“Oh, I have plenty of things to think about when I’m alone with Betsy and none of them are you.”

“Let me guess, they’re all Levi Booker?”

I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the bed. “Why are you so interested in what I think about when I’m alone at night?”

“I’m not.”

I’m grinning because we both know he’s lying.

“Okay,” I say. “Maybe you’ve crossed my mind once or twice or a dozen times.”

I let him marinate on that while I escape to the bathroom to soak out last night’s mistakes in the claw foot tub.

* * *

It takes four hours and a room service burger, but I feel human again, which is more than I can say for Asher, who has morphed into the Most Annoying Person Ever. He has spent the last five minutes knocking on the bathroom door.

“Olivia, we need to go.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that we're not going anywhere for at least thirty minutes. I’m still curling my hair. My makeup is only half done. I still haven’t decided what dress I’m wearing.

“Give me a minute.” Or twenty-nine.

“I’ve given you too many minutes,” he says. “You’ve been in there for three hours!”

He’s not exaggerating, but I don’t like his tone. It takes a lot of work to make me look like I schmooze with the elite on the regular. I had to break out the good tweezers.

“Olivia.”

I’m certain it’s his head that hits the door and not his fist.

I take a deep breath and count to three. I’m not into making deals with the devil, but I should at least be a little accommodating to the guy who spent five hundred bucks for us to be here.

So I set my curling iron down and try on the red dress and then the black and then the red again.

And then the black.

I spin around, checking myself in the mirror at different angles.

I sigh.

“Ash?” I pull open the door and he’s hunched over, gripping the doorframe.

“What?” He lifts his eyes slowly to mine.

“Can I ask a favor?”

“I feel like that’s all you ask me.”

I turn around. “Can you see my panty lines?”

“I’m sorry?” His voice hits an octave I didn’t know it could reach.

“On my dress,” I say. “Can you see panty lines?”

There’s a long pause.

Probably too long.

I should feel uncomfortable, but I don’t.

“Yep,” he says. “They’re… there.”

“Honestly,” I huff and spin back to face him. “You pay all this extra money for seamless thongs and for what! Panty lines!”

“Right.” He swallows. “So I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Wait! I have another dress to try on!”