“Guys,” Hollis interjects.

“I wasn’t being snarky,” I snap.

“You were mocking Nora,” he snaps back. “That’s snark in my book. And this isn’t the first time you’ve been bitchy toward me, Summer. You honestly think I haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what? That I don’t particularly want to be around you?” I plant my hands on my hips. “I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“Exactly. You’ve been openly bitchy.”

“Stop calling me a bitch!”

“Stop acting like one!”

“Guys,” Hollis chides.

“Why are you always yelling at me?” I growl at Fitz. “I never hear you yell at anyone else.”

“Because nobody else drives me insane like this.” He angrily drags both hands through his hair. “One minute you’re all smiles and hugs on New Year’s, the next you’re—”

“We are not discussing New Year’s,” I interrupt. “Not after what you—” I stop abruptly.

A crease appears in his forehead. “After what?”

“After what?” Hollis echoes curiously.

“I just told you, we’re not discussing it.”

“Discussing what?” Fitz demands. “I still have no clue what you’re talking about. What is it I supposedly did?”

I slam my lips together.

He searches my face for a few seconds. Then his eyes take on a gleam of determination. Oh no. I’m starting to recognize that expression.

“You know what, we’re dealing with this right fucking now.” He takes a menacing step forward. “‘Scuse us, Mike.”

“Naw, man, this was just getting good!”

I hold up my hands in a defensive pose as Fitz edges toward me. “Don’t you dare,” I caution. “Don’t you fucking—”

I’m being flung over his shoulder before I can finish that sentence.

Un-frigging-believable!

“How is this happening again?” I shriek.

My protests fall on deaf ears, because Fitz is already carting me up the stairs.

14

Fitz

I won’t lie. Having an angry, squirming Summer wriggling in my arms is just the teeniest bit of a turn-on.

Okay fine. I’m rock hard.

In my defense, I didn’t start this argument off with a boner. I was genuinely pissed at her. I still am. Only now I’m also aroused.

So sue me.

“Put. Me. Down.” Summer snarls out the words, and each sharp sound sends another bolt of heat to my cock.

Something is really wrong with me. I just spent the past three hours with a girl who dolled herself up for me, who batted her lashes and touched my hand and all but held up a cardboard sign that said FUCK ME, COLIN!

I didn’t experience so much as a dick twitch.

And now here I am with Summer, who’s wearing baggy plaid pants and a long-sleeve shirt, who’s shouting obscenities at me, and my dick is raring to go.

“You thought I was a bitch before?” she says threateningly. “Well, how about now!”

She resorts to her go-to move: pinching my butt.

But the sting of pain only turns me on. I kick her bedroom door open. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a brat?”

The moment I set her down, she takes a swing at me.

Startled laughter lodges in my throat. I easily block her fist before it can connect with my solar plexus. “Stop that,” I order.

“Why? Because it makes me a brat? Oh, and a bitch too, right? And a drama queen…and a sorority girl…what else…” Her cheeks redden with what appears to be embarrassment. “Oh, yes. I’m surface level. That’s what you think, right? That I’m fluff?”

My stomach sinks like a stone.

Dick’s not doing great, either—one look at Summer’s stricken face and my hard-on says “peace out.”

Her fingers, which were clenched so tightly before, slowly uncurl and go limp. Noting my expression, she gives a bitter laugh. “I heard everything you said to Garrett at the bar that night.”

Aw hell. Guilt ripples through my entire body before settling in my gut, an eddy of shame. “Summer,” I start. Then stop.

“Every word,” she says quietly. “I heard every word you said, and not a single one was very nice, Colin.”

I feel like such an asshole.

Most of my life I’ve made it a point not to be cruel to others. Not to talk trash about anyone—to their face or behind their back. Growing up, all I saw from my parents was negativity. Nasty jabs directed at each other. Your father is a piece of shit, Colin. Your mom is a lying bitch, son. Over the years they’d calmed down, but it didn’t happen fast enough. The toxic environment they’d created had already done its job, teaching me the hard way how damaging words can be. That there’s no taking back the poison once you’ve spewed it.

“Summer,” I try again, and stop again.

I don’t know how to explain my actions without revealing just how badly I’d craved her that night. I’d been looking for negative traits because I was having a good time with her. Because she was making me laugh. Turning me on. I wanted her, and it was messing with my head, so I started picking apart everything I perceived to be a flaw.

“I’m sorry you heard all that,” is what I finally choke out.

And I know immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Sitting on the edge of my bed, she peers up at me with sad green eyes.

Jesus. Her expression. It’s like an arrow to the heart.

“I’m not fluff.” Her words are barely a whisper. She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, it’s in a strong, even tone. “Yes, I have a stupid amount of energy. Yes, I enjoy shopping, and I’m obsessed with clothes. Yes, I was in a sorority, and yes, I like to dance and have fun with my friends.” She exhales in a fast rush. “That doesn’t make me superficial, Fitz. And it doesn’t mean there isn’t more to me beneath the surface. Because there is.”

“Of course there is.” Taking a ragged breath, I sink down beside her. “I’m so sorry, Summer. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You know what really hurts? That you just assumed there was nothing more to me than parties and shopping. I’m a loyal friend. I’m a good daughter, a good sister. You’d spent, what? Ninety minutes in my presence? And you think you know the whole story?”

The guilt travels upward to coat my throat. I try to gulp it down, but it only thickens, like a layer of tar coating the pavement. She’s absolutely right. Even though I was using those perceived flaws of hers as deterrents, it doesn’t change the fact that they occurred to me in the first place.

I did make the assumption that she’s just a party girl and there’s nothing more to her, and I’m ashamed of myself for it.

“I’m sorry,” I say roughly. “None of what I said was right. Or deserved. And I’m also sorry about calling you a bitch downstairs. Your behavior has been bitchy, but now I understand where it was coming from. I’m so sorry.”

Summer goes silent for a long beat. A foot of space separates us, but she might as well be sitting in my lap, that’s how aware of her I am. The heat of her body, the rise of her tits beneath her shirt as she inhales, the heady scent that’s so uniquely Summer. Her thick, gold-spun hair is cascading over one shoulder, making my fingers itch to touch it.