Page 25 of Sing For Me

For a moment I think I might have gone too far, but then Reese throws her head back and laughs too, exposing the long soft length of her throat.

“We’ve both gone off the deep end,” she says, still laughing.

The sound of her laughter is like music in my fucking ears.

Music.

The thought triggers something in my mind—an idea—but I file it away for later. For now, I’m fixated on the little strand of hair that’s slipped out of that sexy mess on her head. And that little dimple in her cheek as her laughter winds down but her smile stays.

How had I forgotten how beautiful her smile was?

Because it’s been gone a long fucking time, and that’s on you.

I hadn’t forgotten about how sexy she was. That was for damn sure. I thought that every time I saw her. And now? In this dress? I can’t help glancing back, my eyes lingering on the length of her thigh, the angle of her hip. The slope of her torso and plump curve of her breasts.

When I reach her eyes I realize she’s stopped smiling.

And that there’s a stiffness at my crotch.

Reese abruptly presses the release on her seat belt. “I better go, Eli. Thanks for the ride.”

“Right,” I say, embarrassed.

She bends over to pick up her purse.

Yet no matter how much of a fool I’ve made of myself just now, I don’t want to stop. I want to tell her to wait, to lean over and slide my hand into her hair. To plant my lips on hers and see if she tastes as good as I remember. To tell her thank you, thank you,thank youby whispering the words in her ear. The urge is so fucking strong I have to place both my hands on the steering wheel as she opens her door.

“Good night, Eli,” she says.

“Good night,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.

CHAPTER7

Reese

TRACK:Florence + The Machine “What Kind of Man”

The next week passes in a blur of preparation for the show, which includes everyone pitching in to take care of all the projects we’ve had on the back burner since I started. That and placating Jacques, who over the next few days takes up half my day with his complaints about this, quote,reedeeculous television program. He’s so off the handle, everyone is sure he’s going to up and quit, but I know better. I’ve known my fair share of cantankerous restaurant people in my life, and Jacques isn’t even close to the worst. Besides, despite Jacques acting like it’s the worst thing that’s happened to him personally since the invention of the air fryer, I know he’s secretly pleased aboutChef’s Apprentice. I mean, he’s the chef. Even if our spa manager didn’t tell me herself, I can tell he’s been getting those sandblasting facial treatments on his days off. And his mustache looks especially well-waxed.

Yes, our French chef has a twirly moustache. He might as well wear one of those poufy chef’s hats they wear in the cartoons. Jacques privately idolizes Gordon Ramsay, and I think he thinksChef’s Apprenticemight be his big break. Into what, I don’t know, because I can’t see Jacques being happier anywhere other than L’Aubergine. When Cassandra found him, he’d been in the middle of a scandal involving his ex-husband and the restaurant they’d run together in New York.

But he’d always been a spectacular chef.

Luckily, between Jacques and tightening my already tight ship by taking care of every last detail to make this place TV ready—down to replacing the labels on the spice containers—I haven’t had a moment to even think about Eli and our fake date the other night.

Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve thought about it a lot. The way Eli looked at me all night made something warm unravel in me, even if it was all for show. The way he touched me, and how it felt so natural. Like he wanted to do it anyway.

I’vetriednot to think about it. But in those moments when I’m alone in my office, between songs and paperwork and timesheets and Jacques-handling; and when I crash into bed at home, off Rolling Hills grounds, they come poking into the seams of my thoughts.

Luckily, no one at the restaurant appears to have heard any rumor that we might be together. So now, as I come out of my office for my second round of the restaurant—I do several a day, the first at opening, the second now, ahead of the brunch rush. I take a long deep breath, trying to soak up the sounds of my regular restaurant kitchen—the clink of a whisk on a bowl; the sizzle of something in a pan. This will be the last time for the next six weeks I’ll be able to do this without cameras everywhere I turn.

But my bracing breath is interrupted by the sight of one of my servers rushing through the kitchen door, looking nearly in tears. She’s got a glass in her hand, and when I call her name, she startles, and it nearly drops. Rufus catches it with a meaty hand swung low, impressive seeing as it’s still holding a spatula.

He gives me a quick look and I come up next to them. “Erica, what’s wrong?”

She’s new here, but she came with plenty of experience.

“Just a customer,” she says. “I’m sorry, Reese, I don’t normally let them get to me—” She looks up, blinking fast. “This guy, he’s just…he’ssucha dick! He already called Sophie a bitch after she refused to reseat the table next to him.