Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

“I know, but those steps require me to shower and get dressed and go out in public.” Emmy stuck out her bottom lip and widened her eyes in the most dramatic pout she could manage. “Do you want me to get out of bed?”

“No, no. Just wait here.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

Emmy heard the water running and couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he hadn’t invited her to join him. She had just lifted the phone to order room service when Rafi reappeared.

He held open a fluffy hotel robe and wrapped it around her with a huge hug before leading her to the bathroom.

“For you, madam,” he said, waving expansively. The tub was filled to capacity with steaming water and vanilla-scented bubbles; a half-dozen lit votives encircled the marble perimeter.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Emmy allowed her robe to drop from her shoulders to the floor and climbed into the tub. She let her feet acclimate and then crouched slowly until she was sitting. When she was finally able to submerge her entire body in the hot water, she closed her eyes and groaned with pleasure. “This feels amazing. Come keep me company.”

“No, no.” He wagged his finger and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips. “This is only for you. I will be back in half an hour with a feast.” Another kiss, and he was gone.

And so she lounged. And soaked. And refilled. He took longer than a half-hour, but Emmy didn’t mind. It gave her time to slather on some of the hotel-provided vanilla moisturizer and arrange herself prettily in the chemise she’d purchased the day before at a little lingerie boutique on Sheinken Street. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought anything sexy or even cute, but she couldn’t resist this when she’d spotted it in the window. The softness of its pink jersey material felt amazing when it clung to her body, and the sheer green lace scalloping around the neckline made it comfy, casual, and sexy all in one. Adriana would be so proud , she thought, smiling. She’d welcomed 2008 in the arms of a sexy stranger, and she was feeling pretty damn good about it. By the time Rafi reappeared with bags in hand, she was somehow, miraculously, ready for another round.

“Come back to bed,” she purred, letting him set down the bags before she pulled him on top of her.

“Emmy, you need food,” he said but kissed her back.

They had sex again, and even though they were both too exhausted to finish, it still felt wonderful. Rafi wouldn’t let her get out of bed to help unpack the food, so she just fell back into the pillows-the bed was way too plush, almost like a hammock, but who was she to complain?-and watched him carefully spoon different salads, breads, and yogurts onto their plates. He set everything down on the bed and placed a mixed-fruit smoothie and a cup of coffee on the nightstand and handed Emmy silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.

“Bon appetit,” he said, holding his coffee up to Emmy’s.

“B’tayavon,” she answered with a grin.

Rafi’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “We spent two full days together and you didn’t tell me before that you speak ivrit !”

“That’s because I don’t speak ivrit -I went to Hebrew school like every other Jewish American kid and my teacher was this enormously fat woman who taught us lots of food words in addition to the prayers.”

“What other words do you know?”

“Hmm, let’s see. I know m’tzi-tzah . ”

Rafi laughed and nearly spit out a mouthful of food. “Your Hebrew school teacher taught you the word for blowjob ?”

“No, that one was all Max Rosenstein.” Emmy sipped her smoothie. “How do you know English so well? And please save the ‘Americans-are-the-only-ones-who-don’t-learn-foreign-languages’ bit, please.”

“But it’s true,” Rafi protested.

“Of course it’s true; I’m just sick of hearing it. So? How did you learn to talk like this?”

He shrugged and looked a little shy. “My mother’s American. She met my father while she was studying abroad and then just stayed. Considering that, I should actually speak much better, but she almost never talked to us in English since my dad couldn’t understand much and she wanted to learn Hebrew.”

“Incredible,” Emmy said.

“Not really. You should hear my sister. She lives in Pennsylvania now. English, Hebrew, and a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, all rolled into one…”

Emmy pulled the covers up around her as Rafi explained the ins and outs of his family, how he was the only one still living in Israel. She tried to pay careful attention, but with each additional word he uttered, she became more and more convinced that she liked him. He wasn’t husband material, of course-she wouldn’t even go there anymore-but he seemed like a pretty decent guy. And with this realization came the old creeping insecurities. Did he like her back? Would they see each other again in the States? Was he going to change his mind about everything and vanish, like Paul had that night in Paris?

“Very interesting,” Emmy murmured. “It all makes perfect sense, but how did you become the resident PR person? Because I have to say, you don’t exactly fit the mold.”

“English major.”

“Enough said.”

“And you?” Rafi asked, spearing a forkful of shredded goat-cheese salad.

“Government.”

He made a face that said “give me a break” and poked her in the side.

“I don’t know, nothing that interesting,” Emmy said, and she meant it. She hated when people asked her to sum up her life, because there really wasn’t that much to tell. “Born and raised in New Jersey in a perfectly pleasant suburb with good public schools and soccer and the whole deal. My dad died when I was five, so I don’t really even remember him, and after that my mom sort of tuned out. She was always there, but she wasn’t really there, you know? She got remarried a few years ago and moved to Arizona, so we don’t see her that much. My younger sister, now pregnant with her first, is a doctor in Miami. Let’s see, what else? I went to Cornell for undergrad and then decided I wanted to be a chef, so I went to culinary school, then I decided I didn’t want to be a chef at all, so I dropped out. Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Liar.”

“Well, it certainly seems like you have a cool job,” Rafi said.

“That’s true. It’s only been six months, but I’m loving it so far.”

“What’s not to love about traveling all over the world, staying in beautiful hotels, and having affairs with foreign men?”

“I don’t do that!” Emmy protested.

“Now you’re the liar.”

“Not all the hotels are beautiful…”

Rafi laughed, a good, masculine laugh, and poked her again. “Well, I’m not complaining. I’m honored to be guy number six hundred twelve, or whatever your number is these days.”

More like just plain old six, Emmy thought. Which, considering Duncan had been her third, was pretty damn respectable: Since the Tour de Whore had begun the previous June, she’d doubled the number that it had taken her nearly thirty years to reach. After a bit of effort she was over the hump, so to speak, but George had been the perfect start. Then there was last week’s Australian guy, currently living in London, who had grown up in Zimbabwe because his parents owned a safari company-he was all rugged and outdoorsy and although not blond or half as cute, could definitely remind someone of Leo in Blood Diamond after a couple of vodka tonics. Emmy was there only for a long weekend and overbooked with work to the breaking point, but what girl on earth could possibly pass up her very own Mick Dundee? Now Rafi was a positively delicious addition to her list. All three had been completely respectful, if not downright reverent, and Emmy couldn’t remember ever feeling sexier or more confident. As long as she was safe, which she was-using both the pill and condoms-and she didn’t have unreasonable expectations for what would follow-generally, absolutely nothing-then there was plenty to enjoy. Which was why it bothered her so much that Leigh and Adriana were suddenly on their high horses about the kind of wild fun they had so enthusiastically encouraged.