Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

T he bedside lamp illuminated a small circle of light, just enough that Amanda wouldn't trip over something and break an ankle walking to the bathroom. Or wake her roommate, who was sleeping off her migraine. The curtains blocked out the view and the damp night, and images flickered from the television. She'd turned the volume so low, it was barely audible. Not that she was interested in the fixer-upper show the TV had landed on when she'd tired of flipping through the channels. She'd lived the whole fixer-upper thing for over a year. She didn't need the reminder. Didn't matter anyway. Nothing would take her focus off her run-in with Gabriel.

She didn't want to think about that anymore. Seeing him had brought back raw emotions, that yucky feeling his touch always left on her skin. The shower hadn't helped. Even now as she hugged her sweater closer, she felt dirty. Grimy, like an old stove top, tacky from years of grease and neglect.

She'd thought writing the memoir had washed the filthiness away. Ten minutes with Gabriel, and she felt like that girl again.

She could just make out the various items on the bureau across from her—some jewelry, a scarf, and a couple of books she'd picked up in the conference bookstore on the second floor. Other than personal items, the room looked like a thousand other hotel rooms in New York City.

Her stomach growled. Apparently half a latte wasn't a suitable substitute for dinner.

Susie snored.

Hungry as she was, she wasn't going anywhere tonight, not with Gabriel Sheppard skulking about. She hadn't thought it possible she could hate him more.

Thank God for Alan. After her conversation with Mark, Amanda had been anxious to get back to her room, to process it all. Alan had insisted on escorting her. Now, three hours later, the walls in this dark, gloomy space were closing in on her.

But she wouldn't leave. She couldn't. What if Gabriel found her again?

Resigned, she padded across the room in stocking feet, grabbed the leather-bound book the hotel provided, and carried it back to the bed, where she sat propped against the pillows and found the room service menu. What a joy. She could get a dry cheeseburger and soggy fries for twenty-five dollars or a lousy pizza for twenty.

As she reached for the telephone, someone knocked at her door.

Her hand froze. Maybe . . . maybe the knock was on her neighbor's door. She climbed off the bed and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. If it was Gabriel, what would she do? Call 9-1-1? No, she'd call the lobby. And tell them . . . what?

A second knock sounded, louder.

Cold fear slithered down her spine. She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. Not Gabriel. She watched a distorted Alan check his watch. She turned the handle and pulled the door open .

"Hey."

Amanda put her finger to her lips. "Shh. My roommate's asleep." She stepped outside the room, leaving her foot in the door so she wouldn't get locked out.

Alan smiled. "I thought I'd check on you. You look . . ." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Did I scare you?"

She shrugged. "Not your fault." Amanda ran shaking fingers through her hair, wondering what she looked like after an hour spent propped against pillows. "You mostly surprised me."

"I wanted to make sure you're okay. Are you going to dinner with your roommate?"

Amanda looked behind her at the door and turned back to Alan. "I don't think so. I was about to order room service."

"Well, I happen to know a great Italian place right down the street. If you don't mind getting a little wet, you could join me. I hate to think of you trapped in your room all night."

"It's okay. I don't need a babysitter."

Alan smiled. "I'm sure you don't, but I wouldn't mind the company."

Amanda pictured the paltry room service menu lying on her bed. She stifled the twinge of guilt. Mark wouldn't care, not really, and it's not like it was a date or anything. One meal to keep her from going stir-crazy.

"Why not? Let me get my shoes."

Seated in the restaurant a few blocks from the hotel, Amanda looked out the window beside their booth, seeing little but her own reflection in the glass. She half-expected to see Gabriel walk in the door. She shivered, soggy from the drizzle, the huge puddle she'd inadvertently stepped in on the sidewalk, and the thought of him finding her again.

"Sorry about that." Alan slid into the booth across from her. He dropped his phone into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. "My office."

She turned to him and smiled. "No problem."

He took a sip of his red wine and set the glass back on the table. "Obviously the waitress came back. I should've given you my order."

"I'm in no hurry."

Dean Martin's voice filled the small space, likening amore to moons and pizza pies as Alan studied the menu. Beside their booth, a group of eight young adults had pushed together two tables. Their laughter occasionally drowned out the music and the other conversations going on around them. If only Alan would pick something. She stared at the candle flickering inside the red, round candle holder in the center of the table and folded and refolded her napkin. This wasn't a date. So why was she so nervous?

He set the menu on top of hers. "I'm getting spaghetti. What'd you decide on?"

"Same thing."

"Oh yeah? I figured you'd get something complex, more . . . professional, being a chef and all."

"I prefer simple dishes, and great restaurants can make the simplest dishes delicious."

"I agree. Their spaghetti's really good." He took a sip of his wine and swirled what was left of the contents in the glass. "This isn't how I thought I'd spend my evening."

"You probably had plans."

"I'd planned to pick up take-out and go home."

