* * *
The next morning it’s still raining, but this time the gray scene outside my window brings a rush of relief. I have more time to win back the money for the Center. I shoot my dad a quick text to update him on the situation—I can’t bear to hear his hopelessness over the phone, not when I need all my strength today—and I head into Louisa’s closet to do some strategic dressing.
I end up selecting a sundress again, since Calder seems to respond well to those. This one is white with a sweetheart neckline and tiny straps—the perfect combination of “angel” and “temptress.” I actually have time to style my hair today, so I let it hang loose around my shoulders.
Perfect.
He arrives at my room just as I’m slipping on a pair of strappy sandals. His eyes widen when I open the door.
“You like?” I tease.
“That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He reaches out and touches my hair, letting it slide through his fingers.
I catch his hand.
“Are you going to stand there and drool, or are you going to take me downstairs?” I say. “I’m starving.”
He pulls his hand away and clears his throat.
“Of course, Ms. Frazer,” he says, his voice like honey. His eyes linger on my bare shoulders.
Easy, Mr. Cunningham, I think as I take his offered arm. This time I press a little closer than usual, near enough that our shoulders brush against each other as we move down the hallway. I feel the muscles in his arm contract beneath my hand.
Our little dance only continues over breakfast. I’m driven by the same sense of wild recklessness that has possessed me all weekend, and I find myself toying with him: first a gentle touch on his wrist, then an “accidental” nudge from my foot beneath the table.
But Calder’s not without a few tricks of his own. For every flirtatious glance I send him, he flashes one of his disarming smiles at me. For each of my subtle touches, he finds ways to touch me in turn.
“Tell me,” I say, trying to distract myself from the way his knee is brushing against mine beneath the table. “Any wild stories from all that time you spent in Europe?”
His eyes widen. “I’m not sure you want to hear any of those.”
“No?” I brush my finger gently across his knuckles. “I bet you have some good dirt on some of those models you dated. What was that one with the pink hair? Elise something?”
He catches my roving fingers and holds them tight. “Do you really want to start up a conversation about our past lovers?”
Lovers? Who even calls them that? Still, thinking about Calder and his perfect ex-girlfriends is certainly one way to keep my wits about me. Just the thought of him with some perky little waif is enough to make my stomach churn.
Calder gives my fingers a little squeeze, and his eyes gleam.
“Besides,” he says, “why would I want to think about them when I have a beautiful woman right here in front of me?”
I shouldn’t let his flattery get to me, but I find myself squirming in my seat at the compliment.
“Well you must have done something else,” I say. “In Europe, I mean. Besides dating. And partying.”
Calder gives a little smile.
“Yes, despite how I’m sure the tabloids made it appear, my father made sure I had plenty to do.” He releases my hand and sits back in his chair. “He called it my cultural education. Said I wouldn’t get my inheritance unless I was fluent in five languages. And I served as his proxy with several organizations. He had me sitting on the advisory boards of several museums and one university.”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That must have been amazing.”
He looks at me as if I just claimed the sky was green.
“It was ridiculous, that’s what it was.” He runs his hand through his hair. “There I was, some entitled twenty-something who would’ve much rather been in a nightclub than debating the finer points of Manet and Monet with some stuffy old men. And yet my father had promised them some piece of his collection or a new wing or something, and suddenly I’m at the heart of all these important decisions. I never wanted that responsibility, and honestly, they shouldn’t have given it to me in the first place. No organization should rely on the whims of the wealthy.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s the truth. I could’ve suggested we keep live giraffes in the lobby and they would have applauded my genius, all because they were afraid to lose my family’s contributions. I might have driven them into the ground with one ridiculous idea after another, and they would have continued to grasp desperately at each one.”
I can only stare at him in shock. But he’s not done yet.
“That’s the problem—desperation. These organizations are desperate for money, and they’ll sacrifice their better sense to get it. It’s a ridiculous model. What happens when the money’s not there? What happens if they say no to the giraffes? What happens if their rich donor suddenly decides he’d rather invest in ice cream or jet-packs than a worthy institution?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Cunningham,” I say, my voice hard. “What happens?”
He looks up, suddenly aware of what he’s said.
“Lily, I—”
“No.” I drop my fork on my plate, no longer hungry. “Tell me, Mr. Cunningham, since you seem to be an expert on such things. What happens to that organization that dares to rely on the goodwill of others?”
“I shouldn’t have been so blunt, but I think I’m making a valid point here. People will, first and foremost, look out for their own interests. If they have money and goodwill to spare, then they might share it, but you can’t rely on that generosity if you’re trying to run a successful business. In this economy, you must be cutthroat, even if you are a not-for-profit institution.”
“And you learned this how, exactly?” I say, rising. “During your time asking museums to put giraffes in their lobbies? Or was it from all those years you spent climbing the corporate ladder?”
“Lily, if—”
“No,” I say, fighting the urge to punch him. “Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me how to run the Frazer Center? The only reason we’re in trouble is because of you, and somehow you’ve twisted it all around and made it our fault. Your father signed a contract. A contract. Forgive me for believing that was a legally binding promise.”
Calder tries to grab my arm, but I twist out of his reach.
“I can’t believe that I thought, even for a minute…” I shake my head, trying to dispel the onrush of strange emotions I’ve built up over the past couple of days. How could I be so stupid?
“Lily, please,” Calder tries once more to grab my hand, but I yank it away from him.
“I’m done,” I say. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cunningham, I don’t mean to impose upon your generosity ever again.”
I turn and storm out of the room, breaking into a run as soon as I reach the hallway. I don't bother looking back to see if he's following me. By some divine intervention, I manage to find the front door of the damned place without too much trouble, and I tear out into the rain.
I'm soaked through almost instantly, but I don't care. I strip off my shoes and run down the driveway, my feet slapping against the cobblestones.
Damn him. Damn him straight to hell. After everything he’s put us through, who the hell gave him the right to lecture me about how to run the Frazer Center?
Screw him. We don't need his money anyway. Garrett's helping us now—maybe he can scare up an even bigger donor. Or maybe Dad and I will find a way to revamp our classes without leaving our students to make up the difference in our funds. We'll make do without Calder’s help. We have to.
I reach the gates and climb through them once more, jumping down next to the front bumper of my car. It's then, only then, that I realize I've left my purse back in my room. My wallet, my phone, my keys…
My car's still unlocked, thank God, which is the only thing that keeps me from having a comp
lete and total breakdown in front of the Cunninghams' gate. I open the door and throw myself down on the backseat. I rub my cheek against the rough fabric of the cushion and force myself to take a couple of deep breaths.
It's all my own fault, I know. I don’t know how to keep my emotions at bay. I should’ve just let him rant and focused on winning the bet. Now I’ve let that final opportunity slip out of my fingers.
My physical reaction to him doesn't help anything. It only gets me worked up, and my efforts to fight down my attraction only make me more frustrated.
I try to focus on the patter of rain against the roof of my car.
He's a cheap, heartless bastard, I remind myself, but it doesn't make me feel any better. At the end of the day, he has no respect for the work Dad and I do. I repeat that thought in my head, over and over again, until eventually, mercifully, the sound of the rain sends me off to sleep.