Thoroughly Kissed

by Kristine Grayson

  “You’ve told me that before,” Emma murmured, still looking around.

  “Yeah, well, I was speaking from limited knowledge then. Now I’m speaking with authority.”

  A slender blond woman wearing a black suit walked toward them. She too had a microphone set. “Table for two?” she said as if she knew the answer. “Come with me.”

  She led them down two steps into the main dining room. As they walked past the first set of plants, Emma realized that the dining room had been broken up into several special areas. One included a wood smoke oven and grill where a chef worked all alone—like a solo performer warming up an audience. Another had a buffet table. That area was full.

  “Oh, jeez,” Michael said. “This is you.”

  She followed his gaze. Off in a far corner was a section walled off in glass. A dozen cats sat on red cushions, gobbling food out of crystal cat bowls. One rather plump Burmese was pawing at the glass wall, and two toms were yowling at each other, fur standing straight up on their Halloween kitty backs.

  She giggled. That image was straight out of the dream. “We should have brought Darnell.”

  “I promise not to tell him what he missed,” Michael said with a straight face.

  They had walked for what seemed like a mile before the woman stopped and indicated a glass table with a gold base. Emma pulled at her chair and grunted. The thing weighed more than she did.

  “Allow me,” the woman said and slid the chair back as if it weighed nothing. Emma sat on it, surprised at how comfortable it was, and realized she was too far from the table. She had no idea how she would scoot it forward.

  To Emma’s great satisfaction, Michael had needed help as well.

  A waiter, in yet another morning suit, handed them both menus as thick as phonebooks. “Would you like to hear the specials?” he asked.

  Emma started to say yes, but Michael interrupted her. “How many are there?”

  “Fifty breakfast, sir. And perhaps twenty-five more that will run all day.”

  “This is not very efficient,” Michael said to Emma.

  She spread her hands, helplessly. “What do I know about restaurants?”

  “How to make them pretty,” Michael said.

  “The specials, sir?”

  “No, thanks.” Michael hid behind his menu. The waiter hurried away.

  The menu was divided by chef. Each section had different fonts and designs. Emma recognized a few of them as exact duplicates of famous restaurants that she’d been too. She didn’t see anything from Quixotic, but she was thumbing through quickly.

  Another waiter was approaching. Emma raised a finger as Aethelstan had taught her. “Excuse me.”

  The waiter stopped, looking vaguely annoyed.

  “I was wondering if an old friend of mine is one of your chefs. His name is Blackstone.”

  “I don’t know anything about the chefs except what’s in the menus.” The waiter hurried off.

  “Blackstone?” Michael asked.

  Emma nodded. “My mentor.”

  “You think he’s here?”

  “My subconscious made a cat food bar, didn’t it? It may have brought Quixotic here.”

  “Your mentor owns Quixotic? Alex Blackstone?”

  Alex wasn’t his real name. No one magic used their real name. Besides, Aethelstan was so unusual, he would have had to explain it all the time. “Yes.”

  “You think he’s here?”

  “Well, half the chefs in here have their own television show or cookbook or item line.”

  “I saw that,” Michael said. “I wonder how Oprah’s fairing without her chef.”

  “At least Wolfgang Puck’s restaurants can run without him.”

  “Yeah, but a few of these European chefs never leave their kitchens.”

  “They have now,” Emma said.

  Michael nodded. “Do you think that’s changed cuisine worldwide?”

  She froze. It had. It obviously had. She knew all of the names in here, and they all had going concerns in the world she had altered. Important concerns. “I better get to the kitchen.”

  “I don’t think they’ll let you in,” Michael said. “Not in a place like this.”

  “Well, someone has to know if Aeth—Alex is here.”

  Michael raised his entire arm, and one of the maître d’ clones came over. “I want to know about your chefs,” he said.

  “Anything sir,” the maître d’ said.

  “We were hoping to taste some of Quixotic’s food. Alex Blackstone. Does he work for you? I understand he’s been rated—”

  “Fifteenth,” Emma whispered. She knew because Aethelstan was annoyed that he couldn’t break into the top ten—at least, not without resorting to his magic, which in this instance, he called cheating.

  “Fifteenth,” Michael repeated.

  “Ah, we get that request a lot,” the maître d’ said. “Unfortunately Mr. Blackstone was unwilling to come to our establishment. He claimed it was some sort of conflict of interest.”

  “How could that be, with fifty other chefs?”

  “I have no idea, sir. But it does seem that nothing, absolutely nothing, will get him to leave his own restaurant.” The maître d’ nodded formally and then left.

  Emma sighed. “I had known that, too. But I was hoping.”

  “You knew that nothing would get Blackstone to leave?”

  She nodded.

  “Then why did you think he would be here? It was your subconscious that did this, after all.”

  She shook her head. “I guess just once I want something to go right.”

