Room Service

They all knew why. Because Liza’s crappy childhood memories of her mother’s eight marriages had made her afraid of commitment.

Eric, who’d grown up without a mother at all, had the same issue. Together, they hadn’t trusted their love enough, and they’d had two collective feet halfway out the door at all times.

Now Liza, more mature in many ways, strove to keep it light and tapped him playfully on the nose. “I let you go because you’re an ass.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m a yummy ass.” Eric grabbed her hand and ran his thumb over her bare ring finger. “Now tell me the truth. Why did you let me go?”

“An ass is an ass, Eric.”

“Right.” Eric nodded, and sat back. “That explains it. Clear as mud, thanks.”

Across the room, the sommelier handed the chef a champagne bottle and gestured to a table. Jacob Hill nodded, then walked over to the couple seated there, where he began conversing with them as he smoothly, easily, opened their champagne for them.

“Just look at him,” Liza murmured. “Do you suppose he makes love to a woman the same way he opens a bottle of champagne? I bet he does.”

Em thought about that and felt her body heat up even more.

The waitress set their dishes on the table, momentarily blocking Em’s view of the other table. By the time she moved away, Jacob Hill was gone.

She didn’t see him again during the scrumptious meal during which the three of them shared two bottles of wine. They turned down dessert and once they’d settled the bill, Liza stood up first and visibly wobbled.

Eric surged up and slid an arm around her. “Whoa there, tiger.”

Liza grinned and set her head on his shoulder. “You’re so pretty.”

Brow raised, Eric looked at Em.

“Three glasses of wine,” Em explained.

“That’s right. I’m a cheap drunk.” Liza grinned, sliding her hand down Eric’s back to pinch his butt.

Eric narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

She waggled her brow. “What did it feel like?”

Eric shook his head. “You are not coming on to me.”

“Okay, I’m not.” She laughed and patted the butt she’d just pinched. “But I am,” she whispered extremely loudly.

“You said you’d rot in hell before you slept with me again,” he said, confused.

“Silly man.” She went to pat his cheek, missed, and nearly poked out his eye. “Never take a PMSing woman seriously.”

“Okay.” Eric caught her hand, saving his other eye, and nodding agreeably as he pulled her close. “I can work with this information.”

“Eric. She’s tipsy,” Em admonished. “You can’t take advantage of a tipsy woman.”

“Sure he can.” Liza bit his throat, eliciting a rough sound from Eric. “Take advantage of me all you want.”

Eric let out another sound, this one of regret. “Em’s right. Knock it off.”

“Fine. I’ll go to my room,” Liza said. “Where I plan to eat everything in the minibar. Did you see that thing? It’s completely stocked with stuff from Dean & Deluca.”

“You just ate,” Eric reminded her.

Liza waggled a finger in his face, this time almost poking it up his nose. “Do you know nothing of women?”

“Apparently not.”

“Just take me to my bed, superhero.”

Eric’s eyes darkened. “I like the super part.”

“Eric,” Em warned softly.

“Right.” He frowned at Liza. “I’ll put you to bed, but that’s all I’m doing.”

“Oooh, playing hard to get.” Liza sighed and again set her head to his chest, staring up at him adoringly. “You’re good at that.”

Eric looked over her head at Em helplessly.

She shook her head.

Eric’s jaw ticked. “I’ll get her to her room. You going to be okay here by yourself?”

“I’ll be safer than you,” Em assured him, watching as he led Liza out of the restaurant.

Alone, Em looked around her and decided if she sat for much longer, she’d just begin obsessing again. Maybe instead, she’d walk around the city for a little bit to clear her head. Make a plan of action that involved more than drooling after the man she needed to talk into saving her sorry butt.

She got as far as standing up and reaching for her purse when a low, husky voice drawled in her ear, “Leaving without dessert is an insult to the chef.”

Her heart kicked once hard, and she turned her head, coming eye to chest with Chef Jacob Hill. At the sight of him, the rest of her kicked. The man exuded a raw sexuality that made her feel her own sexuality in ways she hadn’t in a long time, if ever. “You.”

“Me,” he agreed. “You look beautiful.”

“Oh…thank you.” She tugged at her black cocktail dress, modestly cut, but snug and—she hoped—relatively sexy. “I wasn’t sure of the dress code here—”

“I didn’t mean your clothes.” When he smiled, as he did now with a dash of wicked intent, he flashed a single dimple on his right cheek, and she had the sudden, shocking urge to run a fingertip over the spot.

He hadn’t shaved, and the slight stubble on his jaw was nearly longer than the short hair on his head. She wondered if it would be soft to the touch, then wondered why she wondered.

Because she was losing her mind, that was why.

He was younger than she’d imagined, but there was something about the way he held himself, and the way he took her in, that spoke of a much older soul. His mile-long legs were encased in black trousers instead of his Levi’s, his feet in much cleaner, much newer black boots than the ones he’d had on in the elevator.

Chef Jacob Hill cleaned up real nice.

“Crème brûlée or white peach cobbler?” he asked. “Or maybe a cheese plate with an imported selection of artisanal?”