In the Fire (6 page)

After I stripped off my sticky clothing, I cleaned up and pulled on a pair of boxers. The soft snores coming from the couch told me Ethan was still out. Before I could go out and check on him again, I slid between the cool sheets of the bed. I stared up at the ceiling, tired and wrung out. I would be lucky to get any sleep tonight.

* * *

The alarm on my phone trilled loudly in the dark room, startling me out of an exhausted doze. I fumbled until I found it, quickly swiping my finger across the screen to turn the obnoxious chimes off. Eight o’clock. I exhaled, cursing Trevor and my godforsaken schedule. The last time I had looked at the clock it had been around three in the morning.

I slid out of bed and padded into the small sitting room to check on Ethan. The sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the room in hazy light. He had curled up into a ball on the narrow couch, his hands under his head as a pillow. His legs moved every so often to some unknown rhythm I couldn’t hear.

I sat down in the chair across from him. He looked vulnerable as he slept. Last night had been as infuriating as it had been confusing. A surly, angry Ethan would have been easy to keep at a distance. The words he’d flung at me had hurt, but they were just reminders of the fights that had led to our separation. The passionate Ethan in the bathroom, who brought me to orgasm with only the touch of his hand, the gentle Ethan who had kissed me last night in a drunken stupor...they left me aching for the connection we’d once had.

I grabbed a can of Coke from the mini fridge, dug some Tylenol out of my bag, setting both on the table next to the couch. I allowed myself a few more moments to memorize the hard planes of his face and the corded muscles of his ink-covered arms before I convinced myself it was time to take a shower. Last night had been a mistake Ethan wouldn’t have made if he’d been sober. With a resolution to keep my jumbled feelings to myself, I walked to the bathroom, hoping a long, hot shower would help erase the ache I’d felt in my heart since I had first seen Ethan walk into the bar.

Chapter Nine

Ethan

When I sat up, my head throbbed. I blinked slowly and the bright light had me flopping back on the couch as I cradled my aching head in my hands.
Way to go
,
Martin.
Opening your eyes was a definite mistake.

My parched throat ached, and nausea bubbled up in my stomach as my foggy brain struggled to make heads or tails. Moving gingerly this time, I slowly sat up on a couch, in a hotel room larger and nicer than my own.

Where was I?

A door opened, followed by a rush of steam. The man who wandered into the bedroom with a towel wrapped low around his slim hips was none other than Jamie Lassiter. I watched his reflection in the mirror behind him. He’d filled out in the last eight years. He was still on the lean side but now his muscles were more defined. His messy blond hair, dark from the shower, stuck up everywhere and made him look younger. Even though I had the monster hangover from hell my body responded and the borrowed sweatpants grew tighter.

When he bent down to towel off, I glimpsed the swell of his ass. Allowing my eyes to linger for just a second longer than I needed to, I flopped back against the couch and cursed. What karmic crime had I committed in a past life to be stuck in a room with a very naked ex?

“When you’re through staring at my ass, there’s a Coke and Tylenol on the table next to you.”
Busted.
Unwilling and unable to move, I raised my hand above the top of the couch, giving him a one-fingered salute.

His husky laugh sent ripples of heat down my body as I closed my eyes and tried counting to ten. The Jamie I’d known hadn’t been this ballsy. I hated that I liked this new version of him. I hated how he’d obviously taken care of me last night even more.

Every movement was slow and painful as I reached for the meds and water. “How did I get here?” My raspy voice and sore throat were no doubt a result of smoking like a chimney. I greedily gulped the Coke and tossed back the Tylenol, thanking the cooking gods when he reappeared fully clothed this time.

“How much do you remember?” He watched me warily as he picked up a cup from a room service cart.

“I remember drinking...a lot. And your...speech. And flipping your boyfriend off. That was awesome.”

Blurry flashes of Lassiter I couldn’t quite make sense of flooded my mind. I swallowed hard.

Shit.
What had I done? Making myself vulnerable to the one person who had the power to break me again hadn’t been in the plan.

I cleared my throat and tried to pull myself together until I remembered my missing date. “Where’s Lily?”

“Your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a girl who’s a friend.”

He rolled his eyes. “Trevor is my manager and friend. Just my friend.”

“From the look of things last night, I’m sure Trevor would be first in line for the J Train.”

“Shit, Ethan. How many times do I have to tell you Trevor is a friend? I’m sure I could talk his latest flavor of the month into vouching for him.” He avoided looking at me and instead took a huge gulp from his mug. “This is way too much to discuss until we’ve both had coffee.”

“Just calling it like I see it. If you didn’t want to know my opinion, you shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You’re right, which like last night, I immediately regret.”

