CHAPTER TWO

He takes me to a bedroom. As soon as the door swings open and I see the enormous four-poster bed, I spin on him in a fury. "What exactly are you trying to pull?" I say. "If you think you can march me to a bedroom and Ill just—" He cuts me off with a finger against my lips.

"I keep extra clothes in the closet here," he says. "Id imagine we can find something in here to suit your… needs," eyeing my outfit and how it was clinging to my body.

"Where did these come from?" I ask, gesturing to a small pile of somewhat tattered clothes on the armoire next to the closet as Blaine hands me a towel.

"A friend left them."

"A friend?" I ask suspiciously. With Blaines proclivities and high number of men featured in his tabloid pictures, I was worried that these would have come from one of those probably disease-ridden men he seemed to find everywhere he went.

"A friend from high school, if you must know. He stayed with me recently."

His reply seemed safe enough, so I took the clothes with a small smile – hoping my nerves would still rather than think about the many men who could have left clothes behind in the Anderson residence.

"Is your friend here too?"

"No, hes off saving the world, as usual," he says. "Wes, thats his name. He left for Southeast Asia not long after the funeral." I dont miss the hint of bitterness in his voice, but I dont dare push the matter any further. "Youre welcome to wear whatever you find in there," he continues.

"Im going back to my room, since you were kind enough to point out that I could use a change as well. Ill meet you back here in ten minutes, if thats all right?"

"Im sure I can handle myself."

"I dont doubt it." Whatever shadow darkened his mood a moment ago is gone. He gives me another one of those amused smiles, the kind that Im sure charms most men right out of their undies.

Good thing Im not most men.

I give him a smile of my own—a controlled, unconcerned smile, I hope—and step into the room, closing the door behind me.

I have to admit, now that Im getting a better look, this is one of the most beautiful bedrooms Ive ever seen. The walls are sage green, the floors dark hardwood. Theres an enormous white stone fireplace against one wall, and its mantle is carved to look like a canopy of leaves. On the far side of the room, a pair of long-paned windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling.

But the bed. Oh, the bed.

The bed is made of dark wood, and its headboard has been carved to match the mantle, depicting an elaborate scene with birds, butterflies, and flowers hidden among the leaves. A vine pattern has been etched up each of the four posts, and the canopy is draped in gauzy white fabric. The mountains of pillows and thick comforter look so inviting that, I swear, if I werent covered in mud Id dive right into the middle of it all.

But Im never going to use that bed, so theres no point in drooling over it. Im here to change, thats all. I find the bathroom first, and I almost fall over at the sight of my reflection in the mirror. Im a mess. I quickly wash the mud off my hands and feet and neck, but theres not much I can do for my wet, tangled hair. I push it back as best as I can and venture back into the bedroom, where I head over to the closet.

Once again, Im stunned.

If the bedroom was impressive, the closet is absolutely magnificent—not to mention roughly the same size as my current studio apartment. There are racks upon racks upon racks of clothes, an entire wall of shoes, and three full rotating cabinets in the middle of the room that appear to house watches, ties and other accessories.

And Blaine said these were extra things?

I walk over to a shelf and choose a hanger at random. Its a very expensive looking suit – all navy with a pink lining in the coat – and cant help but swoon a little at the soft feel of the material. Its certainly a fabric Ive never worn before in my life.

The price tag is still attached, and I cant help but take a peek. I nearly pass out when I see the number. Too rich for my blood. I slip the hanger back on the rack and move on.

Halfway down the room I find a small, flat screen attached to the wall with a single button beneath it. Curious, I give the button a push. The screen instantly flashes to life.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," says a computerized female voice. Whoa. They have computerized closets in this place? A series of symbols flash across the screen. "What would you like to wear?" the voice prompts.

I reach out and tentatively tap the icon shaped like a suit. "What occasion?" says the voice. The screen gives me a number of options, everything from "Garden Party" to "Riding." I guess rich people need computers to help them figure out the proper attire for all their weird events. I tap "Supper" and hope for the best.

Now the screen shows me a series of pictures, one of each outfit thats supposedly appropriate for current needs. I scroll through the images, and I cant help but wonder as I peruse the selections how much each one costs. Theres probably enough money in this one room alone to keep all of the Centers programs afloat for a year, maybe more.

But I wont think about that. I cant—not if I dont want to fly into a murderous rage.

