Page 119 of The Chase

“Nope. They kept trash-talking each other to me. Still do to this day, though not as bad as before.”

She frowns. “How’d you deal with it when you were growing up?”

“By becoming invisible,” I say roughly. “I mean, there was one rebellious phase where I got my first tat behind their back and dared them to pay attention to me, but mostly I hid in my room. As long as they couldn’t see me, they weren’t able to poison me against each other.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

I shrug.

“You’re doing it again,” she teases with a smile. “Okay, listen. I know you’re used to having your feelings twisted into something negative, but I promise you, anything you tell me will stay in our sacred trust circle. I will never, ever report it to the judge.”

I find myself smiling back. “I’m sorry. Bad habit. I’ll try to break it.” I shoot her a stern look. “But only if you promise to stop being so hard on yourself. You’ve got to stop telling yourself you’re stupid.”

“I’ll try,” she says, and I suppose I can’t ask for more than that. “Are you hungry? I never ended up having dinner.”

I want to ask her why not, what happened on the date with Hunter, but I tamp down the urge. I really don’t want to kill the mood by bringing up another guy. That can wait till tomorrow.

I want tonight to be about just me and Summer.

25

SUMMER

“MYFRENCH GIRLS HAVE GOT NOTHING ON YOU,” FITZinforms me three nights later.

From the floor of his bedroom, I lift my gaze off the papers in my lap and stick my tongue out at him. And then I realize he’s not joking. A mixture of awe and appreciation shines in his brown eyes as he stares at me.

“You’re stunning,” he insists.

“Stop,” I order. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“Yeah right. Compliments don’t make you blush. You love ’em.”

Well, sure. I do. But the intensity on his face is a tad unnerving. We’ve gone back to our he-draws-me-while-I-write-my-essay routine, but usually he doesn’t say much while he sketches, and he certainly doesn’t throw around words like “stunning.”

I tend to do most of the talking, reading bits of my paper aloud to him and trying to vocalize my thoughts before I put them down on the page. His presence helps my concentration, if I’m being honest. It’s as if it creates a sense of accountability for me. The midterm is due in a few days, but I’mactually feeling good about it. Not saying it’s A-material, but I’d be perfectly content with a B or C.

Fitz studies his sketch. His biceps flex as he shifts one arm and scrapes the pencil over the page to add another detail.

Lord, he is hotter than a five-alarm fire. In appearance, and in body temperature, I’m discovering. He stripped off his T-shirt ten minutes into our study/sketch session, taunting me with his ripped chest. I honestly don’t know how my ADHD brain has managed to remain focused on my schoolwork.

“Stunning,” he says again, this time mumbling it under his breath. “I can see why other women are threatened by you.”

I feel the blush rise in my cheeks. “Nobody’s threatened by me. You’re nuts.”

“No? Remember the girl at the bar?”

“She was threatened by Brenna, not me.”

“Naah, it was both of you.” He examines his drawing again. “Jesus. I can’t get over it. You’re beautiful, but it’s the kind of beauty that’s so…unattainable. It’s otherworldly.”

I snort. “That’s very poetic of you, sweetie.”

But inside, Selena Gomez and I are doing an entire cheerleading routine’s worth of cartwheels and flips. Nobody has ever called meotherworldly. I think I like it.

When footsteps echo in the hall, we both stiffen. And this is something Idon’tlike—the awful cloud of tension that’s fallen over our household. If we’re in my bedroom or Fitz’s, the tension fades away. The conversation flows, and there’s an ease between us that I’ve never experienced with another guy before.

Anywhere else in the house, the thundercloud looms.

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