The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,43
I hear a sound in the bathroom. For a second, I think maybe Zsa Zsa got trapped in there and that’s what I’m hearing. Then I realize…
“I gotta go, Kenny.”
“Just tell me.”
I should probably lie to Kenny, but he’s had my back so often over the years, I decide to just be cryptic. “You know the saying, ‘never trust a cook who doesn’t lick his fingers’?”
“So, you are with her?”
“Bye, Kenny. Tell Nadia and Rachna that if they try to fuck with my show while I’m gone, I’ll be very upset.” I quickly hang up and tiptoe to the bathroom.
Leaning my ear against the door, I listen, trying to confirm what I heard.
Yup. Crying.
I debate with myself for a moment. Maybe I should go in there and comfort her. Maybe I should leave her be. Except, we’re well past the time I could do that. We passed that point on the night of the living rats…
Tap, tap. I rap my knuckles gently on the door. Then, in my best ‘asshole chef’ voice, I call out, “Hey, other people gotta use the bathroom, too. You dropping a deuce in there or what?”
I hear her go quiet, then the sound of hurried splashing. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll be right out –”
“I’m kidding,” I say softly through the door, dropping the act. “I just wanted to make sure you were OK in there.”
Silence.
“Are you OK?”
She’s quiet for another moment before saying, “Uh-huh. Yep.”
“I’m coming in,” I say. I hesitate just a moment, giving her time to tell me to scram. When she doesn’t, I ease the door open.
She’s sitting in the tub, the smell of lavender bath salts permeating the air. She has her back to me, her knees up against her chest. Her wet hair fans out over the edge of the large tub. A bit of steam from the hot water hangs in the air. She sniffles, trying to hide the last vestiges of the tears she was shedding a moment earlier.
I sit myself on the toilet seat as she stares at the bath water. I look at my shoes. Neither of us is sure what to say.
Finally, I break the silence. “I want you to know… I’m replacing you on the show with Darlene.”
A short, grateful laugh bursts out of Cynthia. “Oh, yeah?”
“She’s too good. And I think she’s sweet on me.”
“I understand,” she says, enjoying the joke. Then, more seriously, she adds, “She’d probably fare better than I am.”
“Hey. You’re doing great.”
“This is all too much.”
“Wait – what is?”
“This. All this. The show… my folks…” She glances at me, “You.” Our eyes lock for a moment – then she looks away again, and adds, “Kyle…”
It’s hard for me to explain why seeing her cry breaks my heart. I’ve made lots of people cry — servers and cooks who worked for me; a few customers who tried to put one over on me; a restaurant critic I once cornered in the men’s room after a bad review; and, of course, several dozens of people who have been on my shows. Not once did I want to reach out to any of them and make their tears stop.
Right now, that’s all I want to do for Cynthia.
“Y’know,” I say, “I’ve had Chase watching over the editing department for me. He texted me that they fixed the final edit, made sure you came off well, instead of cutting around you like they were. Anyway. I want you to know. I have your back.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding relieved. “Good.”
“How do I make you feel better?”
“Your being here is helping,” she says with a shrug.
“Oh,” I say, a bit of hope now in my voice. “Good.”
I slip off the edge of the toilet lid and kneel behind the bathtub. Hesitantly, I put my hands on her naked, wet shoulders.
“Would this help, too?” I ask as I begin massaging her.
“Mmm… yeah…” she leans her wet head back.
Her cheek brushes against mine. We stay there for a moment as I continue to knead her shoulders. Then she turns her mouth to me, and we kiss softly, our tongues carefully exploring one another’s mouths.
Eventually, I stop massaging her and take her face in my hands as we continue to kiss. Then my hand tests the water, sliding them down slowly, slipping below the surface…
Thirty-Three
Cynthia
Stephen’s lips part from mine and he stands up. He strips off his shirt and pants, watching me the whole time. I’m marveling at the show, letting my breasts float above the surface of the