Page 72 of The Chase

“Yes,” I say immediately. It takes a second to realize that all traces of defeat and despair have left my body. I feel rejuvenated, and the gratitude filling my chest threatens to overflow. “Thank you, Fitz.”

“You’re welcome.”

Our gazes lock. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish he’d bring up our silly Spin the Bottle kiss so I could figure out his feelings about it.

I wish he’d kiss me again.

His throat bobs as he visibly swallows. He licks his lips.

Arousal courses through my body. Oh God. Is he actually going to do it?

Please, I beg silently. With any other guy, I’d probablytake the bull by the proverbial horns. As in, put my literal hand on his literal penis.

Not with Fitz, though. I’m terrified of putting myself out there again, not when the bitter taste of his rejection on New Year’s Eve still clings to my throat. I still want him, yes. But I’ll never admit it unless he makes the first move.

He doesn’t.

Disappointment crashes into me when he breaks the eye contact. He clears his throat, but his voice is still full of gravel as he says, “I’ll go get my sketchbook.”

16

FITZ

“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 tohelpyou, 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.

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