But Fitz isn’t saying that. He isn’t saying anything, except that he’s “bad at expressing feelings” and “not good at this shit.”

What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Beg him to magically be good at “this shit”? Forget that.

Hunter is a great guy, and we get along so well. What’s the harm in getting to know him better?

You’ll be leading him on.

Not necessarily. Maybe we’ll have so much fun on the date that my feelings for Hunter will eclipse my feelings for Fitz.

Or that won’t happen at all, and you’ll be leading him on.

Do I keep the date or cancel it? I have no idea what to do.

I’m still debating it when I take a shower later. A worry-free shower, thanks to the new lock Hollis installed on the bathroom door.

I’m still debating it as I dry my hair and get dressed. I pair a dove-gray sweater dress with black stockings and Jimmy Choo lace-up combat boots, black suede.

I’m still debating it when Hunter calls out from downstairs that he’s warming up the car.

And I’m still debating it when Fitz enters my bedroom without knocking and levels me with two husky words.

“Don’t go.”

23

Summer

“W-what?” The question comes out in a fast, quavery squeak, as my heart stutters mid-beat.

Fitz’s long, muscular body advances on me. I find myself moving backward. Moving away from him, because his intensity is a bit terrifying. Usually his eyes are a normal shade of brown. Right now, they’re dark chocolate and liquid fire. The heat of them sears right through me.

I move until I can’t move anymore—because my butt meets the wall. Fitz doesn’t stop until his body is a mere inch from mine. If I inhale, my breasts would rise and probably bump his chest.

“Summer.” His voice is low, tormented.

His rough fingertips graze my cheekbone. I can scarcely breathe. My worried gaze flicks toward my bedroom door. It’s ajar. Hunter or Hollis could walk by at any moment and see us.

“Don’t go with him tonight.” It sounds like the words are being ripped out of his throat.

My pulse quickens. Fitz’s lips are so close to mine I can almost taste him. His chest tat peeks out the top of his worn, gray T-shirt, and I have to fight the urge not to reach out and run my fingers over the faded ink.

“Don’t go with Hunter,” he rasps, those molten eyes locking onto mine.

I find my voice again, though it’s shakier than I’d like. “Give me a reason not to.”

He visibly swallows.

I silently implore him. I can’t speak the words for him, but if he doesn’t want me to go out with Hunter, then he has to tell me why. He needs to tell me why.

He doesn’t. A muscle in his jaw tics, but still he doesn’t speak.

“What the hell is going on, Fitz? Because it kinda feels like this is you wanting to have your cake and eat it too. We hooked up, and then you pushed me away. You don’t get to make demands now about who I go out with—I owe you nothing. You had your chance.”

“I know,” he finally says, sounding as confused as I feel.

Clearly when he stormed into my room, he didn’t have a damn thing rehearsed other than “don’t go with Hunter.” Well, that’s not enough for me.

“I know I messed up.” Remorse swims in his eyes. “Avoiding you after what happened in the locker room was so fucking stupid. And selfish.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m sorry for that,” he says hoarsely. “I really am. And I’m not trying to have my cake and eat it too. Or at least I’m not doing it intentionally. All I know is that I feel sick about the thought of you going out with him tonight.”

I wait for him to elaborate. As usual, he doesn’t.

“Then tell me why I should stay here, Fitz! And don’t say it’s because you’re hard twenty-four-seven because of me. We can’t hook up anymore, okay? I’m not interested in a fling with you. I get the feeling you don’t do flings, anyway.”

“I don’t,” he says hoarsely.

“Then what is this?” Frazzled, I gesture between us. “Why shouldn’t I date Hunter?”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“You’re not saying anything at all!” I remember the open door and quickly lower my voice. “What do you want, Colin? Just tell me how you feel.”

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. I can’t pick out a single emotion in his expression. He’s so good at that, placing a veil over his eyes. He guards his thoughts and emotions with the dedication of a Secret Service agent. Hell, he’d probably rather take a bullet than show anyone what he’s feeling.

And whether he means to or not, he’s playing games with me. I like games—the ones you play at parties, with friends. When it comes to my love life, I’m not interested in having to guess what the other person is feeling or thinking.

“I have to go,” I mutter.

He makes a frustrated noise under his breath. “Summer.”

But I’m already marching out the door.

And he doesn’t stop me.

Needless to say, I’m more than a little distracted when Hunter pulls out my chair at the nicest restaurant in Hastings. It’s called Ferro’s, and it comes highly recommended by both Allie and a friend of hers, Grace Ivers. Grace is Logan’s girlfriend, and apparently they eat at Ferro’s all the time.

I can’t deny that Hunter looks hot tonight. His tight ass fills a pair of trousers very, very nicely, and he recently got his hair buzzed. I prefer shorter hair on guys.

While I check him out, he’s doing the same to me. His sultry gaze admires me from across the table. “That’s a great dress, Blondie.”

I manage a smile. “Thanks.” Can he tell that I’m preoccupied? Or worse, can he tell I’m upset? Because I am. I’m still so shaken from that encounter with Fitz.

Why couldn’t he just tell me how he felt? Why do I have to pry the details out of him like I’m trying to extract a splinter from under my fingernail? Talking to Fitz is painful and frustrating and I don’t fucking understand him.

I don’t even notice the waiter coming by to take our drink order until Hunter says, “Summer? Vodka cran?”

I hastily shake my head. “Water for now,” I tell the waiter. After he leaves, I explain my choice to Hunter. “I haven’t eaten in hours. I don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.”

“Yeah. Makes sense.” He watches as I unroll my napkin.

It’s a fancy cloth one, and my hands tremble slightly as I smooth it over my lap.

A crease lines his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just been a long, somewhat crappy day.”

“You had to see your academic advisor, right? How’d that go?”

“Not great. Richmond hates my guts.” My cheeks hollow as I grind my teeth together. I force myself to stop. “He pretty much baited me into saying one of my professors creeps me out and then scolded me about how I shouldn’t be making accusations.”