"You live in New York?"

"Most of my adult life. This is where the publishers are, you know."

"I guess this conference is convenient for a lot of people. "

"I prefer out-of-town conferences. They make it a nice break from the city. Ah, here we are."

The waitress took their orders. Amanda watched her walk away before turning her attention back to Alan. "I'm surprised you didn't plan to have dinner with any of your clients tonight."

"I just moved to Martindale Books. I don't have a big list of clients yet, and none of them is here this weekend."

"I thought you worked at Mercury-Concord."

Alan tented his fingers. They were trembling slightly, long and slender, only marred by a slight scar that ran the length of the middle knuckle on his right hand. Amanda rubbed the scar on her own thumb, a physical reminder of a tragic car accident.

"I used to."

"Mercury-Concord is my publisher."

Alan snapped his fingers. "Of course. That's why your name is familiar. Is Tim your editor?"

"Uh-huh. What kinds of projects do you work on?"

"Mostly fiction. That's one of the reasons I left Mercury—they're moving away from fiction, finding more success in their other lines. I prefer fiction myself. I'm very good at seeing things that aren't real." He chuckled and continued. "You're one of their successes. How'd you get started writing cookbooks?"

Amanda settled back in her seat. She hadn't heard her publisher was moving away from fiction, but Alan would know more about that than she did. "It's just the one cookbook right now, but I'm working on a second." She sipped her wine. "After I married, we bought this old farmhouse, and my husband remodeled it. He built me a huge, professional kitchen, complete with enough room for ten barstools around my long bar—twenty if needed. I was working as a chef, which meant a lot of nights. After our first daughter was born, I quit my job and used my new kitchen to give cooking lessons in the evenings, when Mark could be home to help. That way I never had to put my babies in daycare."

The waitress set their plates of spaghetti on the table. That was fast. No made-to-order here. Amanda swirled her spaghetti in the sauce and took a bite. Too much oregano, light on the garlic, and it tasted burnt.

Alan finished a bite and set his fork down. "You like it?"

"Yes, it's very good." Okay, very good was an exaggeration, but she could stomach it, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. Sometimes being a cook had its disadvantages. She grabbed a roll from the basket between them, buttered it, and popped a bite-sized piece into her mouth, where it melted in warm, salty goodness. The roll more than made up for the spaghetti.

He set his fork down. "So, cooking lessons?"

She wiped her fingers on her napkin. "At first it was just neighbors and friends, but then people started to hear about me, and I branched out. I'd do a theme—how to cook French food or something—and find a group who wanted to take the class. They'd pay a fee, and I'd fix a three- or four-course dinner and teach while I cooked."

"What a great idea."

"It worked for me. And then I started the blog. I got to where I had to turn groups down because I was so busy, and I earned a lot more than I ever did working at restaurants. Plus, I got to be home."

"But what about the cookbook?"

"Right. I was teaching a class one night when a student told me I ought to write a cookbook. I'd built up a pretty big following on my blog. I had a lot of good recipes. I thought, what the heck? And when I was finished, I sent the book to the woman who'd suggested it. She liked it. Lucky for me, that woman was Roxanne Richardson. "

He laughed. "No kidding. Is she your agent?"

"She is."

Alan nodded slowly and took a sip of his drink. He set the glass down and opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. His lips were full and pink and turned down at the corners. "I get the feeling, after talking to your husband today, that he wouldn't approve of us having dinner together."

Her stomach twisted at the thought of Mark. “Definitely not, but . . ." She set her fork on the edge of the dinner plate. There was no reason not to tell Alan the truth. It wasn't like he was interested in her romantically or anything. Probably just curious. "We're separated."

His eyes softened and sparkled in the candlelight with hints of green and amber. He was an ordinary looking man, but his eyes were slightly mesmerizing. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you." She was sorry, too. Sorry her dreams had been shattered so thoroughly. Sorry to see her marriage crumbling like over-cooked cake. "It was my decision."

They worked on their dinners for a few minutes. She asked about his career, and he told her of his lifelong dream to work in publishing. As he spoke, he no longer seemed the slight, paunchy man she'd flagged down in the hotel's lobby. His face was roundish, unimpressive, until he flashed his smile and showed his dimples.

When their plates were removed, he shifted the subject back to her. "I'm sorry, but I sort of overheard your conversation with Mark. Did I hear you say something about a memoir?"

She would have to get used to talking about her memoir if she was going to publish. But sharing it now, with Alan—that didn't feel safe. "You don't want to hear about that."

"Is Mercury going to publish it?"

“Tim doesn't like memoirs. I'm looking around."

"Maybe it's something I'd be interested in. "

She swirled the last swallow of red wine in her glass to give her fingers something to do. "I thought you said you were working on fiction."

"Fiction and narrative nonfiction. I love memoirs."

