“I’m sorry you heard all that,” is what I finally choke out.
And I know immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Sitting on the edge of my bed, she peers up at me with sad green eyes.
Jesus. Her expression. It’s like an arrow to the heart.
“I’m not fluff.” Her words are barely a whisper. She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, it’s in a strong, even tone. “Yes, I have a stupid amount of energy. Yes, I enjoy shopping, and I’m obsessed with clothes. Yes, I was in a sorority, and yes, I like to dance and have fun with my friends.” She exhales in a fast rush. “That doesn’t make me superficial, Fitz. And it doesn’t mean there isn’t more to me beneath the surface. Because there is.”
“Of course there is.” Taking a ragged breath, I sink down beside her. “I’m so sorry, Summer. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You know what really hurts? That you just assumed there was nothing more to me than parties and shopping. I’m a loyal friend. I’m a good daughter, a good sister. You’d spent, what? Ninety minutes in my presence? And you think you know the whole story?”
The guilt travels upward to coat my throat. I try to gulp it down, but it only thickens, like a layer of tar coating the pavement. She’s absolutely right. Even though I was using those perceived flaws of hers as deterrents, it doesn’t change the fact that they occurred to me in the first place.
I did make the assumption that she’s just a party girl and there’s nothing more to her, and I’m ashamed of myself for it.
“I’m sorry,” I say roughly. “None of what I said was right. Or deserved. And I’m also sorry about calling you a bitch downstairs. Your behavior has been bitchy, but now I understand where it was coming from. I’m so sorry.”
Summer goes silent for a long beat. A foot of space separates us, but she might as well be sitting in my lap, that’s how aware of her I am. The heat of her body, the rise of her tits beneath her shirt as she inhales, the heady scent that’s so uniquely Summer. Her thick, gold-spun hair is cascading over one shoulder, making my fingers itch to touch it.
“I was having a good time with you that night.” Her tone is flat, disappointed. “It was fun talking to you. Teasing you about being a curmudgeon.” She pauses. “Curmudgeon doesn’t quite fit anymore, though. I think ‘dick’ works better now.”
My heart squeezes because it’s true. “I’m sorry.” Apparently that’s all I’m capable of saying.
“Whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand. “That’s what I get for developing a crush on someone who isn’t my usual type. I guess… Well, I guess that’s why we have types, right? You’re drawn to certain people, and they’re drawn to you. But you didn’t have to be mean, Fitz. If you weren’t interested, you could have told me instead of trashing me to Garrett.” Her hands become fists again, pressed tight to her thighs.
“I don’t usually do that.” I hear the torment in my voice. I’m sure she does too. “But, that night—”
“I get it,” she interrupts. “You didn’t want to be with me.”
Shame once again seals my throat until I can scarcely draw a breath.
“But for the record, there’s more to me than you think.” Her voice cracks. “I have substance.”
Oh my fucking God, this girl is ripping my heart out. I’ve never felt so bad about anything in my entire life.
“I know people who sit around and ponder the meaning of life, their purpose, the universe, why the sky is blue, anything they can question. But that’s never been me. I’m good at other things, like listening when someone needs me. I’m…”
Sunshine, I finish silently.
Just like her name, Summer is sunshine.
Rather than fill in the blank, she switches gears. “And despite what you may think, I can hold a conversation that doesn’t involve shoes or designer clothing. I might not be able to write you a five-thousand-word dissertation about Van Gogh and every tiny little brushstroke he did, but I can explain the joy that art and beauty bring to the world.” She rises to her feet, somewhat stiffly. “Anyway. I’m sorry I was rude about your new girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I mutter. “We went on one date.”
“Whatever. I’m sorry I mocked your date. For what it’s worth, she’s in my history class, and she didn’t particularly make a good first impression on me.”
I bite hard on the inside of my cheek. “I really am sorry about New Year’s. Truly. I didn’t mean any of that shit.”
She gives a resigned smile that once again cuts me to the core. Then she shrugs and says, “Yes, you did.”
