Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
I grind my molars together. Soon they’ll turn to dust, that’s how pissed off I am. “I have a date with Hunter this weekend,” I find myself declaring.
That gets me a response. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and then he mutters, “Since when?”
“He asked me last week.” I hit the key fob to unlock my car. “And you want to know why I said yes? Because it was really frigging nice to be asked on a date by someone who isn’t, I don’t know, ashamed of me.”
Fitz exhales slowly before speaking. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he murmurs. “I’m just…”
“You’re what?”
“I’m bad at expressing myself.”
“Bullshit. You’re the most articulate person I know.”
“Not when it comes to sharing feelings.” He sounds as discouraged as I feel.
“Feelings? Oh, you mean you have those?”
Every muscle in his face goes taut. It’s the only outwardly discernible sign that my accusation upset him. His expression is completely shuttered. “I’m not good at this shit, Summer.” The words are hoarse, strained.
“Good at what?” I clench my fists in exasperation. “It’s not that hard, Colin! You either want to be with me, or you don’t.” My fingers tremble on the door handle. “So which is it?”
He hesitates.
He actually hesitates.
A ball of hurt clogs my throat. I gulp it down best as I can. “Wrong answer,” I mutter, and then I get in my car and slam the door.
22
Summer
A few days ago, Fitz was the one avoiding me. Now we’re avoiding each other.
If he’s in the living room with Hollis and Hunter, then I’m in my bedroom. If I’m in the kitchen, then he’s somewhere else. Our townhouse turns into a pathetic game of Musical Chairs: The Room Edition, as we do everything in our power not to share the same space or breathe the same air.
But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I shouldn’t be anywhere near him. Because when I am, I’m either touching his dick or sucking it, and I refuse to let that happen again.
As usual, Fitz and the guys have already left for practice by the time I’m ready to head to campus. I have another check-in with Hal Richmond this morning. Yay. Fun times. Can’t wait.
I drive to Briar and park behind the admin building, but I don’t get out of the car yet. I’m fifteen minutes early, and damned if I’m going to spend any extra time with Froghole. Instead, I crank the heat, load up an old playlist, and start singing along to One Direction’s “No Control.”
I’m still humming the same song ten minutes later on the way to the dean’s offices. Man, why did 1D ever break up? They were so frigging magical.
“Get back together already,” I moan, at the same time that a dark-haired girl rounds the hall corner.
She jumps in surprise. “Sorry, what?”
I wave my hand flippantly. “I was talking to 1D. They need to get back together.”
She shakes her head, visibly saddened. “I know. It’s heartbreaking.”
As much as I’d love to spend the rest of the day—hell, the rest of my life—discussing the huge hole that the loss of One Direction left in my soul, I force myself to keep walking. I can’t afford to be late. Each time I see Froghole, I swear he’s even more condescending. It’s like he goes home every night and practices all the things he can say to make me feel like dog poop under his shoe.
Today, he doesn’t disappoint. The patronizing attitude makes an appearance before my butt even hits the visitor’s chair, as he asks how my dad’s golf game with Dean Prescott went this past weekend. “Must be nice being able to fly to Florida just for the day to get a round in.” His tone isn’t overtly sarcastic, but his eyes tell a different story.
I stiffly reply that I don’t keep track of my father’s golf or travel schedule, and proceed to give him an update about each of my courses.
When we get to History of Fashion, Froghole leans back in his plush chair and asks, “How are you liking Professor Laurie? You know, he received several plum offers to teach at the other Ivys, but he chose Briar partly because of me.”
“Because of you,” I echo, hoping my skepticism doesn’t show on my face.
“My mum attended North London Collegiate with Anna Wintour. Fancy that, right?” His fake accent becomes more pronounced. At least, I still think it’s fake. My dad never got back to me with proof of Froghole’s birthplace.
“Fancy that,” I say with a faint smile.
“Anyhow, they’ve remained in touch over the years. Anna made an appearance at Mum’s birthday celebration last year. Erik tagged along, and I convinced him that Briar would be the best fit for someone of his renown.”
“Cool.” I honestly can’t think of anything else to say.
“I assume you’re enjoying his course?”