“Ms. Hansen?”
I drop my chin and look at the doorway. A man stares at me, brilliant blue eyes roaming from head-to-toe. I assess him back. He’s a little older than me, maybe mid-twenties. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. His hair matches the color of his outfit and even though it’s a casual look, it makes my travel clothes of skinny jeans and a hoodie look a lit
tle grubby. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Dylan. I’ve been expecting you.” He moves quickly down the steps and meets me at the curb. “Here, let me assist you with that.”
“Thank you. It’s heavy.”
He picks it up with ease, as though it weighs nothing. Surprised, I check out his expansive shoulders and the bulge of his biceps straining against the fit of his shirt. Okay, so Dylan works out.
I follow him up the steps and notice the six call buttons just outside the door. Each has a first initial followed by a last name. I spot mine by the number four. I smile and point. “That’s mine?”
“Yep. When you have a visitor they’ll have to be let in by you or someone else in the house.”
“I’ve always heard New York is dangerous. Is it really that bad?”
“For a beautiful woman like you?” he says, with an earnestness that makes me blush. “You’ll always need to be careful.”
He opens the door and I walk in first, eyes popping at the interior. This isn’t a house. It’s a mansion—decked out in the finest décor. My boots slide on the marble floor and massive gilded mirrors flank each wall. A sparkling chandelier hangs overhead and an enormous staircase is in the back of the room, leading to the next floor.
I walk over to one of the mirrors.
Jesus, I look like hell.
My long, dark hair is a mess, having mostly fallen out of the bun I twisted it into hours before. Dark circles highlight how tired I am, giving my blue eyes a haunting look. A drop of brown soda left a stain just below my neckline when the airplane hit a patch of turbulence. And my favorite boots look shabby and cheap against the pristine floors.
My silver charm glints in the mirror and I make eye contact with Dylan’s reflection. I touch the intricate design, feeling oddly exposed. For a brief second I consider that something about his face looks vaguely familiar. When I turn on my heel and face him directly I no longer see it, but he does give me a warm, reassuring smile.
“This is graduate housing?” I ask, once I’ve come to my senses.
“For scholarship winners, yes. The house was donated by the Brannon family in the 1930s, specifically to be used for extraordinary students with creative majors. It’s called the Nead.”
“Wow,” I look around the foyer again. “That’s pretty amazing. I can’t believe I get to live here. Sure beats the dorm at my university.”
“Despite the grandeur it is a comfortable home with plenty of space to work on your projects. I’m happy to give you a full tour now, or would you prefer to see your living quarters first?”
“I think I’d like to see my room.” I point to the stain on my shirt. “I may need to freshen up a little.”
Dylan guides me up the stairs, pointing out small details along the way like some notable pieces of artwork and the passage to a back staircase that leads to the kitchen. On the first floor, he explains, there is a dining room, library, and living room. Each upper level has two suites per floor. The suites include a bedroom, private bath, sitting room, and studio, each specific to the creative needs of the student.
My room is on the third floor, just beneath the attic, which, according to Dylan, has been retrofitted for two additional rooms.
“There’s a rooftop garden I can show you later,” Dylan says, opening the door to my room.
“Holy shit,” I blurt before covering my mouth. “Sorry, but wow, this place is insane.”
The room is luxurious—like something out of a high-end home decor magazine. I take in the small sitting room with a comfortable-looking couch facing a top-of-the-line television. The bedroom is to the left and I gaze at the king-sized bed with exquisite bedding. The bathroom has a shower and a tub with wide-mouthed ravens each holding a large marble in their mouth as the feet. Across the way is one more room.
“Your writing chamber.” Dylan says, standing back so I can go in.
The antique desk faces a wall-length window that overlooks Central Park. A little nook, with pillows and a blanket, is built into the wall, with what I assume is one of the best views of the city.
A new computer, laptop, and printer have been set up on the desk. A small chair and table are across the hall. Bookshelves line the walls, halfway filled with classics and books on craft. I clutch the back of the chair at the desk and look around the room.
“I’m dreaming, right?”
“Excuse me?”