My finger pauses over an image on the screen: a casual, cerulean-blue popover shirt and the system automatically recommended a pair of slim fit khakis. Even if they arent my exact size, itll still look fine thanks to the flattering cut. Its nice and suits my style, and it doesnt look overly expensive—not that you can always guess. Im not sure what to do from here, so I tap my finger on the picture of the outfit.

"Items located in F12-AFD," says the computerized voice.

F12-what? I glance around, and I notice that the lights above one of the racks are brighter than they were a moment ago. I walk over, and after a moment of searching, I locate the blue shirt and pants.

I peel off my wet clothes—including my underwear, since theyre also soaked—and fold them over the edge of what I hope is the dirty clothes hamper. I pull the outfit on carefully.

Once everything is on and tucked where it should be, I go over to the floor-length mirror on the far side of the room. The shirt fits me well enough, but even a billionaires nicely colored shirt cant do much for my hair. I attempt to comb through the mess with my fingers, since there doesnt seem to be any product in this room. Oh well. I wont be the classiest thing to ever sit at the Andersons table, but Im passable. Certainly decent enough to fight for the Centers future.

I squeeze my feet into a pair of brown wingtips that I happened to see in the corner of the room and head back out to the hallway.

Blaine is already waiting for me. Hes leaning against the wall, but he straightens when I step out of the bedroom. His eyes run up and down my body.

"That suits you, Mr. Hummel," he says.

I ignore the compliment, but I cant keep the flush from rising to my cheeks. I also cant help but notice that his clean clothes suit him, too. Hes wearing pressed black pants and a pale gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair is still slightly mussed but seemed a bit drier than it had previously.

"Like what you see?" he says. I make a disgusted noise to hide the fact that hes caught me staring.

"I couldnt care less about what you look like," I say. "Im here to talk about the Center, thats all."

"Of course, Mr. Hummel." He gives a little smile, and I know he doesnt believe me for a minute.

"Shall we go down to the dining room, then?" He holds out his arm, and after a moment of hesitation I take it. Hes carried me through this house over his shoulder. Theres no reason I should be afraid to place my hand on his arm. But a prickle dances up to my elbow when I lay my fingers on his skin. I pretend not to notice. His other hand comes to rest on top of mine, enveloping my fingers in warmth, and I ignore that too. He can play the gentleman all he wants. I know hes still an asshole at heart.

The way down to the dining room is longer than I expect—this place really is humongous. You could get lost for weeks in here. And everything is ridiculously ornate: every banister is carved with intricate patterns, every floor spread with richly colored rugs, every wall hung with row upon row of artwork. I squint at some of the paintings as we pass, hoping to recognize a few of the artists—an enthusiast like the late Richard Anderson probably has a few works by some of the modern masters among his collection—but we move too quickly for me to make any connections.

"I can give you a tour later, if you like," Blaine says when he sees my interest.

I shrug noncommittally. I dont intend to stay here any longer than I need to. I plan to make my best case over dinner and then head home. Still, I cant help but marvel. This place is insane. One minute Im interacting with a computerized closet like someone in a sci-fi movie, and the next Im wandering through a corridor that looks like a nineteenth-century museum.

Finally Blaine stops in front of a pair of wide double doors.

"Here we are." He releases my hand and opens one of the doors for me, and I step through into what has to be one of the most extravagant dining rooms in existence. I mean, who needs a table long enough to seat thirty? Or a chandelier the size of a small car, with easily two or three hundred little bulbs that flicker just like candles? My eyes follow the chandelier chain, and I gasp when I notice the ceiling.

"My grandfather commissioned that mural after a trip to Italy," Blaine says.

I snap my jaw closed and tear my eyes away from the elaborate pastoral scene above our heads. Im not sure whether to be enthralled or repulsed by the beauty and excess of this room, and it leaves me with an unpleasant jumble of emotions in my belly. Instead I walk over to the long table, where now I see a single place has been laid at the head.

"Ive alerted the kitchen to the extra company," says Blaine. "Martin should be up with the food any moment." Hes gone over to a cabinet against the nearest wall, and when he turns toward me, he has several pieces of china in his hands. He comes over to the table and lays them out at the place to the left of his own: dinner plate, salad plate, cup and saucer. He returns to the buffet cabinet a second time, and this time he returns with the full array of silverware, including several pieces Ive only ever seen on the rare occasions Ive been to a particularly formal restaurant. But what did I expect in a dining room like this?

