“Mmm-hmmm.” She sounds drowsy too.

My eyelids flutter closed. I feel myself starting to drift, my mind starting to fade, when suddenly I remember something. “Hey. Babe.”

“Hmmm?” She snuggles her ass closer to my groin, and the heat of her body seeps into me.

“Thursday night.”

“What about it?”

“It’s the fundraiser. The one Kamal Jain wants me to go to. His assistant emailed me the details this morning. It’s at your hotel.”

That gets her attention. “The Heyward Plaza?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” I run my fingers over her hip. Her skin is so fucking soft. “I have a plus one.”

“Hmmm?”

I laugh. “I feel like we can have an entire conversation with just hmmms and mmm-hmmms.”

“We should try it when I’m not in an orgasm coma.”

“Deal.” I press a kiss on the nape of her neck. “You wanna go to the fundraiser with me?”

“Hold on. You’re inviting me to a fancy party where I get to dress up and be social? What the hell is wrong with you? That’s so not my scene.”

I sigh. “You’re right. That was a stupid question.”

“Of course I’ll go. But I have one condition.”

“Hmmm?”

“I get to pick your outfit.”

“Well, yeah.” My shoulders tremble with laughter as I wrap my arms tighter around her. “I’d never dream of picking my own.”

28

Fitz

“We’re going to be late,” I tell Summer’s closet. I’d like to tell Summer herself, but she’s been locked up in the cavernous walk-in for the past two hours.

At first I didn’t mind, because it gave me the opportunity to explore the penthouse, which I didn’t have a chance to do when I came here with Dean once. The place has a sleek, modern design, and it’s luxury to the max. I’d poked my head into their library, and then had to duck right back out, because I’d require about three full days to thoroughly examine the contents of the enormous, walnut-paneled room.

I can’t believe real people actually live here. And not even full time; Summer’s parents split their time between this surreal apartment and their mansion in Greenwich. I’m afraid to even see pictures of the latter. I hear it has a skating rink in the backyard.

It’s a stroke of luck that Kamal Jain’s fundraiser for leukemia is being held in one of the ballrooms downstairs. That means Summer and I didn’t have to spring for a room in this insanely priced hotel. Nope, we’re staying for free in the penthouse. Though that’s not a detail I plan to reveal to Kamal. I feel like he wouldn’t like the idea that I’m staying somewhere better than him, assuming he’s at this hotel. For all I know, he’s boarding his private jet after the shindig and flying to a villa in the Mediterranean.

“I’m almost ready,” Summer’s muffled voice replies.

“Define almost,” I call back.

“Three minutes, give or take five minutes.”

Laughter bubbles in my throat. This girl.

We got in last night, and we’ve been having a blast so far. I ate her out on the pool table, which was hot. She blew me on her California king mattress, and then we snuggled in bed and binged a show about child killers. Summer agreed to watch it with me in exchange for—ugh. I don’t even want to think about it. But I may or may not have agreed to watch the latest season of The Bachelor with her. Summer has that effect on me. My first instinct is to say yes to anything she asks, because I want to make her happy.

We’ve spent almost every waking hour together for the past three weeks. She sleeps in my bedroom. Her makeup clutters my bathroom counter. Every morning she rumples her bedsheets to make it look like she’s still sleeping in her own room. I think it’s for Hunter’s sake, but he’s not an idiot. He knows.

No matter how quiet we think we’re being when we have sex, I have no doubt both Hunter and Hollis are well aware that we’re sleeping together.

But short of moving out, or asking Summer to, I don’t how to make the situation with Hunter any better. And at the moment, I need to focus on impressing Kamal Jain.

“Summer,” I grumble. “Your three minutes are up. I know the event is right downstairs, but I think it’d make a bad impression if we were late to—”

My vocal cords seize, all coherent thought flying out of my brain

Summer’s closet is clearly a magical portal. She entered it wearing Lululemon pants, wool socks, and one of my hockey hoodies.

She exits it looking like a goddess.

A slinky silver dress is plastered to her body, hugging every tantalizing curve. A slit goes up to her thigh, revealing one long, tanned leg, and her silver stilettos add about another four inches to her already tall frame. Her golden hair is up in an elegant twist held together by an ornate clip that sparkles under the light fixture overhead. It takes me a moment to realize that her hairclip is sparkling because it’s encrusted with diamonds.

Summer notes my expression. Her makeup is subtle except for her bright red lips, which curve into a smile. It’s really fucking hot.

“You like?” She spins in a circle and her shimmery dress swirls around her ankles.

“I like,” I say gruffly.

“How much?” She plants a hand on her waist, cocks her hip, and thrusts a leg out in a pose that makes me groan. My dick twitches at the sight of her bare thigh emerging from the dress’s slit.

“I like a lot.” I clear the gravel from my throat. “How ‘bout me?”

She scrutinizes me from head to toe. Completely unnecessary considering she’s the one who chose every scrap of fabric on my body, from the Tom Ford shoes to the crisp black suit jacket to the navy-blue dress shirt with only the top button undone. Summer said that as hot as my chest tattoo is, she doesn’t want it peeking out tonight. Apparently, she’s been to this leukemia fundraiser before (why am I not surprised?), and she warned me that the crowd will consist of a lot of old people with very deep pockets—and very closed minds.

“You look sharp, babe. Super professional. Oh, and sexy.”

I laugh. “Perfect. Sexy is what I’m going for. I plan on sleeping with Kamal Jain to get the job.”

“Let me know how that works out for you.”

The penthouse has an elevator requiring a key that only Summer’s family has access to. As we ride it downstairs, she takes her phone out of her silver clutch and opens Instagram. “Let’s take a selfie,” she announces, and the next thing I know she’s pulling me into frame and snapping a dozen photos of us.

“You’re the worst,” I tell her, because she knows I hate selfies.

She beams at me. “I think what you mean is, I’m the best.”

I snort. “My bad. That’s exactly what I meant.”

We reach the lobby. Summer’s heels click on the marble floor as she glides across it. The Heyward Plaza is hands down the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen. I can’t fathom that Summer might inherit it one day.

She smiles and waves at the concierge. “Evening, Thomas.”