“Is there another room in here?” I ask, hoping that Oliver doesn’t intend to sleep on the couch or something.

He laughs like he doesn’t quite understand this sudden onset of confusion. “Yes.” He glances over his right shoulder. “There’s one right over there,” he says slowly. “That’s where I’m sleeping.”

Oh, well…that’s a relief, I guess. If I’m honest with myself, it’s somewhat disappointing. I’m going to blame this on my choice of reading material for my flight over here, a beach read where romance sparked for the hero and heroine when they had to share a bed due to a hotel mix-up. I could laugh at myself for being so ridiculous.

Damn my overactive imagination and unfortunate choice of in-flight entertainment.

I walk into the bedroom, which, just like the rest of the place, is pristine and bright. The focal point of the room is a fluffy-looking queen-sized bed with more pillows than I could ever possibly need propped up against a wheat-colored linen headboard. It’s framed by two nightstands, one of which has an assortment of lotions in a small basket on top. I let myself fall back onto the bed and let out a deep sigh. Not getting up from here anytime soon if I can help it.

“Are you going to be okay on your own here for a little while?” Oliver asks.

I peer up at him from the down comforter heaven that I would like to make my permanent residence.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I think I’ll be all right here. It’s only six, but I can tell I’m not going to be able to stay awake until any normal bedtime hour. Why? Are you leaving?”

Oliver looks a little regretful as he says, “Yes. I have a dinner meeting downtown. I’m sorry, it’s something I set up before I knew you were coming, and it can’t be changed.”

Despite my disappointment at not having him around for the evening, I try to ease his conscience with a warm smile. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be alright on my own.” The great room definitely helps with that. “I’m probably going to take a bath, tend to my dresses, and then jump on this bed repeatedly until I collapse onto its pillowy softness.”

Oliver huffs out a laugh. “Try not to break the bed, or yourself.” He takes a deep breath and slides his hands into his pockets. “If you need anything, press zero on any of the phones in here. I let housekeeping know that you might have some special requests. I didn’t know if you’d need an iron or something else for your clothes. They can bring up anything you want, and I’m always a phone call away, okay?”

I nod. If he could start being just a little less thoughtful that would probably help me and my feelings out a great deal. “Thanks, Oliver.”

He gives me a warm smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you later, okay?”

I smile back, then force myself to get out of the bed so I can walk him to the door. Or…elevator, I guess. That’s the very least I can do. “Have fun at your dinner,” I say as he presses the call button. “Bring me a doggie bag or something.”

He laughs, then steps into the elevator, giving me this cute, dorky little wave as the doors shut.

I sigh. Damn him.

The ensuite bathroom—like the rest of this hotel—is amazing.

It has double sinks with antique mirrors over each, a subway-tiled shower and a clawfoot tub in front of a bay window overlooking the property. On the windowsill next to the tub is a wicker box stocked with the finest soaps and lotions a girl could ever want. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was something Oliver specifically requested for me, because he always thinks of the little things that make people feel right at home. It’s part of what makes him so great at his job.

After a long day of traveling, I can’t think of anything better or more relaxing than taking a bath. It takes me a few tries to figure out the faucet situation, and while the tub fills up I slip back into the bedroom. I peel off my clothes and drape them over the end of the bed, then go back into the bathroom.

Man, I’m looking rough.

My curls are all disheveled, falling out of my bun, and my eyes are tired and bloodshot. The upside to this is that it makes the blue look really bright. The downside is…everything else that comes along with looking ragged. Maybe I can call down to room service and have them bring up some cucumber slices or something. It’d be great if I could get this situation taken care of before the party tomorrow night.

When the tub is nearly full, I drop in a bath bomb I plucked out of the basket by the window, breathing in the mango scent as it turns the water orange.

I slip into the water and it’s just this side of being too hot. The heat feels great on my aching muscles. I hadn’t realized how tense my shoulders and upper back were, since I’ve been crouching over my sewing table all week, perfecting the pieces I brought with me from New York. There’s a crick in my neck that I can’t seem to work out—how I only now realized it is beyond me. I sink deeper into the water and put a rolled up towel just below the base of my head. It offers a little relief.

I relax with my eyes closed until the water is tepid.

