He answers the exact same way he did the other time. "Why not you?"

Smiling, I let go of the pendant and meet his eyes. "You spoil me, you know."

"No, I don't. Not nearly enough, anyway." He reaches out and cups my chin, making it so I can't look away. "It could be like this all the time, Karissa, every moment of every day. I can give you the best of everything. You just have to let me."

"Why would you?" I ask. "What do you get out of this?"

He leans forward and lightly kisses my lips. "I get you."

"You act like I'm a treasure."

"Aren't you?" he asks. "The way I see it, I hit the jackpot."

I laugh. "I'm more like a five dollar scratch-off than the mega-millions lottery."

"You just don't know your own worth."

His phone rings, shattering the moment. Pulling it from his pocket, he glances at the screen. "Time to go. The car's here."

"You're not driving?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Drunk driving is reckless and stupid."

"You've driven before after you drank."

"I didn't drink enough to get drunk then."

I scoff. "We shared a whole bottle."

"Did we?" he asks. "Because I remember you drinking three quarters of it on your own both times."

My face flushes. "No way."

He nods.

"Ugh." I make a face. "So, what, you're going to drink your fair share tonight?"

"I'm going to drink more than my fair share," he says. "As much as I paid for these tickets, I intend to drink every drop of alcohol they have in the place."

My eyes narrow at those words. "Tickets? What kind of dinner party is this?"

"It's more of a fundraiser, but I figured calling it a party would make it more appealing for you."

"Fundraiser? What kind?"

"The political kind."

I'm stunned, and stammer a bit, but have no idea what to say. He's taking me to a political fundraiser? I'm imagining formal speeches and tuxedos and uptight old men with bitter young wives wanting to bomb other countries and trample civil liberties. Are those the kind of people Naz hangs around? Are those the kind of people we're supposed to be?

But that's not me, and it never will be, and I'm not so sure that could ever be him. I'm imagining a room full of Santinos, judging, deriding, and pointing their sticks at people who they think don't belong. "I don't think I can do this."

"I think you can," Naz says, taking my hand as he leads me outside. There, parked in front of his house, is a stretch limo. The driver opens the back door and Naz ushers me inside. The leather seats are cool, the air temperate, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice in front of me.

"This is absurd."

Naz merely laughs as he pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me. "Drink. Relax."

I take the glass and sip it as he pours himself one. "I'm only eighteen, you know, in case you don't remember."

"I haven't forgotten."

"I can't be drinking." Contrary to my words, I guzzle my champagne, downing it so fast that he pours me a second one before he takes his first sip. "I'm not old enough."

"Don't worry about it," he says, relaxing back and putting his arm around me like it's nothing. "It's fine."

"It's illegal."

"Does that bother you?"

"What?"

"Breaking the law," he says. "Do you feel remorse? Do you want to do penance? Ask for forgiveness? Turn yourself in? Beg for leniency? Swear you'll never do it again, that you'll be a good girl forever, that you'll never so much as litter or speed or steal Wi-Fi or jaywalk or pee outside again?"

I laugh. "I've never peed outside."

"But you've done the rest?"

"Yes."

"All illegal," he says. "No big deal."

"That's easy for you to say."

"It is," he admits, clinking his glass with mine. "I'm practically aiding and abetting a criminal right now."

"But—"

He cuts me off. "I don't live my life by someone else's rules. I'm my own boss, my own judge and jury, my own authority. The government calls you an adult, and expects you to pay taxes, but they can't let you enjoy a glass of wine to unwind? I don't agree. I don't care what they say."

"Yet you won't drink and drive."

"That's not because it's illegal," he says. "It's because I'd like to live to see tomorrow so I can take full advantage of another day. I have purely selfish motives. I'm a selfish man."

"You don't seem very selfish to me."

"Ah, but I am. I'm selfish, and possessive, and I have a tendency to be a little controlling… and impatient… and I'm a bit of a neat freak."

"I've noticed—the latter, anyway. I don't know about the rest, but you definitely are a neat freak. Your house is spotless. How often do you have someone clean it?"

"Never," he says. "I clean it myself."

That surprises me, and I think he has to be joking, but his expression is serious. I just can't imagine him on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor once a week. "Why?"