“What can I do to help?”

I jerk up in surprise. “What?”

His gaze is earnest, shining with sincerity. Not even a hint of pity there. “You’re having trouble with your midterm, so how can I help?”

I’m a bit dazed. Awkwardly, I slide off his lap and sit cross-legged beside him. The moment we’re no longer touching, I miss the warmth of his body. For a fleeting moment, THE KISS floats into my mind, but I swat it away like a pesky fly. Fitz hasn’t mentioned the kiss, and right now he’s not looking at me like he wants to stick his tongue in my mouth.

He looks genuinely eager to help me.

“I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I just… There’s so much information.” Anxiety fills my stomach again. “We’re talking fifty decades’ worth of fashion. I’m not sure what to focus on, and if I can’t condense all the info, this paper will be like fifty pages long, and it’s only supposed to be three thousand words, and I don’t know how to streamline all the ideas, and—”

“Breathe,” he orders.

I stop and do what he says. The oxygen clears my brain a little.

“You’re letting yourself get carried away again. You need to go one step at a time.”

“I’m trying. That’s the point of the stupid sticky notes, to break it all down.”

“How about talking it out? Does that ever help?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Usually I’ll dictate the points and ideas and transcribe them afterward, but I’m not at that stage yet. I was trying to get the basic premise down when the panic struck.”

“Okay.” He stretches out his long legs in front of us. “Then let’s talk about the basic premise.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure you have better things to do with your time. Like draw. Or work on your video game.” I shrug weakly. “You don’t have to help me with my essay.”

“I wouldn’t be doing it for free.”

I narrow my eyes. “You want me to pay you?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What? No. Of course not. I just meant…” He takes a quick breath, avoiding my gaze. “I need your help with something too.”

“You do?”

He glances over again, oddly sheepish. “How about an exchange? I’ll help you with this midterm—the outline, the thesis. And, as you write it, I can proofread and help you organize ideas. And you help me out by…” He mumbles the rest—“Letting me draw you.”

This time it’s my eyebrows taking flight. “You want to draw me?”

His head jerks in a nod.

“Like one of your French girls?” Heat scorches my cheeks. Is he saying he wants to draw me naked?

Oh my God.

Why does the idea kind of turn me on?

“What French girls?” he asks, confused.

“Are you sure you weren’t secretly watching Titanic with me and Hollis the other night?”

He snorts. “Ah, the naked portrait. Forgot about that scene. And no, you wouldn’t be naked.” His voice thickens at that, and I wonder if he’s imagining the same thing I am.

Me. Lying naked in front of him. My body on full display.

My breath quickens as the vision takes a dirty turn. Suddenly Fitz is naked too. Naked and hard. His tattooed biceps flexing as he lowers his long, muscular body on top of me and—

He coughs, and I don’t miss the flash of heat in his eyes. “You’d be fully clothed,” he says. “I’d be basing a character in my game on you. Well, on your appearance. I’ve had a tough time figuring out what this woman looks like, and…” He shrugs awkwardly, and it’s insanely adorable. “I think she might look like you.”

My jaw falls open. “You want to base a video game character on me? That’s so cool. What’s her name?”

“Anya.”

“Oooh, I like that. It’s very elfin princess.”

“She’s actually a human.”

I grin. “You should reconsider. That’s totally an elf name.”

He grins back, then gestures to the mess on the floor. “Do we have a deal? I help you out, you let me sketch you?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. It takes a second to realize that all traces of defeat and despair have left my body. I feel rejuvenated, and the gratitude filling my chest threatens to overflow. “Thank you, Fitz.”

“You’re welcome.”

Our gazes lock. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish he’d bring up our silly Spin the Bottle kiss so I could figure out his feelings about it.

I wish he’d kiss me again.

His throat bobs as he visibly swallows. He licks his lips.

Arousal courses through my body. Oh God. Is he actually going to do it?

Please, I beg silently. With any other guy, I’d probably take the bull by the proverbial horns. As in, put my literal hand on his literal penis.

Not with Fitz, though. I’m terrified of putting myself out there again, not when the bitter taste of his rejection on New Year’s Eve still clings to my throat. I still want him, yes. But I’ll never admit it unless he makes the first move.

He doesn’t.

Disappointment crashes into me when he breaks the eye contact. He clears his throat, but his voice is still full of gravel as he says, “I’ll go get my sketchbook.”

16

Fitz

“Strip.”

Spending time with Summer is…a challenge. And that’s coming from me, a guy who plays hockey at the college level for a Division 1 school. I can honestly say that my grueling athletic career is a walk in the park compared to the sheer grit it takes maintaining a friendship with Summer Di Laurentis.

First off, it’s impossible for me to forget about the kiss we shared. Maybe she’s been able to put it out of her mind, but it sure as hell hasn’t left mine. Which means every time I’ve looked at her mouth these past few days, I’ve been reminded of how good it felt pressed against mine.

Second, I’m still attracted to her, so usually when I’m admiring that mouth, the fantasy doesn’t stop with a harmless kiss. Her lips and tongue have played a starring role in so many dirty fantasies that I’ve taken to jerking off in the shower every morning to the thought of her.

Third, jerking off to her every morning makes it hard to look her in the eye when we hang out.

And lastly, when you’re friends with Summer, she does things like waltz into your bedroom and order you to strip.

“No,” I answer.

“Strip, Fitzy.”

I cock one eyebrow. “No.”

“Oh my God, why won’t you take your clothes off!”

“Why are you asking me to take my clothes off? I’m not one of your French girls,” I growl.

She keels over laughing. Summer has this way of completely losing herself in fits of laughter. It usually involves tears, doubling over, and furiously rubbing a stitch in her side. When she laughs, she does it with her entire body and soul.

Needless to say, I like provoking that response from her.

“I don’t want to draw you,” she says between giggles. She straightens and plants both hands on her hips. “I’m trying to help you, you stupid jerk.”