CH-8 SUMMER

That wasn't too bad. I managed to exchange several cordial sentences

with Fitz without smacking him in his dumb face. Gold star for me!

Except then take away my gold star and replace it with three rotten

bananas because of the way my vagina responded to that dumb face.

It tingled.

Stupid vagina.

I hate that I still find him attractive after all the hurtful comments he made

about me.

A knock on the door spares me from what probably would've been a solid

hour of overthinking. Hunter saunters into the room and throws his lean,

muscular body onto my bed.

"I need a nap."

My mouth quirks in a wry smile. "Sure, go ahead and make yourself at

home."

"Aw, thanks, Blondie." He winks, and proceeds to get even more

comfortable by sprawling on his back and propping his arms behind his head.

Um, two tickets to the gun show, please. His arms are incredible. He's

changed into a wife beater that shows off defined biceps and broad shoulders.

And his sweatpants ride low enough on his hips that I can see the smooth, tanned

stretch of man vee. It's just as tantalizing as the gun show.

Hunter is hot and he knows it. His lips curve when he notices me checking

him out.

Ugh, those lips. I still remember how they'd felt pressed against mine. He

was a good kisser. Not too aggressive, not too eager, the perfect amount of

tongue.

I wonder how Fitzy kisses.

Like a jerk, Summer, my inner Selena Gomez says firmly. He kisses like a

jerk.

Right. Because he's a jerk.

"Why are you in my room, Hunter?" I ask, leaning a hip against my desk.

"Figured we should tackle the Big Talk right out of the gate."

I sigh ruefully. "Good idea."

"A'ight. Let's do it."

I graciously gesture toward him. "Men first."

He snorts. "Coward."

Laughing, I hop up and sit on the desk. "Honestly? I don't even know what

to say. We made out. It wasn't a big deal."

His dark eyes zero in on my bare legs, which are dangling over the edge of

the desk. It's obvious he likes what he sees, because his gaze turns molten. He

reminds me a bit of Dean's friend Logan, and not just because they look similar

with their dark hair and hard bodies. Logan radiates sexual energy. I don't know

how to describe it, but there's just something so raw and dirty about him. Hunter

gives off that same vibe, and I can't deny it affects me.

But just because we find each other attractive doesn't mean we have to do

anything about it.

"I know we texted a few times after that night, but I felt like there was more

to talk about. You never really told me what it—" He stops abruptly.

I wrinkle my forehead. "I never told you what?"

He sits up and drags a hand over his scalp. He's buzzed his hair since I last

saw him, but it's still long enough to rake his fingers through. "I was about to

ask you what it meant." He stares at me in horror. "I've become my worst

nightmare."

I burst out laughing. "Oh, honey. It's okay—lots of men try to find meaning

in New Year's kisses." I give him a pointed look.

He groans. "Don't rub it in, Blondie."

"Sorry, I had to. You were so cocky that night, acting like any girl you kissed

at midnight would demand to have your babies." I stick out my tongue. "Well,

who's the one who wants to have my babies? You!"

His shoulders shake with laughter.

I slide off the desk. "Tables have turned," I say in a singsong voice.

Hunter gets to his feet. He's taller than I remember, standing at well over six

feet. Same with Fitz, but I suppose most hockey players have the height

advantage. There's one guy on the Briar team who's five-nine, though. I think

his name is Wilkins. One time I heard Dean raving about how tough he is

considering his size.

"Don't worry," Hunter says. "I'm not thinking about babies just yet."

"No? What are you thinking about, then?"

He doesn't respond. Those dark eyes lower to my chest before flicking back

to my face. I'm not wearing a bra. He definitely noticed.

And I'm definitely noticing that his sweatpants seem a bit tighter in the

crotch area than they were two minutes ago.

When he notices me noticing, he coughs and angles his body slightly.

A sigh flutters out of my throat. "You're not going to make this weird, are

you?"

Two ridiculously adorable dimples cut into his chiseled cheeks. "Define

weird."

"I don't know. Be awkward? Tiptoe around me?"

He takes another step toward me. "Does it look like I'm tiptoeing?" he

drawls.

My heart beats faster. Damn, he's smooth. "Okay. Then are you going to get

all lovesick? Write poetry about me and cook me breakfast?"

"Poetry isn't my style. And I can't cook for shit." He edges closer, until our

faces are inches apart. "I'm happy to make you coffee in the morning, though."

"I don't drink coffee," I say smugly.

