Double uh-oh.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” He flopped the clothes on the bottom of the bed. “I tossed these in the wash for you. One thing you’ll learn really quickly: Pomegranate juice stains.”

I tucked the comforter up around my hips. “Thanks.”

He sat down at my side and handed me one of the paper cups. “I hope you like mocha.”

The sharp aroma of dark chocolate wafted up toward me and I folded my hands around the cup, grateful that he’d thought to bring me breakfast in bed. Brandon, for all his kindness, had never ducked out for mocha. Not even Alan Albertson, the great “love of my life” (and number three on the Hit List, if you’re still keeping track) had ever done that. I sipped the drink, and wondered what the protocol was. Do I kiss him? Act casual? Tell him that I have absolutely no memory of us hooking up?

Speaking of, how was I going to do the standard post-hook-up dissection with Lydia without breaking my oaths? There was no way I’d be able to explain this turn of events without letting her know that Malcolm Cabot was in Rose & Grave.

Malcolm was busy spreading vegetable cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel that already bore a slab of sausage. Gross. “Sorry I brought you here last night,” he said. “You zonked out back at the mansion, and my room was much closer to the limo drop-off than yours.”

I choked on my mocha. “What?”

He looked up. “I know. I’m weak. These muscles are all for show.” He flexed his biceps and grinned, then took a big bite of his disgusting breakfast.

“I—fell asleep?”

“Yeah. And it was only six-thirty, too. Don’t you ever pull all-nighters?”

I shook my head. “No. It’s been the bane of my college existence that I can’t do it. But it helps in that I don’t have the luxury to procrastinate. I have to get my work done in advance.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn to stay up now,” Malcolm said. “Our meetings sometimes last all night.”

This chitchat was all very well and good, but let’s get to the point here. “Malcolm?” I asked. “Am I correct in assuming that”—I gestured to the bed—“nothing happened last night?”

He blinked at me. “Do you often wake up in strange boys’ beds with no memory of what you’re doing there?”

“No.” I pursed my lips. “Which is why I feel a bit out of my depth here.”

He leaned in, took me by the shoulders, and looked in my eyes, speaking very slowly and clearly, as one might to a lunatic or some other manner of unstable, amnesiac freak. “You were tired. You fell asleep. I carried you in.”

“But my clothes…”

“I told you, pomegranate juice stains. And when I mentioned that last night, you were more than happy to let me throw your clothes in the wash.”

“I don’t remember that part.”

“Little wonder, your eyes weren’t open.”

I collapsed back against the pillows, awash with relief and…okay, a small tinge of disappointment, too. Like I said, Malcolm is über-hot.

Malcolm scooted up by my side and propped his head on his arm. “Did you think we’d hooked up?”

“No,” I lied.

He laughed. “No offense, babe, but you’re not my type.”

“Um, offense taken!” I stuck out my chin.

He shook his head again, eyes wide. “Dude, what do you remember about last night? You do recall joining Rose & Grave, right? That whole most famous secret society at Eli thing?”

“That whole oxymoronical thing? Yes.” I started counting off on my hands. “You chased me around the tomb and shut me in a coffin and threatened to drown and/or rape me.”

“That was a joke,” he clarified.

“I took three oaths. We all got stupid nicknames. I ate lobster. I learned a secret handshake—look!” I did it to him, and he looked decently pleased with my progress. “Everyone went swimming. And then…”

Oh.

He started nodding at my slack-jawed face. “I think it’s coming back to you.”

“I told you about the pier.”

“And?”

“And you told me that…” I took a good long look at Malcolm Cabot, at his stylish jeans, his fashionable hair, his shit-eating, aren’t-you-an-idiot-Amy grin. Then I looked at the poster of the scantily-clad Angelina, who was hanging off an equally scantily-clad Brad Pitt. Then back at Malcolm. “You told me that you’re gay.”

He touched the tip of his nose. “Bingo.”

“Offense no longer taken.”

“I thought not.” He returned to his cinnamon-veggie bagel horror.

“Remind me, though, how come no one knows this? I mean, it’s not like we’re prejudiced at Eli.” If anything, the opposite was true. Eli had one of the highest percentages of gay men in the whole Ivy League system. One in four, maybe more was the slogan I’d been hearing since I first stepped on campus.

Malcolm sighed. “My dad, the big conservative. If he or his constituents knew my orientation, the shit would hit the fan.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. If Dick Cheney can have a lesbian daughter and still be a good conservative, why can’t Governor Cabot?”

“Dick Cheney never campaigned on the issue that homosexuals are the spawn of Satan and should all die writhing in the pits of hell,” Malcolm said, a wealth of bitterness suddenly entering his tone. “He never went on record saying that AIDS was a curse from God sent to punish fags for their sins.”

I looked down into my mocha cup. “Oh.”

He shrugged. “I’m used to it,” he said. “It was worse when I was younger, and insecure, and trying desperately to fix myself.”

I looked at Malcolm, self-assured, charming, gift-of-gab Malcolm Cabot, and tried to picture how this guy could ever be insecure. Maybe he was very good at hiding it after so much practice bracing for his father’s disapproval.

“Does your dad have any suspicion at all?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Tough to tell. I was the king of overcompensation in high school. I had quite the reputation as a player. Dad was so proud.”

“You still do have a pretty decent rep, you know.”

He shrugged. “Smoke and mirrors, mostly. And I’ve been really careful, really discreet. No one knows except the Diggers in my class. And now you.” He smiled again. “But you’re a Digger now, too!”

“That’s right.” But something still confused me. “You mean, your best friends don’t know?”

He narrowed his eyes. “The Diggers know, and those are basically my closest friends. I don’t even know if I would have told them if it weren’t for the C.B.s.”

“What are C.B.s?”

“Connubial Bliss reports,” he replied. “One of the most important days in a Knight’s Rose & Grave experience. You stand up in front of all your brothers and basically give them a rundown of your sexual experiences to date.”

“A Hit List.”

“Huh?”

I bit my lip. “Nothing. This is something that everybody does?”

“Yup. Rose & Grave tradition. You’ll love it.” He fixed me with a look. “Why? Do you have any deep, dark sexual secrets I should know about?”

I thought about Ben Somebody, but was pretty sure a large percentage of college girls had the same sort of embarrassing incident on their records. “No.”

“Good,” he said, copping a stern, fatherly sort of look. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to issue a bad report to your boyfriend.”

“A, you can’t say a word—you took an oath, remember? And B, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“What about Brandon Weare?”

Right. The badminton thing from Friday. Malcolm hadn’t missed a beat of that interchange, had he? “Oh, well, he’s…”

Malcolm laughed. “Say no more, Amy. I get it.” He popped the last bite of bagel in his mouth. “I figured you weren’t too crazy about him if you’d jump in the sack with me.”

“I wouldn’t!” Most likely.

“Now I’m offended.” He frowned, adorably, and I threw my corner of the comforter over his face and got out of bed. I slipped into my cargo pants, pulled the T-shirt off, and yanked my shirt down over my head as quickly as possible. Not that I really cared if he saw me in my bra—after all, if he was gay, it didn’t matter, right?