Page 28 of The Chase

“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.”

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