Liz headed down to breakfast earlier than usual the next morning, her sleep nothing but fitful after she returned to her room. She wished she could blame it on the fear of another fire alarm waking her, but the truth was she'd been driven to distraction over the intriguing, confusing encounter with the stranger from next door.

It wasn't like her to lose sleep over a guy. She had her fair share of obsessive tendencies, sure, but they usually revolved around her schoolwork or other interests, certainly not men. But perhaps the guys she knew just didn't have what it took to spark her curiosity quite like her mysterious, mostly-naked neighbor. She couldn't put her finger on what it was exactly she found so interesting about him, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was his smile, his discerning, intelligent gaze holding hers, the hair on his stomach disappearing under the waistband of his…

She rolled her eyes at herself. This was getting pathetic, pure and simple. Well, come to think of it, perhaps pure wasn't the right word for it… Stifling a yawn, she resolved to put him out of her mind and joined the line for breakfast behind a bickering elderly couple.

Her resolve was to be short-lived, however, when a soft, "Good morning, Lizzy," came from behind her.

Liz jumped, startled, and turned quickly towards the source of the greeting.

Speak of the devil, she thought. Very few people called her Lizzy, fewer still got away with it more than once. Who else would take such a liberty but the man who had taken up residence in her mind uninvited? She debated whether or not to call him Ray in retaliation for the presumption, but ultimately decided against it for the time being.

"Red, right? Sorry, I almost didn't recognize you," she said, "with your—"

"With my clothes on." The old woman in front of them gasped, scandalized, as the host arrived to lead her and her husband into the restaurant. The husband ushered her along behind him when she tried to linger; Red smirked after them.

While Red was occupied, she looked him up and down out of the corner of her eye. The clothes in question were quite a sight to behold all their own. Even from a distance, the quality of the fabric was obvious—wool tailored to damn near perfection, a tie made of the finest silk she had ever seen, a fedora straight out of the old movies her dad used to show her when she was young—expensive, but in an understated way. She was apparently right about the three-piece suit, to boot. And he fills it out just as well as he fills out his boxer-briefs, she thought, and willed herself not to blush.

Red took a step forward to stand beside her, tapping his hat against his leg as he waited for the host to come back. "I don't think I've seen you at breakfast before."

"I usually catch the tail end," she said, "but I couldn't sleep, so…"

He nodded in sympathy. "It's always difficult to keep anxiety at bay after being woken like that."

"Mmm," she agreed, making an attempt at a smile, and hoped the guilty direction of her thoughts didn't show on her face. She squinted into the restaurant. Just how long did it take to seat a nosy old couple, anyway?

"You know, Lizzy," he said, leaning a bit closer to her as he spoke; she clenched her jaw, tried not to let the low rumble affect her. "I visit places like this when it becomes necessary to escape the hustle and bustle of my everyday life to spend some quality time alone, but after last night I find myself longing for the pleasure of good company. Namely yours. Join me for breakfast," he said, "please."

The hopeful look on his face stayed her immediate refusal. "Are you always such a shameless flirt or should I feel special?"

"Yes," he said, simply.

She furrowed her brow and opened her mouth to comment on his cryptic cheekiness but the host chose that moment to return.

"How many will be dining this morning, ma'am?" he asked, his hand hovering over the menus.

"Oh, um." She glanced back at Red quickly. "Two, please."

"Excellent. If you'll follow me?"

The host led the two of them to a table tucked into a cozy corner of the restaurant, with a view overlooking the sunny mountainside.

"Oh my god," she said, taking in the gorgeous scenery.

"See, that's the sort of thing you miss when you sleep 'til almost lunchtime. The only sight that can possibly beat the sheer grandeur of the sunrise over the mountains here is the sunset over the lake."

Red pulled out her chair for her, but he didn't make a show of it, which was what she preferred; it was just a simple courtesy. Anything else always made her uncomfortable.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't really come across as the type of person this place usually caters to."

"I could say the same about you."

"Touché."

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded her silently. "People make a lot of assumptions about my tastes," he said after a long moment. "Some of that is intentionally cultivated. Some of it is… not. And speaking of tastes…"

Liz followed Red's line of sight to see their fresh-faced waiter approaching the table.

"Good morning, folks. Have you decided what you'd like for breakfast today or do you need a little more time?"

