But rather than stake a claim, I ran away.

I drag both hands though my hair, which is getting too long for my liking. I prefer it out of my eyes when I’m drawing. “Hunter has a thing for her too,” I tell Tuck.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And she kissed him on New Year’s.”

His reddish brows shoot upward. “Oh?”

“But tonight…” I stop.

“Tonight what?”

“She showed up in the locker room after I got stitched up and we kissed.” I pause. “And maybe a bit more.”

“Define more.”

“She sucked my dick in the showers.”

Tucker jerks in surprise, and the nipple pops out of Jamie’s mouth. She squawks in outrage.

“Aww, I’m sorry, baby girl,” he croons. “It’s okay, keep eating. Daddy was being a big doodlehead.”

“A doodlehead?” I snicker.

“Oh shush. You’re an even bigger doodlehead. You hear that, little one? Your Uncle Fitzy is the king of the doodleheads.” He nudges her lips with the bottle’s nipple and she latches on again. Then he frowns at me. “This happened tonight?”

I nod.

“And instead of sticking around to talk to the girl who suc—” His gaze drops to his daughter. He promptly rephrases. “—the girl who did stuff to your body, you came here instead?”

Guilt sears into me. Fuck. I’m such an ass. That beautiful, amazing girl knelt on wet, uncomfortable tile for me tonight and rocked my world. I should be blowing up her phone with apologies right now.

To Tucker, I manage a quick nod.

“I never took you for a coward.”

“I’m not usually one,” I say gruffly.

Tucker grabs a small blue cloth from the end table and wipes the corner of Jamie’s mouth, where a bit of milk has drizzled out. He gazes at her with so much love that I actually feel a spark of envy. I wonder what it’s like to love somebody that much.

“I don’t know how to handle this, Tuck. Summer wants to talk—about ‘us,’ I’m assuming—and I have no clue what to say to her.”

A crease appears in his forehead. “You don’t know how to let her down, you mean? Are you saying you don’t want to be with her?”

My teeth dig into my cheek. “Not sure about that, either. She’s just… She’s too much, man.”

“Too much,” he repeats. “What does that mean?”

“She’s too everything.” A helpless sensation tightens my throat. “She’s too beautiful. She’s got too much energy. She’s too open.” I let out a groan. “Everybody is drawn to her. Everybody. She walks into a room and all eyes instantly home in on her, and not simply because she’s hot. Summer’s one of those girls, the high-profile ones who attract attention. She can’t help it. It’s her orbit—you get sucked into it.”

“And that’s bad because?”

Because I’ve never been so drawn to anyone and it kind of scares the shit out of me.

“Because I don’t want to be a high-profile guy,” I say instead. Tuck wouldn’t understand this fear I have about Summer. Emotions don’t scare him. He knew he wanted to be with Sabrina from the second he met her, and his certainty that they belonged together and relentless pursuit to win her heart were damn near incomprehensible to me.

“Being with someone like her means putting myself in the spotlight. And there’ll always be some kind of drama. The other night she started a bar fight,” I grumble. “Summer doesn’t know the meaning of the word low-key. Everything she does is over the top, flashy, extravagant. That’s not me.”

“No,” he agrees, before offering a dry smile. “But letting a chick go down on you in the locker room isn’t typical of you either, so… You must like her a helluva lot if you took that kind of risk tonight.”

He’s right. Stifling a groan, I drop my head in my hands for a long, torturous moment. “I’m in her orbit, man,” I mumble into my palms.

He chuckles. “So whatcha gonna do about it?”

I lift my head. “I have no fucking idea.”

21

Summer

So I guess nobody talks about oral sex anymore? We just perform it on each other and hand out orgasms willy-nilly and it never gets discussed again? Is this the world we’re living in? If so, I’m going off the grid. I’ll build a shack in the middle of the woods where there isn’t a penis in sight.

Forest animals have penises, Summer.

“Oh, shut up, Selena,” I mumble. “I love you, but I don’t need this today.”

