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any photos you
need to take.”
    “Dad,” I say, fighting down a blush. It
doesn’t matter how old you get—parents always like to dote on you
in the most awkward way possible.
    “I’ll be right next door,” he says, ignoring
my warning glare. “Just holler if you need anything.”
    He retreats back to his office, leaving me
alone with the smiling, eager reporter.
    I take a deep breath. “So. What is it you
want to know?”
    “It’s not an interrogation, I promise,” he
says, pulling a small digital voice recorder out of his pocket and
propping it up on the desk. “And I won’t take up much of your
time.”
    I realize I sound less-than-enthused about
all this, so I quickly put on a smile.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just been crazy
around here this morning. And I’m afraid I’ve had some bad luck
with journalists in the past.”
    “Ah, yes. Your dad told me that you used to
date Garrett Afton.”
    Great. That’s Dad—always the
blabbermouth. Things just got a whole lot more awkward.
    “Are you two, uh, friends?” I ask. I don’t
know if I can deal with this.
    But Asher shakes his head. “I’ve only met him
once—in an entirely professional capacity.” He leans in
conspiratorially. “Honestly, I thought he was a bit of a snob.”
    My surprise must register on my face because
he adds, “Don’t worry—not all writers are evil. Some of us are just
poor saps trying to make the world a better place.”
    In spite of my concerns, I find myself
returning his smile.
    “That’s a very noble goal,” I say.
    “The same one you have here, I think.” He
crosses his legs. “What do you say? Do you trust me enough to
answer a few questions?”
    “Ask away, Mr. Julian.”
    That seems to satisfy him, and his grin
widens. “Call me Asher, please. Don’t think of this as some formal
interview. We’re just talking.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    “Do you mind if I call you Lily?”
    “Oh, no. Go ahead.”
    He clicks on the digital recorder and leans
back in the chair, as if we really are just two friends having a
chat. I don’t know why, but I automatically feel a little more
comfortable myself. I feel my shoulders relax.
    “I really do love this place,” Asher says,
glancing around my office. “I can tell that you two have poured
your heart and soul into it.”
    “Thank you,” I say. “We do everything we can
for the Center.”
    “It shows.” He flashes a charming smile and
scoots forward. “You were practically raised in this place, weren’t
you?”
    I spend the next half hour talking to him
about my life here—about everything my dad has poured into this
place over the years, about all the programs and classes and events
we’ve planned. I grew up in the Center. My entire life has revolved
around this place.
    Asher smiles and nods with encouragement as I
speak, even asking me to elaborate on a couple of points. I’ll
admit—I was a little worried at the beginning, but now that I’ve
seen Asher’s approach, I’m feeling much better. There are people in our community who see value in the work we do here. I
could go on for hours and hours about the Center, and Asher seems
perfectly willing to let me.
    At one point he gets up and goes over to the
photos on my wall, the same photos Calder was studying only a few
nights ago. I move beside him, and he turns and grins at me.
    “You look so happy with the kids,” he
says.
    “I was happy. I am.” I reach out and touch
the nearest photo. “I’d do anything for this place.”
    “I don’t doubt it.” Asher says it almost
reverently.
    I glance over at him. He’s nearer than I
thought, close enough that I notice, for the first time, the
dusting of freckles across his nose.
    “It’s rare to find someone with so much
passion for their work,” he says, his voice thick with admiration.
“Trust me, I know.”
    I feel a blush coming, so I laugh and turn
away. “As you said, I grew up in this place. How couldn’t I be
passionate about