18. Alice

ALICE

I click off the bedside lamp, wanting to look out at the night sky over the city rather than stare at my reflection.

I know what I look like. Skirt on, shoes off. Thin camisole on, silk shirt and bra off. Hair messy from sulking on the bed. But enough is enough. I can only wallow in self-pity for so long. And while I wait for room service to bring up my dinner, I’m going to enjoy watching the big fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky.

Christmas Eve is the day after tomorrow. And gloomy mood or not, I love Christmas. I love the sparkly lights, the traditions, the food. And even though tomorrow is the last day of the competition—that I’m surely going to lose—it’s also another day that I get to be in the same room as Michael Kesso.

Michael. Ugh, I’m not going to think about how I said his name out loud.

Pressing my palms to the glass, I remember the feel of his hand on my back.

He was so close to me. Talking to me like he cared.

Then he ruined it with his comment about cleaning, shattering my confidence all over again. But my cousins texted to tell me about the last clip of the show. How there was still one camera running while the credits ran. Probably just meant to pan around the set, but then he zeroed in on the scene Michael and I were making in front of my freezer. Zooming in on us, focusing on where Michael’s hand was against my lower back.

And with that explanation, Michael’s change in tone made sense. He’d gotten caught being nice to me. And that wasn’t good.

I sigh, and my exhale fogs the glass.

It’s just dessert.

Using my fingertip, I trace M + A into the condensation on the window, and feel a small smirk start to form.

If only .

A knock at the door pulls me away from my musing, and I cross the room.

I debate finding something to pull on over my revealing top, but I’m just going to take the tray of food from the server and scurry back into hiding, so I don’t bother.

Without looking through the peephole, I open the door and smile.

Except the man standing in front of me isn’t holding my dinner. And he’s no server.

“Alice, I’m sorry. I…” Michael’s voice trails off.

Michael’s voice!