Reserved for You

by Brenda Margriet

  “I see.”

  He moved forward. Jemma held her ground. The warm night air brushed her cheek, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body, so close, yet not touching.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” The rumble of his voice shuddered through her.

  “It’s just...I know...someone.” She closed her eyes to block out the sympathy in his. “That woman, in the wheelchair. I can’t bear to think of what she was like. Before.”

  “You know someone with dementia?”

  Warm fingertips grazed across her forehead, down her temple, behind her ear, tucked her hair back. She opened her eyes and nodded. “My grandmother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Placing a hand flat on his chest she gave him a gentle shove. He resisted and for a moment the warmth of his skin seeped into her palm through the crisp cotton of his shirt before he gave way. “It’s going to be fine.” She straightened her spine. “We’ll be fine.”

  “There is help out there. I’ll ask my sister to get you some pamphlets.”

  “Pamphlets won’t do any good.” Jemma swallowed, but couldn’t dislodge the hard ball in her throat. “We’re okay. We’re handling it.”

  “It’s not weak to accept help.” Paul’s voice was soft with compassion. Jemma hardened herself against the need to lean into it, lean into him.

  “She’s not that bad. She’s still herself most of the time.” Paul opened his mouth and she forestalled him. “I know. It’s going to get worse. But not yet.” Her words echoed down the silent street. “Not yet.” She breathed deeply. “I have to go.” She slid into her car and offered her customary prayer of thanks when it roared into life. “See you tomorrow.” She yanked the door shut and drove away.

  Miriam was playing cards with Shannon Ferguson when she returned home.

  “Look at you two,” Jemma said with a smile. “Having a good time?”

  “Shhh,” Miriam said. “I’m going to win. Fifteen-two, fifteen-four and a double run of eight is twelve.” She plugged her peg triumphantly into the final hole. “Hah! Gotcha!”

  “Good job, Miriam.” Shannon stacked the cards. “How was work?”

  “Sorry I’m late.” She tossed her jacket on the arm of the couch. “I got...caught up.”

  “No worries.” Shannon rose from her chair, hefting a cloth bag over her shoulder. “I’m off for home then.”

  Miriam flipped the crib board over and started stowing away the pegs. Jemma walked Shannon to the door.

  “How was she?”

  “Good. A bit teary-eyed when I got here, and I don’t think she remembered I was coming, but she settled down nicely. Had a good supper.”

  “She’s playing cards.”

  “Her brain needs to be active. It’s important to keep her involved.”

  “How can she remember how to score in cribbage, when other, simpler things are getting so difficult for her?”

  Shannon rubbed Jemma’s shoulder. “It’s no use trying to puzzle it out. Just enjoy the good days. I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Miriam settled in her chair, thumbing through the channels on the remote. Jemma flopped onto the couch. “Did you have a good time with Shannon?”

  “It was okay.” The tip of her grandmother’s tongue protruded as she stared at the screen.

  “Do you like her?”

  Miriam shrugged.

  When Jemma first suggested bringing in a home care worker, Miriam had grown agitated. She insisted she could look after herself. “I don’t want someone in my home, telling me what to do,” she sulked. Jemma hadn’t pressed, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to let the matter rest a while longer.

  Until the morning she came out of her bedroom and found Miriam preparing to mix a bleach cleanser with ammonia.

  “Gramma! Stop!” She dashed forward and snatched the jug away. “What are you doing?”

  Miriam flinched, her eyes clouded and confused. “I was going to clean the sink.”

  “You know better than to mix bleach and ammonia. It can kill you!” Jemma’s sweaty palms slipped on the plastic jug.

  Miriam’s gaze fluttered back and forth between the bottles and her lips trembled. “What was I thinking? I’m sorry, so sorry. Don’t be mad at me.”

  Jemma drew a deep breath and lowered her voice, heart pounding high in her throat. “It’s okay, Gramma. Why don’t you sit for a bit? I’ll clean the sink.”

