“Scale of one to ten, how shitty was today?” he asks.
“A solid seven,” I say, running the make-up remover under one eye.
He shrugs in the mirror. “A seven’s pretty damn good.”
“Wait, what's a shit show? A one or a ten?”
His lip quirks. “One is the worst, ten is the best.”
“Then my day was as shitty as the way you phrased your question. Solid three.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and I can’t help but scoff.
“Proud of what? That I torpedoed my career because I can’t hold my tongue? That I’m going to bring you down with me?”
“Proud that you stood up for yourself. Nothing you said was untrue, even if it takes a while for it to seep into Giancarlo’s brain.”
Giancarlo. Because I’m the only professor he demands use his title. Because in his mind, I’m nowhere near his equal.
Colton pushes off the frame and walks over until he’s directly behind me in the full-length mirror. He’s a head taller than me, leaving me with a view of his sharp features above me. “Put your makeup back on.”
I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms over my chest. “Excuse me?”
He sighs and rubs his hand over his face, like what he’s about to say is physically painful to him, and a second later I understand why.
“We’re going dancing.”
15
QUINN
It takesus fifteen minutes to walk from our apartment to the club across the river in the Testaccio quarter, and I miraculously make it the entire way in heels without tripping on the cobblestones. Music floats down from the surrounding rooftops, pounding in my veins. This is exactly what I need. To give myself over to the music and think about nothing else. Not the blowup in front of the professors or the very tempting job Inez is considering or what this change on campus would mean for my own work.
I spot Tomasso pacing in front of the club, and he waves enthusiastically when he catches sight of us. Then his eyes land on Inez, and he trips over his feet, landing on his knees. She rushes forward and grabs his arm to help him up.
“Grazie. Scusa,” he says as he gets to his feet, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “You must be Inez.”
“I am,” she says, a pretty blush painting her cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Colton nudges me with his elbow, widening his eyes when I look up at him.
“May I escort you in?” Tomasso asks, offering her his arm.
She giggles, slipping her arm through his. “I’d love that.”
Colton snorts next to me, and I elbow him hard in the side. He lets out a little oof, and then whispers, “Come on, it’s like we’ve stepped into one of your period movies.”
“It’s adorable,” I whisper back. “This summer’s been stressful for Inez. She deserves a little fun.”
“The band tonight is great. You will love them, Quinn,” Tomasso says as he guides us inside and up to the roof, his eyes never leaving Inez’s face.
The lights are low everywhere except along the bar, and the dance floor is already packed. Inez squeals and pulls me out, and I glance over my shoulder at Colton, who settles at the bar with Tomasso at his side, whispering frantically and sending Inez longing glances. Colton says something back, clapping him on the shoulder and pushing him in our direction. His eyes sparkle when he catches me watching him, and he gestures that he’ll order me a drink, the move so reminiscent of our college years that the world shifts in front of me, Colton’s hair growing out and his face taking back on the softer features of his early twenties.
Tomasso was right. The band’s fantastic, playing a mix of covers and originals. The three of us dance together, though it slowly transitions from us all dancing together to me dancing next to them. I’m starting to feel solidly like a third wheel, and my eyes automatically seek out Colton. He’s still at the bar, though now there’s some woman cozying up to him, and I ignore the swirling in my stomach. If he wants to hook up with a gorgeous Italian woman, it’s none of my business.
I fight to lose myself to the music, but my eyes keep wandering to him. He leans against the bar, all relaxed and casual and confident. I see a glimpse of his smirk, but I’m relieved to see no dimple. That woman may flirt with him, kiss him—hell, even fuck him—but that dimple’s mine.
I catch her hand landing on his forearm—exposed by thosedamned rolled sleeves again—her head thrown back in laughter. Why the hell is she laughing so hard? Colton isn’t that funny. She leans forward to whisper something in his ear, and a weird, growly sound escapes my throat.