I shoot another glance at the painting on the ceiling and slip into my seat. Theres no reason we cant start talking about the Center while we wait.

"Mr. Anderson, I—"

"What do you drink, Mr. Hummel?" he says. "Would you care for a glass of wine?" A part of me knows that drinking is a bad idea, but another part knows a bit of alcohol in my system might make this whole thing more bearable.

"I dont suppose you have any whiskey?"

He chuckles. "Ill see what I can find." He strides over to a polished mahogany liquor cabinet and flings open the door. A moment later he returns with a glass and a bottle of amber liquid, which he holds in front of me for approval.

"Single malt. Fifty-two years old," he says. Its a make Ive never heard of—probably because Im used to drinking the cheap shit—and I suspect that this bottle, like everything else in this freaking house, cost a small fortune.

Ah, what the hell.

"Looks perfect." I try not to cringe as he pours me a glass. How much could even that much whiskey buy the Center? Some new brushes? A fresh coat of paint for the rec room?

Blaine is oblivious to my thoughts. He returns the whiskey to the cabinet and returns to the table with a glass and a bottle of wine for himself. I raise my drink to my lips and take a sip as I watch him pour his merlot. I have to admit, this expensive stuff is smooth, if nothing else. Ill have to watch myself —it would be easy to drink too much if I wasnt paying attention.

"Mr. Anderson," I begin again, setting my glass back on the table. "I really think—"

A door at the far end of the room flies open and an older man in chef whites bursts through, a cart of food behind him. The chafing dishes rattle as the cart bounces over the threshold, and again when the man stops suddenly, apparently startled to see us.

"Forgive me, sir," he says, blinking at us. "I didnt realize you were in here already."

"Its no problem," Blaine says jovially. "Mr. Hummel and I just sat down. Its my own fault for springing company on you at the last minute." He glances at me. "Mr. Hummel, this is Chef Martin, the best in the business. Hes been with my family for, what, thirty-five years now?"

"Thirty-seven this winter," the chef replies with a smile.

"And Martin," says Blaine, "this is Kurt Hummel from the Brooklyn Center for the Arts."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hummel," says Martin. He wheels the cart the rest of the way over to us, and now its close enough for the aroma to hit me. My stomach lets out an appreciative rumble.

"That smells amazing," I say.

"Itll taste even better," Blaine says.

The chef laughs. "Mr. Anderson flatters me."

"Not at all," Blaine replies. To me he adds, "Martin studied in Paris back in the day, and he spent time training in Italy and Austria as well."

"All that," the chef says, "and it took me fifteen years to learn to prepare vegetables in a way that would entice Mr. Anderson to eat them."

I smile in spite of myself.

"In all fairness to Martin," says Blaine, "I still contend that some vegetables are supposed to stay in the dirt and shouldnt be eaten at all."

"A sentiment that I consider a challenge." Martin grins and leans toward me conspiratorially.

"When he was little, I used to purée veggies and hide them in the sauce. And you dont even want to know how many green goodies I managed to sneak into his meatloaf."

This time I let out an actual laugh. The chef flashes a ruddy-cheeked smile at me.

"His worst offense," Blaine says, feigning annoyance, "was when he told me my Brussel sprouts were shrunken alien heads."

"One of my proudest moments," Chef Martin says. "You managed to choke down four before you realized Id tricked you."

"Martin cant keep a straight face to save his life," Blaine tells me.

The chef chuckles. "Would Mr. Anderson like me to serve?" he says.

"Ill handle it from here, I think," Blaine says. "Thank you, Martin."

"Of course, sir." He smiles at us. "Let me know if you need anything else." He retreats back out the door from which he came, and Blaine stands to go to the cart.

"He insists on calling me sir," he says with a little shake of his head. "Or Mr. Anderson."

"Whats wrong with that?" From where I sat, the two of them genuinely seemed to get on very well.

Blaine shrugs and grabs the bowl of salad from the top of the cart. "He says its a sign of respect, but it just makes me feel old. He used to call me by my name, but then my father died and I—" He pauses, looks at me, then shrugs again. "And now Im the one who signs his checks."

He sits down and scoops me a serving from the salad bowl. The tongs clang against the side of the bowl, and when I glance up at his face, I notice that his brows are drawn together, his mouth tight. His high spirits of just a moment ago have completely disappeared. He seemed so genuinely happy around Martin—what happened?

