Page 76 of His Turn

“I know.” I laugh. “Don’t be stupid. It’s for my dad. He’s buying a house.”

My dad? Oh, my God.

“Oh,” Matthew says, hand on hip. Pursed lips on face. “So you’re moving in with him? Chris just told me you’re vacating the apartment. I think I’ll apply for it.”

“You should,” I say brightly as I take the envelope back and stuff it in my locker.

“Elias Bricman though,” Matthew says, rubbing his chin in a gesture that says he doesn’t believe a fucking word I’m saying. “I didn’t know he’s a real-estate agent.”

“I think he owns houses there.” I leave it at that. Just grab my water bottle and go to class.

But the whole time I’m dancing I’m also thinking.

Nice move, Bricman. I have to hand it to him. He’s definitely playing his A-game with me. He’s got everyone talking about me, he’s got my full attention, and he’s picking me up at three. Smiling. And wearing something classy.

We take a break at eleven forty-five and I head straight for my locker, grab the envelope, and retreat to a stall in the bathroom.

The brochures are glossy and sleek. The houses are huge and pretentious.

The note is direct.

Nadia—

Choose three and text me before noon so I can set up the appointments.

Elias.

Shit. I only have like eight minutes to meet his demands. I shuffle through dozens of brochures. Randomly choose three, take pictures, text.

Done.

Take that, asshole.

The rest of my day goes as planned. I work hard. I sweat my ass off. I make my body ache and my feet hurt, until everything goes numb. I am berated repeatedly by the ballet mistress, but we all know if she’s not berating you on technique, or style, or lack thereof, she’s not seeing you. And we all want to be seen.

At two, I’m exhausted, but high on dancing endorphins. When I get to my apartment I have forty minutes to turn myself into something classy for the monster I’m… dating.

At two fifty-five I’m in the lobby wearing a cream-colored pencil sweater dress, a pair of tan leather knee-high boots, and a cape. And I have an ostentatious bag on my arm that Jordan got me the first real date we went on.

At exactly three o’clock Bric pulls up in his silver BMW.

I wait in the lobby, our eyes meet, and I can almost see him roll his eyes as he gets out of the car and comes inside to greet me.

Because I will not run out to his stupid car and get in like a teenager. If he thinks I will allow him to treat me like some cheap drive-up whore, he’s wrong.

“Miss Wolfe,” he says, checking out my choice of outfit as he offers me his arm.

“Mr. Bricman,” I say back.

He leads me to the car, where the valet is already opening the door. I slide into the soft leather seats and then he’s inside with me, hand on the gear shift. Car moving forward.

“Do you approve?” I ask.

He glances at me and nods. “Very nice.”

“I’m classy enough for you?”

“Yes,” he says. Short. Curt. Dick. “Interesting choices,” he says after a few seconds of silence.