Ambrose's place is a fifteen-minute walk from campus, in a pale brick apartment building on the outskirts of town. Inside, it's a lot like his office. Clean and masculine, with dark wood furniture and lots of light. Green, leafy houseplants and thick, patterned drapes.
But there's more of him, too–classic movie posters framed on the walls; bookcases filled with battered paperbacks rather than those leather tomes; a casually tossed remote and an abandoned empty mug.
"Be honest with me." I toe my sneakers off by the door. My backpack lands on the floorboards with a thump. "Did you clean before asking me here?"
Ambrose huffs a laugh, leading the way into the living room. "Of course."
He shows me the kitchen and a home office. Points at the door to a bathroom. Then leads me to his bedroom,
