My text chimes less than thirty seconds later.

I peer over the stack of pillows on my bed at the glowing iPhone screen, and my heart leaps into my throat. Obviously, it isn’t Holden—how can it be? I just sent the email.

I paw around in my sheets until I have the cell in my hand, pulse pounding as I read the short text.

It’s Holden: You blew it.

My pulse spikes. I scroll to his next message, hands trembling: You had until midnight. It’s well past that.

Fuck. I check the alarm clock again, willing it to rewind two bloody hours. Another fantasy that doesn’t have a chance of panning out. I write: You didn’t specify which time zone.

Crickets.

A bead of sweat slips between my shoulder blades. I stare at the screen, desperately anticipating his response. It’s possible he won’t answer at all, if nothing more than to send a signal.

I cradle the phone in my sweaty palms and wait. At least a minute goes by. I’ve almost given up, when my screen flashes and I flinch at the high-pitched chime. Another message: I need a reason to give you a chance.

My hackles raise. A reason? Holden might be sexy as hell, but his arrogance has already begun to grate on my nerves. I consider blocking his number and forgetting that I emailed him at all. But my mind wanders back to that dream—so real, I can feel my thighs start to tingle, even now.

I admit, I’m beyond curious.

And maybe Lindsay is right. It’s not like I’m going to marry the guy. Ten sexual acts. What could possibly go wrong? I start to type a response and then delete it, shocked at the words I almost use. I refuse to sound desperate, even if I am. Instead, I text: I’ve had a chance to think it through. I pause, and then add: You were right—I can’t forget you.

I hit send before I can retract the flirtatious message. Jesus. I am so far out of my comfort zone I might as well be on a different planet.

His following response makes my insides quake.

Prove it.

Prove it? My stomach clenches with unease. How the hell does he expect me to do that?

Moonlight streams through the window across from my bed, basking the room in a bluish romantic tinge. A streetlight on the corner of the street burns bright, paving a path for students staggering home after evening parties or sorority gatherings. I’m not into that level of interaction. The more people get to know me, the more likely I am to spill my deepest, darkest secrets—and doing so would alienate me from the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

Damn it. I’ve come so far. Faced demons, found purpose, stopped running from the past. Mom says she’s proud of my strength, even though she doesn’t agree with my choice to come here. It should be enough.

And yet despite all I have accomplished, there are gaps. Pieces of my past that are incomplete and affect my future. Can it be that Holden is the only one with the power to make me whole?

God, I hope not.

I text: How do I prove myself?

His response is immediate: Come to my apartment right now, and do one act of my choosing for free.

My breath hitches. I curl into the mattress, wrapping myself in blankets, a feeble attempt to calm the millions of goosebumps that stand erect on my cool skin. I read the message again, processing each word, looking for hidden meanings.

There’s none. Holden’s command is crystal clear.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, stand, and carry my phone to the window. Outside, the skyscrapers in New York City’s financial district twinkle under a jet-black sky. I imagine Holden in one of them, staring out across the city, waiting for my response, thinking of me…and my pulse thrums with fresh desire.

I text: It’s 2:00 in the morning.

A beat of silence stretches for an eternity and I worry I may have pissed him off. After begging for a second chance, perhaps my hesitation isn’t wise. I appear wishy-washy. Indecisive.

I think back to my conversation with Lindsay, resisting the temptation to burst through her bedroom door with questions and a plea for advice. There’s no need. I already know what she’ll say.

Resigning to the inevitable, I respond: Okay. Send me your address, I’ll be there a soon as I can.

I can almost see his wolfish grin through the phone. He answers with the name of his building, followed by his suite number—the penthouse, of course—and one last important instruction: Dress in a short skirt, no panties or bra, and be here within the hour. Don’t be late.