“Hannah?” Travis knocks lightly on the door, making me jump and my heart race.

“Everything okay?”

Speaking of disasters…

I pull open the door. Travis stands on the other side, thankfully not naked. He’s pulled on his dress pants from last night but left them unbuttoned. A light trail of dark hair descends from his belly button and disappears into his boxers. His hand is still poised in a fist like he was going to knock again. His gaze sweeps over me in a slow, appreciative way that makes my stomach dip.

“I have to go.” I breeze by him, handing him his shirt as I go.

“Wait,” he says. “Don’t rush out. I ordered breakfast and we should talk.”

It’s a more mature, direct response than I was expecting. He wants to chat about what happened last night. Meanwhile, all I want to do is flee. I can’t think with him looking so…so…damn good. I might be questioning the decisions that led me into this room, but I can no longer deny how much I’m attracted to him. Or how good it felt to kiss him. I can only imagine everything else was just as good.

“I really have to go. Kinsley and Skylar are already downstairs. Our flight leaves soon.”

“Ride back with me and the guys. We have room on the jet.”

How different is his life from mine? I sat in a middle seat in the back of a commercial flight because I couldn’t afford the thirty-five-dollar upgrade to a roomier seat, and he rode here on a private plane.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or don’t want to?” There’s a flicker of hurt on his face that I don’t have the time or the emotional bandwidth to dissect.

“My friends are waiting for me.”

He nods and smiles, though it’s not his usual easy one. “Got it.”

“I’ll see you back in Moonshot,” I say, feeling the need to smooth over some of the weirdness. It isn’t his fault I drank too much and put myself in this situation.

I grab my purse and start for the door. My fingers grip the handle, so close to freedom, when Travis says, “Hannah, wait.”

I pause, muscles tensing before I look over my shoulder.

“Don’t forget your bouquet.” He walks over to the nightstand and picks up the floral arrangement I’d noticed earlier. The flowers are light pink and purple, gathered and held together with a ribbon. As he walks it to me, I replay his words while staring at the strangely familiar and yet unfamiliar flowers.

“That’s not mine,” I say. And wait, did he say bouquet? As in…

His grin resurfaces, along with a little of his usual playfulness. “Actually, it is, wife.”