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wealthy banker dude, being summoned while his bitchy wife was away at the spa.
    After passing through the sleepy main street of the tiny town of Rhinecliff, the car turned toward the river and drove along a thickly wooded road. Lights from large, tasteful homes glinted through the trees. Then, right when it looked like they were about to drive into the slow-moving Hudson, the car turned suddenly down a long driveway. Branches swept lightly against the windows and sides of the car. Completely private, Brett noted.
    The car pulled up in front of a modern angular redwood-and-glass house nestled into the riverbank. Eric opened the front door, wearing Diesel jeans and a navy blue vintage Red Sox T-shirt. Seeing him dressed so casually felt so intimate. He looked exactly like the kind of beautiful yet faintly scruffy college student she’d always dreamed about bumping into on one of her many Ivy League college tours. The Red Sox logo made her think guiltily of Jeremiah before she quickly pushed him out of her mind.
    “I’m sorry for not calling. I’ve been so busy.” Eric leaned in to give Brett a kiss on the cheek, lingering longer than necessary. “I’ve missed you, and you smell lovely.”
    Brett hated to swoon, but how many boys did she know who could say “lovely” in all seriousness? Certainly not Jeremiah. She immediately forgave Eric for all the unreturned calls. He was an adult, after all. He got busy.
    Eric led her through the narrow entryway that opened into a dimly lit living room with cathedral ceilings. A wall of windows looked out on what must have been a breathtaking view of the river, though only blackness was visible now. The room was sparsely and elegantly furnished with low, rectangular pieces of furniture that had clearly been custom-designed for this house. Candles flickered on the coffee table and the sound of saxophone music filled the air.
    “Is this a Frank Lloyd Wright house?” she asked, since Frank Lloyd Wright was the only modern architect she knew.
    “Nah,” Eric said, pouring red wine into the two crystal glasses already sitting on the coffee table. “My grandfather was a big fan of Wright’s work but not his lifestyle.” He gestured toward the couch, and Brett sat down, wondering what “his lifestyle” meant but too shy to ask. The couch was surprisingly stiff and uncomfortable. She tried leaning against one of the velvety pillows and felt a little better, although she was worried her posture looked too suggestive. Eric handed her a glass and sat next to her, close enough that their knees brushed against each other. “My grandfather was kind of a hard-ass.”
    “It sounds like your grandfather was a man of …
principle
,” Brett said, trying to sound sophisticated but suspecting that she sounded like a freak. She sipped her wine and felt a little out of place.
    “
He
thought he was,” Eric said with a chuckle, setting his glass down on the table. He raised one of his perfectly shaped blond eyebrows and met her gaze. “But he had a weakness for pretty girls.”
    “Oh?” She could feel herself blushing. She gripped her knees with her hands. “Does that run in the family?”
    Eric leaned toward her and tenderly pushed back a strand of Brett’s red hair, making sure it didn’t snag on any of the small gold hoops she always wore along the upper curve of her left ear. “Just pretty redheads,” he murmured hoarsely into her ear.
    His fingers slipped down to her shoulder. Brett was having serious trouble concentrating.
    “Um … Eric? What, exactly, are we doing here?” she faltered, trying to sound as un-childish and casual as possible. “I mean, seriously. You could get in a lot of trouble. We both—”
    Eric sighed and took his hand from Brett’s shoulder, letting it fall to the back of the couch instead. His sandy blond hair looked darker in the candlelight, and his face turned serious. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and while there are plenty of logical