Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

Those words were still stinging like a hot iron had been pressed against my chest as the professor stepped between me and the canvas, bending a little so that his eyes were level with mine.

“Next time, release this fixation you have with creating something perfect, and try to create something real.”

He said the words with a little wiggle of his eyebrows, as if he were saying something like keep your head up, kid! as opposed to the truth, which was that he was denouncing the painting I’d worked all week long on.

I managed a small smile and nodded, and as soon as he turned and made his way to the next student, my shoulders deflated like a leaky balloon.

I kept my eyes on the oil brushstrokes on my canvas as the professor continued around the room, staring so long the river and buildings and green hillsides began to fade and blur until they no longer made sense.

I kept that focused non-focus until Professor Beneventi was standing behind the boy with the dark eyes.

He paused, crossing his arms over his chest before he propped one hand over his mouth. He rubbed his lips absentmindedly with his fingertips, his eyes roaming the canvas, and where I had been too scared to look when the professor was appraising my work, this boy had positioned his barstool so that he was staring at him straight on.

There were so many emotions that passed over the professor’s face as he looked at the painting, and after what felt like the longest pause he’d given to any of us, he cleared his throat, blinking incessantly as if he’d just woken from a dream. His eyes found the boys then, but he didn’t say a word. He just gave something short of a smile and nodded.

The boy nodded back.

And it was like watching two strangers have an hour-long conversation with just one exchanged glance.

When the professor walked away, on to the next student, the boy looked directly at me again.

And this time, that little curl of a smile on his lips was smug as hell.

I narrowed my eyes and fought against the scoff I wanted to give him, crossing my arms and tearing my gaze from his like I couldn’t care less.

That was my first interaction with Liam Benson.

One day, I’d wish it had been my last.

The growl that escaped my throat when I made it back to my dorm room that night must have been a deep and ugly thing.

I heaved my bag across the room, leaning against the door I’d just shut and wishing I wasn’t still fuming over my assignment.

Or rather, the professor’s reaction to my assignment.

“Ah, someone who needs wine as badly as I do,” my roommate, Angela, said with a chuckle from the kitchen. Our dorm was suite-style, with two separate bedrooms but a shared bathroom and petite kitchen. In fact, kitchen was an understatement, considering it was nothing more than a small counter, a sink, an electric kettle, and a mini-fridge.

Angela carefully pulled a second wine glass from the rack and filled it halfway with whatever her red wine of the evening was. Then, with both glasses in hand, she met me at the door.

“Here,” she said, handing me one glass while she tilted the other into the air. “To your good day.”

I grumbled, lifting the glass in her honor before I took the first sip.

Angela picked up my bag from where I’d tossed it, hanging it by the door before she plopped down on the old, smelly sofa that the university provided in our common room. It had to be from the sixties or seventies, orange and brown and faded, the cushions warped from the weight of countless bottoms. That and our beds were about the only furniture, but at least they had the decency to supply us with wine glasses.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asked as she took another sip, tucking her feet up under her hips.

Angela was the kind of beautiful that spanned centuries. She had dark black skin and long black hair that she wore in hundreds of tiny braids, some with gold rings and some without, and she had mesmerizing, honey-gold eyes that rendered me speechless the first time we met. I’d never seen her wear a stitch of makeup, but her lashes were still somehow always black and long and curled, her lips a perfect dusty rose.

She practically lived in baggy sweatpants and Tommy Hilfiger tube tops, which was exactly what she was wearing now, and if I had a lean, toned stomach like hers I would show it off every chance I got, too.

And though I’d only known her a couple weeks now, I knew the three things she loved more than anything else in the world: Italian wine, Italian architecture, and Italian women.

Not necessarily in that order.