The Chase

  Fitz plucks one of the notes and reads it. “Is this for a paper you’re working on?”

  “Midterm,” I whisper. “Which I’m going to fail.”

  Letting out a breath, he shifts positions so he’s sitting. He hesitates for a beat, before reaching for me.

  Maybe if I wasn’t feeling so vulnerable at the moment, I would’ve been strong enough to push him away. But I’m weak and I feel defeated, and when he holds out his arms, I climb into his lap, bury my face against his chest, and allow him to comfort me.

  “Hey,” he murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down my back. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed by school. We all stress about it.”

  “You get stressed?” I ask in a small voice.

  “All the time.”

  His fingers thread through my hair, and I suddenly feel like a child again. My mom used to stroke my hair whenever I got upset. Sometimes my brother Nick did too, if I scraped a knee or bumped my head thanks to whatever daredevil stunt I’d attempted that day. I was a rambunctious kid. Hell, I’m a rambunctious adult.

  The warmth of Fitz’s strong body seeps into me. I press my cheek to his collarbone and voice an embarrassed confession. “I have a learning disability.”

  “Dyslexia?” His voice is thick with understanding.

  “No. It’s more of a cluster of symptoms related to ADHD. I have a very hard time concentrating and organizing my thoughts on paper. I was on medication for it when I was a kid, but the meds gave me terrible headaches and made me nauseous and dizzy, so I went off them. I tried taking them again in my teens, but the same symptoms kept happening.” I give a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. “My brain doesn’t like the meds. Unfortunately, that means it’s up to me to focus my thoughts, and that’s really hard sometimes.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I jerk up in surprise. “What?”

  His gaze is earnest, shining with sincerity. Not even a hint of pity there. “You’re having trouble with your midterm, so how can I help?”

  I’m a bit dazed. Awkwardly, I slide off his lap and sit cross-legged beside him. The moment we’re no longer touching, I miss the warmth of his body. For a fleeting moment, THE KISS floats into my mind, but I swat it away like a pesky fly. Fitz hasn’t mentioned the kiss, and right now he’s not looking at me like he wants to stick his tongue in my mouth.

  He looks genuinely eager to help me.

  “I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I just… There’s so much information.” Anxiety fills my stomach again. “We’re talking fifty decades’ worth of fashion. I’m not sure what to focus on, and if I can’t condense all the info, this paper will be like fifty pages long, and it’s only supposed to be three thousand words, and I don’t know how to streamline all the ideas, and—”

  “Breathe,” he orders.

  I stop and do what he says. The oxygen clears my brain a little.

  “You’re letting yourself get carried away again. You need to go one step at a time.”

  “I’m trying. That’s the point of the stupid sticky notes, to break it all down.”

  “How about talking it out? Does that ever help?”

  I nod slowly. “Yeah. Usually I’ll dictate the points and ideas and transcribe them afterward, but I’m not at that stage yet. I was trying to get the basic premise down when the panic struck.”

  “Okay.” He stretches out his long legs in front of us. “Then let’s talk about the basic premise.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure you have better things to do with your time. Like draw. Or work on your video game.” I shrug weakly. “You don’t have to help me with my essay.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing it for free.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You want me to pay you?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “What? No. Of course not. I just meant…” He takes a quick breath, avoiding my gaze. “I need your help with something too.”

  “You do?”

  He glances over again, oddly sheepish. “How about an exchange? I’ll help you with this midterm—the outline, the thesis. And, as you write it, I can proofread and help you organize ideas. And you help me out by…” He mumbles the rest—“Letting me draw you.”

  This time it’s my eyebrows taking flight. “You want to draw me?”

  His head jerks in a nod.

  “Like one of your French girls?” Heat scorches my cheeks. Is he saying he wants to draw me naked?

  Oh my God.

  Why does the idea kind of turn me on?

  “What French girls?” he asks, confused.

  “Are you sure you weren’t secretly watching Titanic with me and Hollis the other night?”

  He snorts. “Ah, the naked portrait. Forgot about that scene. And no, you wouldn’t be naked.” His voice thickens at that, and I wonder if he’s imagining the same thing I am.

  Me. Lying naked in front of him. My body on full display.

  My breath quickens as the vision takes a dirty turn. Suddenly Fitz is naked too. Naked and hard. His tattooed biceps flexing as he lowers his long, muscular body on top of me and—

  He coughs, and I don’t miss the flash of heat in his eyes. “You’d be fully clothed,” he says. “I’d be basing a character in my game on you. Well, on your appearance. I’ve had a tough time figuring out what this woman looks like, and…” He shrugs awkwardly, and it’s insanely adorable. “I think she might look like you.”

  My jaw falls open. “You want to base a video game character on me? That’s so cool. What’s her name?”

  “Anya.”

  “Oooh, I like that. It’s very elfin princess.”

  “She’s actually a human.”

  I grin. “You should reconsider. That’s totally an elf name.”

  He grins back, then gestures to the mess on the floor. “Do we have a deal? I help you out, you let me sketch you?”

  “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 probably take 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, jerkin
g 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?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her gaze is glued to my na
ked 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.