  Michael gave her a strange and sad look, and then turned his attention back to the menu. After a moment, Emma did too. All of her favorite meals were here, of course, and foods she had never heard of.

  She and Michael ordered pastries and several different kinds of breakfasts—from waffles to kippers. They also ordered several egg dishes—Thai frittatas, huevos rancheros, and a traditional eggs Benedict.

  Soon their table was covered with too much food to eat—and all of it good. Michael was acting like a kid in a candy store, trying everything, unable to decide which he liked best. The pastries were dreamy—light and fluffy and perfect. Emma had never had such a good meal in her life.

  They didn’t finish most of the meats. She cut up some of it—including the albacore tuna that was in one of the omelets, mixed it with a remaining kipper and a bit of steak—and took a to-go box for Darnell. He’d complain about being left alone, but he wouldn’t mind after he saw the food.

  Finally, Michael leaned back in his chair and groaned. “I’ve gained fifteen pounds,” he said. “And it was worth it.”

  She smiled. “You don’t look like a man who enjoys food.”

  “What a delicate way of saying ‘the way you eat, you should weigh three hundred pounds.’” He closed his eyes. “I exercise.”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  “How do you think I knew about the restaurant?”

  She frowned. She hadn’t even thought about it. She had just assumed he was looking through the hotel guide. “What were you doing?”

  “Running,” he said. “After last night, I thought I’d log a few miles before we left. Now I’m really glad I did.”

  “I’ve never seen you jogging in the neighborhood.”

  “At home, I usually walk. The campus is big enough. And I run, not jog.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  He opened his eyes and grinned. “Jogging’s for wimps.”

  “Oh,” she said, not understanding at all.

  The waiter left the bill, which was more than both of the hotel rooms combined. Emma stared at it for a moment. She could afford it, of course—the book had settled a
ny money problems she might have had, and Nora had taught her how to invest the money—but she had never paid this much for food in her entire life.

  “You’d think,” Michael said with a lazy grin, “that you’d dream up a restaurant where the spectacular food is free.”

  She peered at him over the bill. “Some things are simply impossible to believe in.”

  He laughed. Then he looked around, and the good humor left his face. “It’s a shame for this place to disappear.”

  “It’s a shame for it to stay. All these wonderful chefs have their own home restaurants. I wonder what’s going on there?”

  “All I know is that the Sioux Falls of your dreams is about three sizes bigger than the Sioux Falls we drove into last night. This place has had a significant impact on the city’s economy.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Probably to accommodate all the people who want to eat here. Or maybe it put Sioux Falls on the map.”

  “I thought it already was on the map,” she said. “I remember seeing a sign that Money Magazine chose it as the best place to live in America.”

  “Over a decade ago,” he said. “Madison’s been chosen since then.”

  One simple, poorly done spell had had worldwide consequences. She had worried that Michael didn’t understand the implications of her wayward powers. Maybe she didn’t either.

  “I have to change it back. As nice as this is, it’s not right.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Michael, if I can do this with one errant dream, maybe I should drive straight through to Oregon.”

  He considered for a moment. “Maybe. But you’ll have to sleep even as we drive. And you’ll sleep lighter, which means you’ll dream more, not less. It’s a couple of days from here.”

  She ran a hand over her face. How many disasters lay ahead? Why did the Fates have this rule? As punishment for failing to get training?

  Probably. It showed her just how important training was. When she got to Oregon, she’d be ready to listen to Aethelstan, no matter how angry he made her.

  “I’m going to try the reverse spell again,” she said quietly.

  He nodded. “Should I stand up?”

  “Why?”

  “I mean, if everything disappears, won’t I get hurt?”

  She smiled. “It’s not that far to the ground, Professor.”

  He smiled back, then braced himself. She spread her hands, touching her middle finger to her thumb as she had been taught, and repeated the words to the stronger of the two reverse spells she’d been taught.

  Nothing happened. Conversation continued around her. A maître d’ clone went by, leading a couple and two Schnauzers on leashes. Emma turned. She’d created a dog area too?

  “Concentrate,” Michael said.

  “How many times did you try the spell?” Emma asked.

  “Oh, maybe five. But I’ve never done it successfully.”

  She let out a big breath of air. “This one’s too large. A reverse isn’t going to work.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to let the place stand.” He glanced around, as if he were searching for an idea. “Will it hurt anything if it stays for a few days?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Some of these things filter into the common memory.”

  “And become fairy tales?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer that. Fairy tales and myths and legends were a corruption of her own people’s histories. “Urban myths. You know the one about the hook? It was a black magic spell. For days, this mage terrorized Kansas City and—”

  “I don’t want to know any more,” he said. “The hook always scared me as a kid.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I was beginning to think nothing scares you, Michael.”

  He grinned. “Nothing scares me now that I’m an adult. But back then…”

  She half believed him. He’d survived all of her spells and strangeness so far. He was a good choice to be with her on this trip.

