Jill Shalvis: Room Service

And then, just like that, the shockingly sexy, charismatic man walked away.

Still gaping, body still pulsing, Em became vaguely aware that the elevator doors closed again. Her heart pounded, her knees shook, and she stood there like a stunned possum until the elevator doors once again opened.

A few people got on.

At least she finally managed to close her mouth, then leaned back against the mirrors, happy for the support.

There was some talking around her but her brain couldn’t process the words.

When the doors opened again, everyone got off and she had to laugh at herself.

She was back on the lobby floor.

“Get it together, Harris,” she told herself, and even hearing her voice seemed funny. She sounded shaky, a little off her axis.

A little? She’d fallen right off her world, that’s what she’d done.

Shrugging, she once again hit the button for the twelfth floor, wondering when the doors had opened there and she’d missed it.

During the kiss?

Or after, when she’d been rendered a mass of sensual nerve endings incapable of doing anything but reacting?

Because of that kiss. The mother of all kisses. The kind of connection a woman dreamed about but was never really certain even existed, except in romance novels or the movies.

How did a man learn to kiss like that?

Given her reaction to it, that sort of ability should be registered as a lethal weapon.

And she didn’t even know his name…

When the doors opened on the twelfth floor, again , she stopped hugging herself and stepped off, still in enough of a daze to do so without her roll-on luggage.

She ran back onto the elevator and grabbed her belongings.

Then she headed toward her room, unable to help but wonder if the rest of her trip was going to prove as adventurous as the first few minutes had been.

And that’s when it came to her, what the women had called her glorious stranger.

They’d called him Chef.

To: Maintenance

From: Housekeeping

Check the air vents and temp regulator on elevator 2A. Guest seen coming out of it today looking dazed and flushed.

JACOB HILL walked through the employee quarters, located on the second sublevel. Employees were treated well at Hush, probably because the creator of the hotel, Piper Devon, was a genuine, caring people-person, no matter that the press liked to call her the original Paris Hilton. That was because they saw only a gorgeous blond trust-fund baby. But anyone who’d ever worked for Piper knew the truth. She worked her ass off, especially on Hush.

Jacob moved through the cafeteria toward the locker room. There he received a few whistles and catcalls, and when he got close to his locker, he saw why.

A pair of black satin panties hung off the lock.

“Another thong.” Jon, one of the doormen, stood at the locker next to Jacob’s, changing for his shift. He was young, in his early twenties, and staring at the panties as if they were a choice cut New York steak. “It must be two times a week you get them,” he said, bemused. “All I ever get is dumped.”

Jacob gingerly removed the thong and tossed it to him. “Merry Christmas.”

“Seriously, Chef, I want to know.” Jon looked down at the satin in his hands. “What’s your trick? I mean you get phone numbers, presents…give up the secret, man.”

Jacob opened his locker and said nothing. There was nothing to say. After all, he didn’t purposely do anything to gain women’s attention-it just happened. A lot. He’d enjoyed it far more when he’d been young and stupid, when he’d happily worked his way through the line of women that had come his way.

He still enjoyed a woman’s touch, her scent, her body, her everything, but lately, something had changed. He didn’t seem to have quite the same patience for the game.

Was he getting old at thirty-four? Scary thought.

“I mean, I’ve done everything right,” Jon said. “I call a woman when I say I’m going to. I listen to her ramble on and on and on. I take her dancing. I sweet-talk her.”

Jacob grabbed his gear, shut his locker and then looked at Jon. “I’m going to sound like a first-class ass here, but the truth is…no. Never mind.”

“Tell me. Whatever it is, I can do it.”

“Okay, but listen. I should add a disclaimer here. I really don’t recommend-”

“Dude. Just tell me.”

“You’re trying too hard.”

The kid stared at Jacob. “Huh?”

“I know.” Jacob lifted his hands. “It doesn’t make any sense, but women seem to go for the guy who steps all over them, a guy who doesn’t call, doesn’t listen-”

“ That’s your secret?” Jon asked in disbelief. “Treat them like shit?”

Jacob shrugged. “I didn’t say I condone it. I’m just giving you my observation.”

“Wow.” The young doorman stared down at the panties in his hands. “ Wow. ”

Jacob patted his shoulder and took the stairs back to the main level, entering the leaded glass doors of Amuse Bouche from the lobby.

Fresh flowers had been put out, as they were every day, making the place look warm and welcoming, and casually elegant. Unlike anywhere else, he never tired of being here, of the familiar black tables and funky black chairs bathed in the soft pink light, the gorgeous art deco paintings on the walls.

Inside his kitchen, he did as he always did-took a moment to survey his domain, the best money could buy in both design and appliances. No complaints here, either. The place had been cleaned during the wee hours of the night, to a spotless, disinfected, lemony-smelling shine that he never failed to marvel at. He could probably serve his food right here on this floor. Hell, he could probably serve out of their trash bin and still pass code, the place was so immaculate.

He marveled at that, too. There had been years when he would have happily eaten off this floor, or gone through the trash for scraps to fill his aching belly. Long, lean times, his growing-up years.

And now here he was, sous-chef of all things, reporting only to the executive chef who showed up on-site maybe once a week, leaving Jacob to handle the day-to-day operation of the place.

A slow, satisfied smile crossed his face. Not bad for a street urchin who’d grown up wild and feral, who’d wandered his way across the South in his youth, living hand to mouth, lucky to have a shirt on his back half the time. God, he’d been such a little shit, a real know-it-all. The one time that social services had managed to get hold of him, their diagnosis had been attachment disorder, which had cracked him up. Attachment disorder, bullshit. He could have attached. He’d just chosen not to.

Still did.

In any case, it was true that Amuse Bouche was everything he once would have scoffed at: posh and sophisticated, valuing quality over quantity. Odd then how very happy he was here, when his surroundings were far more elegant than he could ever be.

Ah, well. There it was. And eventually, he knew, the wanderlust would take over, as it always did, and he’d shrug and move on, never looking back.

But for now, things were pretty damn fine. He had all this incredible space, with the best equipment available, and the freshest ingredients money could buy. In a couple of hours’ time the dining area would be filled with people wanting to taste his food. His .

Yeah, not too shabby, for a hard-ass punk kid from Podunk.

He moved toward the three industrial-grade refrigerators, thinking there were two things worth doing well in life. Both required passion, concentration and skill, and both gave him great pleasure: cooking and seducing a woman. Combining ingredients to create a masterpiece had always been a great source of entertainment. In the same way that the weather changed, without rhythm or plan, he liked to adjust his menu.