Typically, clearing the air is supposed to ease relations between two people.
For Summer and me, it produces the opposite effect.
In the days following our confrontation, we keep our distance, tiptoeing around one another and speaking only out of necessity. There isn’t any malice behind it, just extreme awkwardness on both our parts. I suspect she still thinks I’m an ass for saying what I said, and I still feel like one.
To make matters worse, she and Hunter have been hanging out a lot. A few times, I’ve caught them sitting real close to each other on the couch. No PDA or overtly sexual vibes, but it’s clear they enjoy each other’s company. Hunter flirts with her every chance he gets, and Summer doesn’t seem to mind.
I mind.
I mind a little too much, and that’s why I’m holed up in my bedroom on Sunday night after our win against Dartmouth instead of partying downstairs with my teammates. And we beat Suffolk yesterday too, so technically it’s a double celebration.
But I’m not in the mood to watch Hunter hit on Summer. Plus, my entire body feels like one giant bruise.
The Dartmouth game was a rough one. Lots of hits (not all of them clean), lots of penalties (not all of them called), and one groin injury to a Dartmouth defenseman that made my balls shrivel and retreat like a frightened turtle. Needless to say, I’m tired, sore, and cranky.
The music blasting downstairs keeps trying to drown out the playlist pouring from my computer speakers. It’s a weird mix of bluegrass and indie rock, which for some reason lends itself well to this free draw exercise I’m currently putting myself through. Sometimes, when I’m creatively blocked, I’ll lie on my back, sketchpad on my lap, pencil in hand. I’ll close my eyes, breathe in and out, slow and steady, and allow my pencil to draw whatever it wants.
My high school art teacher urged me to try it one day, claiming it’s as effective as meditation in clearing the mind, opening the creative floodgates. She was right—whenever I’m blocked, free drawing does the trick.
I’m not certain how long I lie there, sketching with my eyes closed, but by the time I register that my pencil’s no longer sharp and my wrist is cramping, the music in the living room has ceased, and my own playlist has restarted itself.
Shaking out my wrist, I slide into a sitting position. I stare down at my sketch and discover that I’ve drawn Summer.
Not the season. The girl.
And not the girl with the dazzling smile. Not the laughing Summer, or the Summer whose cheeks go brighter than Red Delicious apples when she’s pissed at me.
I drew the Summer whose green eyes shimmered with pain as she’d whispered the words, “I have substance.”
On the page, her full lips are frozen in time. But in my mind, they’re quivering as she takes a shaky breath. The sketch hints at the tears clinging to her lower lashes, conveying an air of vulnerability that tugs at my heart. But the tight set of her jaw tells you she won’t go down without a fight.
I suck in a breath.
She’s completely and utterly perfect for the character in the new game I’m designing. I’ve been working on the assets for the past few months but haven’t found any inspiration for the female lead, and it’s been slowing my production.
I stare at the sketch for nearly five minutes before forcing myself to close the pad and put it away. The moment my brain snaps out of art mode and into I’m-a-livin
g-breathing-creature mode, I realize not only do I have to piss like a racehorse, but I’m hungrier than that horse and could probably eat it. My stomach rumbles so loudly I’m surprised I didn’t notice the hunger pangs until now.
I take care of the bladder issue first, then go downstairs to scrounge up some food. From the staircase, I hear a wave of laughter from the living room and Hollis’ voice saying, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Usually when Mike Hollis sounds this excited about something, it’s either the most horrifying thing in the world or unimaginably awesome. No in between with that guy.
Curiosity has me following Mike’s voice instead of turning toward the kitchen. When I approach the doorway, I feel like I’ve been transported back to the eighth grade. A bunch of people are still over. Including my team captain, Nate, who’s rubbing his hands gleefully, urging the bottle on the table to stop in front of him.
Yes, I said bottle.