After I dry myself off I slip into my favorite tank top and shorts and unpack the samples I brought with me on the off chance I’ll need them tomorrow night. I did a great job packing them, and thanks to a nearly magical use of bubble wrap, I can barely tell they’ve been in a suitcase all day. Some minor steaming should get them looking good as new.

My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten yet with a loud, embarrassing growl. In the main room, I find the private dining menu in a leather folio on the desk. I flip through the pages, completely unable to make a choice because everything looks so delicious. At this point I’d probably eat this menu and not complain about it.

I’m about to pick up the receiver to order something—anything—when there’s a knock on the door. Knowing there’s only a select few people who can get up here piques my curiosity.

I open the door to a bellman standing with a cart full of plates covered with shiny silver cloches.

“Miss Williams?” he asks with a kind smile.

“Yes?” I say slowly and slightly confused, wondering if I somehow managed to call for room service without remembering that I’d done it.

“May I come in?”

Well, I’m certainly not going to say no to a hotel employee bearing food. I step aside and hold the door open for him.

As he sets up the spread on the dining table he says, “Mister Warren asked for these to be sent up. He thought you might be hungry.”

He thought correctly. And he is just…completely wonderful.

“He did?” I ask.

The man nods. “He requested a sampling of your favorites.”

Completely. Wonderful.

I walk over to the table and see bite-sized sandwiches, a small cup of tomato soup, a little salad with parmesan crisps sprinkled on top. There’s an ice-cold glass of ginger ale alongside a small brownie with a scoop of vanilla on top.

“Thank you,” I reply gratefully as I reach for my purse to find a tip.

“You’re quite welcome, ma’am,” he says as he takes the bills. “I’ll return for the plates later. You can leave them outside the door.”

Once he’s gone, I pick up my phone and debate about whether or not I should call Oliver. I want to thank him for thinking of me, but I definitely don’t want to bother him in the middle of a meeting. It’s been about an hour and a half since he left, maybe he’s finished?

I decide I’ll thank him when he gets back, and start munching on all the goodies laid out before me. I knew Portland was a foodie town before I got here, but I wasn’t expecting anything like this. These simple dishes are transformed into something delectable, and this is just room service.

When I’m finished, I wheel the cart outside the door and let the concierge know that the dishes are ready to be picked up. Then I settle down on the sofa, wrap myself in a soft, warm blanket and start reading the rest of my book.

I don’t remember drifting off, but I wake up to the soft snick of the door closing as Oliver walks into the room. Falling asleep with my head flopping off to the side made the crick in my neck return with a vengeance, and I do my best to rub out the kinks as I sit up.

Oliver’s tie is loose around his neck and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his forearms. This look? It’s my own personal weakness.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

I stretch out, cracking my neck as Oliver sits down next to me. “I needed to be woken up. I passed out in a mini food coma.”

“Did you like it?” He lets his head fall back onto a pillow, then turns and looks at me.

“I don’t know if like is a strong enough word. Thank you for thinking of me.”

He smiles lazily. “You’re welcome.”

I rest my head against the cushions and look at Oliver. “The bathtub is amazing. Everything is amazing. I want to live in this hotel.”

He hums out an agreeable noise. “That can be arranged, you know. I’d miss you in New York though.”

A warm tingling reaches my fingertips. “Yeah?”

Oliver nods seriously. “Yeah.”

That’s when my traitor body decides it’s time for a record-setting yawn.

Oliver sits up and the moment is gone. “You should probably get some sleep. I was surprised you weren’t in bed already.”

“I was trying to stay up so I could thank you for dinner.”

Oliver laughs, shaking his head. “You could’ve texted, you know.”

I shrug. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother. The dinner wasn’t great and the company was even worse. I was bored; I would’ve rather been here eating finger food with you.”

“That’s sweet,” I say, patting his knee as I stand with great effort. “You definitely missed out.” I stand and stretch, then let out yet another yawn. “I’m going to head off to bed. Thank you for everything today.”

“You’re welcome. Get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow,” Oliver says with a smile.

The warm fuzzies I’d been feeling give way to the nervousness I’ve managed to keep at bay all night. “I do have a big day tomorrow.”

“Rest up,” he says.

“Goodnight Oliver.” I look over my shoulder when I get to my door.

“‘Night, Felicity.”