A loud knock brings me back to the present.

“Can you get out already? It’s been over twenty minutes.”

I quickly rinse the conditioner from my hair, wrapping one white towel around my body and a second one turban-style around my hair. When I exit the bathroom, steam billows behind me. He’s waiting, leaning against the doorframe in a casual stance with some clothes balled in his hand.

“It’s about time,” he drawls, a slight tinge of a Southern accent coming through. His eyes wander from my toes up to my face.

I tighten the towel around me, trying not to glower. “I’m surprised you’re back so soon with the way that yoga teacher was checking you out.” I raise my brows.

There’s no reason I should be so furious right now. Rationally, I know this. But it doesn’t change the truth. I like him despite the fact that he doesn’t think highly of me. I know I’m acting like a child with an unrequited crush, but I can’t help myself. Deep down, I want to show him that I’m more than he thinks. Instead, it’s all coming out as anger. I finally get out of my head enough to notice his gorgeous chest is bare.

“Don’t worry. She’s not my type.” And, with one last good look, he steps by me and walks into the bathroom. The door shuts with a thud.

“God help me,” I moan, face-planting on the bed.

He comes out freshly showered and changed into a pair of soft, worn-looking jeans and a white T-shirt, feet bare and smelling clean and soapy warm. His hair has grown out some, the strands shiny and thick.

The doorbell rings.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us an early dinner. Can’t stand to eat late at night,” Slade says before opening the door.

The waiter sets up the food on our small terrace where he pulls out plate after plate, each with a silver cover. He seems to have ordered enough food for five. After signing the bill, he takes out a bottle of white wine from the minibar.

I gasp. “How did you get that?”

“I’ve got my ways.” He chuckles.

“And here I was, thinking you were a good and honest all-American boy,” I joke, trying to shake out my earlier fury.

“You thought wrong, Lauren. I’m anything but good.”

His eyes move to mine. What I see surprises me. I see … pain. I think about Sienna and what she told me. Is that what this is—a post-war agony?

He sits tall, placing a large Caesar salad in front of me, topped with roasted salmon. “Hope you don’t mind that I got this. I remember you ordered it at The Blue.”

I nod my head, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. He remembers what I ate. That’s a good sign, right? Or maybe he just has a really good memory.

“Why are you looking all worried?” He opens the cover from one of the plates and digs into his chicken, placing a large piece in his mouth.