In Amsterdam, a driver met me and whisked me off to the hotel, speaking cheerfully in almost perfect British-accented English, though he was clearly Dutch. He had the white-blond hair and pale blue eyes of his Viking ancestors.

I arrived at the hotel just around noon and checked in, per Adam’s instructions. The clerk handed me an envelope and inside was a smart phone. I asked the clerk if it would work in Amsterdam and he gave me a puzzled look and nodded. I glanced at it and noticed a waiting text message from Adam. It told me to order myself some lunch in the suite and he would see me at three p.m. for a day of sightseeing.

The bellhop guided me through a palatial lobby carved out of white marble and up an elegant Y-shaped, carpet-covered staircase to the elevators. I’d learned online that the majestic building dated from the nineteenth century and featured all the exquisite architectural details an earlier era. The bellhop loaded me into a small elevator—the type that had been fitted in as a nod to modern conveniences and seemed alien in this elegant, old-fashioned building.

On the top floor, he directed me to the penthouse suite. And inside I found a space that could have fit my studio four times over. It was appointed in antique furnishings, had a bedroom and bathroom on the lower floor as well as a sitting room with couch and bar. A dark wood staircase led up to the unknown and I stared at it for a moment, determined to go exploring the minute I was alone. I wasn’t set to meet Adam for another hour, so I had no idea where he was or if he had checked in yet.

“Mr. Drake…” I said to the bellhop.

“I’m sorry, Miss. I do not know. You can call down to the lobby and ask.”

I smiled. “That’s okay. I can text him.”

The bellhop, who had insisted on carrying my ratty backpack for me, didn’t even hesitate or wait for a tip. Instead, he bowed himself out.

A tingle of anticipation started at the base of my spine. I punched in a message on my phone.

Am here. Waiting patiently.

I hadn’t seen him in three weeks and in my mind he’d steadily grown more attractive and delicious. Hell, he’d reached almost godlike proportions by now, in my imagination. I was anxious to see him again. This would be the next and the last day that I would.

There was no reply to my text. Likely he was still in meetings or maybe still in the air. I blew out a breath and fidgeted nervously, determined to satisfy my curiosity.

I walked around downstairs, and briefly glanced at the room service menu before deciding I was too nervous to eat. I looked in every corner around the bar and the single bedroom, where I’d dumped my stuff. I wondered—if the bedroom was downstairs, then what was upstairs? A terrace?

I galloped quickly up the stairs to find out. I landed in an even grander bedroom. It was elegantly decorated with a giant four-poster bed and accompanied by similar period furniture in dark woods. The curtains on the sidewall had been pulled aside and the windows looked out over the canals of Amsterdam.

A fresh set of clothes—which I assumed were Adam’s—had been laid across the bed, but there was no one in the room. I entered and walked to the bed—a king size, decorated in blues, silvers and light gray French toile fabric. My eyes skimmed over the bed, wondering if this would be the place where things would happen tonight. My heart thrummed again and I swallowed, but there was no way I could tell if that was from fear or excitement.

He was here, already. I heard a noise at the same moment a doorknob—presumably to the bathroom—rattled. I jumped back but before I could skitter out of the room, it opened and Adam stood in the doorway, frozen in mid-step. He’d just exited the shower.

Our eyes locked and my breathing froze. He had one snowy towel slung low around his hips, another draped around his neck. He’d obviously just toweled his hair dry. The short cut was frizzed in every direction as if it had been artfully arranged that way.

And his chest—every creased valley, firm muscular angle chiseled in perfect flesh—gleamed with steam. I sucked in a quick breath.

“H-hi,” I finally said, tearing my eyes from his bare chest with reluctance.

“Emilia.” He smiled openly with no apparent self-consciousness. “You made it!”

“I’m—I’m sorry for—I didn’t know you were even here yet. I was just exploring.”

“No worries. My meeting let out earlier than expected so I beat you here. Did you have lunch?”

I fought to keep my eyes from drifting downward again, from fixing on those perfect abs, lightly dusted with dark hair, that seemed to have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. “I—I wasn’t that hungry.”