I hid my wince at his words. Even though I regretted last night, too, it still hurt to hear Lassiter say it. I tried to keep the petulance out of my voice as I asked, “You regret what?”

He let out a deep breath, his tired blue eyes meeting mine. “I just think...there’s a lot we should talk about. Eight years is a long time.”

As his eyes raked over my face, I felt my body respond against my will and more flashes of last night came roaring back. The confusion I’d felt when I had heard his speech. The way I’d instinctively responded when he had pulled me close onstage and congratulated me. I remembered my anger when Trustfund had tried to get him to leave, even though I had tried to push him away myself. I saw us entering his hotel room and Jamie getting pissed and shoving me in the cold shower, which I had deserved. I remembered the indescribable warmth in my chest when Jamie had toweled me off and helped me into my clothes. The way he’d responded when I’d kissed him, much like he had over eight years earlier.

My extremely hungover brain found it difficult to reconcile the kind Jamie who’d given a speech that had put a lump in my throat with the Jamie who’d been cold and unfeeling. The one who’d professed how much he’d loved me before with the one who’d dumped me via an impersonal message. The Jamie who’d touched me like the world was ending with this wary one who stared at me like I was a stranger.

I looked away, too confused and raw to handle the unexpected complications. I had planned to come to New York to get the award for the restaurant and book it back to Seattle. I wasn’t ready for this. It left me feeling exposed and defenseless. Stalling for time, I crossed my arms over my chest. “So, talk.”

He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and checked the time. “Unfortunately I can’t right now. I’ve got a TV interview.” He looked down at his phone again, this time his words tentative. “But we could catch up afterward if you want.”

Of course. A TV interview.

His expression was so hopeful I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. This was a bad idea, but I knew I would regret it if I walked away again. The confused muddle of feelings made it difficult to distance myself, but I was tired of running from a ghost. It would give me
closure
, according to Claire’s psychobabble. I hated how after eight years he still could get to me like this even though he had chosen Trustfund and New York over me.

“Okay, but one question? Where’s my tux?”

* * *

As I followed Jamie, tugging at the collar of his borrowed shirt, I wished he’d had another pair of sunglasses to hide my eyes from the camera flashes as we both climbed out of the hired town car in front of the TV studio. I grumbled and hoped Claire never saw this shit. She’d never let me live it down.

I ducked my head as I followed him through the crowd, opting to stay back as he smiled and signed autographs for his fans.

Fans.

Jamie handled it all with practiced ease. As much as I didn’t understand all this attention and hoopla for a chef, he was a natural at it. He’d built himself up from nothing. While I’d loved the Jamie who had nothing, there was a part of me that was proud of him for showing his parents and the world he could do it all. He’d survived their abandonment and had flourished in the spotlight on his own terms.

When he was finally finished he shot me a shy smile and tipped his head at the stage door. Two security guards waved us through, and I followed Jamie through the maze of wires, backdrops and equipment. He navigated the winding hallways and studio space until we walked into a smaller room with chairs and bright lights set up in front of a bank of mirrors. I snagged his sunglasses, slipping them over my eyes as a swarm of people descended on an exhausted-looking Jamie Lassiter.

Totally ignoring my presence, they attacked his face with makeup, did his hair, and not one but five giggling young interns offered to bring him coffee. I grabbed a bottle of water off a table at the back of the room, content to observe it all and fly under the radar until we could get out of here. When I spotted his asshole manager standing in the doorway behind us, I tensed and turned away from the reflection in the mirror. Trevor, the thorn in my side, just stood there with his jaw clenched and his arms tightly crossed in front of him.

Jamie turned in his chair and waved Trevor inside. “Hey, Trev, I didn’t think you were coming to today’s taping.”

“And let you have all the fun without me? Never.”

Trustfund leaned against the counter covered with every hair and beauty product known to man, blatantly ignoring me as he smiled and thanked the staff. I’d never met him in person before last night, only talked to him a couple of times on the phone. He looked like he’d sounded on the phone, with his refined snooty accent and expensively styled hair and clothes. From the moment Jamie had stepped foot in Paris, Trustfund claimed him as his own, not giving a rat’s ass about anyone else in his life.

I caught Jamie’s glance at me in the mirror. His coloring was slightly darker, thanks to the makeup they’d slathered on his face, and his hair was now gelled into submission. But his eyes were tired and a bit wary as Trustfund handed him a piece of paper.

“Here’s your new schedule. I’ve already emailed you all the details, but hopefully this will help.”

He scanned the page, relief flashing in his eyes. “Thanks, Trev. I really appreciate the trouble you had to go through for this.”