Now Im the one who signs his checks, he said. These past few months have completely changed Blaines life. Now he bears the financial burdens of this family, and it looks like he isnt particularly pleased by this new set of responsibilities. And why would he be? Hes spent most of his life without having to think about that sort of accountability.

Im not sure what to say, so I pick up my fork and look down at my plate. Pear and arugula with soft crumbled cheese—wow. If this is the salad course, I cant wait to see the rest. My stomach rumbles again, and I dive in with as much ladylike grace as I can still muster.

For a long while, neither of us speak. Im not sure whether talking will improve matters or only make them worse, and the last thing I want to do is broach the subject of the Center when hes in a foul mood. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the scrape of our forks against the china. I notice him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I dont acknowledge his gaze. Hes the one who suddenly got all awkward. Let him be the one to start the conversation again.

Unless...

I take another bite of arugula. Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe this silence is some sort of weird intimidation technique and hes trying to psych me out. Hes made it abundantly clear that he doesnt want to hear my spiel about the Center, and now hes making sure I fuck it up. Hes trying to get under my skin before I even start.

I grab my glass and take another swig of whiskey. I focus on the warm trail of the liquid as it slides down my throat. It pools in my belly like a little lump of courage.

Im being crazy, freaking out over nothing. Hes probably just being polite and waiting for me to begin. We had a deal, after all. I should just go ahead and spit it out already. I take one more sip of my drink and slide it back on the table.

"I know you havent had many chances to visit the Center," I say, sliding my finger across the edge of my glass, "but I really think if you came by youd see how much work we do for the community. And how much your familys contributions mean for our programs."

I glance up to find Blaine staring at me, his fork frozen halfway between his plate and his mouth. He lowers it again slowly, his eyes still locked on me, and I squirm in my seat.

"Not yet," he says, taking up his wineglass. I stare at him, confused.

"What?"

"Its not time to discuss it yet." He takes a sip of his wine. "I think we should enjoy our dinner first."

I frown. "We had an agreement."

"We still do. You sit through dinner with me, and I sit through your speech about your little Center." He leans toward me, his eyes intent on mine. "Trust me, Mr. Hummel, I always keep my word."

"Im not sure I do trust you, Mr. Anderson," I say. His hand slides toward mine on the table, and his finger brushes against the back of my palm. It sends a tiny shiver up my arm.

Blaine smiles, his eyes dancing wickedly. "You should, Mr. Hummel. Believe me, I think you would enjoy the experience very much."

I snatch my hand away from him. "Im not going to fall for that," I say. "Im not one of your supermodels. Im here for the Center, thats all." I can tell from the way the corner of his mouth curls up that he doesnt believe me. This guy isnt used to men resisting his charms. That and he doesnt even know that Im gay! "I broke onto your property," I remind him. "And I dripped mud all over your precious house. Besides, I dont think Im your type. And why would you even assume that youre mine?"

"You dont think I can admire a man with a little spirit? I told you before, Mr. Hummel, I admire your tenacity. And a few of your other assets, truth be told. And we both know that Im your type – you may have some fooled with your looks, but I can spot a fellow gay man like no other."

"You didnt seem particularly admiring when you were threatening to call the cops on me," I counter, resisting the blush that I can feel blooming under his assumptive statement. "If you think you can make me forget about why Im here, that Ill just throw over the Center for the chance to sleep with you or something, youre an idiot."

Humor dances in his eyes. "I never suggested that. Ive already made it clear that Im attracted to you, and its quite obvious that youre attracted to me as well. Im just saying that I dont see why you cant have it both ways. Or, come to think of it, why I cant have you a few dozen ways in the meantime."

"Youre disgusting," I say, standing up and throwing my napkin down on the table. "This is serious. The Brooklyn Center has done remarkable things for this community and its people—more things than youll ever appreciate or, dare I say it, do yourself, despite all your money or your fucking talking closets and fancy ceilings. If you refuse to talk about it... if youre just going to be ridiculous and crude, then fine. I wont waste any more of your time." I turn and storm toward the door.

"You cant leave," Blaine says calmly after me.

"Watch me."

