Page 17 of The Chase

I’m sure my cheeks are redder than tomatoes, and I hope my two-hundred-dollar foundation is doing its job. It is absolutely mortifying knowing my father had to call in a favor with Dean Prescott to get me into Briar after the Brown fiasco. If it were up to me, I’d be done with college for good. But I promised my parents I’d get a degree, and I hate disappointing them.

“We’ll meet once a week so I can evaluate your progress and guide you academically.”

“Sounds great,” I lie. This time I get to my feet without asking permission. “I have to run now, Mr. Richmond. Why don’t you email me our meeting times and I’ll add those days to my calendar. Thanks so much for all your guidance.”

I’m sure he didn’t miss the sarcastic note in that last word—guidance—but I don’t give him a chance to respond.I’m already out the door and waving goodbye to his secretary.

Outside, I inhale the chilled air. Normally I adore the winter, and my new campus looks particularly magical covered with a layer of white frost, but I’m too stressed out to enjoy it right now. I can’t believe I’m being forced to have regular contact with Richmond. He was such a jerk.

I take another breath, adjust the strap of my Chanel tote, and start walking toward the parking lot behind the administration building. It’s a beautiful brick building, ivy-covered and incredibly old, like pretty much everything else on campus. Briar is one of the oldest and most prestigious universities in the country. It’s produced a couple of presidents and a ton of politicians, which is impressive, but only in the last decade have they begun to offer cooler, less academic-based courses. Like this Fashion Design program that’s going to give me a Bachelor of Fine Arts.

Despite whatsomepeople might think, fashion isn’t fluff.

I’mnot fluff.

So take that, Colin Fitzgerald!

Bitterness rises in my throat, but I gulp it down because I’m not a bitter person. I have a temper, yes, but my anger usually comes out in a fiery burst and then dissolves almost instantly. I don’t stay mad at people for long—who needs that kind of negative energy in their life? And I certainly don’t hold grudges.

Yet it’s been two weeks since New Year’s Eve, and I still can’t let it go. The stupid, thoughtless, mean-spirited comments I overheard at the bar refuse to leave my mind.

He called me fluff.

He thinks I’m surface level.

Forget him. He’s not worth the mental anguish.

Right. So what if Fitz thinks I’m superficial? He’s not the first to think that, and he won’t be the last. When you’re a rich girl from Connecticut, people tend to assume you’re a materialistic bitch.

Says the materialistic bitch with the silver Audi, an inner voice taunts as I reach my shiny, expensive car.

Ugh. Even my own mind is trying to make me feel bad about myself.

It was a gift, I remind my traitorous brain. A high school graduation gift from my parents, which makes the car three years old. That’s like a senior citizen in vehicle years. And what was I supposed to do, refuse the present? I’m my dad’s baby girl, his little princess. He’s going to spoil me whether I like it or not.

But having a nice car doesn’t make me surface level.

Having an interest in fashion and being part of a sorority doesn’t make me surface level.

Forget him.

I click the key fob to unlock the car door. But I don’t get into the driver’s seat. Something keeps my boots planted to the asphalt.

I believe that something is called:oh sweet baby Jesus, I don’t want to go home and see the guy who thinks I’m fluff.

It’s hard to believe that two weeks ago I was excited about seeing Fitzy.

Now I’m dreading it. My unicorn is no longer a unicorn. He’s a judgmental donkey.

I press thelockbutton. Screw it. Maybe I’ll grab a coffee from the Coffee Hut first. I’m not ready to see him yet.

Coward.

I quickly unlock the car. I’m not a coward. I’m Summer Heyward-Di Laurentis and I don’t give a flying hoot what Colin Fitzgerald thinks about me.

I lock the car.

Because clearly Idocare what he thinks.

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