Page 88 of Bedroom Therapy

Chapter Seventeen

Zach had taken his time at the library, but he knew the moment he walked in the door that the house was empty.

Amanda usually called out to him when he came home. But she didn’t do that now. And he realized he hadn’t seen her car outside.

His stomach clenched. She’d gone. He guessed she’d had enough of the tension zapping back and forth between them, and she’d left him. Well, he couldn’t blame her.

On wooden legs, he carried the carton of milk to the kitchen—where he saw a piece of paper sitting in the middle of the table. His heart started pounding as he regarded it lying there, catching the light and reflecting it back to him.

Snatching it up, he read rapidly.

Dear Esther,

I don’t know what to do. My boyfriend and I are driving each other around the bend. Some crazy sex therapist told her that our sex life would be a whole lot better if we didn’t touch each other for a week. We followed the therapist’s advice. Now both of us are pretty hot, and it’s like sparks hitting dry tinder. What do you suggest we do about it?

Burning up in Paramus.

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He couldn’t help grinning. Burning up in Paramus was a pretty good description of the way he felt.

But there was more on the paper. An answer, apparently.

If you’re burning up the house, treat him to a night out. Why not rent a fancy hotel room and see if you can make some changes in the way you’re dealing with each other?

Esther Scott

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Below the letters was an address and room number. Of a very fancy, very pricey hotel. The Eden Palace.

He read the letter and the answer. Read them again. Then he walked back to the car and started driving to the Eden Palace.

The knock on the door made Amanda jump. She’d been sitting in the large room, waiting for Zach, hoping he’d come. At first she’d been busy getting ready. Turning down lights. Getting out candles. Making sure the champagne was chilled. Changing into the outfit she’d decided to wear. Then there had been nothing to do but wait.

“Who’s there?” she called in a quivery voice.

“Burning up in Paramus,” he answered.

“That was my line,” she said as she turned the knob and stepped aside. He hurried into the room and closed the door. But once they were alone, they stood in the middle of the large space, staring nervously at each other.

She saw him swallow as he looked around the opulent bedroom, taking in the Queen Anne furniture, the velvet drapes, the thick carpeting, the wide, four-poster bed with what looked like a silk coverlet. “What is this, the honeymoon suite?” he asked in a thick voice.

She lifted her chin and gave him a “make something of it” look. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

She watched his eyes sweep over her. “No silk nightgown to go with the theme?”

“Not tonight,” she murmured. Actually, she’d dressed carefully for the evening in a loose shift that covered her from her neck to mid-calf along with high-heeled sandals. She thought it looked like a rather demure outfit.

To change the subject she said, “How about some champagne?” Without waiting for an answer, she walked to the bucket sitting on a tray beside the bed.

When she fumbled to get the cork out, he came up behind her and took the bottle from her hand. Then he opened it and poured them both a glass. But she could see that his hands weren’t a lot steadier than hers.

She took a quick swallow and saw he had done the same. So much for iron nerves. Hers and his.

He didn’t speak, and she knew she was the one who would need to do the talking. Gulping in air, she said, “When I invited myself to stay in your house, I. . . I thought I was doing the right thing. . . for both of us. But maybe I was wrong.”

“And maybe you’re right,” he answered quickly. “Because God knows, I’ve wanted you with me.” He swallowed. “Even if I’ve been a little . . . uh . . .grumpy.”

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