Something to Talk About(29)

It didn’t mean she couldn’t get dinner brought to her, though. Thank God for technology. Emma scrolled through one of the three food delivery apps on her phone. The number of choices overwhelmed her. She had researched restaurants, as she did before any trip, but she hadn’t fully narrowed them down. And for some, the ambiance of the place was important—ambiance she wouldn’t be getting with delivery.

There was a knock on her door. She thought, wildly, that food was arriving before she’d even ordered it. But it wasn’t delivery—obviously.

It was Jo.

“Hungry?” she asked when Emma opened the door. She waved the pizza box she’d brought in Emma’s direction.

Emma was barefoot and not wearing a bra under her tank top. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What?”

“You haven’t eaten, have you?” Jo asked. Emma shook her head. “Good. I’m starving.”

Jo stayed in the hallway until Emma pushed the door farther open. Then Jo strolled in like she owned the place, set the pizza box and a plastic bag on the desk, and pulled paper plates and napkins from the bag.

“Ms. Jones,” Emma said. She finally managed to close the door to the room. “You had plans.”

Jo fluttered her hand. “Evelyn was being obnoxious,” she said. “And you can’t miss out on New York pizza.”

Emma was not going to ask who Evelyn was.

Emma wished she’d closed her suitcase. The bra she was wearing earlier was strewn over the top. There was no way to surreptitiously close it. Jo didn’t seem to mind. She took a seat in the chair at the desk and opened the pizza box.

“Extra-large cheese,” she said. “We’ll have to get drinks from the vending machine.”

“Let me get it,” Emma said, eager to contribute something to the meal.

“Paramedics said you had to stay in your room, I thought,” Jo said. “Be right back.”

As soon as the door closed behind Jo, propped open by the latch so that she wasn’t locked out, Emma was in motion. She stuffed all the clothes on the floor into her suitcase, grabbing the bra before flipping the top closed. She hid in the bathroom to pull her shirt off, get the bra on, then put her shirt back on.

By the time Jo got back, Emma was serving herself a slice of pizza, fully clothed.

“Sprite or root beer?” Jo asked.

“Either is fine,” Emma said. “Can I pay you back for some of this?”

Jo rolled her eyes and didn’t even respond. She handed Emma the root beer.

“I’m serious,” Emma said.

“Emma.” Jo looked at her. “I was a millionaire as a teenager. I can afford dinner.”

Right.

Emma ducked her head. If she didn’t pay for anything, it felt too much like Jo was taking care of her, which was—it was weird, was all. Felt like when Jo bought her a dress, even though this time it was just pizza and a vending machine soda.

Emma climbed onto her bed, sat with her back against the headboard.

“You didn’t have to do this, boss.”

“It’s pizza, Emma. It’s nothing special.”

“Well, I appreciate it anyway,” Emma said. “And it’s New York pizza. It’s definitely special.”

She took a bite.

The noise she made was probably inappropriate. If anyone knew she was in the room with Jo and making that noise, they’d definitely think they were sleeping together. But what was Emma supposed to do? The pizza was amazing.

Jo smirked and didn’t look at Emma. Emma couldn’t bother to be embarrassed.

“You’ve basically saved this night for me, boss,” Emma said. “This is—I cannot thank you enough.”

Jo waved a dismissive hand.

They ate in silence for a moment.

“Emma?” Jo said, her voice quiet.

“Yeah?”

Jo was focused on her pizza, like whatever she was about to say wasn’t important. It made Emma think it would be important, made her pay attention.

“Your shirt’s inside out.”





7


    JO


The next morning, Jo was ready to head out when Emma knocked on her room door with a cup of coffee.

“I figured hotel coffee might not do the trick,” Emma said. “This is from that cute café down the block.”

Jo took a sip, and it was so good her mouth made words before she could think about them.

“I love you.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and Jo closed hers, took another sip of the coffee. It was just an expression, one she’d used before at work—on Chantal, certainly, and maybe even on Emma, too. Jo couldn’t remember. Before the rumors, she hadn’t paid nearly as much attention to every interaction between the two of them.

By the time Jo looked at Emma again, her assistant seemed to have decided to take the comment in stride. It was only fair—Jo had ignored Emma accidentally kissing her at the wrap party; Emma could ignore an innocuous phrase.

“The café also has good-looking breakfast options,” Emma said.

“I have breakfast plans,” Jo said. “I’ve already arranged for the car service to take you wherever you would like this morning, then pick me up on the way to the airport.”