"This is blasphemy," Brenna hisses as we approach the front door of a
detached house with a white clapboard exterior. She twists around,
longingly glancing at the Uber that's speeding away from the curb.
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 say I'm a 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 I don'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,
please keep 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're this afraid 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 are so fancy," 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, I think 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?"
"What name is on your jersey?"
He grins. "Ah gotcha. Number 61. McCarthy."
She narrows her eyes. "You scored the tying goal in the third."
McCarthy beams. "That was me."
"Sweet wrist shot."
My eyebrows soar. Wow. Is she actually complimenting him? I guess I'm
not the only one who likes his smile—
"What's the matter, your slap shot doesn't have enough power behind it?"
Or not.
"Ouch," he says with a mock-pout.
I should've known better than to believe she'd give a genuine compliment to
a Harvard player. Still, I can tell she's warming up to the party. Her hips, ever so
slightly, begin moving to the dance beat blasting from the living room, and she
seems more relaxed now as she sips her drink.
I'm about to take the glass McCarthy's holding out to me when my phone
buzzes in my purse. And keeps buzzing. I fish it out, realizing it's a call. The
display tells me it's Hunter.
"Keep the bubbly on ice for me. I need to take this call." I fix each guy with
a stern look, holding two fingers up to my eyes as I drift toward the doorway.
"Don't do anything stupid," I warn them.
"She's in good hands," McCarthy promises. "I'm a total gentleman."
"He's a virgin," one of his teammates says.
McCarthy nods solemnly. "I am."
Brenna narrows her eyes. "Are you actually?"
"Fuck no." He smiles again, and oh man, he has dimples. This guy is
frigging adorable.
When I'm across the kitchen in a quieter spot, I answer the call. "Hey,
what's up?"
"Where you at, Blondie?" Hunter demands. "Figured you'd be home by
now."
"I ran into an old friend after the game and he invited us to a party."
In the living room, someone raises the volume of the drum and bass track
that just came on, and I swear the walls start expanding and contracting like a
beating heart. The music drowns out Hunter's response.
"Sorry, what? I can't hear you."
Suspicion fills the line. "Where exactly are you?"
"Cambridge. I told you, I ran into a friend from high school. Oh hey, you
probably know him too. Brooks Weston?"
The silence that follows is thick with accusation.
"Hunter?"
"Are you kidding me right now? You're at a Harvard party?"
"Yes, and before you start lecturing me about fraternizing with the enemy,
don't bother. I already got the speech from Brenna."
"This is unacceptable," he growls. "You can't party with the assholes who
beat us tonight."
"Why not?"
"Because!"
I smother a laugh. "Here's the thing about sports, sweetie. Sometimes you
win games and sometimes you lose them. It would be really petty—not to
mention stupid—of you to hate every single player on every single team that's
ever beaten you."
"We hate Harvard," he says stubbornly.
"They're not even your official rivals! That's Eastwood College."
"This is America, Summer. College hockey teams are allowed to have more
than one rival."
My laughter spills over. "May I go now, Hunter? I'm ignoring Brenna
because of you." Although a quick glance reveals that she's not missing me at
all. She's giggling at something McCarthy is saying.
Den of Satan, my ass. She's enjoying herself.
"Fine, you can go." He sounds adorably grumpy. "But for the record, I wish
you were here."
A strange warmth fills my tummy. This flirtation with Hunter is confusing. I
liked kissing him, but I live with the guy now. And I also live with Fitz, who I'm
still attracted to despite how badly I want to punch him in the dick.
Like I said, confusing.
"You could always come here if you want," I offer.
A loud snicker echoes in my ear. "To the fiery pits of Lucifer? No fucking
way."
Jee-zus. Do all Briar hockey fans think Harvard is Dante's Inferno, or is it
just the weirdos in my life? Harvard is a perfectly respectable school with a
perfectly respectable hockey team that just happened to beat Briar tonight. Get
over it, people.
"We're having peeps over, anyway," he adds. "That's the other reason I
called, to give you a heads-up."