  Miriam spent the rest of the day quiet and depressed. Jemma carted all the harsh cleaners to the hazardous waste disposal unit in the basement, vowing to be more careful with what she bought. She started setting up interviews with home care workers the next day.

  Jemma studied Miriam, now absorbed in her television program. When was the last time she’d had her hair permed? Normally she had it done every six weeks without fail, but the curls had lost their hold and the hair was long enough to brush her collar. A dark stain blotched the left breast of her blouse.

  Jemma lifted Miriam’s hand from where it rested on the arm of her chair and clasped it in both of hers. “I love you, Gramma.”

  Miriam patted their joined hands without taking her eyes off the screen. “I love you, too.”

  She sat with Miriam for more than an hour, pretending to watch television, when all she could see was Mrs. Henschke hunched in her wheelchair, blank-eyed, fingers plucking, plucking, plucking.

  The hush was unnatural, inviolate. Definitely uncomfortable. It made Jemma itchy between her shoulder blades.

  Paul and Fenella’s second date included a visit to an Emily Carr exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery. They strolled from painting to painting followed by a comet’s tail of videographers, sound guys and producers.

  Jemma trod after them, following the pack. This silent reverence to a few smears of colour hanging at wide intervals on white walls gave her the willies.

  She scowled at Fenella, who was showing to advantage this afternoon. She constantly touched Paul’s arm, chattering with overbearing knowledge about the artwork on display. It chafed Jemma something fierce that she was there in part because of deceit and manipulation.

  Not that she could prove anything. She assumed Lawrence Larrey had told Fenella what the Kitchen Challenge was, so she could prepare and practice. But she didn’t know. And other than stalking Fenella like a deranged fan, she couldn’t figure out how to get proof.

  “Emily started using oils during the time she lived in France.” Fenella leaned toward a painting of a village street, narrowing her eyes. “Her use of colour became much bolder, she stopped focusing on details, used broken outlines and short strokes to reflect energy and motion.”

  Jemma peeked between a sound guy—holding a long pole with a boom mic hanging off the end over Paul and Fenella’s heads—and redheaded Benedict. The painting was pretty, in an out of focus way. Why couldn’t people simply enjoy it, without throwing phrases like “Post-Impressionism” and “rubric of the Modern movement” around?

  Paul nodded and smiled, eyes glazed. Jemma ducked her head to hide a grin. He’d looked more interested last night while listening to Mrs. Carvalho’s long and involved story about her granddaughter’s best friend’s parent’s divorce. He placed his hand on Fenella’s back as they drifted to another painting. Her grin faded as she remembered those same hands pushing Mrs. Henschke’s wheelchair.

  Those same fingers gently brushing the hair behind her ear.

  “No fraternizing,” she breathed.

  Benedict threw an irritated glance over his shoulder. She pressed her lips together, slid her thumb and forefinger across them, and threw the ‘key’ onto the floor. The corner of his mouth twitched before he turned away.

  An hour later, Jemma hadn’t yet decided what to do about Fenella. But her desire to do something was growing. She wouldn’t be able to stand many more weeks of the bosomy blonde clinging to Paul as if he were a life preserver on the Titanic.

  She leaned over Benedict’s shoulder, watching the laptop screen as he skimmed through the foot
age they’d just shot.

  “We’re good,” he grunted. “Let everyone go.”

  She crossed the room to where Paul stood resting his elbows on top of an empty camera tripod, sipping from a bottle of water and laughing with Fenella.

  Paul acknowledged her with a raised eyebrow. “Are we done?”

  “Benedict says so. I’d get out of here before he changes his mind.”

  Fenella laid a hand on Paul’s wrist. “I had a good time today.”

  He smiled. “Me, too. See you tomorrow.” She sauntered off, hips swinging.

  Jemma glared at Paul.

  “What?” he said.

  “You were checking her out.” The words popped out of her mouth.

  His faintly smug smile made her want to smack him. “Isn’t that my job? She’s cute, smart, a good cook. I like her.”

  “She’s a skank.”

  Lainie appeared at Paul’s shoulder. “Who’s a skank?”

