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Emma laughs. “Oh, so youdothink he’s good-looking.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

I groan. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying he’s not going to eat you alive.”

“No, but he might smirk me into an early grave.”

Emma cackles, and I can’t help but smile despite myself. “You’ll be fine,” she assures me again. “You’ve got this. Just focus on the matchmaking and ignore the… smirking.”

I’m about to respond when there’s a knock at the door.

“That must be room service,” I say into the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

“Let me know if it’s him,” she teases before I hang up.

I cross the room, not bothering to put on anything else. I’m covered, technically. Besides, who else would it be this late?

When I swing the door open, I freeze.

It’s not room service.

It’s Jack Calloway.

In person. In front of me. Again.

My brain stalls for a second. I forgot how tall he is. And unfairly handsome. His hair looks freshly tousled in that effortless, made-for-magazines kind of way. He’s holding a coffee cup in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

My first instinct is to shut the door.

Instead, I blurt, “What are you doing here?”

“I figured we should talk,” he says coolly.

He steps past me without waiting for an invitation, and I gape at his audacity. “Excuse me—this is still my room!”

He glances back at me with an infuriating smirk. “If I stand out there much longer, someone’s going to snap a photo. ‘Jack Calloway caught with mystery woman at downtown hotel.’ You want that?”

I scowl. Darn him and his logic.

Still, I cross my arms over my chest, acutely aware of my robe and how warm my skin suddenly feels. “What do you want, Jack?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy scanning my room like it’s a disappointing Yelp review. “Wow. Cozy. Didn’t Nova offer you something better?”

“She did,” I snap. “I turned it down.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m not here for a vacation. I’m here to get this over with.”

He chuckles under his breath like he finds that amusing. “Does that matter? It doesn’t have to be a vacation to prioritize comfort.”

“Thanks for worrying about my comfort,” I answer sarcastically.

Jack strolls farther into the room, taking a slow sip from his cup. He’s sizing me up, and I hate that I can feel it. Like my skin knows he’s watching and starts tingling in protest—or maybe in something far more annoying.