Room Service

by Jill Shalvis

  They walked up the three flights of stairs, and at his door, he tried to turn on his legendary charm. “I can make a late-night snack, maybe a—”

  “No, thank you.”

  He blinked. Had anyone, ever, since he’d begun cooking, turned down his offer of food?

  Not once.

  “Are you sure?” He nudged her inside. “Because—”

  “I’m fine.” Still hugging herself, she looked around the apartment without letting a thing show on her usually so vivid face. Not a single inkling of her thoughts.

  He looked around, trying to see the place as a stranger would, a glimpse inside his world. And yet all he saw was the huge glass windows, the stark black lines of his leather couch and table, the utter lack of color.

  And he saw something else, something more revealing. There was nothing of himself here, no pictures, no personal effects. It wasn’t any different in the bedroom, where he had a huge bed, expensive furniture and barely anything else.

  Had he thought the place warm and homey?

  He showed her the kitchen.

  “Oh,” she breathed, stepping into the one room in the house he’d made his. Here he had his favorite pots and pans hanging from the ceiling within reach, his utensils in a big copper holder on the counter, his beloved cookbooks out for easy access.

  All personal effects.

  He felt like sagging in relief at the sight. He had put something of himself here. He walked over to a big, fat file near the phone and pulled it out. “This is pretty much a full representation of the best restaurants in the best locations in the city. There are brochures, pictures, reviews…”

  She glanced at the file, and then without taking it, looked into his face. “Why did you keep all that?”

  He scanned through it. “I don’t really know.”

  “I do. You kept it because you didn’t see yourself staying at Hush for longer than it took to get comfortable and settled. You never see yourself staying anywhere, even here.”

  “I like it here.”

  “Really?” She moved back into the living area, huge and lush and utterly devoid of…him. “Then where are the pictures of your friends? A fish? Even a plant? Where are the signs that a loving, caring, wildly passionate, beautiful man lives here?”

  “You want a sign that I’m here, living and breathing and wildly passionate?” He hauled her up on her toes. “How’s this?” And he covered her mouth with his.

  THE MINUTE HIS MOUTH touched hers, Em’s frustration melted. It had no chance against the onslaught of need and yearning and love she felt for him, none at all. His body was big, burning up with heat, and the easy strength of him such a damn turn-on.

  “I need you,” he murmured in her ear, then bit down on her lobe, sending waves of erotic desire skittering down her spine. “God, I need you.”

  A thrill raced through her. Not want, but…need. “Really? You need me?”

  He went still, then pulled back. “I want you,” he said carefully.

  She shook her head. “You said need.”

  He stared at her. “I did not.”

  “It’s okay to need me,” she whispered, and touched his face. He hadn’t shaved that day, and she loved the rough feel of his day-old growth. She ran her fingers over it and sighed. “Because I need you, Jacob.”

  Still, he just stared at her, stricken. His tough body quivered with tension; whether it was desire, or frustration, or even fear, she had no idea.

  Nor did she have any idea how to soothe him, other than wrapping her arms around him.

  Not a hardship when his body was like a pagan god’s, and so perfectly suited to hers, so able to pleasure her that she was already wet for him as he reached for her sweater. “Want me,” she said softly. “Need me. Just take me.”

  “Em—” he murmured against the tumble of her hair, sounding staggered.

  She closed her eyes, absorbing that voice, memorizing it. This was it, their last time. It might have left her hollow but she’d save that for when she was alone again. For right now, feeling him was a relief and a pleasure she wouldn’t deny herself. His body felt so good against hers, and that was because it was him. No other man would do. With a slow burn taking root deep in her belly, she put her mouth to his throat.

  He made a sound, a rough one, his hands sweeping down her body to her bottom, palming it tightly, rocking her against him.

  He was hard, so hard it made her catch her breath. His kiss was demanding, a little rough, as if he was not pleased with how much he wanted this, wanted her.

  “Here. I want you here,” he demanded gruffly, his hot mouth on her jaw as it worked its way back to her lips, then claimed them in a kiss, a fierce, untempered kiss. Finally his tongue stroked one last time along hers and pulled back. “Now.”

  “Yes. Here,” she gasped when his hands streaked over her already fevered body, beneath her sweater, her skirt, and his fingers slipped in her panties. “Now.”

  “Take it off, then. Take it all off.” Then, before she could, he lent his hands to the cause, doing it for her, stripping her so fast her head spun.

  Still fully clothed, he took her hands and held them out at her sides as he looked her over slowly, thoroughly, his eyes twin balls of heat. “You take my breath away,” he said hoarsely.

  Feeling incredibly vulnerable, she closed her eyes.

  “No,” he said. “Look at me.”

  Somehow she managed to open her eyes again.

  “Amazing,” he said in a reverent whisper, as if he couldn’t believe she was here, for him. Then he slid his hands into her hair and tugged her close again, kissing her long and wet and deep.

  She had to touch him. She slid her hand beneath his shirt, and he shuddered, breathing her name. She whispered his, as well, or at least she tried, though it came out more a moan than anything else because his hands were stoking the slow burn within her into flames.

