Suddenly, Gabe was behind her, his hands on her waist, his breath on her neck. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. It was after five. She’d been too excited, too busy packing to eat much lunch. She suddenly realized she was famished.

Gabe drove them to an adorable inn with a cozy farm-to-table restaurant. Conversation flowed easily, flirty banter mixed with heavier topics—fossil fuel reliance, foreign intervention. Nat had grown up in a home where the TV was a ubiquitous dinner guest. They did not discuss politics over their meals, did not discuss anything of consequence. Her father had liked sitcoms. Derek liked sports. And her mom seemed perfectly fine with the constant electronic babble. Gabe’s daughter would have been raised on stimulating, thought-provoking dinner conversation. The girl would be informed and sophisticated; not like Nat.

They lingered over a shared dessert (apple pie with local cheddar) and wine. Nat was drinking most of it—Gabe was driving. And she needed the alcohol to calm her nerves. As the night wound down, her anxiety about what was to come increased. Gabe had planned this getaway with certain expectations. He had picked her up, paid for the room, and bought her dinner. In return, he would want sex. Nat understood this, accepted it. But still . . . she was afraid. Making love would change their relationship, it always did. And it would change her. Once she slept with Gabe, the man who paid her monthly allowance, she would be a prostitute . . . no matter how much she cared for him.

On the drive back to the house, she felt an odd mixture of nerves and sedation, simultaneously wound up and wiped out. The country road was dark, with no streetlights or oncoming traffic to illuminate their journey. She glanced over at Gabe, at his profile in the glow of the dashboard lights. He looked strong and handsome, younger in the dim lighting. She felt a flutter in her chest—attraction, infatuation, genuine fondness. If she focused on those feelings, and not that envelope full of cash, maybe . . . just maybe.

When they reached the farm, Gabe parked the car and they scurried through the frigid night to their cozy cottage. Gabe turned on the gas fireplace and opened the bottle of red their hosts had left for them. Reading the label, he shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“I’ll be right back,” Nat said, grabbing her purse and heading to the bathroom. She ran the faucet and peed (she didn’t want to subject Gabe to the sound of her bodily functions). Scrounging in her bag, she found her travel toothbrush and compact floss. She cleaned her teeth, then freshened her lip gloss. She took in her reflection in the mirror—a little wan, glassy-eyed, but fine. Before she returned to her partner, she checked her phone.

Her Instagram photo had received a decent number of likes. She scrolled through a handful of comments. Her classmate Ivan had commented:

Vermont?!?! Why didn’t you invite me bish!