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)
“You were?”
“Of course. I never miss a Fashion Week.”
“I go to Fashion Week in Paris and New York,” I tell him. “But not usually Milan.”
Laurie flips to the next designer. “Now these are intriguing. I love Sherashi’s use of beadwork in these halter tops.”
He seems to know every single designer on the planet, and I’m somewhat awed by that. “Me too. I also love how she infuses her own culture into her line.”
“Bollywood meets French Riviera. It’s brilliant.”
“Yes. Exactly.” I can’t help but beam at him. And he hasn’t winked or flirted in the past five minutes, which is a relief. “For my line, I want to play around with a combination of classic and modern, with some boho-chic thrown in the mix.”
“Interesting. Let me take a look at your sketches.” Concentration creases Laurie’s forehead as he studies the drawings I’ve enclosed. “These are quite good, Summer.”
I flush. I’m not the best artist when it comes to portraits or landscapes, but I’ve always had a knack for drawing clothes. When I was younger, I filled entire sketchbooks with what I considered the perfect outfits or styles.
“Thank you.” I hesitate as he studies a series of sketches featuring men’s trunks. “I know swimwear isn’t going to be as difficult to design as, say, formalwear, but I’m really passionate about these. And obviously I can include more pieces in the show so that my workload is comparable to the other students’.”
“I’m not worried about that,” he says absently, moving to another sketch. When he finishes examining each one, he looks up with a pleased smile. “I’m on board with this.”
Excitement stirs inside me. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” And just when I thought we were done with it, he winks. “I’m especially curious about who you’ll line up to model these designs.”
Ew. Way to ruin the moment.
“You’re a tall girl,” he adds. “You should think about walking the runway yourself. I have no doubt you look incredible in a bikini.”
Double ew.
“Um, yeah, I’ve never been interested in modeling.” I get to my feet and gesture to the portfolio. “So do I have your approval to move forward?”
“Absolutely.” He hands the leather book back to me.
“Great. Thanks. I’ll see you in class.”
I’m relieved to leave his office, even if it means shivering my ovaries off in the cold again. Every time I start to think he’s harmless, he triggers that dreaded creep-o-meter.
Outside, I’m blasted by a gust of frigid wind. I hate you, January. Just die already. I begin my journey across campus, checking my phone as I head for the parking lot where I left my car. I find a missed call from my mom, along with a text that makes me smile.
Call your parents, Summer. I miss my girl.
My heart expands with love. Ugh, I miss them so much. I’ve barely spoken to them since the semester began. I’ve been busy, but so have they. Dad recently started jury selection for a high-profile murder trial, and Mom has been visiting Nana Celeste in Florida.
I return Mom’s call but get her voicemail. I try my dad instead.
He picks up right away. “Princess! It’s about time!”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped. Also, I can’t believe I caught you out of court.”
“Barely,” he admits. “I’m only available because the prosecutor requested a five-minute recess. His next witness is late.”
“That’s unacceptable!” I exclaim, only half joking. “Don’t let them get away with it, Daddy. Have them charged with contempt of court.”
He chuckles. “Not how it works, sweetheart, but thanks for the concern. How’s school going?”
“Good. I just had a meeting with my independent-study advisor. I’m designing a line of swimwear for the final show.”
“What about your other classes? How are you handling the workload?”
I give him a quick rundown of what I’m studying this term, admitting that it hasn’t been too challenging yet. “But I am writing an outline for an essay tonight. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck, Princess. You’re going to kick this essay’s butt.”
He has such faith in me, it makes me want to cry. Not once, in my entire life, had my parents ever called me stupid. But I know they must’ve thought it. How could they not when I kept coming home with failed tests for them to sign? When all my written work was covered with red edits, comments scribbled all over the margins?
“But if you are having trouble, let me know. Maybe I can speak to David—”
“No,” I cut in, my tone firm. He means David Prescott, the dean. Well, I’m not having it. “Dad. You need to stop talking about me with Prescott and asking for favors. The assistant dean already hates me because he thinks I got preferential treatment—wait, forget all that,” I interrupt myself. “If you’re so eager to grant favors, I need one from you.”