I take the list and read it over. “These are all about your sorority.”
Nothing about her father, his work, or their relationship. All things Brook wants from this profile.
Summer settles back into her chair, steepling her fingers. “As ABB philanthropy chair, I’m spearheading the fundraising for the new building’s supplies. The sorority is dedicated to seeing the event’s success, as a percentage of our sisters are enrolled in STEM programs themselves.”
The response sounds way too rehearsed. And it’s the first bullet point under the second question on the list.
“What about—”
But Summer keeps going. “I reserve the right to stop this interview at any point in time, based on my sole discretion. I request final approval of any and all related articles regarding myself or my sorority, in order to ensure the best representation of either. However, our meeting today bears no weight on the actuality of said articles, as it is a preliminary conference only.”
“Meaning?” I ask, because even with my vast vocabulary, I’m not quite sure I understand her Law & Order script. Who coached this girl?
“Meaning,” she squares her shoulders. “You have three chances to impress me. Right here, right now. If I’m not sufficiently convinced you’re the best person to interview me, I’m walking out that door.”
I’m in uncharted waters. Never, in all my journalistic experience, little as though it may be, have I worked with a subject so uncompromisingly resistant to an interview. Even Spencer Armstrong, with his annoying, sexually layered responses, had let me get a question out before throwing it back in my face.
I should have known the daughter of a technology mogul is more than trained to deal with media attention. Summer’s testing me. For an exam I hadn’t known I’d needed to study for. But she doesn’t realize that I ace pop quizzes just as easily.
“Works for me,” I tell her. I open my computer, arrange my hands to start typing notes. I glance at the list of questions, then choose from one at the bottom. “What inspired you to lead philanthropic endeavors—”
“Nope!” With that extra pop. “What else you got?”
I wrinkle my nose. Counting to five in my head, I look over the list. Which one would be best to get something out of her that isn’t poking into my dating life, pseudo-legalese jargon, or shutting me down completely?
“What would you say are your top wishes for students in the—”
“Strike three, Walsh.” She picks up her phone, loops her purse over an arm, and bounces out of her chair. “I’m outta here.”
“That was two questions,” I argue.
She smooths down her skirt. “Yeah, and one lousy first impression.”
My jaw drops.
“And Walsh?” She passes my spot, bending over me to press stop on my recording app. Taps the delete button. “This is all off the record.”
* * *
Bowled over from that disastrous whirlwind meeting, guilty over lying to my family about my relationship status, and still knocked off my game from my morning confrontation with Spencer, I’m positive my day can’t get worse.
Then my date cancels on me.
This calls for reinforcements.
“I can’t believe she left like that. How rude,” Natalie says when I tell her and Rylie about the interview. She sweeps a blue strand of hair over her shoulder as she perches over the coffee table, tapping a careful amount of gold glitter on a wooden plank. “What are you going to do now?”
I hug a throw pillow. “I have no idea.”
I can’t tell Brook about the interview taking a turn right off a cliff. But if Summer refuses to cooperate…
“Who is this again? Have I met her?” Rylie asks from the armchair across the couch, glancing up from her sketchbook. A third-year transfer, she’s still a little clueless on the who’s who of Lakewood University.
I explain Summer’s father, her sorority, and the connection between those things and the new engineering hall. Then I say, “Believe me, you’d remember if you met her.”
Because now that I know Summer Prescott, I’m not likely to forget her any time soon. Especially since I need an interview from her. Whether she wants to do it or not.
Lousy first impression, my butt. How about an impression where the first thing you point out about someone is that they’re the type to be class treasurer. What did she even mean by—
Count to three. Count to five. Count to as many numbers as you can because getting upset will not change the fact you blew it.
“I just don’t know what I did wrong.” I release a deep sigh, throwing my pillow on the ground. I pick through the tray of food on the coffee table away from Natalie’s craft project. Rylie had ordered pizza and thrown together a platter of candy and chips. Natalie baked.
I push aside a tin of chocolate chip banana bread muffins—bananas make me break out in hives, which, like sunburn, is not a good look for me—and grab a red velvet cookie with cream cheese frosting.
Natalie sets down her tube of glitter and hands me another cookie. “You need it.”
I take it, double-fisting cookies and not feeling an ounce of regret.
“Maybe it’s nothing you did. Maybe she was having an off day,” Rylie rationalizes with a wave of her pencil.
I chomp on a cookie, dusting crumbs off my chest. “Was Dawn having an off day that time she made you take her work shift at last minute so she could give head to a KTO member?”
“Point taken.” Rylie cringes. “Gross. I’d forgotten about the bro-job.”
Natalie giggles, and I smile, comforted by junk food and their attempts to cheer me up.
We’re gathered in our living room. When I’d texted about my troubling day and sudden gap in my schedule, they’d broken out the smorgasbord of goodies. Piled the couch with soft blankets. Fired up reruns of The Bachelor.
Last semester, I’d lived with Ashton in a fancy apartment complex, one I thought pretentious and a little impersonal. Unwilling to stay there after our break up, and since Rylie didn’t want to live
