A second later, I hear his voice, low and controlled, speaking to room service.
He sounds different now. More composed.
More like himself.
A few minutes later, he reappears, fully dressed. Dark jeans. Fresh shirt. Hair still slightly messy, but now it looks intentional instead of sinful.
“They’ll bring coffee,” he says.
I nod.
Right on cue, there’s a knock on the door.
He freezes for half a second before crossing the room to answer it.
The door opens, and a uniformed staff member wheels in a cart loaded with coffee, pastries, and enough food to feed a small army.
Jake thanks him quietly and gestures for me to sit down. “Eat.”
I comply and grab a croissant immediately. My stomach is growling.
I take a bite and groan. “This is amazing. You should really try this croissant. Do you want a bite?”
He watches me. “No.” Then, as if reconsidering, he adds, “No, thank you.”
He pours coffee and hands me a cup.
Our fingers brush briefly.
Electricity shoots through me instantly, but for his sake I pretend it was nothing. He’s freaked out enough already.
I take a sip.
He watches me over the rim of his own cup, his brows pulling together like he’s trying to catch a thought that keeps slipping away.
“You know,” he says slowly, “I have the feeling we did something else last night.”
I swallow. “You mean besides having sex?”
He just grunts.
Is he a prude?
Still, he might be right.
Something tingles at the back of my mind.
My fingers freeze around the coffee cup.
No.
That’s ridiculous.
I shake it off and reach for another bite of croissant, determined to focus on the very real, very perfect breakfast in front of me.
The table is covered in silver trays and white porcelain. Strawberries. Eggs. Tiny jars of jam. Everything pristine and deliberate.
Everything except—a piece of paper.
