CH-2 FITZ

"Dance with me?"

I want to say no.

But I also want to say yes.

I call this the Summer Dilemma—the frustrating, polar reactions this greeneyed, golden-haired goddess sparks in me.

Fuck yes and hell no.

Get naked with her. Run far, far away from her.

"Thanks, but I don't like to dance." I'm not lying. Dancing's the worst.

Besides, when it comes to Summer Di Laurentis, my flight instinct always

wins out.

"You're no fun, Fitzy." She makes a tsking noise, drawing my gaze to her

lips. Full, pink, and glossy, with a tiny mole above the left side of her mouth.

It's an extremely hot mouth.

Hell, everything about Summer is hot. She's hands down the best-looking

girl in the bar, and every dude in our vicinity is either staring enviously or

glowering at me for being with her.

Not that I'm with her. We're not together. I'm just standing next to her, with

two feet of space between us. Which Summer keeps trying to bridge by leaning

closer to me.

In her defense, she practically has to scream in my ear for me to hear her

over the electronic dance music blasting through the room. I hate EDM, and I

don't like these kinds of bars, the ones with a dance floor and deafening music.

Why the subterfuge? Just call your establishment a nightclub, if that's what you

want it to be. The owner of Gunner's Pub should've called this place Gunner's

Club. Then I could've turned right around when I saw the sign and spared

myself the shattered eardrums.

Not for the first time tonight, I curse my friends for dragging me to Brooklyn

for New Year's Eve. I'd way rather be at home, drinking a beer or two and

watching the ball drop on TV. I'm low-key like that.

"You know, they warned me you were a curmudgeon, but I didn't believe it

until now."

"Who's they?" I ask suspiciously. "And hey, wait. I'm not a curmudgeon."

"Hmmm, you're right—the term is kind of dated. Let's go with Groucho."

"Let's not."

"No-Fun Police? Is that better?" Her expression is pure innocence.

"Seriously, Fitz, what do you have against fun?"

An unwitting smile breaks free. "Got nothing against fun."

"All right. Then what do you have against me?" she challenges. "Because

every time I try talking to you, you run away."

My smile fades. I shouldn't be surprised that she's calling me out in public.

We've had a whopping total of two encounters, but that's plenty of time for me

to know she's the type who thrives on drama.

I hate drama.

"Got nothing against you, either." With a shrug, I ease away from the bar,

prepared to do what she's just accused me of—run.

A frustrated gleam fills her eyes. They're big and green, the same shade as

her older brother Dean's eyes. And Dean's the reason I force myself to stay put.

He's a good friend of mine. I can't be a jackass to his sister, both out of respect

for him, and for fear of my well-being. I've been on the ice when Dean's gloves

come off. He's got a mean right hook.

"I mean it," I say roughly. "I have nothing against you. We're cool."

"What? I didn't hear the last part," she says over the music.

I dip my mouth toward her ear, and I'm surprised that I barely have to bend

my neck. She's taller than the average chick, five-nine or ten, and since I'm six-

two and used to towering over women, I find this refreshing.

"I said we're cool," I repeat, but I misjudged the distance between my lips

and Summer's ear. The two collide, and I feel a shiver run up her frame.

I shiver too, because my mouth is way too close to hers. She smells like

heaven, some fascinating combo of flowers and jasmine and vanilla and—

sandalwood, maybe? A man could get high on that fragrance. And don't get me

started on her dress. White, strapless, short. So short it barely grazes her lower

thighs.

God fucking help me.

I quickly straighten up before I do something stupid, like kiss her. Instead, I

take a huge gulp of my beer. Only it goes down the wrong pipe, and I start

coughing like it's the eighteenth century and I'm a tuberculosis patient.

Smooth move.

"You okay?"

When the coughing fit subsides, I find those green eyes dancing at me. Her

lips are curved in a devilish smile. She knows exactly what got me flustered.

"Fine," I croak, just as three very plastered guys lumber up to the bar and

bump into Summer.

She stumbles, and the next thing I know there's a gorgeous, sweet-smelling

woman in my arms.

She laughs and grabs my hand. "C'mon, let's get out of this crowd before it

leaves bruises."

For some reason, I let her lead me away.

We end up at a high table near the railing that separates the bar's main room

from the small, shitty dance floor. A quick look around reveals that most of my

friends are drunk off their asses.

Mike Hollis, my roommate, is grinding up on a cute brunette who doesn't

seem to mind in the slightest. He's the one who insisted we make the drive to

Brooklyn instead of staying in the Boston area. He wanted to spend New Year's

with his older brother Brody, who disappeared the moment we got here. I guess

the girl is Hollis' consolation prize for getting ditched by his brother.

Our other roommate, Hunter, is dancing with three girls. Yup, three. They're

all but licking his face off, and I'm pretty sure one has a hand down his pants.

Hunter, of course, is loving it.