  “Jemma thinks Fenella is.”

  “She is not,” Lainie protested.

  “I don’t like her.” Jemma glowered at Paul. “She’s not right for you.”

  “Oh, really?” His tone was polite, but she detected an edge to his innocuous question.

  “Really.”

  Lainie’s head bobbed from one to the other. Paul still smiled, but a muscle in his jaw flexed repeatedly. Jemma stood, hands on hips, scrutinizing him from behind her bangs.

  “So what exactly is wrong with Fenella?” he challenged. “Why is she not right for me?”

  “She’s a...she’s a...” Jemma foundered. “She’s not what she seems to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” Jemma muttered.

  “Oh, no, you’re not getting away with that.” Paul gripped her wrist. “If you have something to say, you’re going to say it.” Jemma stumbled forward when he gave a quick yank. He dragged her out of the room, leaving Lainie behind, staring at them open mouthed.

  His fingers were warm and firm. She tried to plant her feet and resist his momentum, but he moved too quickly. He hauled her through an open doorway and spun her into the room, slamming the door shut and leaning against it.

  They appeared to be in a storage closet. A heavy metal rack to her right held old paint cans, drop cloths, roller trays. Cardboard boxes were stacked to her left. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. Paul’s eyes narrowed and a thin flush rode his cheekbones. Dark hair fell over his forehead. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.” She sounded sullen. She didn’t care.

  “What’s your problem with Fenella?”

  “I said, nothing.”

  He stepped toward her. Her stomach growled when his scent hit her. Cinnamon. Fresh bread—again. Apples? Her fists clenched.

  His face was so close. A faint hint of stubble roughened his jaw. He blinked, and thick black lashes swept over cocoa-coloured irises. Her breath caught.

  She should move. She would move. In a minute. And then his mouth was on hers.

  His hands cupped her face. The heat of his palms on her jaw, the brush of his lips on hers, seared her in place, hands fisted, body stiff.

  The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her closed lips and she shuddered. Her eyes were open, as were his. There was no mistaking the flame of lust flickering in their depths.

  He licked her again.

  A moan forced its way past her lips. Her mouth opened, and his tongue slicked against her teeth, broached the barrier to tangle with hers. He tasted strong and sinful and seductive. Her eyelids lowered and she leaned into him, clinging to his wrists as her knees weakened.

  If Paul had known how tart she tasted he wouldn’t have waited this long to kiss her. The thought had been hovering in the back of his mind, ever since that electric moment on the boat, but he’d kept shoving it aside.

  Right now, he had no idea why he’d resisted.

  The bones of her face were fragile under his fingers. He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on the texture of her lips, the piquancy of her flavour. The pulse in her neck pounded against his hands, the drumbeat echoing in his blood.

  Dizziness swirled through Paul and he lifted his mouth for an instant, long enough for a quick, desperate breath before dipping back to sip from Jemma again. A taste, one more, another—then she tore away, thrust away, threw his hands down. She pressed against the far wall, staring at him with her unearthly blue eyes. Her breasts heaved under her black t-shirt. A flush shaded the hollow of her throat.

  His palms tingled from the silk of her skin, her tang lingered on his tongue. Need for her simmered in his veins.

  She stared at him, one hand held to her mouth. He should say something. Apologize. Apologize? What the hell for?

  “Are you trying to get me fired?” Her voice came out squeaky, panicked.

  Oh, right. She wasn’t allowed to associate with him. “Of course not.” That kiss was well over the line, but he didn’t regret it, not one bit.

  “Then what was that?” Her hand flailed between them.

  “I kissed you.”

  “I know that!” Her eyes flashed. “Why?”

  “I wanted to.” He rolled tense shoulders. His breathing eased as his pulse steadied and he resisted the impulse to hold her hard against him, nestle her to his body. She’d probably slap him. “I have to tell you, Jemma. You are much more fascinating than any of the women on the show.”

  “I’m not a contestant!” Red brightened the tip of her nose. “You can’t pick me. You have to pick one of the contestants.”