"Okay, cool. I'm—"
"Finally!" a familiar voice booms from the far doorway. "Where've you
been!"
I grin as Weston strides into the kitchen. When I gesture to my phone and
hold up a finger to indicate I'll be a minute, he shrugs and turns to his
teammates. "Beer me."
"I have to go," I tell Hunter. "I'll see you at home."
CATCHING UP WITH WESTON IS A BLAST. WE HOLE UP IN A ROOM OFF THE MAIN
living area, which might've been a dining room at one point but is now a second
living room with two overstuffed sofas, a couple of armchairs, and a massive
glass coffee table. Weston's on one end of the couch while I'm perched on the
arm of it. The music's not as loud in here, which means we don't have to shout
as we fill each other in on what's happening with the classmates we'd lost touch
with.
On the other side of the room, Brenna looks mighty cozy in McCarthy's lap.
It's obvious he's super into her. He's got an arm slung around her and a hand
resting on her thigh as they peer at something on her phone. I've glimpsed them
kissing a few times since they sat down, and I've had to fight a smile each time.
There's no way I'm not rubbing this in her face later.
"Your friend is a smoke show," Weston tells me.
"Right? And she's fun to be around too." I find it hard to believe that Brenna
and I met only yesterday. I feel like I've known her forever.
"Speaking of fun…" Winking, he leans toward the table and taps out a line
of the white powder I was pretending not to notice.
I've been around cocaine more times than I'd like to admit. It's the preferred
party favor for prep school kids with time on their hands and cash to spare. I
tried it once at a party in junior year, but it wasn't my thing. I prefer the warm
buzz of alcohol to that frenetic, wired sensation.
I'm not surprised to see Weston doing it, though—he always did enjoy his
blow. So did most of the Roselawn hockey guys, for that matter. Dean once told
me that coke and hockey players are synonymous, and now I'm wondering if
any of the Briar guys dabble in it too. I hope not.
Weston snorts his line, then rubs his nose and shakes his head a few times as
if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "Sure you don't want?"
"Not my jam," I remind him. I take a sip of my beer. "Don't you ever worry
about drug testing?" My brother got fucked his last season thanks to a random
drug test that was sprung on him.
"Blow leaves your system after forty-eight hours, babe." Weston rolls his
eyes. "You'd have to be real dumb to get caught." He plants a hand on my knee,
but there's nothing sexual about the gesture. "So how you liking Briar? Better
than Brown?"
"Classes haven't started yet, so I can't say one way or the other. The campus
is gorgeous, though."
"You living in the dorms?"
"No, I moved in with a few of Dean's friends. Actually, one of them is
Hunter Davenport, your old Roselawn teammate."
"No shit! You're shacking up with Davenport?"
"Platonically."
"No such thing."
I'm about to argue when I feel a subtle shift of energy in the room. Jake
Connelly has just entered, and let me just say, the man's got presence. He strides
in holding a bottle of Sam Adams, stopping in front of the armchair opposite our
couch. The guy currently occupying the chair shoots up instantly. Connelly
calmly takes his place.
His dark-green eyes flick in Brenna's direction as he sips his beer.
Brenna is momentarily distracted from McCarthy. She takes in Jake's dark
jeans, black Under Armour shirt, and Red Sox cap. "Connelly," she says curtly.
"Good game."
He gives her a contemplative look. There was no sarcasm in her tone, but I
think he senses the difficulty with which she voiced the praise. "Thanks," he
drawls. Takes another sip of beer.
McCarthy tries to get her attention by whispering something against her
neck, but her eyes remain on Jake. And his remain on her.
"Where do I know you from?" he says thoughtfully.
"Hmmm. Well, are you able to hear any of your hecklers when you're on the
ice? Because I'm usually the one screaming obscenities at you," she offers
helpfully.
He sounds amused. "Got it. Briar puck bunny."
"Ha! They wish."
"You hang around the team. I've seen you."
"Got no choice." She tips her head in challenge. "My dad's the coach."
Jake is completely unfazed.
