“I’ll try,” she says, and I suppose I can’t ask for more than that. “Are you hungry? I never ended up having dinner.”

I want to ask her why not, what happened on the date with Hunter, but I tamp down the urge. I really don’t want to kill the mood by bringing up another guy. That can wait till tomorrow.

I want tonight to be about just me and Summer.

25

Summer

“My French girls have got nothing on you,” Fitz informs me three nights later.

From the floor of his bedroom, I lift my gaze off the papers in my lap and stick my tongue out at him. And then I realize he’s not joking. A mixture of awe and appreciation shines in his brown eyes as he stares at me.

“You’re stunning,” he insists.

“Stop,” I order. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“Yeah right. Compliments don’t make you blush. You love ’em.”

Well, sure. I do. But the intensity on his face is a tad unnerving. We’ve gone back to our he-draws-me-while-I-write-my-essay routine, but usually he doesn’t say much while he sketches, and he certainly doesn’t throw around words like “stunning.”

I tend to do most of the talking, reading bits of my paper aloud to him and trying to vocalize my thoughts before I put them down on the page. His presence helps my concentration, if I’m being honest. It’s as if it creates a sense of accountability for me. The midterm is due in a few days, but I’m actually feeling good about it. Not saying it’s A-material, but I’d be perfectly content with a B or C.

Fitz studies his sketch. His biceps flex as he shifts one arm and scrapes the pencil over the page to add another detail.

Lord, he is hotter than a five-alarm fire. In appearance, and in body temperature, I’m discovering. He stripped off his T-shirt ten minutes into our study/sketch session, taunting me with his ripped chest. I honestly don’t know how my ADHD brain has managed to remain focused on my schoolwork.

“Stunning,” he says again, this time mumbling it under his breath. “I can see why other women are threatened by you.”

I feel the blush rise in my cheeks. “Nobody’s threatened by me. You’re nuts.”

“No? Remember the girl at the bar?”

“She was threatened by Brenna, not me.”

“Naah, it was both of you.” He examines his drawing again. “Jesus. I can’t get over it. You’re beautiful, but it’s the kind of beauty that’s so…unattainable. It’s otherworldly.”

I snort. “That’s very poetic of you, sweetie.”

But inside, Selena Gomez and I are doing an entire cheerleading routine’s worth of cartwheels and flips. Nobody has ever called me otherworldly. I think I like it.

When footsteps echo in the hall, we both stiffen. And this is something I don’t like—the awful cloud of tension that’s fallen over our household. If we’re in my bedroom or Fitz’s, the tension fades away. The conversation flows, and there’s an ease between us that I’ve never experienced with another guy before.

Anywhere else in the house, the thundercloud looms.

Hunter’s hardly spoken a word to us since Thursday night. We’ve been tiptoeing around him, and even Hollis, who’s fazed by nothing, admitted that Hunter’s brooding is getting to him. I don’t know how to make the situation better, though. Hunter needs time to get used to the idea that Fitz and I are…dating, I guess?

We haven’t given it a label yet, but I’m in no rush. I know he likes being with me, and that’s all that matters at the moment. Besides, it’s not like I could raise the subject on Valentine’s Day weekend. That’s pressure with a capital everything for a guy.

In fact, we barely even acknowledged that yesterday was Valentine’s Day. We watched Titanic with Hollis, then went upstairs and made out for a bit (not with Hollis).

Beyond his door, I hear the footsteps travel down the stairs, then grow muffled. The TV switches on in the living room. We both relax. Must be Hollis, then. Hunter hasn’t hung out in the living room in days.

“Okay, I think I’ll write the conclusion tomorrow. My brain needs to recharge.” I set the laptop and notebook on the hardwood and pick up the leather portfolio that contains everything related to Summer Lovin’, the cheesy name I’ve chosen for my swimwear line.

I’m holding my first fittings with the models in a few days. Nearly all my pieces are done—I sewed most of them myself in the Fashion department’s sewing rooms. Brenna kept me company for a couple hours yesterday, mockingly calling me Home Ec Barbie. The crochet bikinis, I had to outsource; I’m working with an awesome seamstress in Hastings. Once I tailor the swimsuits to my models, we’ll do a final fitting to iron out any kinks, and then we’re good to go.

“I need to redo this one pair of briefs,” I say absently, flipping through my designs. “My seamstress says the cut is too high for a man. I’ll draw a couple other options and see what she says.”

“Draw?” There’s a funny note to his voice.

I glance over, confused by the astonishment in his eyes. “Yes, draw. How do you think I designed these swimsuits? I did sketches of them.”

“Sketches.” Fitz is staring at me as if he’s never seen me before in his life.

“Yes. Sketches. What’s wrong with your face?”

He shakes his head a few times, as if it’s stuffed with cobwebs. “I’m just…I can’t believe you can fucking draw and this is the first I’m hearing about it.”

I arch my eyebrows. “What, you’re the only one in this house who’s allowed to draw? That’s a bit arrogant, don’t you think?”

Fitz flings his sketchbook aside and shuffles over to me. “I gotta see this. Show me.”

I snap the portfolio closed and hug it to my chest. Before, I would’ve gladly shown him the sketches. Now, with his eager eyes and grabby hands, I feel an anvil of pressure weighing on my throat.

“It’s a bunch of bikinis and swim trunks. Nothing fancy,” I insist.

“Lemme see.”

My cheeks heat up. “No. You’re, like, the most talented artist in the world.” He showed me pictures of some of his paintings—mostly dazzling fantasy worlds and dystopian landscapes—and his art blew my frigging mind. “I draw clothes.”

“Garments can be really difficult to draw.”

“Uh-huh. No need to humor me.”

“I’m serious. Clothing has elements that a lot of artists tend to overlook. There are shadows and creases in the drape of the garment, in the way certain fabrics fold.” He shrugs. “Can be challenging.”

“I guess.” I still think he’s humoring me, but his earnest expression has me relinquishing the sketches.

Fitz doesn’t say a single word as he scrutinizes each one. I try to see the drawings through his eyes, but it’s hard to tell what he thinks. The figures are at their most basic. Faceless, with long limbs that aren’t anatomically correct, because it doesn’t matter. They’re only there to display the garments.

“These are great,” he tells me, then spends a long time examining a one-piece with a plunge neckline that reveals my pencil-drawn model’s perfectly round boobs.