  Somehow she got his trousers opened. He was fully erect, hot to the touch, needing release as badly as she, and she wrapped her hands around him.

  “God, Em. You slay me.”

  “Do I? Do I really?” she mused, and stroked him.

  They were both lost then. He dropped to his knees and tugged her down with him, tumbling her to the soft rug in front of the fireplace. While he tucked her beneath him, she pulled his shirt open. His body was magnificent, and she had to touch, had to taste, one last time.

  Because that thought threatened to intrude, to cool her down, she squeezed it out of her head and licked his nipple, scraped her teeth over it, absorbing the rough sound that came from deep in his throat.

  Her insides were trembling, her fingers less than steady as they skimmed over his chest, over the hard muscles of his pecs, over the tapering line of hair down his middle, and the abs she could never get enough of, all the while finding herself more and more aroused. Because this was Jacob, this was the man who could take her right out of herself. She loved touching him, loved having him touch her, loved how his body was tense and trembling.

  She loved him, and bit her lip rather than let it escape again.

  He looked into her eyes and knew. “Em,” he said in a ragged voice, lacing his fingers through hers, anchoring them by her shoulders. “Don’t.” He eased her legs farther apart. “Don’t hold back because of me.”

  She looked into his eyes, knowing what she felt was reflected there. Heat and need and so much more it backed the breath up in her throat. Eyes burning, she shook her head. “I won’t.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, his face tightening in a grimace. “Tell me again.”

  “I love you.”

  His eyes opened, deep, dark and suspiciously bright.

  “I love you,” she said again.

  He groaned, then thrust into her, keeping his gaze on hers, letting her see him, see into him, and there was so much there, she let out a small cry and arched up.

  He sank into her, again and again, in a connection so heartbreaking and mind shattering, she lost
herself. But he found her, held her, and seemed bent on rewarding her in the only way he knew how. Not with words, but with his body. He showed her how high he could take her, how much he could give. It was all too much, she couldn’t hold back, and with a fevered cry, she came apart in his arms.

  With her name on his lips, he followed her over.

  EM LAY ON HER BACK, with Jacob sprawled over her. He was heavy but she loved the feeling of him, hot and trembly, heart still pounding against hers. She hoped he never moved. If they never moved she wouldn’t have to face tomorrow.

  Finally, with a low hum of pleasure, Jacob turned his head and put his mouth to her throat.

  She wrapped her arms tighter around him and held on.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “So okay.”

  “We could—”

  “No.” She tightened her arms on him. “Stay a minute. Right here.”

  “As long as you like,” he murmured.

  God, she hoped so, because though the truth burned, she couldn’t deny it—she’d stay right here, in New York, in his arms, anywhere…if he’d only ask.

  17

  IN THE END, JACOB didn’t ask anything. Dawn came, and Em finally made herself get dressed and leave his apartment.

  Though she’d asked him not to, he walked her back to the hotel to get her suitcase.

  Then he caught her a cab for the airport and held the door open for her.

  The cabdriver put her suitcase in the trunk and got behind the wheel. Em bent to get in, too, but Jacob wrapped his fingers around her arm and held her back.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, unable to handle a drawn-out goodbye.

  He kissed her, and everything else faded away, the sounds of the busy street outside the hotel, the irritated hmph of the cabbie waiting for her, everything except the feel of his fingers sliding into her hair to hold her head, the heat of his body as he pressed his to hers, and the way her heart took one bold leap.

  This was not a tentative goodbye kiss, or a may be I’ll-see-you-around-sometime kiss. It was a hard, emotion-packed I’ll-never-see-you-again kiss.

  It broke her heart.

  Pulling back, breathing unevenly, he stared at her. She stared right back, willing herself not to lose it, not yet. God, not yet.

  “Hell,” he muttered, and dragging her up on her toes, kissed her again.

  Her heart was a big knot in her throat, blocking words, breath, everything but this. She’d lifted a hand to ward him off but it settled on his arm now, digging in, holding on, clinging.

  And then it was over. He pulled back, their lips making one last suction sound that pulled at each nerve ending in her entire body.

  “Hey, lady, come on,” complained the cabdriver.

  “Coming,” she said, without taking her eyes off Jacob. “Goodbye,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his jaw.

  He turned his face into her palm, kissed the soft flesh there, then looked into her eyes. And for that beat in time he let her deep inside himself, to a part she hadn’t been allowed before. A softer, more gentle side. Quieter. To a place where he had doubts, fears.

  But then he blinked and those weaknesses were gone. He again put up his confident, edgy, enigmatic front that nothing could penetrate or disturb.

  “Goodbye, Em,” he said, and it was as though they had never touched each other, tasted each other. It was as though they were indeed just TV producer and famous chef, two people whose lives had casually crossed.

  Never to cross again.

  “Lady,” griped the cabdriver.

  “’Bye,” she whispered once more, and to the cabdriver’s infinite relief, sank to the seat and shut the door.

  She told herself she wouldn’t look back, should never look back, but she did. She craned around, and when she couldn’t see anything, got up to her knees on the seat and practically pressed her nose to the window, but it was too late. They’d pulled out into traffic, and Hush was gone from view.

