“We’re having drinks tomorrow night.”

The flames of hatred in my stomach are doused with an icy bucket of reality.

He asked her out?

“Holy crap, this date is finally happening?” One of the friends claps with delight.

“Yes! I’m so excited.”

Okay. So Fitz invited her on a date. She’s pretty, has a great sense of style. Why shouldn’t he go out with her?

And why should it bother me if he does?

Because…

Because, well, because she’s obviously a bitch. I don’t want Fitz going out with a bitch.

She’s not a bitch. That’s your jealousy talking.

No, I stubbornly argue with myself. She absolutely gave me a couple of dirty looks before she joined her friends. I didn’t imagine that. So there’s some bitch in her, at least.

And there’s a lot of bitch in you right now.

“Fuck off,” I order myself.

A few seats down in my row, a guy with longish black hair shifts his head in my direction. He arches a bushy eyebrow at me.

I raise my hand in a friendly wave. “Just ignore me. I’ve decided I’m going to be the crazy lady who talks to herself in class.”

He laughs. “Noted.”

Nora turns at the sound of my voice, narrows her eyes, and then turns back.

I hate her.

You’re being insane.

“Did we not just determine that I’ve chosen a path of insanity?” I say out loud, though mostly it’s to mess with my row-mate.

Bushy Eyebrows glances over again. “Oh wow. You weren’t kidding.”

I grin. “I’m done now. I promise.”

In front of me, Nora’s friends are grilling her for more details about her impending date.

“Just drinks?”

“Just drinks,” she confirms. “Do you honestly think I’d ever agree to a first-date dinner after Eight-Course Ethan?”

The girls break out in laughter. “Oh my God! I forgot about him!”

I tune them out as they reminisce about the time Nora got stuck on an expensive, four-hour dinner date when she was ready to bail before the first course. It’s an entertaining story, but I’m too busy trying to combat my unwanted jealousy.

Fitz can date whomever he wants. Besides, I have no right to be jealous. I cuddled with Hunter the other night. Granted, we didn’t do anything but spoon, but it felt nice lying there with a warm male body pressed up against me. And if Hunter had made a move, I can’t say with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t have reciprocated.

The doors at the base of the lecture hall swing open, interrupting my thoughts. The man who enters the room needs no introduction, yet he still approaches the podium and greets us as if none of us have ever picked up a fashion magazine.

“Good morning! I’m Erik Laurie and I’m sorry to inform you that you will be enduring my unbearable presence for the next four months.”

Laughter ripples through the hall.

“Just joshing,” he says with a hearty chuckle. “I’m a fucking delight.”

I smile along with everyone else in the room. He’s establishing himself as the cool, fun prof right off the bat. I like that. He also looks a lot younger than his photos. Possibly because he usually sports a thick blond beard in those pictures, and today he’s completely clean-shaven, revealing the baby face underneath.

I know he’s in his mid-thirties, though. And his fashion sense is so on point I almost purr out loud. The clothes are Marc Jacobs—I recognize the retro blazer from Marc’s fall collection. The shoes…Tom Ford, I think. I’d have to get a closer look to be sure.

“Welcome to the History of Fashion, ladies and gentlemen.”

His voice is smooth and velvety, turning every girl’s face into a real-life heart-eyes emoji. For some reason, he doesn’t have the same effect on me. Objectively, Laurie is an attractive man, but something about his angular, symmetrical face doesn’t do it for me.

Our new professor doesn’t miss the female attention he’s garnering. He winks at two girls in the front row as he rests his forearms on the podium. For the next ten minutes, he lists his impressive credentials, not revealing anything I didn’t already know.

He’s had an insanely prolific career for his relatively young age, and it’s evident he has a genuine passion for what he does. When he’s done reciting his résumé, he talks about what we can expect from his course. We’ll be examining the global influence of fashion, how it’s taken shape over the years, and how certain eras and historical events have impacted the concept and implementation of style.

Laurie has a way of speaking that captures your attention. He tells us that rather than a formal lecture, today he just wants to “chat” about why we love fashion and who inspires us. He kicks it off by confessing that his idol growing up was Ralph Lauren, then proceeds to spend five full minutes fan-girling about Lauren.

After he’s done, he passes the torch to us. Bushy Eyebrows, who introduces himself as Ben, surprises me by proclaiming his love for Versace. Judging by his hobo-chic style, I would’ve pegged him as an Alexander McQueen enthusiast. But Ben goes on and on about Versace until our prof finally grins and asks for another volunteer.

Since I’ve never had any problems speaking in class, I raise my hand.

Laurie studies me from the podium. “And your name is?”

“It’s Summer.”

“No, sweetheart, it’s winter. Have you not looked outside?”

Nora and her friends titter behind their hands. A few other students giggle as well. Me, I roll my eyes, an action that brings another grin to Laurie’s face.

“Get that joke a lot, eh?” He waves a hand. “All right. Tell us who inspires you.”

I answer without hesitation. “Chanel.”

“Ah, yes.” He nods his approval. “Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel. Also known as Coco. Do you know how she got the nickname, Winter?”

Cue more giggles.

I’m not sure how I feel about Professor Comedian, especially since he keeps flipping between two personalities. One second he’s suave and confident, the next he’s Mr. I’m Just Gonna Crack Jokes Because I’m One of You!

It’s disorienting.

“She got the nickname when she was a cabaret singer,” I answer. “She tried to make a go of it as an actress, failed, and went into fashion.”

“Finding unimaginable success,” he concludes.

“That’s one of the reasons I love her. When her original plans fell through, she didn’t give up. She chose a different path, succeeded, and became an icon. Her brand has been around for nearly a century. It survived the Second World War—”

“Yeah, because she was a Nazi collaborator,” Nora pipes up in a snide voice.

I ball my fists and press them to my thighs. Is she for real right now? Interrupting me so she can insult a fashion legend?

“And you are?” Laurie prompts.

“Nora Ridgeway.” She shrugs. “And it’s common knowledge that Chanel was shady. Documents that were recently declassified speculate her wartime activities were downright despicable.”

Our professor does not disagree. “Yes, that is what’s being alleged. And when she reentered the fashion world after the war, there was indeed a lot of anger about these claims. Yet the brand recovered.” He tips his head. “Why do we think that is, Summer?”