of them sitting on the bed, laughing and talking. He’d reach toward her and she’d lean in—

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Can’t?” He looked at her in surprise.

  “Darnell—”

  “Can come in here.”

  “Michael.” She put a hand on his arm. His skin was warm, muscled. A little shiver of pleasure ran through her. His breath caught and their eyes met and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her right there.

  She let go of his arm.

  “I can’t,” she said again. “Really.”

  “What are you so afraid of, Emma?”

  She swallowed. She had already told him too much truth tonight. She couldn’t tell him any more, not and save her self-respect.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I just want a good night’s sleep.”

  He hadn’t moved. His eyes were intense. She was so close to him she could feel his warmth and she knew that if she made one wrong move, he would take her in his arms, and she would never leave.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said, and let herself into her room.

  Darnell stopped howling. He looked at her as if she had been gone for weeks. She scooped him into her arms and clung to him until he squawked.

  “Oh, Darnell,” she whispered. “This trip is going to be a lot harder than I thought.”

  ***

  That night, her dreams were a tangled mixture of memories and fears. The whole experience of her arrival into this new century, Nora’s frightened face, Aethelstan’s older one—so familiar and yet unfamiliar—and Emma’s own strangled terror when she realized she could never, ever go back to the world that she was most familiar with, a world she hadn’t loved, but a world she knew.

  Finally, she woke up in the strange room, the unfamiliar darkness choking her, the air stale and a thousand years old. Her heart was pounding and she knew she was trapped inside, forever trapped. The panic held her until she felt Darnell’s familiar warmth scoot closer to her back.

  She put a hand on his side, like she used to do when she was first at Nora’s. He grunted and rolled on his back so that he could get his stomach rubbed. The softness of his fur did relax her, and so did the clean sheets against her bare skin, the uncomfortable bedspread, and the hotel pillows.

  All of those were part of now, and now was better than then. All of the thens. Even a now filled with magic.

  She had to remember that. And remember too what Michael had told her at dinner—that most people dreamed of receiving the gift that she didn’t want. Most people wished they had magic when they never could.

  Michael. She would carry that image of him, sitting alone in a restaurant that he had chosen for its atmosphere, for the rest of her life. He had softened toward her, and she had liked it. Maybe she should have stayed for that nightcap.

  Maybe she should have gone on this trip alone.

  “Maybe,” she whispered to Darnell, “I should stop thinking and go back to sleep.”

  Darnell’s answer was a not-so-muffled cat snore. She smiled at him, and then, despite herself, peered at the crack beneath the connecting door. Michael’s light was out. She grinned at herself. What would she have done if it wasn’t? Knock, plead nightmares, and let him comfort her?

  He probably would have talked to her, found her some warm milk and sent her back to bed. She had probably imagined that moment in the room. She wasn’t used to touching anyone except Darnell. She wouldn’t know what a normal touch felt like. Maybe whenever she touched a man, she would feel that spark.

  Although she had never felt it with Aethelstan.

  She sighed and groped on the nightstand for the remote. Nora once told her that she had officially become a modern woman when she used the television to fall asleep. Well, someone should circle a calendar. Tonight was the night.

  Emma flicked on the TV, found that the hotel had only fifteen channels, and felt extremely disappointed. She surfed, finding nothing to hold her interest except an infomercial for an online cooking school. Maybe that was what she should have done. She should have taken lessons from Aethelstan and opened her own restaurant.

  How ironic. She had once thrown a plate—actually an entire pile of plates—at him when he had suggested that.

  But it would have been a lot easier than taking this leave of absence from her current job. History professors didn’t just vanish for a year or two, especially ones who got interviewed occasionally on the History Channel. Restaurateurs closed shop all the time.

  The television did lull her to sleep, and she dreamed of cooking school and vanishing maître d’s, of beautifully designed restaurants and food so scrumptious that it won every award ever given for dining. Somewhere in the mix was Michael, saying that such meals made trips worthwhile, and Darnell, who was sitting at a table, like those cats in the Fancy Feast commercials, delicately eating salmon out of a small crystal bowl.

  And when she woke up, light was streaming in her window. Darnell was sitting on the round table, chittering at birds that he could see through the net curtains. He had adapted to this room a lot quicker than she had expected him to.

  She stretched, feeling remarkably refreshed and hungrier than she should have been, given her dinner the night before. She got up, took a short hot shower, and was just getting dressed when she heard a hard, firm knock on the connecting door.

  “Just a minute!” She struggled with the last leg of her jeans, and walked barefoot across the room. Her hair was still damp, and curled on the shoulders of her blouse. She hadn’t buttoned her sleeves yet, and they flopped uncomfortably against her wrists.

