“Strip.”
Spending time with Summer is…a challenge. And that’s coming from me, a guy who plays hockey at the college level for a Division 1 school. I can honestly say that my grueling athletic career is a walk in the park compared to the sheer grit it takes maintaining a friendship with Summer Di Laurentis.
First off, it’s impossible for me to forget about the kiss we shared. Maybe she’s been able to put it out of her mind, but it sure as hell hasn’t left mine. Which means every time I’ve looked at her mouth these past few days, I’ve been reminded of how good it felt pressed against mine.
Second, I’m still attracted to her, so usually when I’m admiring that mouth, the fantasy doesn’t stop with a harmless kiss. Her lips and tongue have played a starring role in so many dirty fantasies that I’ve taken to jerking off in the shower every morning to the thought of her.
Third, jerking off to her every morning makes it hard to look her in the eye when we hang out.
And lastly, when you’re friends with Summer, she does things like waltz into your bedroom and order you to strip.
“No,” I answer.
“Strip, Fitzy.”
I cock one eyebrow. “No.”
“Oh my God, why won’t you take your clothes off!”
“Why are you asking me to take my clothes off? I’m not one of your French girls,” I growl.
She keels over laughing. Summer has this way of completely losing herself in fits of laughter. It usually involves tears, doubling over, and furiously rubbing a stitch in her side. When she laughs, she does it with her entire body and soul.
Needless to say, I like provoking that response from her.
“I don’t want to draw you,” she says between giggles. She straightens and plants both hands on her hips. “I’m trying to help you, you stupid jerk.”
I swallow a sigh. I deeply regret telling her about my job interview with Kamal Jain tomorrow morning. It came up last night during our nightly sketching/study session, a routine we’ve had going for the past four days. When she asked what I planned on wearing, I shrugged and said, “Maybe jeans and a blazer?”
To which she’d gazed at me in horror and retorted, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but that’s not a look you can pull off. Justin Timberlake, he can rock it like a hurricane. But you? No way.” Then she’d dismissively waved her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
I wasn’t worried, and I hadn’t asked her to clarify what she meant by “taking care of it.”
I regret not asking, because now it’s eight o’clock on Thursday night and Summer just dropped half a dozen garment bags on my bed and demanded I undress.
“I’m not trying on clothes for you,” I say stubbornly.
“I told you, this isn’t for me!” she grumbles in frustration. “It’s for you. I’m doing you a huge solid right now, Fitz. Do you know how many thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes are in those bags?”
I scowl. “I don’t care how much they cost. I want to wear my own stuff.”
“What stuff?” She charges to my closet door and throws it open. “You mean this stuff? A bunch of T-shirts. Jeans and cargo pants. Some sweaters, a couple of button-downs, a whole lot of sports jerseys, and more wife-beaters than any man should ever need to own.”
“And the suit I wore to my Uncle Ned’s funeral,” I say helpfully. “I could wear that if you want.”
“I do not want.” She rifles through the hangers. “Everything you own is either black or gray. What do you have against colors, Colin? Did red bully you as a child? Did green steal your girlfriend? Black, gray, gray, black, black, oh look! More black! This is insanity. I’m literally going insane looking at your closet.” Summer spins around, glaring. “You’re going to let me dress you for the interview, you hear me? It’s my right, now that we’re best friends.”
“Best friends?” I sputter with laughter. “I agreed to no such thing.”
“If I decide something, then it’s the law.” She sticks out her tongue. “You have no say.”
Gone is the teary-eyed girl I’d comforted mere days ago, and I have to admit it’s nice seeing her smiling and beaming at me. Directing all her innate sunlight at me instead of eyeing me with dark caution and cloudy uncertainty.
“Come on, Fitz. Please? Just try on a few outfits. If you don’t like them, I’ll send them back.”
“Send them back to who?” My stomach churns. “Please don’t tell me you bought these.” I’m not good with accepting gifts, particularly expensive ones.
“Oh no. That would make a huge dent in my trust fund. My parents would murder me.” She shrugs. “A friend of mine sent them over as a favor. She’s the stylist for an actor.”
“Which actor?” I can’t help but ask, curiously eyeing the bags.
“Noah Billings.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s on a CW superhero show. He’s about your size, maybe a tad shorter. Most of these have been tailored to him, but we’ll see what we can do. Anyway, Mariah said you can borrow whatever you want, as long as we pay for it to be dry-cleaned before we give it back. So now shut up and strip, sweetie. I want you to look great tomorrow. I mean, this is huge.”
She’s right. It is huge. A job at Orcus Games would be a dream come true.
“You’re right,” I concede. “I can’t look like a scrub.”
“I’m sorry, did you say I’m right? As in, you’re wrong?”
“Yes, Summer. You’re right. I need to make a good impression.” I sigh in defeat. “Let’s see what’s in those bags.”
She squeals loud enough to make me flinch. Man, that’s a seriously high pitch she’s got there. “You won’t regret this. This is going to be so much fun.”
