Page 100 of The Chase

ME:So are Dumpsters

BRENNA:lolololololol

I grin to myself as I slide my phone into my tote. The Prada bag smells like delicious new leather, a scent that never fails to cheer me up. It showed up on my doorstep yesterday morning courtesy of UPS and Nana Celeste. I swear that woman can sense whenever her grandbabies are upset. It’s like she possesses internal radar that shouts “Quick! Call Prada!” if one of the grandkids so much as gets a paper cut.

Not that I’m complaining about my gorgeous new tote. I’m not a crazy person.

I descend the steps toward Laurie’s lecture podium. It’s not his office hours, but he agreed to see me after the lecture so I could start writing my midterm today instead of waiting till Wednesday for him to approve my thesis.

And the good thing about Erik Laurie teaching History of Fashion as well as serving as my independent-study advisor is that I’m able to kill two birds with one stone—I can get my thesis green-lit and give him an update on my swimwear line in one shot.

I still can’t quite explain it, but the man continues to creep me out. Everyone else adores him, especially the girls. They laugh at all his jokes. They tolerate his winking disorder.

And then there’s me, who leaves every encounter with him feeling like I need a shower. He reminds me of that intolerable character fromHarry Potter—Gilderoy Lockhart, only the film version of him that Kenneth Branagh knocked out of the park. Laurie isn’t as flamboyant, but, like Lockhart, he comes off as a vain egomaniac who wants everyone to love him.

Or rather, who assumes they already do.

I know it’s a harsh assessment, and I try to push it out of my mind as I approach my professor.

“Winter!” he teases. “I enjoyed your thoughts in class today.”

“Thanks.”

He shuffles a few papers, then glances beyond my shoulder and nods at someone. I turn and realize Nora is waiting a discreet distance away.

“There’s another student I need a progress report from, so this will be quick,” he informs me.

Thank God. The quicker, the better.

He reads over my thesis for the midterm, suggests twominor tweaks, and signs off on it. Once that’s out of the way, I fill him in on the fabric order I placed. The Fashion department has a decent selection of free fabrics for students to use, but we’re also able to buy our own if we choose to do so. Since several of my bikini tops are crochet, I had to order a more lightweight yarn that doesn’t stretch or shrink if it gets wet. Laurie approves of the choice, nodding in agreement when I explain the reasoning behind it. I conclude by giving him an update on the models I plan to recruit.

He throws his head back in laughter when I mention I’d like to ask some football players to model the men’s line. “That’s a great idea, Summer. That’ll definitely sell some tickets. And for the women’s pieces?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

He winks. “So you haven’t changed your mind about modeling one of the swimsuits yourself?”

Ugh.

Why.

Just why, Gilderoy.

I force a laugh. “Nope, still not interested.”

“What a shame. All right, let’s touch base at the end of the week.” He rests his hand on my shoulder before giving it a light squeeze.

And either I imagine it, or his fingertips graze the nape of my neck when I turn to walk away.

Disgust crawls up my spine. It takes a serious effort not to Usain Bolt out of the lecture hall. Instead, I move at a normal pace and act as if I’m not completely repulsed by the potential neck graze.

“Nora, I’ll be with you in a minute,” Laurie tells her, stepping away to answer a call on his cell.

“He’s all yours,” I murmur to Nora.

She makes a sardonic noise under her breath. “Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing.”

I turn to frown at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

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