**MIRANDA'S POV**
The headache announced itself first—a champagne-fueled jackhammer between my temples. My fingers tangled in sheets that cost more than my monthly allowance. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered like the jewelry Mother kept trying to force on me.
Christ. What did I drink last night?
The shower shut off. I grabbed the nearest weapon—a solid bronze Booker Prize paperweight from the nightstand—just as the bathroom door opened.
Nicholas Stephen stood there, a towel slung low enough to reveal the surgical precision of his hipbones. Water snaked down the ridges of his abdomen, disappearing where the towel clung.
'This is how Gatsby must have looked,' some drunken English Lit minor part of my brain supplied.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice carried the same dark amusement he'd used last night when I'd—oh God—quoted Plath while straddling him.
"My parents' trust fund paid for four years of private education." I lifted my chin. "I know quality when I see it."
His laugh wasn't kind. "Yet you work at that café."
The reminder stung. My internship at the gallery had fallen through, and Daddy's checkbook wasn't something I touched for minimum wage jobs. Not after the Derrick incident.
I reached for my dress—black, designer, bought with my own money from summer internships. "I have a tutorial at ten."
His fingers closed around my wrist before I could stand. "Tell me, Miranda." His thumb stroked the delicate bones. "Does Professor Langley know you're using his class to avoid your thesis?"
The air left my lungs. How the hell—
The Rolex on his wrist glinted as he checked the time. "You've got eighteen minutes to make it to Bobst Library." His smile showed teeth. "Run."