Room Service. Jill Shalvis

up as Amuse Bouche’s maître d’ came toward them. “We can seat you now,” she said with an easy smile.

      Amuse Bouche turned out to be casually elegant and extremely eye pleasing, with slender black urns holding arrangements of a variety of flowers that matched the art deco vibe of the rest of the hotel. The tables were well spaced and gorgeously done, each with its own discreet partition, so that while voices and laughter were audible, there was an illusion of intimacy for each party.

      Em could use some privacy to obsess over what she thought of as the E.I.—elevator incident. Not going to happen with Eric and Liza just behind her, side by side and yet ignoring each other—well, if ignoring meant staring and pretending not to be.

      Granted, Liza looked amazing in a tiny scrap of a red cocktail dress, which probably accounted for the glazed look on Eric’s face. He didn’t look too shabby in his finery, either, turning the head of more than one woman.

      “Here you go,” the maître d’ said and gestured to their table. “Tonight you’ll be experiencing Chef Jacob Hill’s renowned cuisine creations. Enjoy.”

      “I’m starving,” Liza said and lifted her menu, which she used as a shield so she could covertly stare at Eric with the unguarded longing she sometimes got in her eyes.

      Eric got the same look while pretending to watch the crowd, though really checking out the long length of Liza’s bare, smooth legs.

      It drove Em crazy—how could they not see they belonged together? Everyone knew it.

      Everyone but them.

      Em didn’t look at her menu yet. She was still trying to find her own balance, and while she did, she looked around, too. Each place inside Hush had turned out to be more exciting and different than the last, full of a spirited energy and yet somehow also a Zen-like peace.

      Not much of a hotel person herself, this one had won her over. Her room was large by Manhattan standards. Beach inspired, it was done in creamy blues and greens and earth tones, with a mural of the sun rising over the Atlantic on one wall, and a mounted waterfall on the other, giving off the soothing sounds of water running over rocks. Her California king bed had lush, thick bedding she couldn’t have afforded at home, and her bathroom came with a huge sunken hot tub she could happily drown in, with scented candles lining the edges. The towels were Egyptian cotton, and on the counters had been lotions, bath oils, scrubs—a virtual day spa.

      There had been more, as well: the TV channels that were exclusive to the hotel and showed an array of erotica, the beautifully illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra and a selection of self-heating lubricating oils in the bedside table. But the coup de grâce…in the tall closet outside the bathroom hung a long, intricately braided leather whip. She’d fingered the thing in amused shock, had even tapped it against her palm.

      Ouch.

      Em would have called herself sexually adventurous. Okay, maybe not quite, but she was at least sexually game. Now she had to admit, maybe she wasn’t nearly as game as she’d thought.

      This hotel had certainly been an eye-opener. A costly one. She thought of her expense account and winced as she stared at the elaborate but somehow elegantly simple, menu of Amuse Bouche. And yet, she reasoned, if coming here got her Chef Jacob Hill, then every penny spent would be worth its weight in gold.

      Or so she hoped.

      Logically she knew that even if she somehow managed the miracle and convinced him to come to Hollywood to star in his own TV show, it was only half the battle.

      She still had a successful show to make.

      One crisis at a time.

      Liza set down her menu, took one look at Em and nodded. “Alcohol,” she said. “We need some.”

      “Not until I talk to him,” Em said, determined, but getting nervous. “I need all my wits about me for that.”

      “Honey, with this guy there’s no chance of having your wits at all. The guy’ll charm the pants right off you without trying.”

      “You don’t know that.”

      “I’ve heard. And then what happened today proves it.”

      Em was already regretting that she’d told her friend about the E.I.

      Liza waggled her carefully waxed eyebrows. “Personally, I think you should go for it, you could use the cookie.”

      “Cookie?”

      “Orgasm,” Eric explained, checking into the conversation. “She calls orgasms ‘cookies’. She thinks it’s cute.”

      “You used to think it was cute,” Liza sniffed.

      Eric’s blue eyes sparkled. “Maybe I still do.”

      Liza stared at him, then reached for her water as if parched. Em eyed the door to the kitchen. “What’s the best way to approach him, do you think?”

      Liza was still staring at Eric. With what looked like great effort, she tore her gaze from him, her thumb rubbing her ring finger where her wedding band used to be. She turned to Em. “What did Nathan suggest?”

      Nathan wanted her to play hardball from the start, offering Jacob standard money, and when he balked, adding small slices of the profits. And when all else failed, she was to resort to hair in the food.

      As if she’d ever really do such a thing. “Maybe I could ask the waitress if I could talk to him.”

      “Jeez, at these prices, he oughta come with the meal. Maybe sing and dance, too.” Eric tossed down his menu and smiled as the waitress came close. “Excuse me, do you know the chef?”

      “Of course.” The waitress smiled back. “Wait until you taste his food, it’s out of this world.”

      Liza leaned close to Em. “And according to you, his food isn’t the only thing that tastes out of this world.”

      “Stop.” Em felt the blush creep up her face.

      The waitress rattled off the specials. “Everything is fabulous. Trust me, you’ll love everything you taste.”

      “Including the chef himself,” Liza murmured for Em’s ears only.

      “Could we have another minute before deciding?” Em asked the waitress.

      “Oh, you bet. Take your time.”

      Em waited until it was just them and turned to Liza. “I shouldn’t have told you about the elevator incident. I don’t even know for certain that it was him.”

      “Well, it was somebody named Chef. You sure you don’t know why he kissed you?”

      “No, he just said ‘do you mind?’ and then he was doing it.”

      “And you didn’t think about kneeing him in the ’nads?” Eric asked.

      At the first taste of him, Em hadn’t thought at all. In fact, she’d been the one to deepen the connection. “It wasn’t like that.”

      “Uh-huh.” Liza looked at her speculatively. “Must have been some kiss.”

      Oh, yeah. “It was…interesting.”

      “Interesting? Honey, this menu is interesting. The decor is interesting. But a kiss? A kiss is either hot stuff or not worth the trouble. No in-between.”

      Worth the trouble. Times ten. Times infinity.

      Eric was studying Liza thoughtfully. “Which was it with us?”

      “What?”

      “Those two months we were married. Was it hot stuff or not worth the trouble?”

      Liza opened her mouth, then closed it.

      Eric’s amusement faded, replaced by an unmistakable hurt. “Right.”

      The waitress came back and