Clapping happily, she does a few spins, her blonde hair whipping around her slender body. She punctuates the excited dance with a little jump where she kicks out both legs and then lands directly on the tips of her bare toes.
“Whoa,” I blurt, genuinely impressed. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“I took six years of ballet.” She marches to the chair and picks up the first garment bag.
Right, I remember she’d mentioned ballet had been one of her interests. “Didn’t stick with it, eh?”
“I told you, I get bored easily.” She unzips the bag and extracts a hanger that holds a…
Gray sweater.
“It’s a fucking gray sweater,” I accuse. “You know, like the one hanging five feet away from us? The one you were just criticizing?”
“First of all, it’s not gray. It’s slate—”
“It’s gray.”
“Second of all, it’s Tom Ford—is the one in your closet Tom Ford? I didn’t think so. Third of all, shut up and come touch this.”
I’m scared she’ll smack me if I don’t, so I do what the lady orders. I can’t help but whistle as my fingers encounter the softest wool I’ve ever felt. “It’s nice,” I relent.
“Perfect, so we’ll try it over this…” She checks the second hanger. “Oooh, over this Saint Laurent shirt. Actually, no… You know what? I don’t think we even need a shirt underneath. I feel like the sweater might be thick enough that your nips won’t show. We’ll pair it with these trousers. Turn around.”
“Why?”
“I want to see your butt.”
“No,” I say indignantly.
“Turn around.”
I turn around because I don’t feel like losing another argument, but I throw in a silky reply just to unnerve her. “Do you like what you see? You can give it a squeeze if you want.”
She makes a squeaky noise. “Are you flirting? That’s highly inappropriate.”
“Says the woman staring longingly at my ass.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she replies, but I don’t miss the breathy note in her voice. “Okay. We’ll try the trousers, but Noah Billings’ butt isn’t as muscular as yours. These might show off a little too much ass.”
“Is there such a thing?” I ask solemnly.
Summer grins. “Touché. All right. Let’s see how this looks.”
I’m about to remove my shirt, when I realize she’s still standing there watching me. “What, I don’t get any privacy?”
“You’re just taking your shirt off. It’s not like you’re getting naked.”
Yes, but it still feels kind of…intimate. I shrug the thought away. If we were at the beach, I’d have no qualms going bare-chested. I’m being a pussy right now.
I peel my T-shirt over my head.
Summer’s green eyes widen. Appreciation heats her expression, and damned if that doesn’t inflate my ego like a helium balloon. It only gets bigger when she lets out a breathy noise that speaks directly to my dick.
“I love your tattoos,” she informs me.
“Yeah?”
Her gaze is glued to my naked torso. Holy shit, if she keeps looking at me like that, I might not be able to stop myself from touching her. It’s already been a Herculean effort for me to draw her every night without giving in to every carnal urge that’s begging me to fuck her.
But I can’t. Not unless she makes the first move. I already blew my chance thanks to my behavior on New Year’s. My hypercritical words had hurt her, and just because she’d accepted my apology doesn’t mean I can assume she’s into me now. The fact that she referred to us as “best friends” is probably a good indication of where I stand.
I’ve been friend-zoned.
“Permission to approach the chest?”
A hasty laugh pops out. “Permission granted?”
She steps forward for a closer examination of the ink on my arms and chest. “Did you design these yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“My God, Fitz. You’re so good.”
Embarrassment creeps up my throat. I don’t take compliments well. Never have. So I make a noncommittal sound that hopefully she interprets as a thank you.
“You’re really into the fantasy imagery, huh?” She focuses on my left biceps. “This sword is badass. Is it based on Sir Nornan’s glass sword in The Glass Forest? No, wait, the sword doesn’t show up until the third book.”
“Weeping Devils,” I confirm, naming another title in the Shifting Winds series. Nerves make me pause, because I don’t want to rock the boat again. “Which one is your favorite?” I quickly add, “It’s not a trick question, I promise. I know you read them.”
“If you want to get technical, I didn’t read them—I listened to the audiobooks. I’m obsessed with audiobooks,” she reveals. “And to answer your question, I’d have to go with the first book. First book is always the best.”
“Agreed.”
She touches something on my shoulder. “Ohhh, this is so pretty. This cluster of roses.” Her impish gaze lifts to mine. “Not very manly,” she teases.
I’m too distracted to respond or take offense, because her fingertips are still tracing my bare flesh. Air gets trapped in my throat. The sweet scent of her shampoo tickles my nose, along with a hint of her signature perfume.
I find myself asking, “What perfume is that?”
“Chanel No. 5.” Her lips curve in a smile. “The only scent a lady should ever own.”
My body weeps from the loss of contact when she withdraws her hand. “Enough chit-chatting, Fitzy. Put this on.”
The next thing I know, she’s shoving the sweater over my head. I feel like a child as I slide my arms into the sleeves and poke my head through the neck hole. I swear Summer’s fingernails scrape my abdomen as she drags the shirt down.
