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 Tshirt 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 fast
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).
The last time I experienced THE KISS, it happened behind a bale of hay at
my friend Eliza's ranch in Kentucky. I was sixteen and in love with her older
brother Glenn, but he'd been dating the same girl for ages. That summer, when I
tagged along with him and Eliza to visit their grandmother's ranch, he and his
girlfriend finally (finally!) broke up. And Glenn finally (finally!) noticed me.
He kissed me to the sound of horses snorting and the smell of manure. It was
clumsy and furtive, and yet it was a kiss I never forgot. We went back to
Connecticut and dated for seven months. I lost my virginity to him and thought
we'd get married and have babies, but then his ex-girlfriend decided she wanted
him back and now they're married and have babies.
Good for Glenn. I don't think I would've been happy with him in the long
run. Me living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere? Hard pass.
I hadn't experienced another kiss like that since him, though. Until
yesterday.
Fitz gave me THE KISS. It lasted less than a minute, occurred in front of a
dozen people during a juvenile game of Spin the Bottle, and yet? It has
consumed my mind from the second I went to bed last night to the moment I
opened my eyes this morning. I undoubtedly dreamed about it, too, though I
can't remember.
I also can't allow myself to dwell on it anymore. Fitz only played along to
placate Katie, and he disappeared right after it was over. For me, it might have
been THE KISS, but for him it was just…a kiss.
What an unbelievably depressing thought.
Luckily, I've got plenty of distractions today, though they're not exactly the
good kind. First off is another meeting with Mr. Richmond, who's as curt and
condescending as he was the last time we met. Froghole's lips curl in distaste
when I tell him I've decided to design a swimwear line for the fashion show.
I guess fake British people don't like swimming.
Once again when I leave his office, I'm torn between never wanting to see
him again and desperately needing to dig into every corner of his life to discover
whether the accent is real.
On my way out of the admin building, I text Brenna with my continued
suspicions.
ME: Swear to god he's not British!
BRENNA: Who?
ME: Assistant dean aka academic advisor. I told u about him last week
BRENNA: Right. OK. We MUST investigate.
ME: ikr?? How do we proceed?
BRENNA: I was being sarcastic. There needs to be a way to convey that over
text. I mean, I thought the capital-letter MUST implied sarcasm, but I guess
not??
ME: I'm being serious, Bee
BRENNA: That's the sad thing
ME: How do I find out where he was born? His LinkedIn profile says he went to
Columbia U in NYC. He didn't even go to school in England!
BRENNA: 1) Lots of peeps come to USA as international students 2) You're
insane 3) We still on for the game Sat?
ME: Yeah we are. And thanks for ALL your help
ME: You got that was sarcasm, right?
BRENNA: Fuck off.
After a ten-minute walk across campus in the bitter cold, I knock on Erik
Laurie's office door for my second meeting of the day. Despite my winter
clothing, I'm colder than an icicle. My teeth are chattering, and I swear I have
frostbite on my nose.
"Oh boy. You brought the cold in with you." Laurie mock-shivers as he lets
me into his office. It's surprisingly spacious, with a brown leather couch against
the far wall, a big desk in the center of the room, and a gorgeous view of the
snowy courtyard.
"I'm keeping my coat on, if it's all right with you," I say wryly. "I'm chilled
to the bone."
"As much as I'd love to see what dazzling and fashionable outfit you're
wearing underneath all those layers, I'll let it slide." He winks. "This time."
A familiar uneasy sensation ripples in my belly. It's the second week of
classes and Laurie has been nothing but friendly to me. But every time I'm
around him, my creep-o-meter goes haywire. The winking hasn't stopped, either.
He flashed no less than ten winks to various female students yesterday.
"Sit down." He gestures to one of the plush visitor's chairs as he settles in his
own chair. "Let's discuss the midterm first."
Nodding, I sink into the chair. We'd already emailed back and forth a few
times about how he's going to accommodate my learning issues. There are two
major papers required for this course, but I'll only be turning in one, the
midterm. For the final essay, I've been given permission to do a seminar in front
of the class, where I'll have to lead a discussion on a topic that Laurie assigns
me.
On Monday, he handed out a list of themes for the midterm, and I chose
what I believe will be the easiest one to write. Now he just needs to approve it.
"Have you decided on a topic? I want to make sure you're comfortable with
your decision before you start writing."
His genuine concern thaws some of my wariness toward him. Despite the
chronic winking and occasional creepy vibe, he does seem like a good professor.
One who cares about his students.
"I'd like to do the one about New York fashion. I think I can find a lot to say
about the topic. I'm planning on starting an outline tonight."
"All right. Perfect. And you have my email address, so you can contact me if
you get stuck or if you want me to look over your thesis."
"Thank you," I say gratefully. "I might take you up on that."
Laurie smiles broadly. "Good. Now, moving on, I need to see your proposal
for the fashion show."
"I've got it right here." I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the
leather portfolio that holds my sketches, a brief write-up of my swim line, and
the comparative photographs he requested. "I included images from some lesserknown swimwear designers who I've been inspired by lately." I slide the
portfolio across the desktop.
