“I figured that much,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “That wasn’t the answer I was looking for.”

“Then you should ask more specific questions,” Emmitt returns, his gaze unrelenting.

I furrow my brows, considering the stiff set to his shoulders. “Okay. Why is it a secret that I’m helping you with this contest?”

Emmitt’s brown eyes are glacial, and I almost think he’s going to remain silent, but then he says, “Because my mum can’t know about it, and the more people that know, the more likely it’ll get back to her.”

“Your mum?” I repeat. That was the last thing I expected. It seems unfathomable that Emmitt Ramos could also have family problems like any other normal teenager.

His expression doesn’t shift. “That’s what I said. Where did those brain cells you were boasting about go, love?”

I make a face at him, unimpressed. And he calls me rude. “Why can’t your mother know?”

Emmitt shrugs, the movement nonchalant, despite the intensity of his gaze. “She wouldn’t approve.”

But why not? I want to ask. I don’t, because I can already tell he won’t answer, not when his jaw is that tense. I can’t help but resent the fact I’ve spent enough time with him to identify his emotions. “I see. And you’re doing the contest anyway?”

He offers me a mirthless smile. “As I said, I love photography.”

“Huh,” I say, studying his expression. There’s more to Emmitt Ramos than I anticipated. He has passions and dreams of his own, outside of what his family expects of him. It’s weird to think we might actually have something in common.

Knowing that Shana Torres, the photographer running Emmitt’s contest, is from Spain makes me wonder if this is some way to connect with his father, to keep the bond between them alive.

But maybe that’s not my place to speculate.

“What about you?” Emmitt says, startling me out of an extended silence. “What about your little Golden Ivy competition? Why are you so adamant about winning?”

The truth gets stuck in my throat. Because I have to. “I’m the co-president of the film club. Why wouldn’t I want to win?”

“I see both of us excel at evading questions,” Emmitt says too lightly.

Before I can protest, he lifts a finger to his lips, his rings brushing against his mouth as he shushes me. I squint at him suspiciously, watching as he cocks his head. “Tell me about the short film.”

“Do you even care?” I ask.

“Would I ask if I didn’t care?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Emmitt releases a low laugh. “Ah, love, it seems you’re learning my bad habits already.”

“Not by any choice of my own,” I say under my breath.