“Oh my God, why is everyone in my life so dramatic! I was just dancing!”

“I’m dramatic?” he roars, and I’m momentarily amazed because I don’t think I’ve ever heard Fitz raise his voice. “You freaked out on me yesterday for no reason. You accused me of implying you can’t fucking read.”

“Because you were acting like a condescending asshole!”

“And you were acting like a brat!”

“And now you’re acting like my father!”

“And you’re still acting like a brat!”

We stop and glare at each other. He’s visibly clenching his teeth. The cords of his neck are like overly tightened guitar strings. He looks like he might snap at any second. But after several beats, he releases a heavy breath and rubs his dark beard.

“I’m sorry about last night, okay?” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s fine,” I cut in tersely.

“Summer.”

“What.”

“I’m serious. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

That makes one of us.

I banish the self-effacing thought to the bowels of my intoxicated mind. Somehow, even drunk off my face, I know better than to give him the satisfaction of seeing my insecurities.

I ball my fists and press them to my sides. Fitz is still watching me, no longer angry or frustrated, but contemplative. Even now, when I’m mad and aggravated by him, his presence affects me. My heart is pounding. My knees feel wobbly. Tingles dance along my spine and settle between my legs. When Fitz rakes his long fingers through his tousled hair, the tingles transform into a tight knot of need.

He turns me on so badly. I want those fingers on my body.

“I liked you,” I blurt out.

His hand freezes in his hair. “What?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I’m drunk.” I backpedal like my life depends on it, because Fitz isn’t allowed to know that I was interested in him, or that he hurt me. Telling him means admitting I’d heard every derisive word he’d spoken about me.

A line cuts into his forehead. “Summer…”

“I said forget it. You’re right, it’s time for bed. Thank you so much for escorting me upstairs.” The sarcasm oozes like molasses. “Now will you please get out of my room?”

He hesitates for a second. Then his shoulders roll up and stiffen, and he gives a curt nod. “Goodnight.”

I let out a frazzled groan the moment he’s gone.

Dammit. Me and my stupid mouth. I really need to stop blurting out exactly what’s on my mind all the time.

A loud thump followed by an even louder curse jolts me awake the next morning.

I’m a light sleeper, so the slightest noise can pull me from a state of deep slumber into wide-awake panic mode. Wild-eyed, I sit up and check the time on my phone. It’s seven-thirty. On a Sunday.

Which one of my roommates is making such a ruckus? I must know this in order to know who I’ll be murdering.

They better not wake Brenna. I assume she’s asleep next to me, but when I look over, I realize I’m alone. I swear she’d said she’d be right up last night.

“Dammit,” someone mutters.

Brenna’s voice.

I fling the blankets off and jump out of bed. I open my door at the same time two other doors swing open. Fitz and Hunter appear in their respective doorways, sporting boxers and some serious bed head.

All three of us gape when we notice whose room Brenna is exiting.

She freezes like a forest animal that just heard a twig snap. She’s wearing nothing but her camisole and black bikini underwear. Her jeans are slung over one arm, and her hair is ’80s-rock-level disheveled.

She meets my eyes and shakes her head in warning. “Not one word.”

I don’t think I’m capable of words. My tongue is on the floor, rendering me speechless.

Brenna is doing the walk of shame out of Mike Hollis’ room?

This is unfathomable to me.

Hunter opens his mouth, but she silences him with a low growl.

“Not. One. Word.”

Fitzy shakes his head in resignation, turns around, and closes his bedroom door.

“I’ll call you later,” Brenna murmurs as she passes me on the way to the stairs.

I nod wordlessly.

She’s gone a few minutes later, the sound of a car engine telling me she arranged for a ride home.

“Wow,” I say.

To my surprise, Hunter follows me into my room and throws himself on the bed. His abs bunch up and ripple as he gets comfortable. “That was unreal,” he says drowsily.

I stare at him. “Is there a reason why you’re lying in my bed?”

“Not really.” He rolls onto his side, thrusting out one long, muscular leg. He cuddles with my pillow and lets out a contented sigh. “‘Night.”

Unbelievable. He’s fast asleep within seconds, but I don’t even have the energy to kick him out. It’s too early in the morning, and I’ve only gotten about four hours of sleep.

So I do what any tired twenty-one-year-old woman would do. I crawl into bed with the half-naked man who’s taking up residence there.

Hunter makes a soft noise and then flings an arm over me, drawing me closer. At first I resist, going stiff. Then I relax, allowing the tension to seep out. It’s been so long since I’ve spooned with someone, and it’s…

Dammit, it’s nice.

12

Fitz

Monday is the first day of the new semester and I’m up before the birds. The sky is a navy-blue brushstroke across a black canvas. A tiny glimmer of light begins to peek through the darkness as I stare out the kitchen window waiting for my coffee to brew. I’m looking forward to my classes today. I’ve heard nothing but phenomenal things about Cinematography for Games, and Fundamentals of 2D Animation sounds bomb.

I’m a double major in Fine Arts and computer programming—which my old man never fails to lecture me about. He thinks it’s an unnecessary burden, that I should focus only on the latter. “Computers are the future of art, Colin,” is his go-to argument.

He has a point; graphic design does operate mostly in a digital sphere these days, with people drawing directly on their computers or tablets. I’m guilty of it of myself.

But for me, there’s nothing better than feeling the firm surface of a sketchpad under my hand, hearing the scrape of a pencil or the rasp of charcoal moving across the page. Drawing on paper and painting on canvas is so ingrained in me that I can’t imagine ever relying solely on technology.

I’m sure eventually museums will display only digital screens instead of canvases, and maybe it makes me a dinosaur, but that notion is a real bummer to me.

Since my first class isn’t till ten, and practice isn’t till eight, I have plenty of time to monitor the beta progress of my game. I take my coffee upstairs and settle at my desk. Or, what Hollis likes to call Space Command Central.

My gaming setup is a bit intense for a college student, complete with three hi-def monitors, a programmable keyboard, a fully customizable gaming mouse, and a graphics card that cost more than I’d like to admit. But frickin’ worth it.