What a difference a year makes. Last season he was uneasy about all the

female attention, said it made him feel a bit sleazy. Now, it appears he's

perfectly cool taking advantage of the perks that come with playing hockey for

Briar University. And trust me, there're plenty of perks.

Let's get real—athletes are the most fuckable guys on most college

campuses. If you're at a football school, chances are there's a line of jersey

chasers begging to blow the quarterback. Basketball school? The groupie pool

doubles and triples in size when March Madness comes around. And at Briar,

with a hockey team that has a dozen Frozen Four championships under its belt

and more nationally televised games than any other college in the country? The

hockey players are gods.

Except for me, that is. I play hockey, yes. I'm good at it, definitely. But

"god" and "jock" and "superstar" are terms I've never been comfortable with.

Deep down, I'm a huge nerd. A nerd masquerading as a god.

"Hunter's got game." Summer is studying Hunter's entourage.

The DJ has switched the beats from electronic garbage to Top 40 hits.

Blessedly, he's also turned down the volume, probably in anticipation of the

nearing countdown. Thirty more minutes and I can make my escape.

"He does," I agree.

"I'm impressed."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. Greenwich boys are usually secret prudes."

I wonder how she knows Hunter is from Connecticut. I don't think I've seen

them exchange more than a few words tonight. Maybe Dean told her? Or maybe

—

Or maybe it doesn't frickin' matter how she knows, because if it did matter,

then that means the weird prickly sensation in my chest is jealousy. And that,

frankly, is unacceptable.

Summer does another visual sweep of the crowd and blanches. "Oh my God.

Gross." She cups her hands to create a microphone, shouting, "Keep your tongue

in your own mouth, Dicky!"

Laughter sputters out of me. No way Dean could've heard her, but I guess he

possesses some sort of sibling radar, because he abruptly pries his lips off his

girlfriend's. His head swivels in our direction. When he spots Summer, he gives

her the finger.

She blows a kiss in return.

"I'm so glad I'm an only child," I remark.

She grins at me. "Naah, you're missing out. Tormenting my brothers is one

of my favorite pastimes."

"I've noticed." She calls Dean "Dicky," a childhood nickname that a nicer

person would have stopped using years ago.

On the other hand, Dean's nickname for Summer is "Boogers," so maybe

she's right to torture him.

"Dicky deserves to be tormented tonight. I can't believe we're partying in

Brooklyn," she grumbles. "When he said we were ringing in the New Year in the

city, I assumed he meant Manhattan—but then he and Allie dragged me to

horrible Brooklyn instead. I feel duped."

I snicker. "What's wrong with Brooklyn? Allie's dad lives around here,

doesn't he?"

Summer nods. "They're spending the day with him tomorrow. And to

answer your question—what isn't wrong with Brooklyn? It used to be cool,

before it got overrun by hipsters."

"Hipsters still exist? I thought we were done with that nonsense."

"God, no. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise." She mock shudders.

"This whole area is still teeming with them."

She says "them" as if they're carriers for a gruesome, incurable disease. She

might have a point, though—a thorough examination of the crowd reveals a

large amount of vintage attire, painfully skinny jeans on men, retro accessories

paired with shiny new tech, and lots and lots of beards.

I rub my own beard, wondering if it places me in the hipster camp. I've been

rocking the scruff all winter, mostly because it's good insulation from the bitter

weather we've been experiencing. Last week we got hit by one of the worst

Nor'easters I've ever seen. I almost froze my balls off.

"They're so…" She searches for the right word. "Douchey."

I have to laugh. "Not all of them."

"Most of them," she says. "Like, see that girl over there? With the braids and

the bangs? That's a thousand-dollar Prada cardigan she has on—and she's paired

it with a five-dollar tank she probably got at the Salvation Army, and those

weird tasseled shoes they sell in Chinatown. She's a total fraud."

I furrow my brow. "How do you know the cardigan cost a grand?"

"Because I have the same one in gray. Besides, I can pick Prada out of any

lineup."

I don't doubt that. She was probably deposited into a designer onesie the

moment she popped out of her mother's womb. Summer and Dean come from a

filthy-rich family. Their parents are successful lawyers who were independently

wealthy before they got hitched, so now they're like a mega-rich super-duo who

could probably buy a small country without even making a dent in their bank

account. I stayed at their Manhattan penthouse a couple times, and it was

goddamn unreal. They also have a mansion in Greenwich, a beach house, and a

bunch of other properties around the globe.

Me, I can barely make the rent on the townhouse I share with two other

dudes. We're still on the hunt for a fourth roommate, though, so my share will

go down once we fill that empty room.

I'm not gonna lie—the fact that Summer lives in penthouses and owns

clothes that cost thousands of dollars is slightly unsettling.

"Anyway, hipsters suck, Fitzy. No thank you. I'd way rather—oooh! I love

this song! I had backstage passes to her show at The Garden last June and it was

amazing."