Amanda finished the last sip of her wine, buying time. She hadn't been thinking of Alan as an editor, she'd been thinking of him as a man.

He settled back in his chair. "If it makes you uncomfortable . . ."

She set her glass down and tried to smile. "I feel funny pitching my book to you after everything that happened today."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, we're beyond pitching. But I'd like to hear about it."

Was she stupid enough to make the same mistake twice? After she'd told Mark the truth about her past, everything had changed between them. Things would never be the same with Mark, no matter how many times he claimed he still loved her. She could see the rejection in his eyes. Why would she put herself through that again?

On the other hand, she was at the conference to pitch her memoir. Alan wasn't Mark. Not telling him about it would be pretty stupid, considering he was an editor. And if she got it published, the story would be out there for everyone to read.

And maybe it was smarter to start this . . . friendship or whatever was happening with Alan . . . with the truth. But did she dare?

"Tell you what," Alan said. "You're obviously uncomfortable. Why don't you email it to me?"

"You really want to know my secrets?"

"After meeting your, um"—he lifted his eyebrows—"friend this afternoon, I have to admit, I'm intrigued. I assume he's in the book? "

"Oh, yeah." Had a starring role, in fact. "I can send you a proposal and the first fifty pages, or the first three chapters or?—"

"Amanda."

She stared at the pepper shaker. "Yes?"

He pulled her hand into his. "I want you to send me the whole manuscript. Yes, send your proposal, too, of course, and I'll consider it. But . . ." He grimaced and let his voice trail off.

"But what?"

He dropped her hand. "Never mind."

They finished their meal. The conversation slipped into a comfortable rhythm as they discussed their favorite authors. Alan insisted on paying the check, though he let Amanda pay for the sandwich she'd ordered to take back to her roommate. He carried the take-out sack and held the door open for her.

The rain had stopped, and they walked slowly to the hotel, skirting the foot traffic and puddles on the sidewalk. The Manhattan air, usually so full of exhaust, smelled fresh and clean. It was warmer than it had been earlier, so Amanda slid off her coat and draped it over her arm, letting the warmth of the evening seep through her clothes and into her skin. Cars splashed by on the road beside them, the sound mingling with snippets of conversations from other pedestrians and the occasional music that came from the shops they passed. People filled the sidewalks, anxious to enjoy a few dry moments before the next round of showers.

They stopped at the corner and waited for the light to turn. Amanda peeked into the window of a gourmet grocery store and studied the labels.

When the light turned, Alan gently pressed his hand on the small of her back. "Shall we?"

She shivered with his touch and pushed down a fresh twinge of guilt. "Sure."

Back in the hotel, they stepped onto the elevator, and Alan pressed the button for her floor. “Are you going to send me your proposal?"

"I guess so."

"And the manuscript?"

"I'll send the first three chapters, and if you like them, I'll send the rest."

"Okay." The elevator stopped at her floor, and he stepped out behind her.

"You don't have to walk me to my room."

"Your friend might be lurking around somewhere, so I think I'd better."

For a moment, she'd forgotten about Gabriel. Now, the memory of their reunion assaulted her. She squared her shoulders and led the way down the long hallway. When she reached her door, she stopped to face Alan. "Thanks for dinner. That was much more fun than room service."

"Anytime." He handed her the take-out sack and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

His touch tingled.

Alan half-smiled. "I shouldn't say this. I know you're married, and I don't want you to think I'm being too forward. But honestly, I can't wait to read your memoir, and not because it's something I could acquire for Martindale. I want to read it because I'm curious." He shook his head. "No, that's not completely true. I'm interested . . . in you."

Heat hit her face like she'd just opened an oven door. She lowered her gaze.

"I shouldn't have said that," Alan said. "I'm sorry. Obviously, you're not ready."

Her head snapped back up. "No. You surprised me, that's all."

"So is this separation temporary, or . . . ?"

Amanda chewed the inside of her lip. Was her separation temporary? When she'd first asked Mark to move out, it wasn't supposed to be permanent. But now, she couldn't imagine asking him to move back in, living with the tension, the judgment. Mark's I-love-yous were too late. Where had those words been when she'd so craved his acceptance? Where had they been when she'd bared her soul to him, only to have him stomp out the door, slamming it behind him? No, nothing he could say now would convince her of his love.

"I think it's permanent."

"Okay?" He drew out the word. "You're saying it's okay that I'm interested?"

"It hasn't been that long since he moved out, and?—"

"And you're not divorced. I understand that. Maybe we can start as friends."

"Friends?" A friend who wouldn't push her to get back with her husband, as Jamie did. A man who didn't always judge, and always find her wanting, as Mark did. A friend who cared for her, just the way she was. A new friend was exactly what she needed. "I'd like that."

"So, can I call you? Would that be okay?"

"Sure." She tried to temper the smile she felt crawling across her face. It didn't work. "Friends talk."

"Perfect."