  The knocking came again, harder this time, and more urgent. “Emma!”

  “I’m coming.” She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Michael was dressed immaculately, his hair combed and dried, his shirt pressed. Even his jeans looked tailored. “What did you do?”

  His voice was not calm. Nor was it as deliberate as his clothing. His words were clipped and seemed to have an edge of panic in them.

  “What did I do?” Emma asked. “I slept, got dressed—”

  “No,” he said. “To the hotel.”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” He came inside and grabbed her shoulders, leading her to the dresser.

  “Michael, this room’s the same as it was last night.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

  He opened the dresser drawer and pulled out the fake leather book that gave all the pertinent information about the hotel. He flipped it open to the room service section.

  The selections went on for pages, with everything from duck à l’orange to the chef’s special perch with asparagus and lemongrass. Desserts ranged from simple cookies to award-winning petit fours.

  “I don’t understand,” Emma said.

  Michael flipped back to the front of the menu. Under the heading “About our restaurant,” she saw the words “fifty of the world’s greatest chefs vying to create the most unique dishes in the entire fifty states.” And then there were reviews of the hotel restaurant from the New York Times, Gourmet, Vanity Fair, and a hundred other publications.

  She felt cold. “I thought the restaurant was closed.”

  “Being remodeled,” Michael said. “At least yesterday it was.”

  “Maybe this is what they’re shooting for?” she asked
, feeling her heart start to pound too hard.

  “Fifty world-famous chefs? No restaurant has fifty chefs. Haven’t you heard of too many cooks spoiling the infamous broth?”

  “I didn’t see broth on the menu,” she said.

  “You know what I mean!”

  “That’s actually an oversight, considering the extensiveness—”

  “Emma!”

  She stopped talking.

  “What did you do?”

  “I had a nightmare,” she said in a small voice. “So I turned on the TV and watched an infomercial.”

  “And?”

  “I had a dream about chefs.”

  “And?” His hands were still on her shoulders.

  “That’s all.”

  “All?”

  She nodded.

  “You had a dream, and suddenly Esquire is calling a restaurant attached to a chain motel the finest dining in all of North America, if not the world?”

  “Maybe Sioux Falls needed a five-star restaurant. The place we were in last night—”

  “Was just fine!” Michael’s fingers were digging into her skin.

  “No, actually it wasn’t fine. The salad was bitter and the potatoes weren’t mashed all that well.”

  “So now you’re a food critic?”

  “No.” She slipped out of his grasp. “I’m just a little startled, that’s all.”

  Darnell had wandered from his perch on the tabletop to the connecting doorway. Emma hurried toward him and pulled the door closed.

  “Have you said a reverse spell?” she asked.

  Michael nodded. “It’s not going away.”

  “We have to say it in the first five minutes.” She sighed. The good mood she had awakened with left her. “This could have happened hours ago.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. Then she turned to him. “You remember what this place was like before?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re not supposed to.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean I’m not supposed to.”

  “You’re mortal. You’re supposed to change with the change. It always happens. I wonder if everyone else remembers.”

  She glanced out the window. She didn’t seen any reporters or photographers or panicked people, but that didn’t mean anything. It was still early.

  “You’re saying you did a spell by accident and you did it wrong?”

  “Gee,” she said, “what would be the chances of that?”

  He looked at her sideways. “I don’t think this is anything to joke about.”

  “What do you want me to do? Run around screaming? I did that with poor Darnell and see where it got us.”

  “It got him changed back.”

  “Not the screaming,” she said.

  Darnell was looking at her, his ears back. If anything, he seemed a little alarmed.

  “I’m not going to even try to spell you ever again,” she said.

  He turned his head back toward the window, but his ears remained cocked. In fact, his entire body was tense. Apparently he had decided flight was the only way he could prevent another lion fiasco.

  “Emma,” Michael said, “we have to do something.”

  She rather liked the “we,” but she didn’t say so. “There may not be anything we can do.”

  “You’ll leave all these chefs here, and the new restaurant?”

  “Until I’ve learned how to fix it,” she said. “I might have to.”

  He gave her a look of such utter horror that she had to turn away. Michael, who liked rules and order and everything in its place. She hadn’t realized how much of a nightmare this trip might be for him.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go down there.”

  “And do what?” he said.

  “Fifty world-famous chefs,” she said. “Don’t you think at least one of them can cook a good breakfast?”

  But she wasn’t really thinking of breakfast as she led Michael out of the room and down the hall. She was hoping that her subconscious had broken a rule and that she might survive on a technicality.

  Aethelstan was one of the world’s greatest chefs. He had marketed his own line of cookbooks and gourmet items under the name of his restaurant, Quixotic. If luck were running with her, then he would be in that kitchen—or at least in Sioux Falls—and he would probably be hopping mad.