His answering chuckle brings out his dimples again. "I can already tell

you're going to make this hard for me, eh?"

"This?" I echo warily. "And what exactly is this?"

He slants his head, contemplating for a beat. "I don't know yet," he admits.

His breath tickles my ear as he leans in to murmur into it. "But I'm kind of

excited to find out."

Hunter's fingertips lightly graze my bare arm. Then, before I can blink, he's

sliding out the door.

MY NEW NEIGHBORHOOD IS A VOW-OF-SILENCE CONVENT COMPARED TO THE

Kappa house at Brown. At one in the morning, the only sound beyond my

bedroom window is the occasional cricket. No car engines, no music, no shrieky

drunken sorority girls or loud-mouthed frat boys egging each other on during a

rowdy game of beer pong.

I have to admit, I find it unsettling. Silence is not my friend. Silence forces

you to examine your own mind. To face the thoughts you pushed aside during

the day or the worries you hoped would go away, the secrets you tried to keep.

I'm not a fan of my own thoughts. They tend to be a jumble of insecurity,

mixed with self-doubt, a splash of inner critic, and a sprinkling of misplaced

over-confidence. It's a fucked-up place, my mind.

I roll over and groan into my pillow. The muffled noise is like a blast of

gunfire in the eerily quiet room. I can't sleep. I've been tossing and turning since

eleven thirty and it's really starting to tick me off. I slept just fine when the guys

were in Vermont. I don't get why their presence ought to change that.

Trying to force sleep is pointless, so I kick the comforter off and stumble out

of bed. Screw it. I'm getting something to eat. Maybe it'll send me into a food

coma afterward.

Since I sleep in nothing but panties, I grab the first item of clothing I find. It

happens to be a thin white T-shirt that shows the outline of my nipples and

barely covers my thighs. I slip it on anyway, because I doubt my roomies will be

awake to see it. Hunter said they have a six a.m. practice.

But I'm wrong. One roomie is very much awake.

Fitzy and I both release startled noises when our gazes collide in the kitchen.

"Shit," I curse. "You scared me."

"Sorry. And ditto." He's sitting at the table, long legs resting on the chair

beside him, a sketchpad in his lap.

Oh, and he's shirtless.

As in, not wearing a shirt.

I can't even.

I wrestle my gaze off his bare chest, but it's too late. Every detail has already

been branded in my brain. The full-sleeve tats covering his arms. The black swirl

of ink that stretches along his collarbone and stops just above his heavy pecs.

His abs are so chiseled it looks like someone drew them on with a contouring

brush. Like Hunter, he's all muscle and no fat, but while Hunter's chest triggered

appreciation and some tingles, Fitz unleashes a flurry of shivers and a tight

clench of need.

I want to put my mouth on him. I want to trace every line and curve of his

tats with my tongue. I want to grab his sketchpad and whip it aside so I could be

the one in his lap. Preferably with my lips glued to his and my hand wrapped

around his dick.

God help me.

I don't get it. He's not my usual type at all. I've been surrounded by prep

school boys my whole life, and that's what I'm typically drawn to—polo shirts,

clean-shaven faces, and million-dollar smiles. Not tattoos and scruff.

"Can't sleep?" he says lightly.

"No," I admit. I open the fridge and scan the contents for something

appetizing. "How about you?"

"I should've turned in about an hour ago, but I wanted to finish this sketch

before bed 'cause I won't have time to do it tomorrow."

I settle on some yogurt and granola, glancing over at Fitz as I prepare a bowl.

"What are you drawing?"

"Just something for a video game I'm working on." He snaps the sketchbook

closed, even though I wasn't trying to sneak a peek at it.

"Right. Dean mentioned you're a gamer. I thought you just reviewed games,

though. You design them too?"

"Only one so far. Working on a second one now," he says vaguely.

He obviously doesn't want to discuss it, so I shrug and say, "Cool. Sounds

interesting." I perch against the counter and swallow a spoonful of yogurt.

Silence falls over the kitchen. I watch him as I eat, and he watches me eat.

It's both painfully uncomfortable and strangely comfortable. Figure that one out.

So many questions bite at my tongue, most of them relating to New Year's

Eve.

Were you really not into me that night? Did I just imagine the interested

vibes? Do you truly believe all those shitty things you said about me?

I don't voice a single one. I refuse to reveal even a hint of vulnerability to

this guy. He's not allowed to know how much his judgmental words hurt me.

Instead, I put him in the hot seat for something else.

