Jill Shalvis - Room Service

“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 ending, 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.