The house before me looks far too dignified to contain leaky faucets or creaky floorboards. The Scholenberg house I’m staying in and the other residences I walk past daily are all designed in what I’ve come to recognize as traditional German style: brightly colored and half-timbered. But the mansion before me is Baroque in appearance, both symmetrical and stately. There’s a courtyard containing topiaries and statues that wouldn’t look out of place at a royal residence cradled between the two wings of the house that jut out to the left and right. Beck parks at the very edge of the cobblestones.

“So, is your house behind the palace?” I ask, only half kidding.

He grins. “Come on. We’re late.”

“Oh, is that why you were driving like we were fleeing a crime scene?”

Beck laughs. “No. I just like driving fast. And I’m not exactly worried about getting a ticket.”

Of course he’s not. Any cop would probably just ask for his autograph.

I follow him through the courtyard and glass-paneled doors into the marble entryway, feeling very out of place in my athletic apparel. One major I tried out before settling on public relations was architecture, and I feel like I’ve stepped inside one of the chateaus or palazzos we would study slideshows of in the intro class.

There’s a flurry of German to the left, and a statuesque blonde girl who looks to be about my age appears, stopping at the bottom of the staircase.

“Hi, Sophia,” Beck replies.

The blonde switches to flawless English. “You brought a girl to brunch?” She sounds thoroughly displeased about it.

“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” Beck replies.

“Ah, that explains it. Plans change. People don’t, apparently.” She huffs out an annoyed sigh.

I’m worried Beck’s managed to double-book his family brunch when she holds a hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Sophia Beck.”

I see glimpses of the family resemblance. She’s got the same pronounced cheekbones and shiny blonde hair as her older brother. “Saylor Scott,” I respond, shaking her firm grip.

“You’re American,” she realizes.

“Yes,” I respond, tempted to make a joke but uncertain how it will be received. She still looks annoyed by my mere presence.

“Are you a model?” she asks me.

I laugh. “Ha. No. I play soccer. I mean, football.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Are you any good?”

“Yes,” I respond immediately.

She laughs. “I like you, Saylor Scott.”

“Thank you?” I reply, unsure how to take her quick about-face. But when her attention jumps right back to Beck, I realize bouncing between topics might just be her personality.

“Do you not own any nice clothes?” Sophia asks him, surveying Beck’s clothes disdainfully.

“Do you not own pants?” he retorts, studying Sophia’s admittedly short dress.