"No," he says, just as my hand reaches the doorknob. "I mean its actually impossible for you to leave. Do you remember that mud you trampled through on your siege of my home? Id imagine the front walk is entirely flooded and with all the rain and potholes in the city, I highly doubt you want to take that clunker on a potentially life-ending drive back to Brooklyn. And car barely looks like it would make the block, let alone drive you any further regardless of rain. And with this weather, youd likely sit in your shitty car for hours – making you late and exceedingly grumpy Im sure."

My blood goes completely cold. I freeze, my fingers closed around the doorknob. "Youre lying."

"Im afraid not," he says, still as calm as ever. He raises his wineglass to his lips and takes another sip. "Im afraid, Mr. Hummel, whether you like it or not, youll be staying here with me tonight."

Panic rises in my throat. "You mean Im stranded here? With you?"

"It appears so." Blaine eyes me over his glass. "You dont have to look so terrified. Im not going to devour you or anything."

"Thats not exactly the impression you gave me a moment ago."

"Believe it or not, I prefer my men consenting. Enthusiastic, even. Until youre willing to admit that youre attracted to me, I wont lay a finger on you. After that..."

"There wont be an after that. Im not attracted to you. Quite the opposite, actually. Youre an asshole, and I dont care if Im stuck here tonight. Nothing is going to happen between us."

"Very well then," he says, nonplussed. "But since you cant leave, would you care to return to the table? I dont want Martins hard work to get cold while we sit here at our little stalemate."

"Its not a stalemate," I insist. "Theres no discussion here. Nothing will happen between us." He nods, unconcerned, and I want nothing more than to smack that smug smile off of his face. Is this really all just a game to him? Is he getting his kicks by pissing me off?

A part of me wants to storm from the room. Whether I can actually make it back to Brooklyn or not, I dont have to stand here and take this from him. But sulking out to my car feels more childish than sitting back down at the table, and I wont let him make me feel like a sullen brat. I sigh and return to the table, sinking into my seat and taking up my fork without giving Blaine a second glance.

Hes watching me, though. As soon as I put the last bit of salad in my mouth, hes on his feet and back at the cart again. He removes the lid from one of the silver chafing dishes, and a heavenly aroma greets my nostrils. Damn him and his brilliant personal chef. Im not feeling very complimentary right now, but my taste buds water in defiance of my dark mood.

The main course is pecan-crusted salmon with a side of buttered white asparagus. He serves me again, as he did with the salad. I offer him my polite thanks before falling back into silence.

The food does little to temper my anger. Neither does the way Blaine keeps looking at me. I still cant believe his arrogance. He thinks hes won, that Im halfway into bed with him already. Hes so used to men just falling over themselves for him. Well, not me. Hell will freeze over before that happens. I may be stuck here, but that doesnt change anything.

I sneak a glance at him when he leans forward to grab the wine bottle again. Sure, I can appreciate his looks from a purely aesthetic point of view. Those broad shoulders and strong jawline have, Im certain, left many a man swooning. If Im being honest, the longer hair and stubble and slightly relaxed appearance suit him far better than the über-polished look he sported at Arts & Hearts. But does that mean Im attracted to him? No. Hes still an ass, and a shitty personality can make even the finest man on earth seem ugly.

"Enjoying the view, Mr. Hummel?"

Heat floods my cheeks, but I recover quickly. "Merely musing on how arrogance can really bring a man down a few notches in the looks department," I say.

"Interesting observation." He pours himself more merlot. "Frankly Ive found that most men – and women, for that matter – seem to find confidence an asset, rather than a detriment to my appearance."

"Arrogance and confidence arent the same thing."

"Arent they, though?" he replies. "In my experience, most people respond quite favorably to a man who isnt afraid to tell them exactly what he wants and then follow through on it."

"Maybe you just attract the men who are easily blinded by money and compliments."

"Tell me, Mr. Hummel," he says, "why are you here, if youre not interested in my money?"

"Thats not the same thing at all."

"Isnt it?" He gestures with his fork. "Perhaps youre asking for a different application of the funds, but youre still interested in my money."

"What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Im not accusing you at all," he says pleasantly. "Im just asking you to take a hard look at what youre doing here before you start casting judgment on other people."

"Youre one to lecture me on morality," I counter. He shrugs. "Im only making an observation." No, I think. Youre only trying to bait me. Hes enjoying this whole thing too much, and Im making it way too easy for him. I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Continuing to get angry wont solve anything. I dont want to give Blaine the satisfaction of thinking that hes gotten under my skin. We spend the rest of the meal in silence. More than once I think about raising the issue of the Center.

