Lucas nodded, listening—actually listening.

“Speaking of Charlie,” he said. “Sheeee . . . have an okay night?”

I gave a nod. “More or less.”

He frowned at that, tilting his head at me. “Did she mention another encounter?”

“Um, no.” I folded my arms and leaned a hip against the wall, trying to gain a little distance from him so some of my brain cells could regenerate. Because that smell of aftershave mixing with his sweat? It kept bringing me . . . images.

“Well, it seems like there’s something,” he said.

That morning—all day, in fact—I’d spent as much time waffling on how much to tell Lucas as I had on whether to seek him out in the first place. And now here I was, face-to-face, wanting to tell him about my dreams with Erik. But after Erik’s adamant warning that I needed to keep Lucas off our property, I’d convinced myself not to. Though Lucas could probably offer insight into my theory that Erik, if in fact he was real, was being held prisoner in the house by Zedok, I could think of no better way to have Lucas tromping straight back into Moldavia than to open my mouth about it.

Then again, what if Lucas didn’t believe me? Would telling him about my conversations with Erik just convince him I was as attention-seeking as Charlotte had accused me of being?

For the time being, until I could get proof that Erik was real, it was probably best to keep Lucas out of my house.

“Things are . . . okay at the moment,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. Of course, it also left me high and dry regarding the reason for my being there.

“Soooo . . .” He gripped the window ledge, leaning into it and maybe even a little into me. “Since you’re not here to tell me there’s blood dripping down the walls—”

“That doesn’t really happen,” I chided him, but only because I wasn’t sure.

“What I was saying,” he went on, “was that if you’re not here about your house, then, well, you must have come for your dance lesson.”

My mouth popped open, but a smile fought its way through my shock. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

He pulled his phone from a back pocket.

“Let’s ssssee here,” he muttered, his thumb tapping the screen until, suddenly, music started pouring from its speakers.

Stiffening, I glanced up the stairwell and down. No one was there. But it wouldn’t be too much longer before the bell rang and the halls flooded with people and—

“Wait a second,” I said, glancing toward his phone. “Is this a Buddy Holly song?”

“Who?” he asked, taking hold of my hand after setting his phone on the windowsill.

I didn’t get to say anything else, because that’s when his other hand went to my waist. My free hand went to perch on his bicep, which might as well have been forged from iron. I mean . . . holy Winter Soldier, Batman.