All right, no, that’s unfair. Claire’s friend is hot, too. Nice butt, in tight jeans, an inch of skin displayed under the hem of a lovely blouse with a healthy cleavage, she’s a looker. I would likely consider her entirely fuckable any other day. Her bangs and long black hair, plus huge glasses, also give her a bit of a prudish vibe. She’s playing the sexy librarian, and it works for her. But instead, I only watch Claire.

Holy fuck, what’s wrong with me?

7. Claire

7

CLAIRE

I try not to gawk stupidly at everything, but gosh, it’s hard. This place is insane. It looks like the kind of club I see in TV shows; too posh and luxurious to really exist. The furnishings are all warm, dark leather—the kind that looks like it’ll be the same in fifty years.

In high school, I used to know a girl whose dad was making a fair bit of money in estate planning. She always had the latest of everything, followed the last fashions. A few years back, she invited Noah and me to her birthday party. We’d never been close, as she was part of the popular crew—a cheerleader—but Noah wanted to go, so we did.

Her house was the very opposite of this. I could tell every piece of furniture was chosen because it was expensive, or well known, or fashionable, but the overall vibe was cold, impersonal, uncomfortable.

This house is…cozy’s the wrong word, but I can imagine people just lying back on those sofas and reading a book. I bet they’re comfortable. There are too many students here tonight, so most of us are standing, but I’m curious to try my theory someday.

This isn’t the obvious, in your face, I-make-six-figures-a-year that I’ve encountered in the past. This place whispers wealth. Every piece goes together. I get the feeling most of the interior has been there for decades, and yet, it still looks pristine. All because the right thing was purchased from the start.

The art on the walls is another indication that I’m most definitely no longer in Kansas, Toto. The brushstrokes and the colors make it clear they’re all genuine, and every piece is stunning. But also interesting. I find myself looking at a red and gold abstract on white canvas that seems to speak of violence, pain, and beauty all at once.

“That’s Markus’s,” someone says.

I steel myself, recognizing the deep, slow, low timbre, which makes no sense as we’ve spoken literally twice.

Plastering a smile on my face, I turn to face Darius Keller. “Oh?”