Bummer.

I repeatedly checked my watch, the face of the grandfather clock in the Grand Library, and the digital readout on the room’s single computer screen, until they all agreed that it was time for me to head out. Exiting the Diggers’ tomb mid-day is a somewhat delicate operation, but in my tenure as a member, I’d figured out the trick of it, and managed to escape the property undetected by any of the barbarian students milling around the Art History building.

Brandon was waiting for me in the Calvin College common room. I pasted an awkward smile on my face in preparation for the inevitable awkward hug.

But when it came, it wasn’t awkward in the least. Brandon enfolded me in his arms and dropped his chin onto my shoulder and I almost gasped from the sudden, overwhelming sensation of fitting. With it came the memories: how Brandon wasn’t all that much taller than me and I hadn’t had to tilt my head up to kiss him; how every curve of his body seemed to fit perfectly against mine. I stiffened, steeling myself against the impulse to press against him, and pulled away. “Lunch?”

We engaged in idle chitchat all the way through the cafeteria line and the salad bar, and then Brandon directed me to an out-of-the-way table with only two chairs. Well, that answered my first question. We wouldn’t be sitting with his buddies.

As soon as we got settled, Brandon launched into a description of the various programs he planned on applying to and I responded in kind, all the while wondering how he expected me to know anything about what universities were looking for in a candidate for their Applied Math programs. I hadn’t taken a math class since high school. I’d earned all my Group Four—Eli-speak for science and math—credits in the natural sciences. What use would I be to him reviewing his applications? What was I even doing here?

“…though I really like the work they’re doing at the Courant Institute,” he was saying.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Courant is where, now?”

“NYU, Amy.”

“Right. Well, the one where you go to study in Antarctica sounded—”

Whoosh! A deluge of icy liquid spilled over me, soaking my hair, my clothes, everything! I jumped, but not quickly enough to dodge the shower of soda, pink lemonade, water, and juice.

“Oops,” said a smug voice behind me as I yelped. Antarctica, indeed. I whirled around, to see an unfamiliar kid standing above me, holding a tray covered in about ten tipped-over, extra-large dining hall glasses and the remains of their liquid contents.

The dining hall went silent as everyone directed their attention to our table. So much for flying under the radar.

Brandon had yanked a wad of napkins from the dispenser and was trying to mitigate the worst of the mess. “Say you’re sorry, jerk, and give us a hand.”

The guy shrugged. “You probably shouldn’t have left your bag in the aisle.”

I held my sticky, frigid shirt away from my chest and tried to mop up the puddle in my lap. “My bag?” I looked down and discovered that the damage to my person was nothing compared to what had happened to all my newly bought books and school supplies. “Oh my God,” I wailed, reaching for the sopping straps. Everything was ruined. I touched one sodden, pulpy pile. “This textbook was eighty bucks!”

“You disparage my aim?” the guy drawled.

“You’re saying it’s my fault you tried to turn me into a human soda machine?” I snapped.

“What the hell were you doing with all those drinks anyway?” Brandon demanded, using up the last of our table’s supply of napkins and starting anew with those swiped from the table next to us. Some nearby diners had pitched in to help stem the flood, and I felt carbonated beverage seeping into my underwear.

“I get dehydrated,” said the guy. He craned his neck over my shoulder to look into my bag. “Look on the bright side: Your computer wasn’t in there. I’d say you got off lucky, Amy Haskel. This time, at least.”

My mouth dropped open and my eyes shot to the collar of my assailant’s jacket, where a tiny, gold reptilian face leered. He turned and walked off before I could push away the hands that were wringing out my scarf and go running after him. Dragon’s Head! It was starting already?

I rose and tried to follow him, but the move dislodged several wayward ice cubes that immediately found their way into my crotch. I attempted a subtle jiggle (unsuccessful, I might add), and stopped walking, for fear the ice would shift left and press against spots even more sensitive than my inner thigh.

“What an asshole,” Brandon said. “Look, let’s go. Our lunches are drenched, and you need some dry clothes.”

I nodded, poured the excess liquid from my bag into a nearby cup, and let Brandon bus our trays of ruined food while I prayed for the ice to melt as quickly as possible.

Of course, ice in my pants was the least of my problems. Even my gorgeous new camel coat—a Christmas present from my grandmother—was stained with starbursts of orange soda and…was that fruit punch? Great. Just great. I gingerly tried to slip my arms into the sleeves for the trip outside, but Brandon stopped me.

“It’s too cold for you to go out all wet. Come on, we’ll get to my suite through the basement.”

I followed him down into the tunnels that twisted below each residential college. This was where they kept all the goodies reserved only for their residents—everything from laundry rooms and student-run burger joints called “butteries” to bowling alleys and squash courts. We wound through the narrow, dimly lit hallways and I began to shiver.

Wait until the other Diggers heard about this! And where was I supposed to find the funds to replace the sticky mess Dragon’s Head had made out of my course materials? I wondered if Rose & Grave had any kind of emergency scholarships for knights who were victims of another society’s taste for vengeance, since I couldn’t picture explaining to my parents what I’d done with this semester’s book money. And let’s not start on my coat.

Ahead of me, Brandon stopped and turned. “Amy, you okay?”

“Aside from the obvious?” I wrapped my arms tighter around my torso.

I felt his fingers on my chin, and he tilted my face up to his. “Your teeth are chattering.”

They were. I clenched my jaw. “I’m fine. Just cold.”

He said nothing, just stared at me.

Um, hello, cold? Maybe we should keep going until we get out of these tunnels? But I didn’t say that, because under his gaze, I didn’t feel chilly at all anymore. Nope. Downright warm.

“Amy—” he whispered.

I stepped back, and the—feeling, the moment, whatever it was—fell away. I hugged myself even harder, trying to quell the need to get close. “I could, um, really use some dry clothes right about now.”

“Of course. Come on.” He put his hand on my shoulder to guide me up the stairs to his entryway. I could feel humid, sticky heat burning through the material of my sweater and deep into the flesh of my arm.

The first time Brandon and I slept together had been Valentine’s Day, almost a year ago. There’d been none of that weird, first-time-with-a-new-girl fumbling on his part. Like I said: The guy was a natural. Such a natural, in fact, that I’d put up little resistance when he’d repeated the persuasion act several times over the next few months. But he’d wanted a real relationship, and I’d resisted. Logical as the Applied Math major was, he had a mental block regarding my deplorable girlfriend potential, probably because we got along so well as friends. And yet I had no problem with the sex; bed was the one place where all the Brandon/Amy equations balanced perfectly.

He showed me into his unfamiliar suite and made a beeline for what I assumed was his bedroom. “I think I’ve got some spare sweats it wouldn’t embarrass you too much to wear,” he called back.