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

He doesn’t.

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

16

Fitz

“Strip.”

Spending time with Summer is…a challenge. And that’s coming from me, a guy who plays hockey at the college level for a Division 1 school. I can honestly say that my grueling athletic career is a walk in the park compared to the sheer grit it takes maintaining a friendship with Summer Di Laurentis.

First off, it’s impossible for me to forget about the kiss we shared. Maybe she’s been able to put it out of her mind, but it sure as hell hasn’t left mine. Which means every time I’ve looked at her mouth these past few days, I’ve been reminded of how good it felt pressed against mine.

Second, I’m still attracted to her, so usually when I’m admiring that mouth, the fantasy doesn’t stop with a harmless kiss. Her lips and tongue have played a starring role in so many dirty fantasies that I’ve taken to jerking off in the shower every morning to the thought of her.

Third, jerking off to her every morning makes it hard to look her in the eye when we hang out.

And lastly, when you’re friends with Summer, she does things like waltz into your bedroom and order you to strip.

“No,” I answer.

“Strip, Fitzy.”

I cock one eyebrow. “No.”

“Oh my God, why won’t you take your clothes off!”

“Why are you asking me to take my clothes off? I’m not one of your French girls,” I growl.

She keels over laughing. Summer has this way of completely losing herself in fits of laughter. It usually involves tears, doubling over, and furiously rubbing a stitch in her side. When she laughs, she does it with her entire body and soul.

Needless to say, I like provoking that response from her.

“I don’t want to draw you,” she says between giggles. She straightens and plants both hands on her hips. “I’m trying 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.