  The Fates told her she needed someone in case a spell got out of hand. This one was out of hand. Maybe they weren’t just talking about life and death issues. Maybe they were telling her, in their oblique way, that most spells needed two people to fix them.

  But how would he help her fix this one?

  And then she knew.

  “Have you come up with something?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Wake me up.”

  “What?”

  “This restaurant comes from a dream. How do you make a dream go away?”

  His eyes sparkled. “You wake up the dreamer. But you are awake. Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s an existential question that I don’t really think we have time for.”

  “But how do I wake up someone who looks awake to me?”

  “Let’s try this.” She pushed the plates away, creating a space on the table before her. Then she folded her arms on the table and put her forehead on them. It felt good to close her eyes. She was very tired. Eating that much food always made her sleepy. If she didn’t concentrate on it, she could fall asleep…

  After a moment, she felt Michael’s hand on her shoulder. “Not yet,” she mumbled. “Let me sleep first.”

  “Emma,” he said.

  “Please.” She rolled over. “A few more minutes.”

  She rolled over? She sat up, wide awake—only to find herself in her hotel room, in the bed. Michael was staring at her—or rather, staring at her breasts as if he’d never seen breasts before.

  She grabbed the covers and pulled them up to her shoulders. Another blush started and traveled all the way down her neck.

  “I guess it worked.” She tried for a matter-of-fact tone, as if men were always waking her up and staring at her nakedness. With a look of desire so intense that she wanted to let the covers fall again.

  She clung to them as if they were a lifeline.

  “I—I guess it did.” He was still looking at her, his gaze somewhere around her shoulders and her neck. Finally his eyes met hers and he seemed to realize where he was. This time, he flushed and she almost smiled.

  It was nice to see the tables turn.

  “I’ll check,” he said somewhat hastily and hurried to the dresser, pulling the top drawer open so hard that it came all the way out of its slot.

  She scooted against her pillows and pulled the covers all the way to her chin. Darnell, who had been sleeping toward the foot of the bed, rolled off and landed with a squawk that almost sounded like an offended “hey!”

  “Yeah,” Michael said. “It worked.”

  “No more Esquire reviews?”

  “No,” he said. “A substitute page apologizing for the renovations.”

  Her stomach growled and she clapped a hand over it. She was hungry again. Which made sense, she supposed. Even the food, lovely as it was, was as substantial as a dream.

  “So,” she said, “did you fall?”

  “Fall?” He was clutching the hotel guide like a lifeline.

  “Out of your chair?”

  “No.” He sounded surprised. “It was strange. For a moment, I was two places—in the chair, and in my room, getting ready for the run.”

  She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes before the last time she woke up. Strange. Her powers shouldn’t affect time this way. Or had something gone haywire inside her when she’d been in that magical coma?

  She’d have to ask Aethelstan. Maybe this was a normal stage.

  “Does this mean I’ll have to run again?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “But you didn’t get the benefit from the run.”

  “I remember it.”

  “If the mind could burn calories from memory, don’t you think
we’d be doing that instead of exercise?”

  “And I’m hungry,” he said. “This isn’t fair. I have to start all over.”

  “Well,” she said, “we’re certainly not going to get a meal like that again.”

  He smiled. “Wow. Puts a whole new twist on bingeing and purging. You could bottle this.”

  “Yeah,” she said softly. “If I could control it.”

  He bent down, picked up Darnell—who had apparently been cleaning off the indignity of his fall—and put him back on the bed. “I’ll let you get ready. I saw a bakery on my last run. I trust it’ll still be there on this one.”

  “You don’t have to run, you know,” she said. “I mean, if you’re trying to burn calories, think of all the ones you lost when the restaurant disappeared.”

  The desire had returned to his face. “No,” he said softly. “I need some exercise.”

  And then he left through the connecting door, closing it gently behind him.

  Emma let the covers drop, still feeling his desire as if he were in the room. Or was that warmth she felt hers?

  This was going from bad to worse.

  She got out of bed and headed toward her second shower of the day—and this one was going to be cold.

  Chapter 10

  Michael remembered now why he used to take the northern route when he drove West. I-90 through South Dakota was one of the dullest stretches of highway in the Lower Forty-eight. It wasn’t as bad as taking I-80 through Nebraska—that was miles and miles of grass and ditch—but it was close. The road was so straight here, and Emma’s car was so sophisticated that he bet he could point the wheel, put on the cruise control, and fall asleep without leaving his lane.

  He wasn’t going to try it though.

  Emma was reading the New York Times in the passenger seat beside him. She studied it with the concentration of a student who was going to be quizzed later on its contents. Michael bet that someone had once made her study the news to help her learn about the culture, and the custom had stuck. Whoever had taught her had done well, but Emma had done even better.

  Until he found out about her past, he had thought she was a normal woman (well, not normal) who had been born thirty years before, and grown up, perhaps not in America, but in this ever shrinking worldwide culture.