Free Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1) by Ani Keating Page A

complex protein, and who has an IQ score of one-sixty, is unable to connect these dots?”
    “How do you know my IQ score?”
    “Arthur Denton gushed about you. Impressive, indeed. It explains your invention, your GPA, your ability to calculate dichotomous keys on the spot and your contribution at age sixteen to a paper called ‘The Hunger Genome’ authored by Peter Andrew Snow for the Cambridge University Press.”
    At the sound of my father’s name, I gain some strength. “You take a lot of liberties with other people’s privacy, Mr. Hale, yet you seem to guard yours so closely. I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m really curious about them but I won’t probe. Maybe you should afford the same courtesy to others?” My voice is strong but my stomach is churning. Beads of sweats tickle my spine.
    The change in his face is drastic. It goes from cautious to impassive in a nanosecond. He regards me intently, but the tension in his eyes slackens a little.
    “ His privacy, I can allow. But not yours. I have every intention of learning everything about you, Elisa.” He says my name very softly.
    Under his gaze, I change. It’s not just the flash of heat and the flexing thighs. It’s something warm that pulsates between my lungs, perhaps a new organ that comes to life only in response to the likes of Mr. Hale.
    For the first time this evening, I allow myself to look below his neck at all his finery—cashmere navy sweater, expensive dark jeans—money and power screaming from every inch. Instinctively, my eyes flit to my sneakers. How many hours do they have left in them? I shiver when I think of what he would say if my toe finally broke through the worn fabric. Next to him, I look like Cinderella at midnight but with no glass slipper left behind for him to find me. As if we weren’t already two worlds and thirty-one days apart. I risk a peek at him and see that same tender face as he regards my sneakers too.
    He looks like he is about to say something but right then, the door of my apartment building opens and Reagan barges toward us, scarlet fascinator askew.
    “Isa!” she roars.“Where the hell have you been?”
    Before I can begin to explain, she’s off. “I’ve been worried sick. Your note said you’d be back forty-five minutes ago. No phone calls! No car! No money! What if they came—” She stops abruptly when she finally notices my Mr. Hale. I peek at him. He is watching her carefully, his eyebrows knitted. I try to act as if nothing happened.
    “Reg, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll explain when we get in.” I beg her with my eyes to stop. She nods and smiles at him.
    “What’s up, Hale?” she throws at him. He looks like he has never been greeted with the words what’s up before. He nods once, which apparently means “fine, how are you?” and turns to me.
    “How soon are you available for your first session in my home?” His voice is warm but firm, as if he wants to leave no doubt that the painting is definitely happening.
    “Tomorrow.” Ugh , I sound like I swallowed helium.
    “You don’t have plans to celebrate your graduation?” His voice softens.
    These are my plans to celebrate. “I did that last night.”
    He frowns as though recalling something unpleasant. “Are you sure? It’s a big achievement in life,” he persists.
    “The Solises are throwing me a party next weekend,” I answer, hoping to get him off this subject. And also wondering if it would be weird to invite him.
    He nods as if pleased with my answer. “Then, I’ll meet you in front of the Reed Library right after your graduation ceremony.”
    Uh-oh. That might throw a wrench in my plans. “Umm, Mr. Hale, could you give me about half an hour after that? And you don’t have to pick me up. I can come to you.”
    He shakes his head. “I said I’m picking you up. But you can have your half hour. I will meet you here at one thirty.” He sounds like an army general. If I weren’t so depleted from our conversation, it