McCarthy, on the other hand? Utterly appalled. He jolts upright, causing
Brenna to nearly fall face-first on the carpeted floor. Proving he's at least a
gentleman, he regains his grip on her, then eases her onto the armchair before
jumping to his feet.
"Why didn't you say something?" He turns to Weston in betrayal. "Why
didn't you warn me?"
"Who cares, man. She's good people."
"I told her about my busted knee! Coach wasn't gonna put it on the injury
report next week. What if she snitches to her father?"
"So?" Weston's still not concerned.
"So next thing I know, one of his goons is slashing my knee, you know,
oops! It was an accident, and suddenly I'm done for the season."
"My dad runs a clean program," Brenna retorts, rolling her eyes. "No Tonya
Hardings on the roster."
Weston snorts. Connelly grins, and damned if that doesn't make him even
more attractive.
"Also?" she continues. "This isn't the CIA, and I've got better things to do
with my time than spy on a bunch of college hockey players for my father."
McCarthy loses some of his bluster. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She rises from the chair. "I came here tonight to chill with my
friend, have a few drinks, and maybe fool around with a cute guy."
His expression becomes hopeful. "We can still fool around."
She throws her head back and laughs. "Sorry, big boy. That ship sailed when
you practically threw me across the room because of my cooties."
A couple of his teammates whoop with laughter. Poor McCarthy is not as
amused.
To my surprise, Connelly intervenes. "Don't listen to her, man. She was
never going to hook up with you."
Brenna raises her eyebrows. "I wasn't, huh? I don't think you know me well
enough to make that call."
He stares at her, his tongue coming out to moisten the corner of his mouth.
It's extremely sexy. "You'd never sleep with a Harvard player."
She stares back for several seconds before capitulating. "You're right. Never
in a million years." Her gaze shifts toward me. "Time to go, crazy girl. I'll get us
an Uber."
Probably a good idea. I lean in to give Weston a kiss on the cheek. "It was so
good to catch up," I tell him. "And thanks for the invite."
"Any time. Hopefully we'll hang out again now that you're in the Boston
area."
"Absolutely." I stand up and glance at Jake. "Have a good night."
He just nods.
"Four minutes away," Brenna says, holding up her phone.
McCarthy is still standing close to her, not bothering to hide his
disappointment. "You could stay…" He trails off, awaiting her response.
Secretly, I think she totally would've fooled around with him, Harvard be
damned. Unfortunately, he really did blow it with his overreaction to her
identity.
She takes pity on the guy, looping her arms around his neck and brushing her
lips over his stubble-covered cheek. "Maybe in another life, McCarthy."
Smiling ruefully, he lands a lighthearted smack on her butt before she walks
off. "I'm holding you to that."
On her way to the door, Brenna flicks the pithiest of looks in Jake Connelly's
direction. His green eyes gleam with amusement as she disappears from the
room.
Three minutes later, she and I are in the backseat of our Uber. Brenna
addresses me in a grudging tone. "That wasn't too atrocious."
"See! I told you it would be fun," I tease.
Scowling, she jabs a finger in the air between us. "With that said, I'm totally
telling my dad about McCarthy's knee."
I grin. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
BRENNA DECIDES TO CRASH AT MY HOUSE WHEN SHE FINDS OUT MY ROOMMATES
are having a party of their own. She confesses that she's a night owl and has a
hard time falling asleep before three or four a.m. Me, I love a good after-party
like I love my Prada boots, so I'm happy bringing her home with me.
To our dismay, everyone's gone when we walk through the door. My
roommates are still up, though. Hollis and Fitz are on the couch, battling each
other in a shooting game. Hunter is passed out in the easy chair, clad in
sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
The only evidence of a get-together is the dozens of empty beer cans and the
faint scent of marijuana that seems to be coming from Mike's direction.
"Get the fuck out of here," Hollis is growling at Fitzy. "Stop cornering me."
"Stop hiding in the same warehouse if you don't want me to find you."
From the doorway, I watch as the soldier on Mike's side of the screen faces
down the barrel of a scary-looking gun. On Fitzy's side, it's clear he has Hollis
completely trapped.
