I’m half hoping that when I get to Waverly Hall, Gavin won’t be there and I can turn around and go home.

But he’s there, all right, shivering in the arctic wind from the park. As I totter toward him in my high heels, he says, “You owe me, woman. I’m freezing my ’nads off.”

“Good,” I say, when I reach him. “Your ’nads get you into too much trouble, anyway.”

I have to place a hand on his shoulder to steady myself as I knock snow from my boots. He looks down at my legs and whistles.

“Jesus, sweetcheeks,” he says. “You clean up good.”

I drop my hand from his shoulder and smack him on the back of the head with it instead.

“Eyes forward, Gavin,” I say. “We’re on a mission, here. There’ll be no ogling. And don’t call me sweetcheeks.”

“I wasn’t,” Gavin insists. “Oggl—ogle—what you said.”

“Come on,” I say. I know I’m flushing. That’s because I’m beginning to have strong reservations about all of this—not just the miniskirt, but enlisting Gavin’s aid. Is this really the way a responsible college administrator behaves, meeting students—even ones who are twenty-one—in the dead of night outside of frat parties? Gavin’s already shown a marked immaturity when it comes to handling his alcohol consumption. Isn’t my agreeing to accompany him to an event like this just reinforcing his poor judgment? Am I an enabler? Oh, God, I am!

“Look, Gavin,” I say, as we move through the courtyard of the building toward the front door. I can’t see the under wear in the shrubbery anymore because it’s all covered with snow, but I can hear the pounding music coming from an upper floor, so loud it seems to reverberate inside my chest. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea. I don’t want to get you into trouble… .”

“What are you talking about?” Gavin asks, as he pulls the door open for me—always a gentleman. “How am I going to get in trouble?”

“Well,” I say. A blast of warm air from inside the lobby hits us. “With the drinking thing.”

Gavin shudders, despite the warmth. “Woman, I am never drinking again. You think I didn’t learn my lesson the other night?”

“Come in or close the door,” the guard roars from the security desk. So we hurry inside.

“It’s just,” I whisper, as we stand there stamping our feet under the glare of the security officer, “if Steve and Doug really are behind what happened to Lindsay, they’re extremely dangerous individuals… .”

“Right,” Gavin says. “Which is why you shouldn’t drink anything, either, once we get in there, that you didn’t open or pour yourself. And don’t leave your beer alone, even for a second.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “You really think—”

“I don’t think,” Gavin says. “I know.”

“Well, I—”

Behind us, the outer door opens, and Nanook of the North follows us inside.

Except it isn’t Nanook. It’s Jordan.

“Aha!” he says, flipping up his goggles and pointing at me. “I knew it!”

“Jordan.” I can’t believe this. “Did you just follow me?”

“Yes.” Jordan is having some trouble getting his skis inside the door. “And good thing I did. I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Close the door!” the crusty old security guard bellows.

Jordan is trying, but his skis keep getting in the way. Annoyed, I go to him to help, giving one of his ski poles a vicious tug. The door finally eases shut behind him.

“Who’s this guy?” Gavin demands. Then, in a different tone of voice, he says, “Oh, my God. Are you Jordan Cartwright?”

Jordan removes the ski goggles. “Yes,” he says. His gaze flicks over Gavin, taking in the goatee and Dumpster-wear. “Rob the cradle much, Heather?” he asks me bitterly.

“Gavin’s one of my residents,” I sniff. “Not my boyfriend.”

“Hey.” Gavin is wearing a tiny smile on his lips. I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “My mom really enjoyed your last album, man. So did my grandma. She’s a huge fan.”

Jordan, most of his scarves halfway unwound, glares at him. “Hey,” he says. “Fuck you, kid.”

Gavin feigns offense. “Is that any way to talk to the son of one of the only people who bought your last CD, man? Dude, that is cold.”

“I’m serious,” Jordan says to Gavin. “I just cross-country skied down here from the East Sixties, and I am in no mood for shenanigans.”

Gavin looks surprised. Then he grins at me happily. “Jordan Cartwright said shenanigans,” he says.

“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you. Jordan, put your skis back on. We’re going to a party, and you’re not invited. Gavin, buzz up so we can get someone to sign us in.”

Gavin blinks at me. “The frats don’t have to sign anyone in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say to him. “The sign-in policy is campus-wide. I’d show my ID to get us in, but, you know, I don’t want them knowing a housing official is on the way up.” I look at my ex, who is still unwinding his various scarves. “Jordan. Seriously. Gavin and I are here on a mission, and you’re not invited.”

“What kind of mission?” Jordan wants to know.

“One that involves keeping a low profile,” I say. “Which we aren’t going to be able to do if we waltz in there with Jordan Cartwright.”

“I can keep a low profile,” Jordan insists.

“The sign-in policy doesn’t include the Greek system,” Gavin says, in a bored voice.

I glance at the security guard. “Really?”

“Anyone can go up there,” the guard says, with a shrug. He looks almost as bored as Gavin. “I just don’t know why they’d want to.”

“Does this have something to do with that dead girl?” Jordan wants to know. “Heather, does Cooper know about this?”

“No,” I say, through gritted teeth. I can’t help it, I’m so annoyed. “And if you tell him, I’ll… I’ll tell Tania you cheated on her!”

“She already knows,” Jordan says, looking confused. “I tell Tania everything. She said it was okay, so long as I didn’t do it again. Listen, why can’t I go with you guys? I think I’d make an awesome detective.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I say. I’m still reeling from the information that his fiancée knows he cheated on her. I wonder if she knows it was with me. If so, it’s no wonder she always gives me such dirty looks whenever she sees me.

On the other hand, dirty looks are the only kind Tania ever gives anyone.

“You don’t blend,” I accuse Jordan.

Jordan looks insulted. “I do, too, blend,” he insists. He looks down at the skis he’s holding, then hastily leans them, and the ski poles, against the wall, along with his goggles. “Can you watch these?” he asks the security guard.

“No,” the guard says. He’s gone back to whatever it is he’s watching on his tiny desk-drawer television.

“See?” Jordan holds his arms out. He’s wearing a shearling coat, multiple scarves, jeans, ski boots, a woolly sweater with a snowflake pattern stitched into it, and a balaclava. “I blend.”

“Can we go up already?” Gavin wants to know, giving a nervous look out the door. “A whole bunch of people are coming. The max capacity of the elevator is three. I don’t want to wait.”

Tired of arguing with Jordan, I shrug and point to the elevator. “Let’s go,” I say.

I’m almost positive Jordan says, “Goodie!” under his breath.

But that’s not possible.

Is it?