She has just finished putting on her shirt when she stops dead in her tracks. “What the hell . . .”

I look over to where she’s staring. In front of the door are three different room service carts, each one filled with an assortment of half-eaten food.

I finally get up and fumble around for my own clothes before I walk over to look at them. “Did we get the munchies last night?” I don’t remember anything about ordering food.

Zoey is laughing. “I guess so. But just . . . what is all this?”

I peer more closely at the trays. “Um . . . I think it’s mostly an assortment of avocado toast.” And it is. At least a dozen kinds, topped with everything from quail eggs, to cayenne pepper, to what looks like it might actually be a melted blue raspberry Blow Pop (I mean, I have no idea, but I have never seen anything else edible that was that shade of blue). There’s also a half-drunk bottle of champagne along with three carafes of juices, a large bowl of what appears to be mushroom-shaped gummy bears, and a plate of what I’m almost positive is Hot Pockets, but is probably marketed as artisan roast prosciutto tartines.

Zoey grabs one of the gummy mushrooms, sniffs it, and then places it in her mouth before immediately spitting it back out into a napkin. “Oh my God. I think those are truffle-flavored.” She nearly gags.

I laugh before realizing an inconvenient truth. “Oh, crap. We are probably going to have to pay a small fortune for all of this.”

Zoey shakes her head. “Knowing Mary, she probably gave them her credit card and told them I could charge anything I want to it.”

“Wow, that’s really generous.”

“She’s a generous person,” she says softly and in that instant I get a small inkling of just what Mary Clarkson means to her, and it has nothing to do with what she means to me or millions of other celebrity fiends.

Zoey sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap. “I need to tell you something,” she says, her fingers twisting together. Shit, maybe she really is having second thoughts about our evening.

“Okay.” I join her on the edge of the bed, but not too close. I want to give her space for whatever she’s gearing up to say. My stomach clenches and I tell myself it’s just hunger.

“Remember that weird freelance job I mentioned? The one I’m planning to quit?”

“Yeah, sure—”

“It’s Sweet Nothings,” she blurts out in a rush. “I work as a matchmaking ghostwriter just like you and what’s more—I . . . I . . . Look, I wouldn’t even tell you this except I think we might have the potential for something good. Maybe even something great. You and me, that is. The real you and me.”

My head’s spinning. “I don’t follow.”