True. He did come in my mouth and run away.

“You, ah, had class this morning? History of Fashion?” he says awkwardly.

He’s making small talk?

Is he for real?

“Yes, Fitz, I had class,” I say. I shift my tote to my other shoulder and march toward the driveway of the detached Victorian we’ve parked in front of. According to Dean, there are, like, eight football dudes living here.

“How’s the essay going?”

I stop in the middle of the paved drive. “You mean the one you agreed to help me with?” I can’t help but snipe.

Unhappiness clouds his expression. “I’m sorry. I know I dropped the ball. I’ve been…”

“Busy?” I supply.

“Yeah.”

“And don’t forget about the headaches,” I say sarcastically. “All those terrible, terrible headaches you’ve been suffering from.”

Fitz lets out a quick breath. He lifts his hand to run it through his hair, then halts when he remembers he’s wearing a Red Sox cap.

“Don’t worry,” I mutter, gulping down the bitter taste in my mouth. “I’ve got the essay covered.”

We resume our walk up the driveway. His legs are longer than mine, so he shortens his strides to match my pace. “Are you sure? Did your prof approve the thesis? Give you any notes?”

At the mention of Laurie, I momentarily forget that I’m pissed off at Fitz. “He made a few suggestions, but I was so eager to leave, I didn’t fully listen to what he said. I’ll read over what he wrote in the margins when I get home.”

Fitz studies my face. His own expression is inscrutable. “Why were you eager to leave?”

“Honestly? He makes me uncomfortable.”

A frown tightens the corners of his mouth. “In what way?”

“I don’t know. He’s very friendly.” I pause. “A little too friendly.”

“Has he tried anything?” Fitz demands.

“No. Oh no, he hasn’t,” I assure him. “I… I don’t know. Maybe I’m being overly sensitive. I get a weird vibe from him, that’s all.”

“Always trust your gut, Summer. If something feels off, it usually is.”

“My gut isn’t exactly the most accurate barometer,” I say flatly. “I mean, it told me to track you down in the locker room this weekend, and look how that turned out.”

At the mention of what went down this weekend (me. I went down this weekend. On him), Fitz’s expression fills with regret. “I’m…” He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry about that.”

I don’t know how to respond, because I can’t figure out what he’s apologizing for—that he disappeared after I blew him, or that it happened in the first place.

“You’re sorry,” is what I finally say.

“Yes.”

I wait for him to expand on that. When he doesn’t, my anger returns in full force, spurring me to brush past him and stomp to the front porch.

The door flings open before I can even ring the bell, and a huge black guy with a shaved head appears in front of me. In a split second, the excitement in his eyes transforms into grave disappointment. “It’s not the pizza!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Motherfucker,” someone curses from inside.

The big guy peers past me. “Fitzgerald? That you?”

Fitz reaches the porch. “Hey, Rex. How’s it going?”

“Shitty. I thought your girl was the pizza guy, but she ain’t got pizza.”

“Sorry.” I’m trying hard not to laugh.

Fitz seems to be doing the same. “You realize it’s barely noon, right?”

“You saying you can’t eat pizza at noon? Boy, you can eat pizza whenever you want to eat pizza. Noon, midnight. Dinner time. Breakfast time. It’s fuckin’ pizza.”

“It’s fuckin’ pizza,” I echo solemnly. Then I stick out my hand. “I’m Summer Di Laurentis. I forced Fitz to bring me here because I need a favor.”

“I’m intrigued. You’re forgiven for the pizza snafu.” Rex holds the door open for us. “Come inside. I’m cold.” We enter the house, and he gestures to the scary amount of coat hooks and shoe racks in the front hall. “Ditch your gear. We’re playing Madden. You want next round, Fitz?”

“Naah, I don’t think we’re staying that long. Are we?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “I’ll be quick. I need to get home and work on my paper.”

We follow Rex into a massive living room with a U-shaped sectional that is currently bearing the weight of four football players. I estimate about eight or nine hundred pounds of muscle.

“Fitzgerald!” one of them exclaims. He waves his game controller. “You want in?”

“Another time,” Fitz answers.

Rex flops down in an easy chair and gestures to the only other free chair. “Sit down, cutie. Summer, you can stand.” He laughs loudly at his own joke before saying, “Kidding. Fitz, your ugly ass can remain standing.”

I sink down on the chair he indicates and find myself drowning in brown leather. This is the biggest armchair on the planet. I feel like a toddler trying to sit in the big-people chair.

Rex introduces me to his teammates, and it’s hard to keep up with all the names and positions he spits out. Turns out they’re all offensive players—two tight ends, a running back, and a wide receiver. Rex is also a receiver. “Lockett, Jules, Bibby, C-Mac. This is Summer Di Laurentis. She needs a favor.”

“I’ll do it,” one player says instantly. Jules, I think. He’s really cute, with chin-length dark hair, dimples, and a diamond stud in one ear.

I grin at him. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“Doesn’t matter. Ain’t none of us gonna say no to a face like yours,” drawls C-Mac, who has dreadlocks and the cutest baby-face I’ve ever seen. If it weren’t for his tree-trunk biceps and huge pecs, I’d think he was fourteen years old.

“Girl, for real. You could be asking me to let you wax my balls and I’d say yes.” This comes from Lockett, the smallest guy in the room. And by small, I mean he’s probably five-eleven instead of six-five, and one-hundred-and-eighty-pounds instead of two-fifty. As in, a normal-sized human male.

“Oh.” I swallow my laughter. “Well. I mean, that’s a big commitment.”

Rex snorts.

“If you agree to help me, there is a chance I’ll be handling your balls, though.”

“What!” Fitz sputters, turning to scowl at me. “Dean said you just needed models.”

“Dean?” Lockett leans forward, recognition filling his dark eyes. “Oh shit. Dean Di Laurentis? Heyward-Di Laurentis? You’re Dean’s sister?”

“Yup. And I need six models for my fashion show,” I explain to the football players. There are only five of them in the room, but if at least two or three agree, I’m sure they could recruit the number I need. “We’ll have to take measurements and do some fittings. And like I said, I might accidentally touch your junk. Sorry in advance.”

“Never apologize for touching a man’s junk,” Rex tells me.