I order a spread from room service, strip off my clothes, and put on one of the hotel’s soft terry-cloth robes. It feels heavenly against my skin. When the food comes, I eat the roasted chicken with grilled vegetables and a hummus plate with pita chips while watching back-to-back episodes of Real Housewives. It’s as though all my years of borderline starvation have caught up to me. Maybe it’s the fresh mountain air or all of the incredible sex. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s the stress of Slade that’s gotten me so turned inside out. Nothing but food will settle me.

Whatever.

I’m absolutely famished and enjoying every single morsel entering my mouth—guilt, calorie count, and stress be damned. Meanwhile, the show has me simultaneously laughing and yelling at the TV. It’s keeping my mind occupied on nonsense instead of focusing on reality.

Two hours later, I’m plucked, shaved, and completely made up. My hair is ironed sleek and straight, and my outfit is a simple, short black dress and strappy Manolo heels. I didn’t bring any fancy outfits other than this one. Even without any options, I feel confident with my look.

At nine o’clock sharp, the bell to my room rings. I slowly open it, only to see Slade’s mouth dropping as he takes me in from my heels to my eyes. He’s wearing a black suit and white shirt, which is what I assume is his work uniform for events like these. Slade is typically so casual that seeing him all dressed like this turns my insides to fire. He stands there, still, without saying a word or taking his eyes off me.

Finally, he says, “Lauren.” My name rolls off his breath. “You ready?”

I nod, clutching my black purse to my side.

“Do you have a shawl or jacket or something? Eve was complaining that it’s chilly in the restaurant.”

I turn back and take out a folded black pashmina scarf from one of the cabinet drawers. It’s not what I would choose if I had my full wardrobe in front of me, but it’ll do.

He takes my hand as we walk into the elevator. The ride downstairs is quiet and warm as his thumb rubs up and down over my knuckles.

“You look incredible. I had to physically restrain myself from stripping you in your room.”

“Is that right?” Beneath my question is a dare and request. My insides clench.

“Yes. But I know all about you and your fancy dresses …” His voice trails off as he checks me out.

I laugh because my wardrobe isn’t the easiest to put on or take off, and no one knows it better than Slade.

“Well, for your information”—the elevator door opens, and we step out—“there are no buttons on this one, not even a zipper.”

“Easy access, eh?”

“Maybe … for the right man,” I sass.

He laughs again. “Baby, I’m the only man.”

I raise my eyebrows, but he ignores my attitude laced in question, holding my hand harder to his. We walk through the gorgeous, serene lobby to see a long red carpet outside of the entrance to the restaurant.