The door burst open. His hair was wet and uncombed, and he was tugging a dinner jacket on over his shirt, a tie half-knotted around his neck. Bear stilled with his hand on the doorknob and met my eyes. Arrested.

I was struck suddenly with the feeling of desperately needing to ask him a question and at the same time not being sure exactly what it was I needed to ask—the feeling that the question didn’t matter, so long as the answer came from him.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he pushed his hair out of his face, fumbling lucklessly to fasten his right collar button. “Am I late?”

My mouth felt dry. I shook my head. “You’ve got a minute.”

Against my will, my gaze strayed across his mostly bare room as Bear leaned into a mirror by the door. Water droplets spattered his shoulders as he combed his wet hair. But I couldn’t help noticing the books piled on the end table and scattered across the floor, the sheets crumpled on the bed.

Was he tossing and turning, too?

He was still fiddling with that button.

“Come here,” I said, and he obeyed, pausing just a foot from the doorframe.

I had no business in his room.

I crossed the threshold to meet him.

With unsteady fingers I unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and flipped it up, staring resolutely at the plum-colored silk tie as I looped it into a knot and slid it up to his neck.

Neither of us spoke.

The pulse flickering in his throat distracted me momentarily, and I accidentally tightened the tie too far. Bear choked a little, hand flying to his collarbone.

“Sorry!” I whispered, laughing and meeting his eyes. They were lit candles over his smile.

I flipped his collar back down, buttoned its corners easily, smoothed its crease. I was acutely aware of his hands hovering between us, of the warm skin and damp hair my fingertips grazed at the back of his neck.

“There.” I straightened his lapel, releasing the jacket only reluctantly.

Bear examined the knot. “That’s different.”

“It’s called a Bowery knot.” I wrung my fingers. “It’s the one my father wears.”

Bear nodded, watching me carefully.

“Is something wrong?” I blurted out. I appraised my dress, dark green lace that curved off my shoulders and over my hips. “Do I have a thread—”

He cut in. “No, you look—”

But I never learned what he was going to say. Perrault glided into the corridor. “Your Grace.”

I took a large step backward into the hallway and Bear did the same, closing his door behind him with a click.

“Hello, Sir Perrault.” I studied my gown, my hands, the carpet—anything but the protocol officer’s narrowed eyes.