"Any last words?" Fitzy asks.
"I never learned how to ride a bike."
Fitz bursts out laughing. A deep, sexy laugh that rolls out of his muscular
chest—and dies the moment he spots me.
"Holy shit, that was funny," Brenna tells Hollis as she saunters into the
living room. "You actually said something that made me laugh. Like, with you
and not at you."
He responds with a scowl. "Oh, hi there. How was Rome?"
"Rome?" she says blankly.
"Yeah. Rome." His dark look travels toward me. "Right, Brutus?"
I reluctantly turn to Fitz for assistance. "What the hell is he talking about?"
"Et tu, Brute," he murmurs wryly.
"Davenport told us where you were," Hollis accuses. "So don't try to hide
it."
"I wasn't going to," I say cheerfully. "Bee, you want a drink?"
"Obviously."
From the armchair, Hunter cracks one eye open. "Only thing left is the bottle
of Fireball," he mumbles, haphazardly gesturing to the end table.
I eye the whiskey bottle apprehensively. "Feeling spicy?" I ask Brenna.
"Always."
Grinning, I duck into the kitchen in search of shot glasses. When I come
back, Brenna is nestled on the other side of Fitzy, trying to convince him and
Hollis that she was coerced into attending the Cambridge party.
"It was terrible," she bemoans.
"Bullshit! She had the best time ever." I set the glasses on the table, then
glance at my roommates. "It's okay if Brenna stays over, right?" I'm wondering
now if I should've asked for permission.
But Hollis waves his hand dismissively. "Of course you're staying over," he
tells her. "My bed is your bed."
Fitz snorts.
"Oh honey, I wouldn't touch your bed with a ten-foot pole."
"Speaking of poles…" He wiggles his eyebrows.
"Keep it in your pants, Michael."
"Aw, have some mercy on him. He needs it tonight," Fitz says, slinging one
tattooed arm around her shoulder.
And no, I'm not jealous seeing that.
Why would I be?
I tear my gaze away and focus on pouring the Fireball.
"Why does he need my mercy?"
"Because he shaved his entire body for a woman and got stood up." Fitz
looks like he's trying not to laugh.
From his chair, Hunter doesn't bother refraining. He chuckles, albeit
sleepily. I think maybe Hollis wasn't the only one smoking weed tonight. Hunter
has barely moved since we got home.
"Oh, dear." Brenna reaches across Fitz's big body and pats Hollis on the
arm. "My apologies, sweetie."
I study him as I finish pouring. He's wearing jeans and long sleeves. Not a
hint of skin. "On a scale of one to ten, how hairless are you?"
His lips curve. "C'mere and find out…"
This time Fitz reaches over, smacking Hollis on the back of the head.
"Enough, dude. Even I'm starting to get skeeved out."
Brenna and I clink our glasses, raise them to our lips, and throw back the
shots. The cinnamon-flavored liquid burns a path all the way to my stomach.
"Jee-zus!" I groan. My mouth and throat are on fire. "I forgot how potent this
stuff is."
"Another one," Brenna orders. "I barely felt that."
With a snort of laughter, I pour two more shots.
As we drink our next round, I can feel Fitz's cautious gaze boring into me. I
bet he wants to lecture me about the booze. Warn me to slow down. But he
keeps his mouth shut.
"Oooh-kay, I definitely felt that one!" Brenna's cheeks are flushed now. She
wastes no time whipping off her tight black sweater, leaving her in black skinny
jeans and a lacy, barely-there camisole.
Hollis' blue eyes smolder. "Wanna go upstairs? To answer Summer's
question, I'm a ten. Completely hairless…"
A giggle pops out of my mouth. Right. As if that's going to entice her.
"Absolutely not," she replies. She reaches for Fitz's abandoned Xbox
controller. "What are we playing?"
"Killer Instinct."
"Nice. I know this one. Let me play Hollis. I want to blow his brains out a
couple times."
Hollis beams. "All I heard was 'I want to blow.' And my answer is yes.