Either I’m hallucinating, or my college-aged friends are playing Spin the Bottle. They’re on the floor or sitting on various pieces of furniture in some semblance of a circle. Clearly Summer was the spinner, because she’s leaning forward from the couch, watching the bottle. Meanwhile, all the single dudes in the room are watching her. Beyond hopeful.
The green Heineken bottle slows, just passing Nate and Hollis. It nearly lands on Jesse Wilkes’s girlfriend Katie. It spins another fraction of an inch, glides to a stop. And points directly to the living room doorway.
At me.
15
Summer
And this is why games like Spin the Bottle and 7 Minutes in Heaven stopped being cool after middle school.
Because when you’re twelve and thirteen, you’re allowed to kiss random boys without worrying about the consequences.
When you’re an adult, there are always consequences.
For example, if I have to kiss Colin Fitzgerald right now? Everyone in this room is going to see how hot I am for the guy.
“Let me spin again,” I blurt out. “Fitz isn’t even playing.”
Katie, a pretty redhead with a wide Julia Roberts-esque mouth, wags a finger at me. “No way! I just had to kiss Hollis—in front of my boyfriend!”
“I wasn’t threatened,” Jesse says easily. “I mean, it’s Hollis.”
“Hey,” Mike protests.
“That’s not the point,” Katie argues. “All I’m saying is, you kiss whoever the bottle points to. No exceptions.”
My gaze shifts to Fitz. He’s sporting what I like to call Exploding Ovaries attire—gray sweatpants that ride oh-so-low on his trim hips, and a tight white T-shirt that shows off his tattooed arms. This fucking guy. He’s a total ten.
Actually, let’s make that a nine. I’m deducting one point for the fact that he looks like he wishes he could hop into a transporter and teleport to Siberia.
His less than enthused expression raises my hackles. Really? The idea of kissing me is sooooo repulsive to him? After our showdown earlier this week when I called him out on his nastiness, he should be clamoring to curry favor with me.
Asshole should be begging to kiss me.
Fitz inches backward. “I’m, ah, gonna grab some food.”
From the other end of the couch, Hunter drawls, “Good idea.” His tone is light, but there’s a hint of darkness behind it.
Like me, Hunter hadn’t seemed too pumped to play this game, although I didn’t see him complaining when he got to French the insanely hot Arielle ten minutes ago. Arielle’s the only other single chick here. Katie and Shayla are both taken, but apparently their boyfriends (Jesse and Pierre, respectively) don’t mind sharing their girlfriends for the sake of the game.
“Freeze!” Katie orders when Fitz tries to take a step.
He freezes.
“I’m sorry to have to break it to you,” she informs him, “but Summer will be kissing you now.”
Oh my God. Where’s Brenna when you need her? If she were here, she never would’ve allowed Katie and Arielle to convince us to play this silly game. Brenna would’ve laughed in their faces and challenged everyone to a shot contest instead, which I’m sure would’ve resulted in lots of kissing anyway. Just not on-the-spot, being-forced-to-kiss kissing.
But nope, Brenna had other plans. Bitch.
“I’ll spin again,” I insist. At this point, I’ll gladly kiss anyone else, even Hollis. Or one of the girls.
To my shock, Hollis sides with Katie. “Naw, babe, a rule’s a rule.” My reluctant, unhappy expression only hardens his resolve. “This’ll be good for you guys.” He glances toward the doorway, where Fitz is frowning at him. “All you two do is fight. Time to kiss and make up.”
Aggravation rises inside me. “Come on, Hollis.”
“See! Even better,” Katie says happily. “You two need to clear the air.”
“With your tongue,” the dark-haired Arielle agrees solemnly.
Nate, the captain of the hockey team, snorts in amusement. Why can’t I kiss him, dammit? He’s tall and built and has amazing, vivid blue eyes.
Before I can blink, Katie is tugging on my hand. My jaw drops as the tiny redhead, who can’t be more than five feet tall, muscles me onto my feet and gives me a little shove.
“You are freakishly strong,” I growl down at her. And I do mean down—I’m almost a head taller than this girl, yet she’s still able to manhandle me.