A shiver races up my spine. I’m turned on.
Like, really turned on.
Shit, and now I have to take my pants off, and I’m wearing boxer-briefs that perfectly outline my cock. She’s totally going to notice.
Ding.
Summer’s phone chimes with an incoming text. Oh, thank you, Jesus. As she turns to check the message, I hastily kick my sweatpants off and slide into the crisp black trousers. Making sure her gaze is occupied, I do a quick rearrange of the dick region so it’s not as pokey. When Summer turns back to me, I hope I resemble a man who isn’t harder than granite.
She whistles softly. “Oh, I like this, Fitz. It’s super sharp. Here, look.” She angles the closet door so I’m able to see my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I’m pleasantly surprised. I clean up nice. “Sweet,” I say. “Let’s go with this.”
I register her disbelieving expression in the mirror. Then she barks out a laugh. “Colin,” she says between giggles. “Are you always this naïve?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “What do you mean?”
“It means this is the first outfit you’ve tried on.” She pats my arm as she brushes past me, chuckling under her breath. “We’re just getting started.”
“Started with what?” comes a suspicious voice.
We turn to find Hunter in the doorway.
A thread of discomfort wraps around my insides. Hunter’s been keeping his distance from me since Sunday night. He hasn’t stated outright that the Spin the Bottle thing pissed him off, but I get the distinct feeling it did.
In my defense, I wasn’t even playing the damn game, and I wouldn’t have kissed Summer at all if Jesse’s bossy girlfriend hadn’t insisted. I know better than to argue with Katie.
Besides, if Hunter’s upset that Summer and I kissed, he can man up and talk to me about it.
“Listen to this,” Summer tells him in an amused voice. “I brought six garment bags of clothes for Fitz to try on. You know, for his interview tomorrow. He’s only tried one outfit.” She points at the Ford and Saint Laurent combo. “And he thinks…” She looks like she’s going to explode with laughter. “He thinks we’re done now.”
I expect Hunter to give her a blank look. But my teammate snickers at me, obviously in on the joke. “Naïve bastard.” He strides into my room and sprawls on the bed. “This is gonna be fun.” He winks at Summer. “Go get Hollis. Tell him to make some popcorn.”
“On it.” She’s already hurrying out the door, yelling, “Mike!”
“Traitor,” I grumble at Hunter.
He merely grins. “You gave an heiress from Connecticut permission to dress you for an interview. You really think I’m going to miss this show?”
I sigh. I guess I could put my foot down and declare this travesty over, but clearly Summer is having fun, and this is the first time in days that Hunter’s actually seemed at ease with me. Maybe I was imagining his aloofness, and he doesn’t care about the kiss at all.
“Listen, about you and Summer,” he hedges.
I spoke too soon.
“She said you’re helping her with her midterm.”
“Mmm-hmmm. I am.” I pretend to be preoccupied with the left sleeve of my sweater, examining it as if it holds all the secrets to the universe.
“And then there was the whole, ah, kiss thing on Sunday.” From the corner of my eye, I see him run his fingers through his dark hair. “So I’m just gonna come out and ask. Is there something between you guys? You hooking up?”
“Naah, we’re not.” Man, this sleeve is damn fascinating. “We’re just friends.”
“You sure about that?”
I force myself to look him in the eye like a mature adult. “In case you forgot, I was walking by minding my own business when that bottle landed on me. Neither of us wanted to follow through, remember?”
“True.” He’s nodding slowly. “You guys did look really uncomfortable.”
Did we?
I try not to frown. Because what I remember is how her lips set my entire body on fire. I remember her tongue rubbing against mine and sending an electric shock straight to my balls. I remember breathing in her addictive scent and almost passing out with need.
But Hunter saw discomfort. Interesting.
Maybe that’s why Summer hasn’t raised the subject of the kiss even once since it happened. Fuck. Am I actually in the friend zone?
“I think she’s awesome, Fitz.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t joking about the whole dibs thing when we got back from Vermont. I’m into her.”
He shoots a glance toward the doorway, as if he’s worried Summer might be standing there. But he relaxes when her and Mike’s laughter echoes from downstairs.
“And I think she’s into me,” he continues. Another shrug. “I mean, we made out on New Year’s. We’ve cuddled.”
They’ve cuddled? The stab of jealousy I feel hurts more than I expect.
“I’m planning on asking her out.” He tips his head, watching me carefully. “Is that going to be a problem?”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Yes, it’s gonna be a problem? What if I did say that? What then? Would we have to duel for Summer’s honor?
“Like I said when we discussed her moving in, as long as it doesn’t affect our lease, I don’t care what you do.” It’s very, very difficult to utter these words, but the alternative would only create problems I’d rather not deal with at the moment.
If Summer was ripping her clothes off and begging me to screw her, maybe my answer would be different.
But she’s not.