Blow away, baby."
Sadly for him, she sticks to virtually shooting him in the head half a dozen
times. I'm not particularly fond of watching other people play video games, so I
peruse Hollis' Spotify library on his open laptop, make a playlist, and spend the
next hour rocking out by myself while Brenna takes turns facing off against
Hollis and Fitz.
We down two more shots during that hour. And then another two, after
Hollis insists there's no point leaving such a teeny tiny amount in the bottle.
"This is Briar!" he shouts as if he's acting out a scene from Gladiator. "We
finish what we start!"
I'm drunk enough that his speech makes perfect sense to me. So the three of
us polish off the Fireball, while Hunter snores softly in the armchair and Fitz
watches me with what I think is disapproval. I can't be sure, because my vision
is a wee bit fuzzy.
And the room might be a wee bit spinny.
But that could also be because I'm spinning.
"I think it's time for bed." Fitz's low voice rumbles in my ear. He comes up
behind me as I dance to a Whitesnake song from Hollis' metal playlist.
I was in the middle of a ponytail-swishing move, so my hair whips him in the
face when I twirl around. He doesn't even flinch. Just plants one big hand on my
arm to steady to me before I topple over.
"I'm not tired," I inform him, shrugging his hand off.
Once again, I teeter on my feet. And once again, he grabs hold of me.
Only this time, he takes it a step further.
Before I can blink, my whole body is in the air. Fitz heaves me over his
shoulder, and suddenly I'm staring at the back of his black T-shirt while my legs
dangle over his broad chest.
I kick him. "Put me down! Oh my God, Fitz!"
"No."
I kick him again. Harder. "Put me down! Brenna, save me!"
"Babe, you've been solo-moshing to hair metal for the last hour," I hear her
say. I can't see her, because Fitz is still caveman-handling me. "I think he might
be right. I'll be up after this game."
I catch a glimpse of her amused face before Fitz marches us toward the
stairs.
"Seriously," I growl. "Put me down."
"No." His arm is like an iron vise around the backs of my thighs.
"I mean it! I'm not some toy you can fling around! I'm a human being, and I
have rights!"
All I get in response is a low chuckle.
I can't believe he's carrying me upstairs. Like I'm a six-year-old who's past
her bedtime and needs to be banished to her Hello Kitty bunk beds. Gritting my
teeth, I slam one fist against his shoulder blade. He doesn't even budge. We're
halfway up the stairs. I try a different route and pinch his deltoid muscles. When
that fails, I go for the lats.
He rears back as if he'd been shot, then curses in annoyance. "Stop that."
"I will if you put me down." I pinch him again, and again.
He shrugs his back and shoulders to try to shake my fingers off him. "For
fuck's sake, Summer. No more pinching!" he yells.
"Oh, but you're allowed to grab me against my will?" I yell back.
We're both breathing hard. I feel beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck
and between my breasts. It's hard work trying to pry myself out of his grip. He
reaches the top of the stairs and charges toward my bedroom, swearing the entire
way because I won't stop pinching his stupidly muscular back.
"When did you become the fun police?" I demand when he finally sets me
down—a little rougher than necessary. My feet connect with the floor in a hard
thud. "And what gives you the right to drag me upstairs?"
His brown eyes blaze at me. "You were three seconds from falling over and
smashing your head on a piece of furniture. Probably knocking yourself
unconscious too."
"Oh my God, why is everyone in my life so dramatic! I was just dancing!"
"I'm dramatic?" he roars, and I'm momentarily amazed because I don't think
I've ever heard Fitz raise his voice. "You freaked out on me yesterday for no
reason. You accused me of implying you can't fucking read."
"Because you were acting like a condescending asshole!"
"And you were acting like a brat!"
"And now you're acting like my father!"
"And you're still acting like a brat!"
We stop and glare at each other. He's visibly clenching his teeth. The cords
of his neck are like overly tightened guitar strings. He looks like he might snap
at any second. But after several beats, he releases a heavy breath and rubs his
dark beard.
