Room Service. Amy Garvey

the second time you rescued me today. Or tried to.”

      “I can still take a swing at him, you know.” He winked at her, and lounged back in his seat. “Old guy like that can’t run very fast, I warrant.”

      There it was again, that thrilling flicker of arousal.

      Which was just as surreal as everything else about this moment. The glittering bones of the chandelier on the carpet, the sound of renewed shouting coming from the kitchen, the diners who were no longer even pretending to eat and were staring at her instead.

      It would be so much better if this really were a dream.

      Rhys was still watching her, she realized, raking his fingers through his hair restlessly. He’d changed his shirt—Mick Jagger was gone and the word “Arsenal” had replaced it, whatever that meant.

      “Who was that bloke?” Rhys said suddenly, narrowing his eyes.

      Who was he? That was the question Olivia wanted to ask. But before she could answer him, Josie’s voice broke the silence and Olivia saw Josie and Roseanne heading toward the table, Josie’s auburn ponytail bouncing over her shoulder and Roseanne’s graying brow knitted in concern. Her heart lifted, just a little bit, which was good since it had sunk so low it was practically down at her ankles.

      Josie raised an eyebrow at her, and gestured toward the fallen chandelier. “I thought I told you no more wild parties.”

      Roseanne squeezed past Rhys and took the chair beside Olivia, winding an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, leave her alone. What happened, honey?”

      Roseanne was in charge of bookkeeping, and she had worked at Callender House since Olivia was a baby. Any minute now she’d be petting Olivia’s head the way she had when Olivia was still in kindergarten, and Olivia wasn’t about to argue.

      “Should I start with the cake or the chandelier?”

      “Start with Stuart,” Josie insisted. “I saw him marching through the lobby. Weren’t you supposed to have lunch?”

      “That was right out after the cake in the face,” Rhys put in with a naughty smirk. “Lost his appetite, he did.”

      Josie was horrified. “You threw a cake at him?” she asked Olivia.

      “Of course not!” Olivia sighed. “Unfortunately, Rick did. Actually, he didn’t really throw it at Uncle Stuart, but Josef ducked.”

      “What does Josef have to do with it?” Roseanne asked, glancing back at the doors to the kitchen as if either one of the chefs would come charging out any second, armed with more baked goods.

      “He was mad about the cake,” Olivia said, brushing more crumbs from the tablecloth.

      “So he…pulled down the chandelier?” Josie asked.

      “No!” Olivia sagged against Roseanne’s arm, but she couldn’t help smiling when Rhys bit back a laugh. The whole thing sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. Except for the part where she was pretty sure Stuart meant to take the hotel away from her.

      “Someone start from the beginning, yeah? Because I still don’t know who that sodding bloke was,” Rhys said.

      Josie turned confused eyes on him. “Who are you?”

      “Rhys Spencer,” he said, offering her a hand. “Friend of Olivia’s.”

      Both Roseanne and Josie raised their eyebrows at this in a silent plea for explanation.

      “I met Rhys this morning,” Olivia said, glancing up at him as her cheeks heated. Again. God, why wasn’t there a cure for blushing? “Outside.”

      Then she stopped, mouth still open. She didn’t even know the rest of the story, and certainly not why or how he’d appeared in the restaurant out of nowhere.

      “I’m a new friend,” Rhys said smoothly, and winked at her.

      More raised eyebrows. It was an epidemic.

      And also a little insulting, Olivia realized as she sat up and shrugged off Roseanne’s arm. As if she couldn’t have a friend who was gorgeous and sexy and had the most delicious British accent she’d ever heard.

      Just because she’d never even met a man like Rhys before didn’t mean anything. Much.

      “Very new,” she added pointlessly, and was rewarded with another wink. So new she didn’t know anything about him, but Roseanne and Josie didn’t need that little detail.

      “Wait a minute,” Josie said, holding up both hands. “You’re on that TV show, the cooking one. You’re the British chef all the fan sites are rooting for.”

      Rhys gave Olivia a sheepish smile as her mouth fell open in surprise. He was on TV? Now?

      “Yeah, I’m that British chef,” he admitted. “Show’s on a break until we film the finale a month from now.”

      “I thought you looked familiar,” Roseanne said, clearly sizing him up with even more appreciation now, but Josie was unimpressed.

      “Reality TV aside,” she said, “what happened in here? It looks like the place got raided.”

      “Josef and Rick were arguing about a chocolate cake that got ruined, and then there was a crash, and then Helen rushed into the kitchen to say the chandelier had fallen down, and then Stuart showed up, right on time as usual, and then Stuart got a cake in the face,” Olivia said with a weary sigh. “I think that about covers it.”

      “Not quite, love,” Rhys put in. “There was that nasty bit about the hotel at the end.”

      Roseanne bristled, and sat up straight. “What does that mean?”

      “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth,” Olivia admitted. Suddenly crowded by the questions, she got up and paced a few feet away.

      Which only attracted more attention from the noneating diners. Except for Yelena, who was chatting up Willie from her usual table in the corner, turban bobbing.

      “Maybe we should take this discussion elsewhere,” Josie suggested when she followed Olivia’s gaze to the interested patrons watching from their tables. “I’m thinking the bar might be appropriate.”

      “Brilliant,” Rhys said, and got up to slide his arm around Olivia’s shoulders. Just the weight of it made her tingle with awareness. “Lead the way.”

      The bar was deserted, which wasn’t unusual for a Monday afternoon. Still, it was a little too deserted, she thought as she pulled a stool away from the polished length of mahogany and sat down. Where was Tommy?

      “No barkeep?” Rhys said, leaning over the counter to scope out the selection of bottles. “And no Grey Goose? I think the occasion calls for some quality spirits, love.”

      “I don’t usually drink before dinner,” Olivia protested, wondering if she should tell Rhys to come out from behind the counter before Tommy appeared and waved his offended dignity around. Rhys had flipped open the bar’s hatch door and walked right in as if he belonged there, and was even now taking glasses down from the racks.

      “Who is this guy?” Josie whispered fiercely in her ear as she pulled up another stool. “I mean, aside from some random reality TV person?”

      “I don’t care,” Roseanne said before Olivia could answer. “I sure like to listen to him. Imagine if I brought him to the next Renaissance Faire with me. God, can you picture him in leggings?”

      “Shhh!” Olivia warned her when Rhys looked up, a bottle of Stoli in one hand and a bottle of Jim Beam in the other.

      “Pick your poison, ladies,” he said with a grin.

      “I actually need a drink,” Josie said in amazement. “Has the whole world gone whacko today?”

      Olivia shrugged. “Pretty much.”

      “Tell