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?”

“Sure. It’s fine.”

“Just fine?” He tilts his head. “Based on the feedback we’ve received thus far, it sounds like it’s a smashing success.”

“The class itself is interesting.” Hesitation washes over me as I debate whether to go on.

Maybe I should say something about the winking. And the touching. The shoulder squeezes, the hand caresses. His fingers on the back of my neck.

But Mr. Richmond already doesn’t like me very much, and I’m not sure what his reaction would be.

Tell him.

My mom’s voice fills my head, urging me to be direct. I know that’s what her advice would be. Mom never holds anything back.

“I enjoy the subject matter,” I continue, before stopping to take a deep breath. “But…Professor Laurie…” I exhale in a rush. “He’s a bit creepy, if I’m being honest.”

Richmond narrows his eyes. “Creepy?”

“Yes.” My mouth suddenly feels dry, but my palms are clammy. I wipe them on the front of my jeans. “He touches my hand a lot, and my shoulders, and his gaze stays on me a little too long—”

“You must be misunderstanding,” Richmond interrupts. “Erik is a friendly chap. That’s one of the reasons everybody adores him.”

I bite my lip. “That’s what I thought at first—that he was just being friendly. But I think it’s more than that. I don’t like it when he touches me. I find it inappropriate—”

“Summer,” the assistant dean interrupts.

“Yes?”

“As a beautiful girl, I’m sure you’ve grown accustomed to being admired, perhaps often enough that it’s led to the assumption that when someone is acting in a friendly manner or paying extra attention to you, there’s an admiring or sexual connotation to it—”

My jaw falls open in shock.

“However, I’m certain that you’re misinterpreting whatever signals you believe Professor Laurie is sending.” He leans forward in his chair and clasps his hands on the desktop. “Do you realize that throwing around statements such as these could seriously threaten and potentially destroy someone’s career?”

My own hands aren’t damp anymore. They’re dry as dust, and I curl them into tight fists on my lap. “I’m not trying to destroy anyone’s career. I…”

“Would you like to lodge a formal complaint? If so, we can begin the process right now. You should be aware, however, that it can often be a lengthy process, as well as difficult for all parties involved.”

My eyes start to feel hot. “I, um…”

Impatience lines his forehead. “Summer. Will you be lodging a formal complaint against Professor Laurie?”

After a long moment of indecision, I say, “No.”

“I see.” Richmond rises from his chair. “Well, do let me know if you change your mind. Until then, I advise you to be prudent before making these kinds of accusations—”

“I wasn’t making accusations,” I protest. “You asked what I thought of him, and I told you he makes me uncomfortable.”

Richmond rounds his desk. “I’ll see you next week, Summer. Let me walk you out.”

Later in the afternoon, I’m still smarting over Froghole’s dismissive behavior. But at the same time, I’m also starting to question myself. The descriptions I’d given Richmond sound kind of flimsy when I replay them in my head.

He touches my hand a lot, and my shoulders, and his gaze stays on me a little too long.

That doesn’t exactly scream “highly inappropriate behavior!” The more I think about it, the more I wonder if maybe my original assessment of Laurie was correct, and he’s simply a very friendly man. The fact that Richmond openly admitted that Laurie is known for being a “friendly chap” only makes me doubt myself more. If the assistant dean doesn’t think Laurie’s friendliness is anything to be concerned about, maybe I shouldn’t either?

Ugh. I honestly don’t know.

“Ow!”

Madison, the sophomore whose measurements I’m taking, jerks in discomfort, alerting me to the fact that I’d cinched the tape way too tight around her boobs.

“Sorry,” I say hastily, loosening the hold. “Let me finish with the bust, and then we’re all done.” I look over at Bianca, who’s sprawled on the ornate couch flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. “Thanks so much for agreeing to do this, by the way. I think it’ll be a blast.”

“Thanks for asking us. I’m super excited,” Bianca admits.

“Me too!” Madison bounces on the heels of her socked feet. “I can’t believe you convinced the football team to walk the runway in Speedos.”

“Not the whole team. Just six of the players.” I wink at her. “Six very hot players.”

Her expression lights up. “Oh my God. I can’t wait for the after-party.”

When Bianca messaged me to say she and five sisters were down to model in my show, I’d sweetened the pot by telling them they were all invited to the after-party. Not the official Briar-hosted one, but the after-after-party with the football team. I already got Rex to agree to host us. All I had to say was “sorority girls” and he was on board.