"I'm sorry about last night, okay?" he mutters. "I didn't mean to imply—"
"It's fine," I cut in tersely.
"Summer."
"What."
"I'm serious. I don't think you're stupid."
That makes one of us.
I banish the self-effacing thought to the bowels of my intoxicated mind.
Somehow, even drunk off my face, I know better than to give him the
satisfaction of seeing my insecurities.
I ball my fists and press them to my sides. Fitz is still watching me, no longer
angry or frustrated, but contemplative. Even now, when I'm mad and aggravated
by him, his presence affects me. My heart is pounding. My knees feel wobbly.
Tingles dance along my spine and settle between my legs. When Fitz rakes his
long fingers through his tousled hair, the tingles transform into a tight knot of
need.
He turns me on so badly. I want those fingers on my body.
"I liked you," I blurt out.
His hand freezes in his hair. "What?"
"Nothing. Forget it. I'm drunk." I backpedal like my life depends on it,
because Fitz isn't allowed to know that I was interested in him, or that he hurt
me. Telling him means admitting I'd heard every derisive word he'd spoken
about me.
A line cuts into his forehead. "Summer…"
"I said forget it. You're right, it's time for bed. Thank you so much for
escorting me upstairs." The sarcasm oozes like molasses. "Now will you please
get out of my room?"
He hesitates for a second. Then his shoulders roll up and stiffen, and he gives
a curt nod. "Goodnight."
I let out a frazzled groan the moment he's gone.
Dammit. Me and my stupid mouth. I really need to stop blurting out exactly
what's on my mind all the time.
A LOUD THUMP FOLLOWED BY AN EVEN LOUDER CURSE JOLTS ME AWAKE THE
next morning.
I'm a light sleeper, so the slightest noise can pull me from a state of deep
slumber into wide-awake panic mode. Wild-eyed, I sit up and check the time on
my phone. It's seven-thirty. On a Sunday.
Which one of my roommates is making such a ruckus? I must know this in
order to know who I'll be murdering.
They better not wake Brenna. I assume she's asleep next to me, but when I
look over, I realize I'm alone. I swear she'd said she'd be right up last night.
"Dammit," someone mutters.
Brenna's voice.
I fling the blankets off and jump out of bed. I open my door at the same time
two other doors swing open. Fitz and Hunter appear in their respective
doorways, sporting boxers and some serious bed head.
All three of us gape when we notice whose room Brenna is exiting.
She freezes like a forest animal that just heard a twig snap. She's wearing
nothing but her camisole and black bikini underwear. Her jeans are slung over
one arm, and her hair is '80s-rock-level disheveled.
She meets my eyes and shakes her head in warning. "Not one word."
I don't think I'm capable of words. My tongue is on the floor, rendering me
speechless.
Brenna is doing the walk of shame out of Mike Hollis' room?
This is unfathomable to me.
Hunter opens his mouth, but she silences him with a low growl.
"Not. One. Word."
Fitzy shakes his head in resignation, turns around, and closes his bedroom
door.
"I'll call you later," Brenna murmurs as she passes me on the way to the
stairs.
I nod wordlessly.
She's gone a few minutes later, the sound of a car engine telling me she
arranged for a ride home.
"Wow," I say.
To my surprise, Hunter follows me into my room and throws himself on the
bed. His abs bunch up and ripple as he gets comfortable. "That was unreal," he
says drowsily.
I stare at him. "Is there a reason why you're lying in my bed?"
"Not really." He rolls onto his side, thrusting out one long, muscular leg. He
cuddles with my pillow and lets out a contented sigh. "'Night."
Unbelievable. He's fast asleep within seconds, but I don't even have the
energy to kick him out. It's too early in the morning, and I've only gotten about
four hours of sleep.
So I do what any tired twenty-one-year-old woman would do. I crawl into
bed with the half-naked man who's taking up residence there.
Hunter makes a soft noise and then flings an arm over me, drawing me
closer. At first I resist, going stiff. Then I relax, allowing the tension to seep out.
It's been so long since I've spooned with someone, and it's…
Dammit, it's nice.