After all, we had a deal. But Im too emotional right now. Even if I thought that I could change his mind about the Center—which I dont anymore—I cant even put together a coherent argument while Im this worked up.

When Ive eaten the last bit of food on my plate, I set down my fork.

"Tell Martin he outdid himself," I say evenly, though Im still actively fighting the urge to smack him upside the head. "Everything was wonderful."

Blaine smiles. "I will." He eyes drift to my empty glass. "More whiskey?"

I shake my head. "Actually, Im really tired. I think I might just go to bed."

If hes disappointed by that, he doesnt show it. "Do you need help finding your way back to your room?"

I wish I didnt, but I know Ill get lost if I try to find my way back on my own. I nod reluctantly. I swear—if he tries to make a move on me, Ill knee him in the groin. Blaine retains his easy confidence as we make our way back through his house. Im not sure how the arrogant bastard does it—how can he act so nonchalant, as if we never argued? Is it some skill he picked up from a lifetime of Never Having to Give a Damn?

I study him out of the corner of my eye as we walk. His moods seem to swing all over the place— one moment hes cocky and sexually aggressive, the next hes laughing with his personal chef, and still the next hes quiet and sullen and bitter. His face is carefully blank now, but what the hell is going on his head?

This man lost his father recently, I remember suddenly.

My own dads face flashes in my mind, and my stomach twists. Whatever I think of Blaine, I wouldnt wish that pain on anyone. He hasnt said much about the event except to reference his new status in the house. How is he handling all that? It cant be easy.

The hair, the scruffy appearance, the shadows under his eyes—theyre probably all signs of his emotional turmoil over the last few months. Richard Anderson was a good man, and I had the opportunity to speak with him several times about Center projects and business. He was genuinely passionate about our work, and about spreading the joys of the arts among people of all socio-economic classes—one of Wills main goals when he founded the Center all these years ago.

I wanted to go to Richards funeral, but it was a closed, private ceremony—family only. There were no photos in the tabloids, though of course there were plenty of ridiculous speculations about what did him in: drug overdose! Suicide! Murder (by the Mob, naturally)!

Will mentioned a couple of summers ago—some five-odd years after Richard began making significant financial contributions to our cause—that the mans health was fading. I suspected heart disease, but it wasnt honestly my place to know or ask. I can imagine what the familys been through these last few years. A slow death means plenty of time to say goodbye, but it can also cast a shadow over a family for a long time before and after the end actually comes.

I feel like I should say something or commiserate about losing a family member to illness, but before I can decide whether or not to offer my condolences to Blaine, he catches me watching him. Instantly the shadows in his face are replaced once more by wicked flirtatiousness. I quickly look away again, in no mood to suffer his charms.

"Its too bad youre tired," he says. "I would have liked to give you a tour, since you seemed so interested in the art before." He gives a little chuckle. "I believe I remember you mentioning the dungeons, too."

I roll my eyes. "I dont believe for a minute that you actually have dungeons."

"Youd be surprised."

"Is that where you keep your suit of armor?" I say. Every old mansion has one of those, right? "If you pull on its sword, does it reveal the door to some secret passageway?"

He chuckles. "No suits of armor, Im afraid. There are, however, plenty of secret passageways in this place."

I snort. "Yeah, right."

"Its true. When my great-great-father had this place built, it was still considered widely unfashionable for anyone to ever see the servants. Theres an entire network of passages and staircases behind the walls."

"Youre just fucking with me."

"You dont see it very often," he admits. "But I think it gives the place character. When I was younger, my friends and I used to have epic games of hide and seek."

"That sounds like something out of a book," I say. "Did you ever find Narnia?"

He lets out a laugh at that—a belly laugh, not one of the smug chuckles hes been sending my way all evening. "No Narnia," he says. "But if there were any magical passages in this place, they wouldnt be inside. Theyd be out in the maze."

I nearly trip over my own feet. "You have a maze?"

"The fourth-largest hedge maze in North America, last I heard." Whoa. Thats serious. Secret passageways and a hedge maze? Under any other circumstances, I would be delighted. This place is absolutely fascinating—no wonder the family has always been so weird about letting the press have a peek. If you share the secrets of a house like this with the world, they lose some of their luster. Im not too proud to admit that Im in a privileged position here, getting to look around. Blaine is even offering me a full-out tour.

