Time seemed to crawl by at a snail's pace. Jackson paced the room, practiced his "seductive" face in the mirror (which mostly looked like he was constipated), and even considered raiding the mini-bar for liquid courage.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doorbell rang.
Jackson's heart leaped into his throat. He smoothed down his hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Standing before him was a vision in a crisp hotel uniform. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, a few rebellious strands framing a face that could launch a thousand ships - or at least a thousand terrible pickup lines.
"Your order, sir," she said, her voice melodious and professional.
Jackson blinked, his brain frantically trying to remember how words worked. "I... uh... sandwich?" he
