“I guess I can ask Dad to call the housing people and see if there’s availability in any of the dorms.” Once again, I feel defeated. “I really don’t want to do that, though. He already had to pull strings to get me into Briar.”

And I’d rather not live in a dorm if I can help it. Sharing a bathroom with a dozen other girls is my worst nightmare. I had to do it in the Kappa house at Brown, but the private bedroom made the bathroom situation easier to swallow. No way will there be any singles left in the dorms this far into the school year.

I moan softly. “What am I supposed to do?”

I have two older brothers who never, ever pass up an opportunity to tease or embarrass me, but sometimes they display rare moments of compassion. “Don’t call Dad yet,” Dean says gruffly. “Let me see what I can do first.”

My forehead wrinkles. “I’m not sure you can do anything.”

“Just hold off on calling him. I’ve got an idea.” The squeal of brakes fills the line. “One sec. Thanks, bro. Five-star ride, for sure.” A car door slams. “Summer, you’re coming back to the city tonight anyway, right?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I admit, “but I guess I don’t have a choice now. I’ll have to grab a hotel in Boston until I figure out my living arrangements.”

“Not Boston. I meant New York. The semester doesn’t start for a few weeks. I figured you’d be staying at the penthouse until then.”

“No, I wanted to unpack and settle in and all that crap.”

“Well, it ain’t happening today, and tonight is New Year’s Eve, so you might as well come home and celebrate with me and Allie. A bunch of my old teammates are driving up too.”

“Like who?” I ask curiously.

“Garrett’s in the city for a game, so he’ll be here. And the current Briar brigade is coming. You know some of them—Mike Hollis, Hunter Davenport. Actually, Hunter went to Roselawn Prep, think he was a year behind you. Pierre and Corsen, but I don’t think you ever met them. Fitzy—”

My heartbeat stutters.

“I remember Fitzy,” I say as casually as I’m capable of—which is not casual at all. Even I can hear the excitement in my voice.

Who can blame me, though? Fitzy is short for Colin Fitzgerald, and he just happens to be THE UNICORN. The tall, sexy, tattooed, hockey-playing unicorn of a man who I might have a teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy crush on.

Okay, fine.

A big motherfucking crush on.

He’s so…magical. But he’s also out of reach. Dean’s hockey friends are usually all over me when they meet me, but not Fitz. I met him last year when I visited Dean at Briar, and the guy barely glanced my way. When I saw him again at a birthday party for Dean’s friend Logan, he said about ten words to me—and I’m pretty sure half those words were hello, how are you, and goodbye.

He’s exasperating. Not that I expect every male in my vicinity to fall at my feet, but I know he’s attracted to me. I’ve noticed the way his brown eyes smolder when he looks at me. They frigging smolder.

Unless I’m just seeing what I want to see.

My dad has this super-pompous saying: perception and reality are vastly disparate. The truth is usually found somewhere in between. Dad used that line in his closing arguments for a murder trial once, and now he busts it out any time it’s even remotely applicable to a situation.

If the truth lies somewhere between Colin Fitzgerald’s outward aloofness toward me (he hates me), and the heat I see in his eyes (his fiery passion for me), then… I guess split the difference and say he views me as a friend?

I purse my lips.

No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be friend-zoned before I’ve even made a move.

“It’ll be a good time,” Dean is saying. “Besides, it’s been ages since we were in the same place on New Year’s Eve. So get your butt to New York and text when you’re here. I’m at the drycleaner’s now. Gotta go. Love you.”

He hangs up, and I’m smiling so broadly it’s hard to imagine I was in tears five minutes ago. Dean might be a pain in the ass most of the time, but he’s a good big brother. He’s there for me when I need him, and that’s all that really matters.

And—praise the Lord!—now I have a party to go to. There’s nothing better than a party after a shitty day. I need this badly.

I check the time. It’s one p.m.

I quickly do some mental math. The Briar campus is about an hour away from Boston. From there it’s a three-and-a-half, four-hour drive to Manhattan. That means I won’t arrive in the city until the evening, which won’t leave me much time to get ready. If I’m seeing my unicorn tonight, I plan on dolling myself up from my head down to my toes.

That boy isn’t going to know what hit him.

2

Fitz

“Dance with me?”

I want to say no.

But I also want to say yes.

I call this the Summer Dilemma—the frustrating, polar reactions this green-eyed, golden-haired goddess sparks in me.

Fuck yes and hell no.

Get naked with her. Run far, far away from her.

“Thanks, but I don’t like to dance.” I’m not lying. Dancing’s the worst.

Besides, when it comes to Summer Di Laurentis, my flight instinct always wins out.

“You’re no fun, Fitzy.” She makes a tsking noise, drawing my gaze to her lips. Full, pink, and glossy, with a tiny mole above the left side of her mouth.

It’s an extremely hot mouth.

Hell, everything about Summer is hot. She’s hands down the best-looking girl in the bar, and every dude in our vicinity is either staring enviously or glowering at me for being with her.

Not that I’m with her. We’re not together. I’m just standing next to her, with two feet of space between us. Which Summer keeps trying to bridge by leaning closer to me.

In her defense, she practically has to scream in my ear for me to hear her over the electronic dance music blasting through the room. I hate EDM, and I don’t like these kinds of bars, the ones with a dance floor and deafening music. Why the subterfuge? Just call your establishment a nightclub, if that’s what you want it to be. The owner of Gunner’s Pub should’ve called this place Gunner’s Club. Then I could’ve turned right around when I saw the sign and spared myself the shattered eardrums.

Not for the first time tonight, I curse my friends for dragging me to Brooklyn for New Year’s Eve. I’d way rather be at home, drinking a beer or two and watching the ball drop on TV. I’m low-key like that.

“You know, they warned me you were a curmudgeon, but I didn’t believe it until now.”

“Who’s they?” I ask suspiciously. “And hey, wait. I’m not a curmudgeon.”

“Hmmm, you’re right—the term is kind of dated. Let’s go with Groucho.”

“Let’s not.”

“No-Fun Police? Is that better?” Her expression is pure innocence. “Seriously, Fitz, what do you have against fun?”

An unwitting smile breaks free. “Got nothing against fun.”

“All right. Then what do you have against me?” she challenges. “Because every time I try talking to you, you run away.”