With a sharp nod, Mrs. Brougham glided out of the room. And I do mean glided. If it weren’t for her heels’ rhythmic clacking, I would’ve insisted she was carried out on some sort of invisible conveyer belt.

“Sure, nice to meet you, too,” I whispered, before I could stop myself. It probably wasn’t the best thing to say with her son still in earshot.

But if Brougham was offended he didn’t show it. He just tore his eyes away from the door she’d left through and pursed his lips. “With my parents, you’ll be better off lowering your expectations,” he said. “We can go into the back room.”

On the way through the maze that was his house, Brougham made a pit stop in the glossiest kitchen I’d ever seen. Everything was shiny and reflective, like someone had taken Photoshop to real life. Gleaming white countertops, pristine glass cabinets built into the walls guarding crystal plates and glasses. A mahogany island counter so reflective I could make out my awed expression on its side. The floor so polished I felt rude to be tracking my school shoes over it.

Brougham, still oblivious to my wonderment, dug around in his refrigerator—which I was sure contained only the very most expensive, fanciest, organic, locally sourced produce—and then emerged with a bunch of grapes and a small wheel of Brie. He set about arranging them on a plate, along with some water crackers, and only then did he glance up and notice my face.

“Sorry, will these do?” he asked.

Truly, a personal chef couldn’t have whipped up anything that would’ve delighted me more than the sight of a whole wheel of Brie. It’s not like I’d never had cheese before, but it wasn’t exactly a staple in either parent’s house. This was all so fancy.

“It’ll do, I suppose,” I allowed.

In the back room—a second living room that smelled like rosewater, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a groomed, unnaturally green backyard—Brougham flopped into a cream leather armchair, resting the plate on the glass end table with a clink. “So, how does this work?”

I shucked off my backpack, tucked my skirt under my thighs, and lowered myself into the matching chair. “It doesn’t. I usually write emails, remember?”

“Okay, so, what do you do when you get a letter?”

“Depends on the letter.”

Brougham’s face was thoughtful as he pulled a grape off the bunch. He held it up with a questioning expression, and I nodded with a bit more enthusiasm than I meant to, and snatched it from midair when he tossed it my way. He was still a blackmailing asshole, so I didn’t want to be too grateful, but it was nice to be fed.