Page 38 of The Chase

I roll my eyes. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

Her feet stay glued to the porch. “Don’t do this to me, Summer.”

“Do what?”

“Bring me into the den of Satan.”

“Oh my God. And people sayI’ma drama queen.” I tug her toward the door. “We’re going inside. Deal with it.”

Despite what Weston said about it being a chill night, the place is overflowing when we walk in without ringing the bell. The music’s so loud, no one would’ve heard the doorbell, anyway.

And despite Brenna’s almost comical expression of horror, the party instantly puts a big smile on my face. I don’t know what it is about music and merriment and crowds that never fails to lift my spirits. At one point in my life I thought about becoming an event planner, but I realized fairly fast that Idon’t actually like planning the parties—I like attending them. I get enjoyment out of putting together an outfit, picking a makeup palette, accessorizing. Making an entrance, and then wandering around to see what everyone else is wearing.

Maybe I need to be one of those interviewers who stands on the red carpet and admires the clothes. All I’d have to do is stick microphones in people’s faces and ask who they’re wearing. Damn. That actually sounds like it would be fun. But I think it’s a bit too late to switch my major to broadcasting. I’d have to start all over again. Besides, I’ve never had much interest in being on camera.

“I don’t like this. Look at these goons with their smug faces,” she growls, jabbing her finger in the air.

At that exact moment, a tall guy with scrawny arms poking out of a Celtics jersey backs directly into her pointed finger. “Hey! What the—” His protest dies when he spins around and sees Brenna. “Forget I said that,” he begs. “Please,pleasekeep poking me. Poke me all night long.”

“No. Go away,” she orders.

He winks at her. “Come find me after you’ve had a couple drinks.”

My jaw drops. “Ew. Now you definitely need to go away.”

As Brenna and I brush past him, I search the crowd for Weston or Jake Connelly but don’t see either one of them. I know Weston’s here already, because he messaged me about ten minutes ago.

I take Brenna’s arm and drag her toward what I hope is the kitchen. “I need a drink.”

“I need ten.”

I pinch the fleshy part of her forearm. “Stop being so melodramatic. It’s just a party.”

“It’s a Harvard party. Celebrating a Harvard win.” She shakes her head. “You’re turning out to be the most disappointing best friend of all time.”

“We both know you don’t mean that. I’m terrific.”

In the kitchen, we’re greeted by a blast of raucous laughter. The cedar work island is covered with various alcoholic beverages and stacks of red plastic cups and surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly male. No Weston or Jake, but the noisy boys at the counter are all big enough that they’re most likely hockey players.

Every single one of them sends an appreciative look in our direction, while the only females—two pretty blondes—narrow their eyes. Within seconds, they’re dragging two of the guys away, under the pretense that they want to dance. I assume it’s their boyfriends, and these chicks couldn’t have been any more obvious that they viewed Brenna and me as threats.

I’ve got bad news for them. If they’rethisafraid their men will stray? It’ll probably happen. That lack of trust doesn’t bode well for their relationships.

A dark-haired guy in a gray Harvard hoodie checks us out and grins broadly. “Ladies!” he calls. “Come celebrate with us!” He holds up a bottle of champagne.

“Bubbly? Wow! You Hah-vahd boys aresofancy,” Brenna drawls, but I don’t think any of them pick up on her sarcasm.

Gray Hoodie grabs two empty glasses from a nearby cupboard—actual champagne flutes—and waves them at us. “Say when.”

Brenna begrudgingly slinks toward him and accepts a glass. Over her shoulder, she defends her actions to me with, “I’m a sucker for champagne.”

I hide a smile. Uh-huh. I’m sure she went over there for the bubbles and not the cute guy. At least,Ithink he’s cute. He’s got a mop of brown hair and a really nice smile. Plus, what I assume is a hard, ripped, lickable body underneath his sweatshirt and cargo pants.

God, I love athletes.

“Which one are you?” she asks him.

“What do you mean?”

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