Page 27 of Second Act
“Giving you some much-needed rest and food. And a bath. In private with no obligation for social niceties.”
“You shouldn’t have rented a whole suite just for me to take a bath. I have a perfectly functional bathroom at home. It’s ridiculous.” Yet it was also grand and oddly sweet. A pinwheel of pleasure spun in her chest.
Hugh chose that moment to close the distance between them. He raised his hands to cup her shoulders, his touch radiating through the silk of the robe. His eyes held shadows, and his expression was somber. “When I saw you in that stinking closet, curled up on a damn dog bed, I needed to do something for you. All I could think of was getting you out of there and to a place of comfort and ease. Please accept this as a small gift for being who you are.”
“I don’t need anything for being me.” But she remembered that he had often brought her little presents when they were together, things he would see on his way home from an audition or a carpentry job. A silver necklace with a tiny cat hanging from it by its paws. She still had that, tucked into its little blue velvet pouch. A moose-tracks ice cream sundae because the flavor was hard to find. A hand-thrown bud vase glazed in shades of purple, her favorite color.
It had touched her because he chose them with care, an endearing trait in a man who might easily have been self-centered. She huffed in frustration with herself and him. “I thought you were staying here.”
“Why does that matter?” He smiled as he squeezed her shoulders gently. “You’ve already dirtied the towels, so we can’t give it back now. Relax. Enjoy.” He released her. “Now let’s get some food in you before you get any crankier.”
“I’m not—” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m a little irritated, is all.” But he was right, of course. He hadn’t forgotten that she got grouchy and headachy when she went hungry for too long.
She shoved her hands in the pockets of the robe and started toward the door. When she moved, the fabric brushed against her bare skin, reminding her that she was naked beneath it. She should have put on her panties at the very least, because somehow she felt as though Hugh could see right through the silk. And that sent a zing of heat down into her belly.
“Do you think the hotel could wash my clothes real fast?” she asked as Hugh came up beside her in the hallway.
“Of course. I’ll give them a call.”
“‘Just touch the concierge button,’” Jessica mimicked. “I think I need a concierge at my place.”
Hugh was silent.
Comprehension hit her. “You have one, don’t you?”
“Just my assistant, Trevor.”
“Only one?” She exaggerated her skeptical tone.
He gave a short laugh. “I’m not that high maintenance.”
“I wonder if Trevor would agree.”
“He has often told me what a pleasure I am to work for.” He sent her a sideways glance heavy with irony.
“Thank goodness you know how unreliable that compliment is.”
When they reached the foot of the stairs, Hugh gestured toward the spacious, glass-enclosed living area. A table covered in taupe linen had been set up in a spot that commanded views on both sides. Hugh pulled out one of the chairs for her. When he pushed it back in, she could swear she felt something brush the top of her head. Had he just kissed her hair? She must be imagining things.
He opened the doors of a warming cabinet that stood next to the table, reaching inside to pull out a linen-lined silver basket. The muscles of his back bunched and stretched like waves under the close-fitting fabric of his sweater. “Chocolate croissants.”
Now memory welled up inside her like tears. He used to have a chocolate croissant waiting for her on the kitchen counter when she got home from a night shift at the animal hospital. He would lay a single blossom alongside it with a little note explaining what his choice meant in the language of flowers. She examined the roses in the center of the table, perfect half-opened blossoms in pale pink with touches of yellow, and wondered if they had some significance.
Flipping back a corner of the napkin covering them, she picked up the warm, flaky pastry and put it on her plate. “And one for you?”
He shook his head. “My trainer would blow a gasket.”
She let her gaze skim down his lean, ripped body. “Seriously?”
“Julian Best eats nothing but filet mignon and caviar, so Hugh Baker does, too, when the movie is being shot.” He grimaced. “Along with beets, spinach, soybeans, and far too much kale. No sugar, no carbs.” His expression turned wry. “I have tolooklike I’m capable of hanging on to the skid of a hovering helicopter with one hand while saving the damsel in distress with the other.”
She had no problem believing in his physical capabilities. She’d felt the steely strength of his arms as he lifted and carried her without so much as breathing hard. The memory sizzled through her body.
“I’m glad I’m a vet and can eat whatever I please.” Jessica took a bite of the croissant and moaned with pleasure at the combination of light, buttery roll with semibitter dark chocolate. When she glanced at Hugh, he was watching her with an odd, nostalgic smile playing around his lips.
“You still like chocolate croissants.” He gave a nod of satisfaction before turning back to the warming cabinet and pulling out more food. “We have eggs scrambled with caviar and cream cheese. Pumpkin-spice pancakes with caramel syrup. Filet mignon topped with a poached egg. Sides of chipotle-spiced bacon, pheasant sausage, or venison hash.”
“You could feed a small army with all this,” she said as he laid out plate after plate, the long fingers and fluid grace of his hands holding her gaze. “Stop!”
