I wrinkle my forehead. “I never told you what?”

He sits up and drags a hand over his scalp. He’s buzzed his hair since I last saw him, but it’s still long enough to rake his fingers through. “I was about to ask you what it meant.” He stares at me in horror. “I’ve become my worst nightmare.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, honey. It’s okay—lots of men try to find meaning in New Year’s kisses.” I give him a pointed look.

He groans. “Don’t rub it in, Blondie.”

“Sorry, I had to. You were so cocky that night, acting like any girl you kissed at midnight would demand to have your babies.” I stick out my tongue. “Well, who’s the one who wants to have my babies? You!”

His shoulders shake with laughter.

I slide off the desk. “Tables have turned,” I say in a singsong voice.

Hunter gets to his feet. He’s taller than I remember, standing at well over six feet. Same with Fitz, but I suppose most hockey players have the height advantage. There’s one guy on the Briar team who’s five-nine, though. I think his name is Wilkins. One time I heard Dean raving about how tough he is considering his size.

“Don’t worry,” Hunter says. “I’m not thinking about babies just yet.”

“No? What are you thinking about, then?”

He doesn’t respond. Those dark eyes lower to my chest before flicking back to my face. I’m not wearing a bra. He definitely noticed.

And I’m definitely noticing that his sweatpants seem a bit tighter in the crotch area than they were two minutes ago.

When he notices me noticing, he coughs and angles his body slightly.

A sigh flutters out of my throat. “You’re not going to make this weird, are you?”

Two ridiculously adorable dimples cut into his chiseled cheeks. “Define weird.”

“I don’t know. Be awkward? Tiptoe around me?”

He takes another step toward me. “Does it look like I’m tiptoeing?” he drawls.

My heart beats faster. Damn, he’s smooth. “Okay. Then are you going to get all lovesick? Write poetry about me and cook me breakfast?”

“Poetry isn’t my style. And I can’t cook for shit.” He edges closer, until our faces are inches apart. “I’m happy to make you coffee in the morning, though.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” I say smugly.

His answering chuckle brings out his dimples again. “I can already tell you’re going to make this hard for me, eh?”

“This?” I echo warily. “And what exactly is this?”

He slants his head, contemplating for a beat. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. His breath tickles my ear as he leans in to murmur into it. “But I’m kind of excited to find out.”

Hunter’s fingertips lightly graze my bare arm. Then, before I can blink, he’s sliding out the door.

My new neighborhood is a vow-of-silence convent compared to the Kappa house at Brown. At one in the morning, the only sound beyond my bedroom window is the occasional cricket. No car engines, no music, no shrieky drunken sorority girls or loud-mouthed frat boys egging each other on during a rowdy game of beer pong.

I have to admit, I find it unsettling. Silence is not my friend. Silence forces you to examine your own mind. To face the thoughts you pushed aside during the day or the worries you hoped would go away, the secrets you tried to keep.

I’m not a fan of my own thoughts. They tend to be a jumble of insecurity, mixed with self-doubt, a splash of inner critic, and a sprinkling of misplaced over-confidence. It’s a fucked-up place, my mind.

I roll over and groan into my pillow. The muffled noise is like a blast of gunfire in the eerily quiet room. I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning since eleven thirty and it’s really starting to tick me off. I slept just fine when the guys were in Vermont. I don’t get why their presence ought to change that.

Trying to force sleep is pointless, so I kick the comforter off and stumble out of bed. Screw it. I’m getting something to eat. Maybe it’ll send me into a food coma afterward.

Since I sleep in nothing but panties, I grab the first item of clothing I find. It happens to be a thin white T-shirt that shows the outline of my nipples and barely covers my thighs. I slip it on anyway, because I doubt my roomies will be awake to see it. Hunter said they have a six a.m. practice.

But I’m wrong. One roomie is very much awake.

Fitzy and I both release startled noises when our gazes collide in the kitchen.

“Shit,” I curse. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. And ditto.” He’s sitting at the table, long legs resting on the chair beside him, a sketchpad in his lap.

Oh, and he’s shirtless.

As in, not wearing a shirt.

I can’t even.

I wrestle my gaze off his bare chest, but it’s too late. Every detail has already been branded in my brain. The full-sleeve tats covering his arms. The black swirl of ink that stretches along his collarbone and stops just above his heavy pecs. His abs are so chiseled it looks like someone drew them on with a contouring brush. Like Hunter, he’s all muscle and no fat, but while Hunter’s chest triggered appreciation and some tingles, Fitz unleashes a flurry of shivers and a tight clench of need.

I want to put my mouth on him. I want to trace every line and curve of his tats with my tongue. I want to grab his sketchpad and whip it aside so I could be the one in his lap. Preferably with my lips glued to his and my hand wrapped around his dick.

God help me.

I don’t get it. He’s not my usual type at all. I’ve been surrounded by prep school boys my whole life, and that’s what I’m typically drawn to—polo shirts, clean-shaven faces, and million-dollar smiles. Not tattoos and scruff.

“Can’t sleep?” he says lightly.

“No,” I admit. I open the fridge and scan the contents for something appetizing. “How about you?”

“I should’ve turned in about an hour ago, but I wanted to finish this sketch before bed ‘cause I won’t have time to do it tomorrow.”

I settle on some yogurt and granola, glancing over at Fitz as I prepare a bowl. “What are you drawing?”

“Just something for a video game I’m working on.” He snaps the sketchbook closed, even though I wasn’t trying to sneak a peek at it.

“Right. Dean mentioned you’re a gamer. I thought you just reviewed games, though. You design them too?”

“Only one so far. Working on a second one now,” he says vaguely.

He obviously doesn’t want to discuss it, so I shrug and say, “Cool. Sounds interesting.” I perch against the counter and swallow a spoonful of yogurt.

Silence falls over the kitchen. I watch him as I eat, and he watches me eat. It’s both painfully uncomfortable and strangely comfortable. Figure that one out.

So many questions bite at my tongue, most of them relating to New Year’s Eve.

Were you really not into me that night? Did I just imagine the interested vibes? Do you truly believe all those shitty things you said about me?

I don’t voice a single one. I refuse to reveal even a hint of vulnerability to this guy. He’s not allowed to know how much his judgmental words hurt me.