I hear her quick intake of breath, and the giddy excitement in the air is unmistakable. But when I turn back toward her, Jenny’s face is neutral, focused on taking more photographs. She moves around the suite, bending down to get different angles and nearly giving me a heart attack. I take her through the guest room, then into the master bedroom. We don’t do rose petals at Bliss. We do a single long-stemmed rose on the king-sized pillow in the center of the arrangement. Jenny bites her lip when she sees it.

I want to be biting that lip.

“It’s really gorgeous,” she says. “It would be such a shame to mess it up.”

“Hardly,” I say as she raises the camera to get another shot. Everything is suffused with golden sunlight, a ray coming down directly on the rose as if the scene is being directed by some divine hand. I’d say I had nothing to do with it, but that’s a lie. I had everything to do with it. What kind of person in my position has no idea when the lighting in the rooms is best?

Jenny lowers the camera, then steps toward the bed. She considers it for a long moment, then reaches down and brushes the back of her knuckles against the fabric. I know instantly that she’s the type who, given the suite, would choose the guest room. It would be a damn shame. This bed almost deserves her.

“It’s really nice.” Her voice is different, almost reverent, and with a pang another realization washes over me, mortifying in its simplicity. I have no idea what it was like at home for Genevieve Starlight. Watching her touch the comforter like that—

She turns back, lips slightly parted, dark hair cascading over her shoulders....

A knock sounds at the door and the moment breaks, her eyes slipping away from mine. She holds the camera a little bit closer to her body, an oddly defensive motion.

“That’s dinner.” I reach out a hand, extending it into the air between us, and Jenny blushes radiantly before she extends her own and takes mine.

I lead her back out into the main room as the wait staff come through the door. The lead waiter hustles in so he can be there in time to pull out Jenny’s chair for her, then mine for me. She doesn’t need to know that this is a bit of theater, just for her. Most packages only include one staff member.

Jenny beams down at the table, her eyes traveling carefully over the place settings as she unfolds her napkin and tucks it down onto her lap. The waiter, Horatio, pours a glass of champagne for each of us, and I settle in to the feeling of finally having the upper hand.

It’s been a long five days.

Then Jenny picks up her champagne flute and takes a sip.