"I'll have whatever she's having," Red said, gesturing across the table to Liz. A frisson of panic ran through her.

"What? Why?"

"I trust your judgment."

"OK…" Liz glanced anxiously between the two men. "Well, the corned beef hash is great, farm fresh eggs and everything else is made from scratch. There's always eggs Benedict, they make a stellar hollandaise. And there's nothing quite like a perfect soft boiled egg and toast. I tried the breakfast burrito the other day and I was pleasantly surprised. Of course, you can't really go wrong with an omelette."

His eyebrows rose. "You're a big egg fan, I take it."

She shrugged. "Growing up I only got a chance to have them on vacation and now it's part of the whole hotel breakfast experience. If I stay long enough, I try everything they've got."

Their waiter stood poised to take their orders, unsure how to react to Liz basically listing off the entire egg section of the menu. "Folks?"

"Oh, um… I guess we'll both go with the eggs Benedict?"

The young man nodded, relieved, and quickly left.

"How come you don't cook eggs for yourself?" Red asked.

"Somehow my father got it into his head as a kid that eggs were universally disgusting and he boycotted them forever, so I never really learned how to cook them myself because of that. When I was little, I used to make him read Green Eggs and Ham to me all the time, hoping he'd get the hint and just try them, but no. He wouldn't even give them a chance."

Liz knew she was babbling, but she couldn't help it. Green Eggs and Ham, really? She was acutely aware that she'd begun talking with her hands even though she usually didn't; she had half a mind to sit on them before Red noticed she picked the habit up from him. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"At least you absorbed the moral of the story better than he did. It's important to try new things whenever we can." He dropped his voice in a way that was wholly inappropriate for a topic spawned by discussing a children's book. "There's a whole host of experiences we'll miss if we insist on staying in our comfort zones all the time. It's in our nature, that drive to seek out adventure, to expand our horizons; we're doing ourselves a disservice if we squander it. If we do, we stagnate."

Liz pushed up her sleeves and took a long draw from her ice water, fighting off the urge to fan herself.

"I think he just thought I liked it because of Sam-I-Am," she explained in a rush, cheeks burning. "His name is Sam."

All of a sudden, as if a switch had been flipped, Red's entire demeanor shifted. His brow furrowed and he seemed uncomfortable, almost nervous, watching her play with the condensation on her glass. "By any chance," he asked haltingly, "is your father Sam Milhoan?"

She blinked, bemused. "Yeah, how did you—?"

"I know him. Knew him." He shook his head and shrugged. "He's an old friend. We haven't had time to catch up in years."

"Huh. It really is a small world, isn't it?"

He frowned and nodded. "Minuscule," he said, still unable to meet her eyes, choosing instead to nearly bore a hole in the table with the intensity of his gaze, somewhere near where her right hand rested.

Thankfully, the food arrived to break the awkward tension. It was excellent, as she'd come to expect, and he thanked her for her recommendation, grateful for a chance to move on from the odd revelation that he knew her father of all people. It only served to emphasize how many years there were between them, even though he couldn't possibly be as old as Sam. If Red didn't mind, however, neither did she.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that Liz would relate more to someone older; she always got on better with her professors than her classmates, after all. She was too intense, too driven, too serious for most people her age and always had been. She didn't make friends easily; she lucked out with her roommate, but Jess was the exception rather than the rule. By the end of the meal, Liz and Red relaxed into an easy camaraderie the likes of which she rarely experienced; by the time he walked her back to her room and bid her goodbye with a tip of his hat, she had already begun to try to come up with an excuse to run into him again.

Deciding she would be able to think more clearly after a much-needed nap, she curled up in a cocoon of quilts and blankets, falling asleep with Red in the forefront of her mind.

She dreamt of him. Of course she did—fleeting impressions of Red in his suit from breakfast, standing over her bed, drawing his hand up her bare leg, asking her what she wanted, teasing his fingers under the edge of her sleep shorts, almost light enough to make her squirm with ticklish sensations. But a dream could only last so long and, like most of the dreams she had of that nature, she woke up with a start—alone, empty, aching—before she could find any kind of satisfaction.

What did she want?

She wanted him.

He'd wormed his way into her imagination, into her subconscious, and she wasn't ready for him to leave.

Liz sighed. This sort of thing just wasn't her purview. She was the type of person to make a goal and work her ass off until she achieved it, not the type who spent hours daydreaming about things that could never happen.