I gritted my teeth as I watched Jamie read over the page again. More interviews and PR gigs, probably. After my web search on him in the hotel yesterday, it was pretty obvious he made the rounds in the media. But it hadn’t been enough. I hadn’t been enough for him eight years ago. When would all of this ever be enough?

A voice from behind us boomed into the room. “Time to get you on the set, Mr. Lassiter.”

His subtle cringe was almost imperceptible, but I caught it before he turned around and smiled at the perky crew member. When had he become
Mr.
Lassiter?
And if my eyes hadn’t deceived me, he was probably asking himself the same question.

Jamie pasted on a fake smile and stood up. “These interviews usually don’t take too long. We’ll still have time to grab lunch afterward.”

I nodded and cleared my throat before answering, “Sure,” not trusting my voice for much more of a reply.

His attempt at a shaky hint of a smile fell flat, not even close to reaching his eyes. The lump in my throat grew and I swallowed hard as I fought the urge to shield him from this circus. At the moment I could have happily hustled him out of the studio, flipping everyone the bird on the way out. He needed rest and privacy without Trustfund trying to make a buck off him for five seconds. He needed a regular meal that didn’t involve him smiling pretty for cameras. Eight years ago, he’d needed me. But he wasn’t mine anymore to save now, was he? Jamie stared at me for a few more seconds, then shifted his attention back to his manager and best friend. “See you in a bit.”

I watched Jamie leave, the tension from last night surging back as I eyed his manager. The urge to get in Trustfund’s face swelled inside me, but I tamped that shit down. Didn’t want to make a scene in front of a bunch of people wielding cameras. But what kind of best friend refused to see how exhausted Jamie was right now?

Trustfund headed to the door. “I’m going to watch the taping. Try not to steal anything in here while we’re gone.”

My hands tightened into fists. “Fuck off.”

A satisfied smirk slowly spread across his face. “You first, Martin. You’re good at it.”

The words pierced me, a cold rush of anger spreading down my neck. Images of slamming my fist into his face warred with the guilt that roiled in my unsettled stomach. For years I had wanted to blame Jamie for being the one who let our relationship die. But Trustfund’s accusation hit home closer than I wanted to admit. Jamie wasn’t the only one who’d walked away.

I followed him, calling out, “The difference between us? You’re scared your meal ticket might bolt. I’m worried he won’t.”

He muttered “Asshole” under his breath, but kept walking down the hallway to the open door marked Studio. A woman with a clipboard waved us through, then pointed to the green light on top of the camera to our right. “They’re on in thirty seconds.”

Trustfund brushed past me to stand behind the camera, his eyes locked on the stage in front of us. Jamie sat behind a fake kitchen counter covered with pre-made food. The host to his left was pointing to papers in front of them, laughing and joking with him as if she’d known him for years.

The studio lights dimmed, and a spotlight shined brighter on the stage as the lady with the clipboard counted down. “We’re live in five, four, three, two, one.”

Jamie pasted on a wide, fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“He’s a natural in front of the camera.” The whisper had come from behind me.

I rolled my eyes at Trevor and tried to focus on what Jamie and the all-too-perky-make-me-want-to-vomit chick sitting next to him were saying.

“James, you have a new cookbook out. Tell us about how it came together.”

His fake smile remained firmly in place as the woman lifted the cookbook and angled the cover toward the camera.

“Well, Gretchen, I was fortunate enough to learn about the basics of French cooking while I was in Paris during my last year of culinary school. Once I came back to the states, I interned under Damian Ford at Cielo here in Manhattan, an excellent chef and teacher. He’d spend countless hours teaching me all the little things important in fine cuisine. It was the best introduction to actually running a kitchen I could have ever hoped for. When Damian left, I took over as executive chef. When I had the opportunity to create this cookbook, I knew I wanted to make techniques accessible to someone who hasn’t had the opportunity to study with a trained master chef. My show,
Bistro Cooking:
Making French Cuisine Easy
and my new cookbook,
Spicing Up Your Table
, were a way to make the dream a reality.”

“We have a few pictures of you from your time at Cielo. Let’s take a look.”

I watched as Gretchen turned to the screen behind her. Images of Jamie in his chef’s whites scrolled by, one after the other, until a collage of them filled the entire screen. The age progression was startling to see since I had missed it, but what was more disarming was the change in his expression. The photos of a very green James Lassiter showed a young man with excitement and passion in his eyes, his smile warm and genuine. His expression reminded me of Tyler’s, since he’d started to come out of his shell, all curiosity and hunger for knowledge. The ones of Jamie taken a few years later showed a different story. The man in the pictures smiled, but it was smaller, tighter. It was the same smile I had seen in the makeup mirror minutes ago.