Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

It was rude not to answer the question, but then again, it was also rude to stand there with my mouth half-open as I stared incredulously at Liam. He still hadn’t looked at me, but the way he’d dismissed me as just a classmate told me loud and clear everything I needed to know.

I could have let it go. I could have told Thomas that it was nice to meet him and slipped quietly back through the crowd to the bar.

But I wanted answers.

At the very least, I wanted the bastard to look at me.

“We have class together,” I repeated, crossing my arms. “That’s it, huh?”

The girl on Liam’s arm looked at me, then, arching a beautiful, dark brow as she popped her gum again. I couldn’t tell if she was a student or a local, but the way she eyed me up and down told me she wasn’t the least bit threatened by me, and her tight little body in the equally tight dress she wore was further proof that she needn’t be.

If anything, she seemed annoyed by my presence.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Liam finally looked at me, too, with lifeless eyes and a smug smile. But he still didn’t say a word.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Do you want a drink, Harley?”

Liam watched me stand there, unamused, as I tried to put the pieces together. He was the same boy who’d spent an entire night with me not even a full forty-eight hours ago. He had the same shaggy hair, the same crooked smile, and the same confident stature. But his eyes were glazed and darker than I remembered. The playfulness I’d tried to resist, and then ultimately fell victim to, was nowhere to be found.

He looked at me like I was a stranger, like he couldn’t care less about anyone in the world.

Like he didn’t know me at all.

Like he hadn’t asked to kiss me.

Like I hadn’t said yes.

I shook my head, eyes welling with tears. “I hope you drown in all that bullshit you spew, Liam Benson.”

The girl laughed through her nose, unimpressed, as Thomas muttered ouch under his breath. Liam didn’t respond, but his smile faded, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as his lips flattened.

I turned on my heel, shoving through the crowd and back to Angela with steam rolling off my neck.

“What?” she asked, alarmed, eyes wide as she took in the sight of me. “What happened? What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” she remarked as I flung my purse over my shoulder and dug out my cash before slapping it on the bar.

“He didn’t say anything, Angela!” My chest heaved. “And he didn’t have to for me to get his point loud and clear.”

Her eyes narrowed at that, and she cracked her neck to the left, and then the right, before shoving her barstool back and standing. “I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, looking over my shoulder. Liam’s eyes bore into mine, an unreadable expression on his face. “He’s not worth it.”

His nose flared, but he didn’t look away.

I hoped he could read my lips.

“I’m going home,” I said when I turned back around to Angela.

“I’ll come, too.”

“No,” I insisted. “Stay. Have fun. I’m going to paint.”

“Why do I feel like your canvas needs a bodyguard right now?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Probably because I’m on my way to trash it.”

“Trash it?! You worked on it all night! And all day!”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m starting over.”

“Feeling inspired again?” Angela mused.

I nearly snarled in response. “Oh, you have no idea.”

The Art of Denial

I waltzed into the classroom seventeen minutes late on Monday morning.

By the way my hips swung and my chin was held high, you’d have thought I was late on purpose, that I simply couldn’t be bothered with showing up on time and they were lucky I’d shown up at all. I hoped the sad attempt at apathy hid the fact that I was actually quite panicky inside, my armpits sweaty, heart beating twice the normal speed.

I’d never been late in my life.

Then again, I’d never skipped class before Friday, either. Maybe I was becoming a new woman.

I cradled my still-slightly-wet painting sandwiched between two blank canvases, using a wine cork cut into four even pieces at the corners to prevent it from getting ruined in the walk over. I’d hoped to let it dry enough to varnish it, but had worked on it until almost three in the morning before passing out for some much-needed sleep.

When I sat down at my easel, I carefully unveiled my painting, removing the wine corks in each corner before unrolling my brush kit and paints to touch up the spots the corks had touched.

Professor Beneventi didn’t acknowledge my tardiness with anything other than a raised brow and a nod. He continued on about Masaccio’s impact on the Italian Renaissance, and his untimely demise at just twenty-six years old, while I touched up my painting.