  And so was Chef Jacob Hill.

  THE FLIGHT BACK to Los Angeles was uneventful, at least on the outside.

  On the inside, a whole other story.

  Hurting, Em sat there in her seat, forehead to the window, watching the country go by.

  Somewhere over Arizona, she realized that the old adage that claimed time heals all wounds was full of crap.

  Time was making it worse.

  With every moment that passed, her heart ached more, her body mourned more. Her brain was having a field day rewinding the memories and playing them over and over and over….

  By the time she landed at LAX, her eyes were gritty and grainy, her chest tight with the suppression of tears, and she needed the oblivion of a twelve-hour nap.

  While waiting for her luggage, jostled by the other frustrated passengers, she accessed her messages. The first one was from her mom.

  “Honey, I know you’ve been traveling, but you should call your father once in a while. He worries—” There was a sound like a scuffle, and then her father’s voice came on the line. “What she really means is call your mother because she wants to ask you if you’ve been eating properly, sleeping properly and dating. She wants to know if you’re married with kids yet—”

  Another scuffle, and a helpless smile came over Em’s face as her mother grabbed the phone back. “Honey,” her mom said. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a man. What does he know? Of course you’re not married with kids yet. You wouldn’t have dared to do such a thing without me. Now remember, call your father.”

  Em’s throat felt thick. Her parents had been married thirty-five years and still acted like kids. Kids in love. How had they managed such a beautiful thing? And why couldn’t she come anywhere even in the ballpark?

  That thought reminded her of what she’d done these past few days, which was fall foolishly in love with a man who couldn’t even think about stepping into the ballpark.

  God, she missed him already. She accessed her next message.

  “Em, listen to me,” came Liza’s voice, full of excitement and adrenaline. “The solution has been in front of us all along. We can use Eric. Eric as our chef.”

  Em blinked. Huh?

  “He’s hot, right? And best yet…he really can cook. I just never thought of it before because, well, I was always too busy being pissed off at him.”

  Em’s brain slowly switched gears from her own misery to her career, where it belonged. Eric. As their chef.

  “Think about it,” Liza said. “He’s been right beneath our nose the entire time. He says he’ll do it if being the host means a pay raise from being location director because he’s tired of eating mac and cheese by the end of the month anyway.”

  A massive exaggeration. Eric, also a true food snob, would never eat mac and cheese. At least not from a box. He’d have it homemade.

  “It’s a perfect solution,” Liza said. “Call us.”

  Us.

  The two of them were an “us” again.

  She was happy for them—she really was. More than happy. The two of them deserved everything they found together.

  It was just that Em had never been so happy for someone else, and yet so utterly devastated for herself at the same time.

  Three weeks later

  “WELL, IT’S OFFICIAL.” Nathan let himself into Em’s office and tossed a stack of papers on her desk, his face utterly inscrutable.

  Oh, God. Watching him, her stomach sank to the floor, where it had been a lot since she’d gotten into that cab and left New York and Jacob. She hadn’t been sleeping or eating well. She hadn’t been doing anything well, much to Liza’s consternation.

  “You need to get laid,” had been Liza’s solution.

  “I’ve already tried that,” she said.

  “I meant with someone new. To forget Jacob.”

  But there would be no forgetting him.

  At the look on her face, Liza had hugged her tight. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. So damned sorry. I wanted you to have a happy end
ing, too.”

  “I’ll have my happy ending when this show is a success.”

  “I meant in the bedroom.”

  Tell that to the fist around her heart. Ridiculous that one trip and a few days could change her life, but it had.

  He had.

  God, she missed him, so much.

  But this was a new kind of dread now, watching Nathan. It was over. The past three weeks of bone-breaking hard work and traveling and planning and prepping had all been in vain. They’d filmed three out of the six shows the network had asked for, one in San Francisco, one in New Orleans and one right here in Los Angeles, each in a fabulous, exciting, chic restaurant, each with Eric presenting the featured chef.

  They’d believed it was working, that Eric had charisma on camera, that the places they’d chosen had been fascinating and interesting, that the concept was a good one that they could continue with indefinitely.

  If the network picked them up for a season.

  But now, given Nathan’s somberness, she had to believe that for whatever reason the network had pulled the plug before they’d even aired. No more filming, no order from the Powers-That-Be for a full season.

  Bye-bye career, hello working at Taco Bell. “What’s official?” she asked, and then held her breath.

  Nathan pointed to the papers.

  “Can you be more specific?” she whispered.

  He looked at her, and slowly smiled.

  Smiled.

  “Nathan.” It was difficult to hear her own voice over the roar of blood in her veins. “It’s possible I’m going to have heart failure right here if you don’t use words.”

  “You’re pulling it off.” He seemed surprised but inordinately pleased. “The reports I’ve gotten are all positive. Your early reviews are optimistic. The network is happy. And a happy network, Em, makes a happy happy me.”

  “So you’re not saying we’re canceled before we’ve even begun?”

  “Nope.”

  “And I still have a job?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, God.” She let out a breath, then a relieved laugh, and then jumped up and threw her arms around him.