"You weren't supposed to be skiing."

He blows out a quick breath. "No, we weren't."

"So why did you?"

"Because we're idiots."

I smile, then get mad at myself for smiling at something he said.

"Coach would freak if he found out. The other guys too, if I'm being honest.

It was a real dick move on our parts," he says roughly. "So let's keep the ski trip

between us, okay?"

Um…

I give him a sheepish look. "Too late."

"What do you mean?" His tone has sharpened.

"I accidentally became best friends with your coach's daughter earlier today.

And I accidentally told her you guys went skiing."

He gapes at me. "Fucking hell, Summer."

I'm quick to defend myself. "Hey, Hollis didn't say it was a secret when we

spoke on the phone."

Fitz shakes his head a few times. "How do you accidentally become friends

with someone?" he sputters. "And why would our ski trip even be a topic of

discussion? Did Brenna say if she was going to tell Coach?"

"She promised she wouldn't."

He curses under his breath. "That's no guarantee. Brenna's dangerous when

she loses her temper. Never know what'll come out of her mouth."

"She won't tell," I assure him. "Like I said, we're best friends now."

His lips twitch as if he's trying not to laugh.

"I'm going to your Harvard game with her tomorrow," I add.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh." I finish my yogurt and walk to the sink to wash the bowl. "She's

cool. We got along really well."

I hear him sigh. Loudly.

I glance over my shoulder. "What was that for?"

"It's in anticipation of all the trouble I envision you and Brenna getting into.

I predict you two are gonna be terrible influences on each other."

I can't help but laugh. "That is a possibility."

He sighs again. "An eventuality. I can already see it."

Grinning, I turn off the faucet and set the clean bowl in the drying rack. My

heart somersaults when Fitzy's footsteps come up behind me.

"'Scuse me, just grabbing a glass," he murmurs. One long arm stretches out

toward the cupboard, inches from my cheek.

His scent tickles my nostrils. Woodsy with a hint of citrus. He smells so

good.

I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and turn to face him. His breath hitches

slightly, dark eyes flicking toward my chest before hastily dropping to the glass

in his hand.

Oh right. My T-shirt is see-through. And my nipples are hard little buds

thanks to the cold water my hands were submerged in a minute ago. Well, that's

why they were hard. Now they're poking through my shirt for another reason.

A reason named Colin Fitzgerald, whose bare chest is so close I can touch it.

Or lick it.

I think I might be in trouble. I'm still attracted to him. Too attracted to him.

I'm not allowed to lust over someone who harbors such negative thoughts about

me.

I breathe through my mouth to avoid his masculine scent, and dart away

from the counter. My gaze seeks out a distraction, something to focus on that

isn't Fitz's big, muscly, amazing chest. It lands on the fat paperback novel sitting

next to the drawing pencils he left on the table.

"Oh!" My voice sounds overly loud. I quickly lower it before I wake Hunter

and Hollis. "I love this series." I pick up the book and flip it over to skim the

blurb. "Are you just starting to read it or doing a reread?"

When Fitz doesn't answer, I look over and glimpse the skepticism flickering

through his expression. When he speaks, his voice is laced with the same doubt.

"You've read the Shifting Winds books?"

"The first three. I haven't gotten around to number four yet." I hold up the

paperback, which is well over a thousand pages. "I heard it's even longer than

these ones."

"Blood of the Dragon? Yeah, it's double the length," he says absently. Still

eyeing me uncertainly. "I can't believe you read this series."

A frown forms on my lips. "Why's that?"

"It's just really dense, and…" He trails off awkwardly.

It takes a second for the implication to sink in.

It's not that he can't believe I've read these books.

It's that he doesn't believe I've read these books.

Indignation rises in my chest and sticks to my throat, forming a hot lump.

Well, why would he, right? In his eyes, I'm surface level. The dumb sorority girl

couldn't possibly comprehend such lengthy, dense material! Hell, he probably

thinks I'm illiterate too.

A growl rips out of my mouth. "I know how to fucking read."

He startles. "What? I didn't say—"

"And just because I don't have dragons and fairies and elves tattooed all over

my body, doesn't mean I'm not allowed to read fantasy books—"

"Allowed? I didn't say—"

"—however dense they may be," I finish with a scowl. "But it's good to

know your thoughts on the matter." With a tight smile, I drop the book on the

table. Thud. "Goodnight, Fitz. Try not to stay up too late."

"Summer—"

I'm out of the kitchen before he can say another word