But thoughts of the Center creep in again, and now all I can see is the elaborate excess. If you can afford to maintain a hedge maze, is it really such a huge thing to fulfill your pledge to a small nonprofit organization?

Blaine seems to sense the sudden change in my enthusiasm. "If you change your mind," he says, "you can contact me through the electronic tablet mounted on the wall next to your bed. I should be up for a while yet."

I nod, but now that Ive remembered my reason for coming here in the first place, Im no longer particularly interested in his dungeons and his mazes. By the time we reach the bedroom I used earlier, Im no longer sure what to say to him.

Fortunately, he takes the lead.

"Im very sorry things have been so... contentious between us. I think, under different circumstances, you and I might get along very well."

You mean circumstances where you dont screw over the Center? I think, Or just circumstances where I actually succumb to your advances? I dont voice the question aloud.

Hes studying my face. "Im not a terrible person," he says finally. "We all must make difficult choices sometimes." Of course, I tell myself. Whether to honor your familys pledge or pay for your next European jaunt is an extremely difficult decision. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. His dark eyes are boring into me. It makes my skin go hot, then cold. I really wish I knew what wasgoing on in his head.

I suspect hes stalling, testing the waters, looking for some hint of attraction or consent in my expression. Will he proposition me outright again? Or is he the type to grab me and kiss me without warning, and just bank on the fact that most women melt under his warm, soft lips? The image sends a strange tickling sensation across my skin, and I break his gaze. My heart is thumping madly in my chest, but I tell myself its nerves from the awkwardness of the situation.

"Goodnight," I say, before this scene spins out of control.

"Goodnight, Mr. Hummel," he says. "As I mentioned before, Ill be up for a while, should you change the mind about the tour."

"I dont think I will. Im really very tired."

He nods, and I reach for the doorknob. He makes no move for me as I retreat into the bedroom, and its only after I shut and lock the door behind me that I let out a sigh of relief.

That was close.

Ill admit, a part of me is surprised he didnt try anything else. He was so blunt and open over dinner. Maybe hes finally accepted that Im not going to jump into bed with him. Or maybe he changed his mind about jumping into bed with me.

Theres a pang in my stomach at that thought, and I tell myself its only bruised pride. Why do I care if he hits on me or not? I dont want him, and I certainly wont be climbing into bed with him anytime soon. Sure, hes not completely unappealing from a physical point of view, but theres more to a person than his looks. Hes an ass, and hes personally responsible for the financial struggles of the Center. Thats reason enough to stay away.

Theres no reason to trouble myself about it any longer.

Im not really that tired, but now that Im here, Ill admit Im more than a little excited to try out that awesome four-poster bed. It takes me about two minutes to find a set of pajamas in the enormous closet, and once Im changed I waste no time before diving headfirst into that glorious pile of comforter and throw pillows.

Its as heavenly as it looks.

I let out a sound of contentment and tug the fluffy white comforter around me. Maybe the trip out here wasnt just a waste after all. This is absolutely glorious. Id sell everything else in my apartment if I thought I could manage enough money to recreate the experience of this bed.

But the thought of finances brings my mood down again. I cant truly enjoy anything in this place while the Center struggles. It feels like a betrayal. Id love to have a bed like this, but Id give it up a hundred times over for a chance to save the Center.

There are a lot of other sacrifices Id make for us, too.

I roll over and grab my phone from the bedside table. My finger clicks through my contacts. After a moment, I reach an entry named "Do Not Answer: Dipshit," and my thumb hovers over the call button. Will has been begging me for two months to call my ex-boyfriend, but Ive resisted every time.

Ive told myself Im being strong, but I wonder now if Im only being selfish. I keep telling myself Ill do anything for the Center—hell, Ive broken onto the Anderson estate—but thats not the truth. Am I really willing to sacrifice the Center because Im afraid to talk to Adam? Because Im trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation? Does my ex really hold that much power over me still?

You dont know that hell be able to do anything, I tell myself. Hes a great salesman, but that doesnt mean hell be able to succeed where you and your dad have already failed.

So what if our donation numbers were through the roof when he volunteered with us? I know firsthand how convincing he can be when he turns on the charm. Will used to say that Adam could "sell green cheese to a moon man." But a part of me still refuses to believe that hes the only one who can get us out of this mess.

Besides, I tell myself, you dont even know that hell agree to help you at all. I dont have to make this decision tonight. One more day wont change the Centers situation.