Laurie's expression shines with approval as he flips through the photos.
"Kari Crane," he says with a nod. "I was in the front row for her debut in
Milan."
"You were?"
"Of course. I never miss a Fashion Week."
"I go to Fashion Week in Paris and New York," I tell him. "But not usually
Milan."
Laurie flips to the next designer. "Now these are intriguing. I love Sherashi's
use of beadwork in these halter tops."
He seems to know every single designer on the planet, and I'm somewhat
awed by that. "Me too. I also love how she infuses her own culture into her
line."
"Bollywood meets French Riviera. It's brilliant."
"Yes. Exactly." I can't help but beam at him. And he hasn't winked or flirted
in the past five minutes, which is a relief. "For my line, I want to play around
with a combination of classic and modern, with some boho-chic thrown in the
mix."
"Interesting. Let me take a look at your sketches." Concentration creases
Laurie's forehead as he studies the drawings I've enclosed. "These are quite
good, Summer."
I flush. I'm not the best artist when it comes to portraits or landscapes, but
I've always had a knack for drawing clothes. When I was younger, I filled entire
sketchbooks with what I considered the perfect outfits or styles.
"Thank you." I hesitate as he studies a series of sketches featuring men's
trunks. "I know swimwear isn't going to be as difficult to design as, say,
formalwear, but I'm really passionate about these. And obviously I can include
more pieces in the show so that my workload is comparable to the other
students'."
"I'm not worried about that," he says absently, moving to another sketch.
When he finishes examining each one, he looks up with a pleased smile. "I'm on
board with this."
Excitement stirs inside me. "Really?"
"Oh, yes. I can't wait to see what you come up with." And just when I
thought we were done with it, he winks. "I'm especially curious about who
you'll line up to model these designs."
Ew. Way to ruin the moment.
"You're a tall girl," he adds. "You should think about walking the runway
yourself. I have no doubt you look incredible in a bikini."
Double ew.
"Um, yeah, I've never been interested in modeling." I get to my feet and
gesture to the portfolio. "So do I have your approval to move forward?"
"Absolutely." He hands the leather book back to me.
"Great. Thanks. I'll see you in class."
I'm relieved to leave his office, even if it means shivering my ovaries off in
the cold again. Every time I start to think he's harmless, he triggers that dreaded
creep-o-meter.
Outside, I'm blasted by a gust of frigid wind. I hate you, January. Just die
already. I begin my journey across campus, checking my phone as I head for the
parking lot where I left my car. I find a missed call from my mom, along with a
text that makes me smile.
Call your parents, Summer. I miss my girl.
My heart expands with love. Ugh, I miss them so much. I've barely spoken
to them since the semester began. I've been busy, but so have they. Dad recently
started jury selection for a high-profile murder trial, and Mom has been visiting
Nana Celeste in Florida.
I return Mom's call but get her voicemail. I try my dad instead.
He picks up right away. "Princess! It's about time!"
"I know, I'm sorry. I've been swamped. Also, I can't believe I caught you
out of court."
"Barely," he admits. "I'm only available because the prosecutor requested a
five-minute recess. His next witness is late."
"That's unacceptable!" I exclaim, only half joking. "Don't let them get away
with it, Daddy. Have them charged with contempt of court."
He chuckles. "Not how it works, sweetheart, but thanks for the concern.
How's school going?"
"Good. I just had a meeting with my independent-study advisor. I'm
designing a line of swimwear for the final show."
"What about your other classes? How are you handling the workload?"
I give him a quick rundown of what I'm studying this term, admitting that it
hasn't been too challenging yet. "But I am writing an outline for an essay
tonight. Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck, Princess. You're going to kick this essay's butt."
He has such faith in me, it makes me want to cry. Not once, in my entire life,
had my parents ever called me stupid. But I know they must've thought it. How
could they not when I kept coming home with failed tests for them to sign?
When all my written work was covered with red edits, comments scribbled all
over the margins?
"But if you are having trouble, let me know. Maybe I can speak to David—"
"No," I cut in, my tone firm. He means David Prescott, the dean. Well, I'm
not having it. "Dad. You need to stop talking about me with Prescott and asking
for favors. The assistant dean already hates me because he thinks I got
preferential treatment—wait, forget all that," I interrupt myself. "If you're so
eager to grant favors, I need one from you."
He laughs. "Do I even want to know?"
"Can you find out where Hal Richmond was born?"
"Who?"
"Briar's assistant dean. He has a British accent, and I'm convinced it's fake."
There's a beat.
"Princess." Dad sighs. "Are you torturing this poor man?"
"I'm not torturing anyone," I protest. "I just have my suspicions and I would
love you so, so much if you could verify his place of birth. It'll take you all of
five seconds, you know it will."
His laughter rumbles in my ear. "I'll see what I can do."
MY SPIRITS ARE STILL HIGH WHEN I SIT DOWN LATER TO OUTLINE MY MIDTERM.
Mom got ahold of me before dinner and we spent an hour on the phone catching
up. And all three of my roommates are out for the night, so I can work in silence.