She grins. “I know.”
Fitz’s wary gaze sweeps the room. “How drunk are you guys, exactly?” He raises a brow at his team captain. “Since when do we play kissing games?”
Nate shrugs and lifts his beer bottle. “Only live once, right?” he says easily.
“All right, babes.” Katie claps her hands. “Kiss and make up.”
I give an outraged squeak when there’s another hard push on my back. I stumble forward, and I’m two seconds from smacking my nose on the doorframe before Fitz’s strong hands steady me.
His touch sends a bolt of heat through my body, and my breath catches in my throat when I notice that his eyes have softened. Actually, no. They may have lost their hard edges, but they’re certainly not soft. They’re heavy-lidded now, gleaming with unexpected heat.
Then he blinks, and the fire is replaced by exasperation.
“Let’s just do this so they shut up,” he murmurs so only I can hear. “She won’t let it go.”
He means Katie, and I think he might be right. Tonight’s my first time meeting her, but within five seconds of being introduced, I concluded that she’s a bossy little firecracker. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fun. But I feel like if you’re friends with Katie, she always has the final say about everything.
“Fine,” I murmur back. “No tongue.”
I see the merest hint of a smile. “No promises.”
I barely have time to process the unexpected teasing remark before Fitz cups my chin with one big hand. I vaguely register a loud whistle—I think it comes from Hollis. And then it gets drowned out by my pounding heartbeat as Fitz’s lips gently touch mine.
Oh.
Oh wow.
I didn’t expect him to start off so tender. In front of everyone. But he does. His thumb sweeps over my cheek as his mouth moves ever so slowly over mine. He’s got the softest lips I’ve ever felt, and he uses them with confidence. I shiver when he increases the pressure, sealing his lips tight to mine. And then the tip of his tongue slicks over my bottom lip, and I jolt as if I stuck my finger in a live socket.
The moment our tongues touch, I’m gone. A low hum of desire buzzes between my legs, crackling up to my breasts and hardening my nipples. I completely surrender to his kiss. I let his tongue sweep into my mouth. I let his fingers dig possessively into my waist, his warm breath to heat my mouth, his sexy scent to infuse my senses.
I can’t stop myself—I press one hand to his rock-hard chest. The other, I curl around the nape of his neck. The baby-fine hairs there tickle my palm. His left pec quivers beneath my palm, and I can feel his heartbeat. It’s hammering as fa
st as mine.
When I feel him start to pull away, a frantic, helpless sensation surges through me. I tighten my grip on his neck and kiss him harder. My tongue tangles with his, and I swallow the husky sound he makes. I hope nobody else heard it.
Because that beautiful desperate sound belongs to me. It’s all mine. I want to memorize the seductive resonance and replay it over and over again later, when I’m lying alone in bed, when my hand slides between my legs as I touch myself to the memory of this kiss.
Oh fuck. I’m so turned on. My legs are shaking. My panties are soaked.
I force myself to wrench our mouths apart. What takes even more willpower is not looking at him. I’m terrified of what his expression will show me, so I avoid it by glancing over my shoulder at our audience.
But I feel it. Like a molten-hot brand scorching the center of my spine.
I pray to God that our friends can’t see through the careless mask I quickly arrange on my face. “There,” I chirp, my smile overly bright and my voice way too cheery. “We kissed and made up. Whose turn is it now?”
Here’s the thing about kissing. Some kisses are a prelude to sex. Some happen out of boredom. Some make your body tingle, others might leave you feeling nothing at all. But what all those kisses have in common? They’re just kisses.
They’re not THE KISS.
The one that lingers in your mind for hours, even days, after it’s over. The one that has you randomly touching your lips and breaking out in a warm, fluttery shiver as you remember the feel of his mouth on you.
And it doesn’t have to be some epic production, either. It doesn’t need to take place in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset with majestic horses in the background and the aurora borealis shimmering up above (making a miraculous appearance in Paris).