The ADHD is strong with this one, my friend.

I hide a smile as Summer completely drops her death-to-all-hipsters tirade

and starts bobbing her head to a Beyoncé song. Her high ponytail swishes

wildly.

"Are you sure you don't want to dance?" she pleads.

"Positive."

"You're the worst. I'll be right back."

I blink, and she's no longer beside me. Blink again, and I spot her on the

dance floor, arms thrust in the air, ponytail flipping, hips moving to the beat.

I'm not the only one watching her. A sea of covetous eyes ripples in the

direction of the beautiful girl in the white dress. Summer either doesn't notice or

doesn't care. She dances alone, without an ounce of self-consciousness. She is

completely comfortable in her own skin.

"Jesus," Hunter Davenport rasps, coming up to the table. Like most of the

men around us, he's staring at Summer with an expression that could only be

described as pure hunger.

"Guess she hasn't forgotten any of those old cheerleading moves." Hunter

slants another appreciative look in Summer's direction. When he notices my

quizzical face, he adds, "She was a cheerleader in high school. Member of the

dance team too."

When did he and Summer engage in a conversation long enough for him to

learn these tidbits?

The uncomfortable prickling sensation returns, this time traveling up my

spine.

It's not jealousy, though.

"Cheerleading and dance, huh?" I ask lightly. "She tell you that?"

"We went to the same prep school," he reveals.

"No shit."

"Yeah. I was a year behind her, but trust me, every hetero guy with a

working dick was familiar with Summer Di Laurentis's cheer routines."

I'll bet.

He claps me on the shoulder. "Gonna hit the head and then grab another

drink. Want anything?"

"I'm good."

Not sure why, but I'm relieved that Hunter's not around when Summer

returns to the table, her cheeks flushed from exertion.

Despite the frigid temperatures outside, she chose not to wear tights or

pantyhose, and, as my old man would say, she's got legs for days. Long, smooth,

gorgeous legs that would probably look so hot wrapped around my waist. And

the white dress sets off her deep, golden tan, giving her a glowing, healthy vibe

that's almost hypnotizing.

"So, you're…" I clear my throat. "You're coming to Briar this semester,

huh?" I ask, trying to distract myself from her smokin' body.

She gives an enthusiastic nod. "I am!"

"Are you going to miss Providence?" I know she spent her freshman and

sophomore years at Brown, plus one semester of junior year, which makes up

half her college career. If it were me, I'd hate starting over at a new school.

But Summer shakes her head. "Not really. I wasn't a fan of the town, or the

school. I only went there because my parents wanted me to attend an Ivy League

and I didn't get into Harvard or Yale, their alma maters." She shrugs. "Did you

want to go to Briar?"

"Definitely. I heard phenomenal things about the Fine Arts program. And,

obviously, the hockey program is stellar. They offered me a full ride to play, and

I get to study something I'm really into, so…" I offer a shrug in return.

"That's so important. Doing what you love, I mean. A lot of people don't

have that opportunity."

Curiosity flickers through me. "What do you love to do?"

Her answering grin is self-deprecating. "I'll let you know when I figure it

out."

"Come on, there's got to be something you're passionate about."

"Well, I've been passionate about stuff—interior design, psychology, ballet,

swimming. The problem is, it never sticks. I lose interest quickly. I haven't

found a long-term passion yet, I suppose."

Her candidness surprises me a bit. She seems way more down-to-earth

tonight compared to our previous encounters.

"I'm thirsty," she announces.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, since I'm sure that's code for go buy me

a drink. Only, it's not. With a naughty smile, she swipes my beer from my hand.

Our fingers brush briefly, and I pretend not to notice the spark of heat that

races up my arm. I watch as she wraps her fingers around the Bud Light bottle

and takes a long sip.

She's got small hands, delicate fingers. It'd be a challenge to draw them, to

capture the intriguing combination of fragility and surety. Her fingernails are

short, rounded and have those white French tips or whatever you call 'em, a style

that seems way too plain for someone like Summer. I'd expect extra-long talons

painted pink or some other pastel.

"You're doing it again." There's accusation in her tone. A bit of aggravation

too.

"Doing what?"

"Zoning me out. Curmudgeoning."

"That's not a word."

"Says who?" She takes another sip of beer.

My gaze instantly fixes on her lips.

Dammit, I gotta stop this. She's not my type. The first time I met her,

everything about her screamed sorority girl. The designer clothes, the waves and

waves of blonde hair, a face that could stop traffic.

There's no way I'm her type, either. I have no idea why she's spending New

Year's Eve talking to a scruffy, tatted-up goon like me.

"Sorry. I'm not very chatty. Don't take it personally, okay?" I steal my bottle

back.

"Okay, I won't. But if you don't feel like talking, at least entertain me in

other ways." She plants her hands on her hips. "I propose we make out."