By the time she knocked on the door of room 1624 she was a bundle of nerves. Maybe he thought better of this? Maybe he already checked out of the hotel and forgot to tell me? Maybe he . . .
She didn't have a chance for another possible worst-case scenario before he opened the door. And then she was speechless for a moment.
She'd thought Mike was hot in his worn gray T-shirt in the elevator, and she'd thought he was hot at the rehearsal dinner, clean-shaven in his pale blue button-down shirt. Now, in a tuxedo, he was so hot she was afraid she wouldn't be able to look him in the eye all night.
He wasn't even fully in the tux—that was the worst part. He had the shirt on and the bow tie untied around his neck, with his hair still damp. He looked like every romantic comedy hero at the end of the night, just before the heroine pulled his shirt out of his pants and started unbuttoning . . .
"Hey!" He interrupted her increasingly lurid train of thought. "You're just in time. I was about to break into the snacks."
"Snacks?" she asked. She followed him into the room, momentarily distracted from her fantasies.