“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.”