With my ADHD, even the slightest distraction can set me back. I get sidetracked
far too easily.
My essay topic is how New York fashion evolved in the first half of the
twentieth century, and the factors that led to each transformative incident. It's a
bit daunting because I'm dealing with five decades of fashion, marked by major
events like the Great Depression and World War II.
In high school, my special-ed teacher—oh gosh, it makes me want to throw
up saying that. Special-ed teacher. It's frigging mortifying. Anyway, the teacher
assigned to me had an arsenal of tips to help me better organize my thoughts.
Like making flash cards or using sticky notes to jot down various ideas. Over
time, I figured out it worked best to write one idea per note, and then arrange
them until they all flow together to form one coherent train of thought.
To begin my midterm's outline, I sit on the floor of my room with my
supplies lined up and ready for use: highlighters, Post-It notes, erasable pens.
I'm wearing thick wool socks and sipping on a big cup of herbal tea. I got this.
I'm a rock star.
I start off by writing decade headings on each yellow note—1910s, '20s,
'30s, '40s. It'll probably be easier to organize the paper chronologically. I know
I have a ton of research ahead of me, but for now I rely on what I know about
those time periods. Up until the Great Depression, I'm pretty sure bright colors
were all the rage. I write that down on a sticky.
Roaring '20s, we're looking at flappers. Another sticky gets written.
Women's fashion favored a boyish look for a while—I think maybe that was
the '30s? I stick another note to the floor. But I feel like the '30s also produced a
lot of feminine, frilly tops? And speaking of frilly tops, I saw like five of them at
the Barneys on Madison over the break. Are they back in style?
Oh, and I forgot to tell a girlfriend from Brown about Barneys! They're
having a super-secret VIP sale on Valentine's Day weekend. She's going to lose
her mind when she finds out.
I grab my phone and shoot a quick message to Courtney. Her response is
instantaneous.
COURT: OMG!!!!!!
ME: I know!!!
COURT: We're going, right?
ME: OBVIOUSLY!!
We text back and forth in pure excitement, until I suddenly realize I've spent
ten minutes talking about a clothing sale instead of doing my work.
Grrr.
I take a deep breath and force myself to concentrate. I list as many trends I
can think of, then nod in approval. There. Now I simply need to go into detail
about each one and explain the societal factors and events that shaped fashion
over time.
Wait. Is that my thesis?
No, you idiot. You still have to come up with one.
I bite my lip harder than necessary. My inner critic is, frankly, a total bitch.
My old therapist was always preaching about self-love, urging me to treat myself
kindly, but that's easier said than done. When you have one major insecurity that
rules your life, your subconscious doesn't let you forget it.
Loving yourself is hard enough. Silencing the inner critic borders on
impossible. For me, at least.
I inhale a slow, steady breath. It's fine. This is fine. I don't have to think up a
thesis right this second. I can gather all the information first, and then once I
begin to piece it together, a general hypothesis will form.
But there's so much information. A mere five minutes of Googling on my
laptop leaves me overwhelmed with facts. And the more I read, the broader the
topic becomes. I have no idea how to narrow it down, and the panic hits me like
a fist to the stomach.
I take another breath, but it's quick and choppy, and I don't think any of the
oxygen actually enters my lungs.
I hate this. I hate this essay, and I hate myself.
My eyes feel hot. They start to sting. I rub them, but the act of touching them
unleashes the tears I'm trying to suppress.
Stop crying, my inner critic scolds. You're being ridiculous. It's just an
essay.
I try again to draw air into my lungs. My brain begins to scroll through the
exercises my counselors and parents encourage me to do during a panic attack: I
repeat that I'm going to be okay. I visualize giving myself a big hug. I think of
Nana Celeste (who always calms me). But the scrolling stops when my gaze
drops to the sea of yellow stickies on the floor, the jumble of thoughts that make
up my nutty brain.
Another choked sob slips out.
"Summer?"
I freeze at the sound of Fitz's voice. It's followed by a soft knock on my
door.
"You okay?"
My breath escapes in a trembling wheeze. "F-fine!" I manage to answer, and
cringe at the crack in my voice.
He hears it too. "I'm opening the door now, okay?"
"No," I blurt out. "I'm fine, Fitz. I promise."
"I don't believe you." The door eases open and his handsome, worried face
appears.
He takes one look at me and curses roughly. Before I can blink, he's
kneeling beside me. One warm hand grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his.
"What's wrong?" he demands.
"Nothing." My voice shakes again.
"You're crying. That's not nothing." His eyes drop to the dozens of notes
stuck to the floor. "What's all this?"
"Evidence of my stupidity," I mumble.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Stop saying nothing. Talk to me." His thumb rubs a gentle line up my wet
cheek. "I'm a good listener, I promise. Tell me what's wrong."
My lips start quivering. Dammit, I feel another wave of tears coming. And
that makes me angry again. "I can't fucking do this, that's what's wrong."
I fling a hand out and sweep the Post-It notes away. Some of them remain
stuck to the hardwood, while others fly across the room or slide under the bed.
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."