My row-mate Ben glances at me, sighs, and then returns his gaze to the front of the lecture hall. He’s grown accustomed to my cat-lady ramblings. I’m not certain if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

It’s been two days since the locker room incident, and Fitz has been completely MIA. Gone in the afternoons (holed up in the painting studio, according to Hollis), hasn’t had dinner (or any meals, for that matter) at home, and both nights he’s come back around midnight and proclaimed to be SO TIRED when I tried to talk to him.

You know what I have to say to that?

Fuck you very much, Colin Fitzgerald. That’s the last time his dumb penis goes anywhere near my sacred mouth. A girl’s got to have standards.

Brenna echoes that sentiment when I text her after class with a Fitz update.

ME: Still no mention of the BJ. Last nite he said he had a migraine and locked himself in his room. This morning he left for practice at 5am. Snuck out like a thief in the night

* * *

BRENNA: Men are garbage

* * *

ME: They’re pure trash

* * *

BRENNA: Trash garbage

I send her the poop emoji, because I can’t find a garbage-bag emoji and poop is an adequate alternative.

BRENNA: All seriousness--I’m sorry, GB. Never thought Fitz was trash garbage, but people are full of surprises

* * *

ME: So are Dumpsters

* * *

BRENNA: lolololololol

I grin to myself as I slide my phone into my tote. The Prada bag smells like delicious new leather, a scent that never fails to cheer me up. It showed up on my doorstep yesterday morning courtesy of UPS and Nana Celeste. I swear that woman can sense whenever her grandbabies are upset. It’s like she possesses internal radar that shouts “Quick! Call Prada!” if one of the grandkids so much as gets a paper cut.

Not that I’m complaining about my gorgeous new tote. I’m not a crazy person.

I descend the steps toward Laurie’s lecture podium. It’s not his office hours, but he agreed to see me after the lecture so I could start writing my midterm today instead of waiting till Wednesday for him to approve my thesis.

And the good thing about Erik Laurie teaching History of Fashion as well as serving as my independent-study advisor is that I’m able to kill two birds with one stone—I can get my thesis green-lit and give him an update on my swimwear line in one shot.

I still can’t quite explain it, but the man continues to creep me out. Everyone else adores him, especially the girls. They laugh at all his jokes. They tolerate his winking disorder.

And then there’s me, who leaves every encounter with him feeling like I need a shower. He reminds me of that intolerable character from Harry Potter—Gilderoy Lockhart, only the film version of him that Kenneth Branagh knocked out of the park. Laurie isn’t as flamboyant, but, like Lockhart, he comes off as a vain egomaniac who wants everyone to love him.

Or rather, who assumes they already do.

I know it’s a harsh assessment, and I try to push it out of my mind as I approach my professor.

“Winter!” he teases. “I enjoyed your thoughts in class today.”

“Thanks.”

He shuffles a few papers, then glances beyond my shoulder and nods at someone. I turn and realize Nora is waiting a discreet distance away.

“There’s another student I need a progress report from, so this will be quick,” he informs me.

Thank God. The quicker, the better.

He reads over my thesis for the midterm, suggests two minor tweaks, and signs off on it. Once that’s out of the way, I fill him in on the fabric order I placed. The Fashion department has a decent selection of free fabrics for students to use, but we’re also able to buy our own if we choose to do so. Since several of my bikini tops are crochet, I had to order a more lightweight yarn that doesn’t stretch or shrink if it gets wet. Laurie approves of the choice, nodding in agreement when I explain the reasoning behind it. I conclude by giving him an update on the models I plan to recruit.

He throws his head back in laughter when I mention I’d like to ask some football players to model the men’s line. “That’s a great idea, Summer. That’ll definitely sell some tickets. And for the women’s pieces?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

He winks. “So you haven’t changed your mind about modeling one of the swimsuits yourself?”

Ugh.

Why.

Just why, Gilderoy.

I force a laugh. “Nope, still not interested.”

“What a shame. All right, let’s touch base at the end of the week.” He rests his hand on my shoulder before giving it a light squeeze.