“What is it?”

“I just realized what a sad pair we are.” I can’t stop giggling. “Here I am sacrificing my aspirations to be like my father, and you’re sacrificing your aspirations to not be like your father. That is fascinating.”

“Jesus. You’re such a psychologist. Is this what it’s always going to be like? Lying in bed naked while you psychoanalyze us?”

I prop up on my elbow, biting my lip. “Does it actually bother you?”

“Nah.” He flashes his dimpled smile, and I lean down and kiss one of those adorable dimples. “It’s funny,” he continues. “Most of the time, you analyze and rationalize and try to find solutions. And then other times, you’re batshit crazy.”

“I am not!”

“You have a violent streak, you maniac. You smash people’s game consoles.” He grins up at me. “Quite the dichotomy, Demi Davis.”

“Both crazy and sane,” I say somberly. “A rare condition, indeed.”

“Anyway.” He strokes his knuckles over my cheek. “You don’t need to chase your father’s approval—you already have it. I don’t think he’ll disown you if you choose grad school over med school.”

“You don’t know how he feels about PhDs, Hunter. For the rest of my life he’ll be making wisecracks about how I’m not a real doctor.” My buzzing phone captures my attention. “Shit, that’s probably Josie ordering me to come downstairs and hang more decorations.”

I stretch across his muscular chest to grab my phone from the nightstand. Hunter uses the opportunity to slide one palm between us to cup one of my boobs.

I shiver in pleasure, but my arousal dissolves when I see my father’s name. Speak of the devil.

I click on his message, and my eyebrows soar. “Oh, this is interesting.”

“What?” Hunter lazily caresses the swell of my breast.

“My father is inviting us to New Year’s Day brunch tomorrow.”

Hunter’s hand freezes. “Us?”

“Yep.” I sit up and grin at his panicky expression. “He wants to meet you.”

32

Demi

A few days after New Year’s, Hunter and I are back on campus walking toward the Psych building. It’s the final lecture of the semester and we’re supposed to be receiving our case studies back, but while I’ve got a spring to my step as we amble down the path, Hunter’s long gait is stilted and his expression is sullen. He’s been sulking non-stop since we had brunch with my father.

“God, could you try to smile?” I demand. “It’s such a beautiful day.”

“It’s minus-fucking-twenty and your dad hates me. It’s not a beautiful day.”

I suppress a sigh. “He doesn’t hate you. He liked you.”

“If by liked, you mean loathed, then you’re right.”

“I see. Now he doesn’t just hate you—he loathes you. Someone’s been drinking the drama juice.”

“And someone’s refusing to face the truth,” Hunter grumbles. “Your father did not like me.”

I want to argue again, but it’s getting harder to find a solid defense for my father’s behavior.

I refuse to say it aloud, because I don’t want to injure Hunter’s pride any further, but brunch was…awful.

It did not go well.

I really wish Mom had been there to create a parental balance, but she’s still in Florida, and it was me and Hunter versus my father from the get-go. After a whopping two questions about Hunter’s background, Dad determined he was dealing with a spoiled rich boy from Greenwich, Connecticut. Which is absolutely not the case—Hunter is the most down-to-earth person I know, and his work ethic is stellar.

But my father is incredibly biased and impossible to please. He grew up poor and sacrificed so much to get to where he is now, so needless to say, anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth already has one strike in my father’s eyes.

And he wasn’t even impressed by Hunter’s athletic achievements. I thought for sure that would win him over. I not-so-subtly brought up how much work is required in order to excel in a sport, but I think by that point Dad was just trying to be difficult because he waved my comment off. Which is bullshit. He’s a big football fan, and I’ve heard him say numerous times that football players possess an incredible work ethic.

Clearly, Dad is still on Team Nico. But I’m hoping he switches his loyalties, because I’m Team Hunter all the way.

“He’ll warm up to you,” I say, giving Hunter’s hand a squeeze.

He slants his head. “Will he? Because that implies I’ll be seeing him often.”

I hesitate. We haven’t formally declared ourselves as “dating,” so I’m not entirely sure if he’ll see my dad again. Also, until we define our relationship, I’m trying to avoid PDA, so I drop Hunter’s hand as we reach the building, because Pax and TJ are waiting on the steps.

“Ah! New boots!” Pax shouts when he spots me. His envious gaze devours my footwear, which is indeed new—black leather boots with brown fur, to match the hood of my parka. “I love!” he announces.

“Thanks! I’d like to say I feel the same way about your hair, but…what the hell is going on there?”

Hunter snorts. “For real, Jax. I’m not into it.”

I roll my eyes. He’s well aware what Pax’s real name is, but now it’s just a running joke, and Pax plays along because he thinks Hunter is hot.

“When did you get that done?” I ask.

“And why?” TJ says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

Sighing dramatically, Pax smooths a hand over the green streaks in his black hair. “This past weekend. And why? Because my little sister is in cosmetology school and her exams are coming up, so she was practicing her dye skills on me.”

“I’m not going to lie,” I inform him. “It looks terrible.”

“Gee, thanks, bestie.” He winks. “The guy I hooked up with last night didn’t seem to mind.”

“Nice.” Hunter holds his palm up for a high five.

Jax—dammit, now I’m doing it. Pax returns the high five, and then the four of us escape the January chill and enter the building. I notice TJ slide a curious look between me and Hunter, but he doesn’t say anything.

We take our usual seats in the middle of the row, only this time Hunter usurps Pax’s place beside me. Once again TJ’s gaze takes note.

Anticipation ripples inside me when Professor Andrews arrives with her two TAs in tow. Yes! Either my eyes are projecting what they want to see, or the teaching assistants are carrying our graded assignments.

“Morning, ladies and gents. So… The previous times I taught this course, I used to return these at the end of the final lecture, with the simple goal of torturing everyone. I’m not certain what that reveals about my own psychological makeup—” Andrews grins at the class. “With that said, I’m in the mood to be nice today.”

She’s behaving atypically goofy, but perhaps that’s because this is our last day. The TAs who ran our tutorials approach each aisle and begin calling out names. One by one, students get up to accept their assignments.