But who said it couldn't happen? Other than the odd little blip during breakfast, he certainly seemed interested. In fact, he made it rather explicitly clear the night before.

She deserved to cut loose for once. A fling with one of her father's friends seemed just the thing. A little illicit thrill went through her at the thought. It was the stuff of fantasies, really. Something other girls did. She never had the opportunity or the inclination before now. Besides, he seemed like a man who would know what he was doing. Maybe she'd finally understand what all the fuss was about.

Course of action decided, she picked up her phone and dialed room service.

Liz's stomach clenched as she peered into Red's hotel room from the patio. He sat in an overstuffed armchair, so engrossed in the book in his hands that he didn't notice the movement outside his door. He'd changed out of his suit in favor of a pair of dark jeans and a cozy-looking sweater. The man certainly wore clothes well.

He also wore no clothes well.

Good Lord, she had a problem.

She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. He looked up from his book at the sound of knuckles on glass; she held up a bottle of wine and a pair of wine glasses, gesturing to ask him to open the door. Marking his place, he stood and unlocked it, sliding it open.

"Lizzy," he said, his voice a warm rumble. "We have to stop meeting like this."

An unconscious smile tugged at her lips. How that nickname could go from being overly familiar to endearing in the course of a day baffled Liz, but it warmed her just the same.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I decided to splurge a little tonight,"—she pointed awkwardly to the wine with the hand holding the glasses—"and I, uh… I could use some help finishing it."

"Starting it, you mean," he said, amusement coloring his tone; he reached out and tapped the intact cork.

She mentally cursed herself for not thinking of opening the wine ahead of time, smiled a small, self-deprecating smile, and tried a different approach.

"Truth be told, I find myself longing for the pleasure of good company," she said, using his own words from earlier. "Besides… you look like a man who could use a glass of wine."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk."

She didn't know how to respond to that, but thankfully he saved her the trouble by stepping out onto the patio and sliding his door shut behind him. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Once they were inside the warmth of her room, he reached out for the bottle again; he meant to tilt it enough to read the label, but his fingers brushed hers, the contact all the more obvious because hers were so cold compared to his. He set the wine aside and took her hands between both of his, rubbing them to stimulate the circulation.

"Your hands are like ice," he said. He raised them to his mouth, using his breath to warm them.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly parched, and asked, "Do you, um, d'you think you could open the wine?"

He smiled and did as she asked, pouring two servings into the glasses and holding one out to her.

"I wanted to thank you. For joining me for breakfast this morning," he said.

"It's no problem. I had a good time."

"You certainly didn't have to put up with a lonely stranger on your vacation."

"Actually," she said, pausing to take a sip from her glass. "I didn't realize how lonely I've been lately until last night. So really,"—she took a step closer to him—"we did each other a favor, didn't we?"

"I suppose we did."

Another step forward and she reached out a cautious hand to run along his chest to his shoulder. "This is a nice sweater." She looked up at him and asked, "Cashmere?"

"Mmm," he confirmed, taking a sip of wine without looking away.

She was well within his personal space now and he did nothing to change that. Little by little, she edged even closer, sliding her hand up his shoulder to his neck. Close enough to feel his warm breath on her face, she paused, waited for him to back away. He didn't. Pulling gently at the back of his neck, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his in a tentative kiss.

It seemed like an eternity passed before he responded, his lips barely moving against hers, but then he was there, kissing her back, and she found herself moaning softly, the fluttering in her stomach multiplying.

Short, hesitant kisses slowly progressed to longer, more assured ones. Without pulling away, he placed his glass on the sideboard and hers as well, before taking her face in his hands, tilting his head, and parting his lips against hers, inviting her to deepen the kiss. She whimpered into his mouth, tightening her hand around a fistful of his shirt collar as she pulled him closer.

The urgent press of lips and tongue; searching hands tracing curves, caressing whatever they could reach; quiet moans and hushed, ragged breaths—all of it was much more intoxicating than the wine could ever be.

Steadily, she backed him up towards the bed; he sat reflexively when his thighs hit the edge of it. She worked her fingers under his sweater while she continued to kiss him and tried to pull it up and off his torso.

He tore his mouth away from hers and stilled her hands. "Lizzy, wait," he said, breathless. "There's something you should know."