  “I’ll pick who I want.” And I pick you. He didn’t dare say it out loud.

  “Stay away from me.” She edged past him, grasped the door handle. “Just stay away from me.”

  After all the tension on set, it felt damn good to be in the restaurant. To be home.

  “Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Holburn.” Paulo’s was crowded, and not for the first time since Reservations for Two had begun airing. Damn Daniel, but he’d been right. The publicity was worth every embarrassing, awkward moment. It was giving Paulo’s the chance to prove itself, the chance to establish a reputation based on its merits.

  Mrs. Holburn, whose tightened cheeks said she was thirty but whose neck declared she was seventy, laid a long-nailed hand on his arm. “I’m so glad you kept Fenella last night. She is such a sweet thing.” She laughed coquettishly. “Reminds me of myself, a few years ago.”

  Mr. Holburn lowered into his seat with a grunt. “A few decades ago.” He studied the wine list, ignoring the squint-eyed glare his wife shot him.

  She allowed Paul to assist her into her chair and smiled with sugary venom. “I’m feeling extravagant tonight. Shall we start with an appetizer? You know the one.” She addressed Paul. “With lobster and caviar...”

  “Aperitivo de espuma. Scallops, lobster, caviar and white truffle foam.”

  Mrs. Holburn beamed. “Exactly.”

  “I’ll tell your server. He’ll be here shortly for your order. Comer saudável.” He walked away, hiding a completely unprofessional grin. From Mr. Holburn’s Platinum Visa directly to Paulo’s bottom line.

  Being busy wasn’t only good for the restaurant. It was good for him, too, because it kept him from thinking of Jemma.

  And Jemma’s mouth.

  She was avoiding him. Yesterday, during what he privately termed Dumping Day, she’d scurried away as soon he came near, not glancing in his direction.

  Kissing her may have been a tactical error. She was just so darn adorable when she was pissed off. The way she had fussed about Fenella—he wondered if she was jealous. The combination was impossible to resist.

  He busied himself checking the seating chart. Daniel gave him a discreet wink on his way to the kitchen. In his server persona, with sleek hair, geeky bow-tie, white napkin over his arm, Daniel was unrecognizable from his laid back, girl-chasing, off-duty self.

  What would Jemma be like, how would she be different, if he could get to know her away fro
m the complications of Reservations for Two? She presented a tough exterior, with her black clothes, her shockingly coloured hair, her darkly lined eyes, but he’d caught a glimpse of something deeper when they’d visited the seniors’ home. Her sadness had been profound and private. His instinct to protect flared.

  Of course, he had his own responsibilities to the show. He’d signed a contract, and he would do his best to uphold it for the remainder of the season. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the remaining contestants. They simply weren’t Jemma.

  Slightly more than two months of taping remained. After that, he’d be free to pursue her. His pulse thudded at the thought.

  Jemma’s eyes popped open. The red readout on her bedside clock displayed 3:47 a.m.. She groaned. She’d been asleep three hours.

  If only she could decide what to do about Fenella. She longed to confide in Lainie, but hesitated to put her friend in such an awkward situation. Lainie admired Larrey, and it was the word of a lowly production assistant against the power of the mighty executive producer. She didn’t want to force Lainie to choose— best friend versus boss—without better proof.

  The best she’d come up with was to warn Paul about Fenella without directly saying why. And look how that turned out.

  With his lips on hers.

  She rolled onto her side and punched her pillow into shape. Flopping onto the mattress, she dragged the covers over her head and burrowed into the darkness. She’d slept this way ever since she was a child. It made her feel safe.

  So did Paul’s kiss. Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  She was an intelligent, independent woman. After the deaths of her grandfather and mother, she’d buckled down, done what needed to be done to protect and support Miriam. She’d depended on no one, relied on no one but herself. She didn’t need a man to feel safe. Especially when he was anything but safe. She could lose her job over him. Never mind anything more...more personal.

  A muffled thud vibrated through the bed frame.

  She threw the covers off and sat up, listening hard.