Page 76 of Patrick

“No.”

“Then maybe they should go somewhere together. At night. No PDAs or anything, but enough for gossips. Maybe post a pic to social media.”

“I suppose. Then if social media gossip hits home, they’ll see what they expect to see.”

“That makes sense.”

“It does?” I laugh, and a wave of nostalgia hits me over all those after-school scheming sessions we had growing up.

“Sort of. In a way, it’s no crazier than having a secret relationship with Dad’s arch enemy’s son.” She pauses and adds, “While you go to school on his dime.”

“Ouch. Did you need to remind me that I’m financially reliant on Dad? It’s only for one more year, then I swear I’ll be on my own in a career job. As long as I ace my design class and can get a good recommendation from Professor Matami.” I reflexively cross my fingers as I say the words.

“If you say so, I believe you. Hopefully, you can keep your secret for a year.”

Daniel’s deadline pops into my head, but I can’t bring myself to share that tidbit with Carmela. I need to end our talk on a positive note.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“The way things are going between you and Patrick, I’m sure you will.” She pauses, and I tense up because I know her—there’s a but. “But only if he feels the same way you do. At some point, you’ll need to figure out his feelings too. Maybe talk to him⁠—”

“I know, I know. But does it count that I can tell how he feels without him saying the words?”

“Does he say any words during love-making?” she whispers.

“Kind of.” I remember how sweet he is, the murmurs in my ear, and try to capture them.

Then I hear someone talking in the background on her end. “I have to go, Sofia. Call me again soon, after your talk.”

We sign off, and I heave a sigh. It’s a mighty effort to get Trick and all the complications we have out of my head, but right now I need to concentrate on my glam design project. I go into the kitchen and get myself a cup of coffee, hoping the strong brew will work some magic.

Tomorrow we’re giving presentations in class, showing our patterns and draping a dressmaker’s dummy. I need to ace this or better. I need to blow the designer socks off my professor, giving her something she won’t forget. Ideally, I need to make an impression so deep that she’ll give me a glowing recommendation, or my ultimate dream, she’ll take me on as an interns for the summer, even though she already told us she’s not taking summer interns.

I need to change her mind.

A bubble of champagne-like giddiness floats in my belly just thinking about the possibility of working with her in New York this summer. But first things first. I sit down at my desk and get to work on sketching my pattern.

Yawning, I trudge along the snowy path to Design class, cursing the fact that there’s no parking near the building because it’s a bitch carrying my portfolio case and the bag with the materials. Heaving the bag more securely onto my shoulder, I take a sip of the hot coffee I’m juggling with my pink-gloved hand. I’m drinking it black this morning for extra zip.

My phone pings loudly from deep inside my coat pocket, and I hesitate. “Shit.” I look around at the other students on the path, and no one pays attention to me, though they’re not on their phones today with their hands mostly shoved in their pockets against the frigid weather.

Dropping my bag, my purse, and my portfolio case on the driest patch of ground I can find, I fish my phone out and slip off my glove to fire it up.

It’s a text from Trick. My annoyance at the cold and the walk and carrying too many things instantly evaporates like he’s the sun and no problem can survive his shine.

Trick: Good luck today. Knock 'em dead. Especially Darcy.

I laugh.

Me: I will. On my way now.

I don’t see any texting dots for a few seconds, but before disappointment takes hold of me, my phone rings.

“Trick?”

“Did you think someone stole my phone?”

“I… erased your number from my contacts.”