  She smiled at the thought. That wouldn’t be so unusual with Aethelstan and her.

  Then she sobered. Magic wasn’t supposed to be used to get her together with her mentor. But she would argue with the Fates—or have Nora, who was a very good lawyer—do it. After all, if Aethelstan were here, he would have been summoned because he was a good chef not because of his magical abilities. And that, Emma had learned, was one of those technicalities that could wrap the Fates up for centuries.

  “There are a lot of emotions running across your face.” Michael sounded grumpy. Later she would have to warn him that he needed to be flexible to survive the rest of this trip.

  “Just trying to figure out how to resolve this,” she said.

  He nodded and followed her the rest of the way.

  The corridors looked the same as they had the day before, but the changes first became noticeable in the lobby. Large signs with elegant writing pointed the way to Le Chef. And all of the signs had that Esquire quote underneath.

  “You have created a monster,” Michael said, looking at the signs.

  Emma’s stomach tightened. She walked to the front desk. Michael followed.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the man behind the counter. He was fiftyish and looked tired. She couldn’t tell if he was ready to go home to bed or if he had just gotten out of it.

  When he looked up at her, the weariness seemed like a warning: this had better not be a problem. Then his gaze rested on her face, and he smiled. The smile held too much warmth.

  “May I help you, miss?” he asked, leaning toward her.

  Michael came up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. The desk clerk’s smile lost a bit of its brilliance.

  “Yes,” she said. “We were wondering how long the restaurant’s been open.”

  “It’s open from six to midnight, miss.” The desk clerk spoke slowly, forcing his voice deeper than it normally went just to impress her. Michael slipped his arm around her back. She stiffened, but didn’t move away.

  “No,” she said, “I mean, how many years?”

  “Oh.” The clerk glared at Michael, who glared back. “Two.”

  “Two? Wow,” Emma said. “I was under the impression that the place was being remodeled.”

  “No,” the clerk said. “Why would we remodel it? Even the decor gets raves.”

  “Talented designer,” Michael said.

  “I wouldn’t know.” The clerk didn’t even look at him.

  “What would you recommend for breakfast?” Emma asked.

  “Anything’s good,” the clerk said. “Best food I’ve ever tasted.”

  “That’s a recommendation,” Michael said.

  The clerk’s eyes narrowed, and Emma stifled the urge to smile. Insults, Midwestern style. Dry little comments that seemed so innocent to the rest of the world. She would miss that too, in Oregon.

  “Thank you,” she said, giving him her most charming smile. As she turned to walk away, Michael turned with her, keeping his arm around her back, pulling her even closer. His body felt good against hers. He was lean without an ounce of fat on his frame. She wanted to put her own arm around his back, feeling the muscles beneath his thin cotton shirt, but she didn’t.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I didn’t like the wa
y he looked at you.”

  “Get used to it,” she said. “All men look at me like that.”

  Michael’s eyebrows went up. “Did I?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But you had the grace to seem upset about it.”

  They left the lobby and entered a corridor that had been built to resemble the hall of a sixteenth-century castle. The walls were high, the ceiling even higher. The space was done in gold and antiques, with stained glass on the upper edges of the arched windows.

  Michael’s arm tightened around her. “My God. You did this?”

  “Well, if I didn’t, whoever did had a great peek into my dreams last night.”

  No wonder she felt odd. Dreams were supposed to be private, not be enlarged into a Disneyland-sized ride.

  Two gilt doors stood open. A maître d’ stood just inside, leaning on his podium as if he expected a rush of undesirables at seven in the morning. The closer Emma got, the more she realized that the area he was in was small and protected, like an anteroom. The real restaurant was behind him. She could only catch a glimpse of light and space mixed with greenery and plants before he spoke.

  “Table for two?”

  Michael looked at her.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to peer beyond the maître d’.

  “Table for two,” he said and that made her look at him, really look at him for the first time. In addition to his morning suit, he wore a microphone set like telephone solicitors did. After a moment, he nodded. “It will be just a moment. Step toward the front please.”

  “I’m half ready for them to close a metal bar in front of me and tell me to enjoy the ride,” Michael said.

  Emma nodded. She stepped forward and heard herself gasp.

  The room before her was made mostly of glass with gold supports. Plants were everywhere, shielding tables, making dining private. The floor was a star-covered black that made all the morning sunlight somehow bearable. The ceiling had varied heights, which artificially created the sense of small alcoves in the large space.

  The size of the place was what astonished her the most. It was at least as large as the hotel. Tables and plants and glass disappeared into the distance on both sides.

  “You have a hell of an imagination,” Michael said.