But Hunter saw discomfort. Interesting.

Maybe that’s why Summer hasn’t raised the subject of the kiss even once since it happened. Fuck. Am I actually in the friend zone?

“I think she’s awesome, Fitz.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t joking about the whole dibs thing when we got back from Vermont. I’m into her.”

He shoots a glance toward the doorway, as if he’s worried Summer might be standing there. But he relaxes when her and Mike’s laughter echoes from downstairs.

“And I think she’s into me,” he continues. Another shrug. “I mean, we made out on New Year’s. We’ve cuddled.”

They’ve cuddled? The stab of jealousy I feel hurts more than I expect.

“I’m planning on asking her out.” He tips his head, watching me carefully. “Is that going to be a problem?”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Yes, it’s gonna be a problem? What if I did say that? What then? Would we have to duel for Summer’s honor?

“Like I said when we discussed her moving in, as long as it doesn’t affect our lease, I don’t care what you do.” It’s very, very difficult to utter these words, but the alternative would only create problems I’d rather not deal with at the moment.

If Summer was ripping her clothes off and begging me to screw her, maybe my answer would be different.

But she’s not.

17

Fitz

I grew up in the suburbs outside of Boston, so the odds of me ever seeing a tornado were about as good as the chances of my parents getting back together.

This morning, I finally get to witness one.

The tornado’s name is Kamal Jain. He bursts into the hotel bar in a blur of gray and black, offering fleeting glimpses of white teeth and brown skin and stubby fingers that he waves at the server as he flies past her.

The vortex grinds to a halt to reveal the short, stocky figure of Kamal Jain, and it takes serious effort to keep my jaw hinged because it turns out he’s not wearing gray and black.

It’s slate and charcoal, as Summer would say.

And it’s the same fucking outfit I tried on last night. The first one, which Summer advised me to forsake in favor of what I’m wearing now: dark-blue Ralph Lauren jeans, a Marc Jacobs dress shirt with no tie, and brown Gucci loafers. Summer would be proud that I remembered each designer’s name and can link it to his corresponding clothing item.

Thank God I didn’t go with the first outfit, or this interview would’ve started off a touch awkward.

“Colin!” Kamal greets me with enthusiasm, pumping my hand in a shake that lasts the entire time he speaks. “So good to meet you! Look at you—you’re huge! You look way smaller in the picture I have of you. In person you’re a giant!”

“Picture?” I say blankly.

“My assistant grabbed your hockey mug shot off the net. Is it called a mug shot? I don’t know. How tall are you? Six-one? Six-two?”

“Six-two—”

“Six-two, I bet. I’m five-eight, just a little fella with a big bank account, right?” He guffaws at his own joke. “Let’s grab a seat?”

“Sure,” I say, although I doubt he hears me. It seems like Kamal Jain mostly talks to himself, and you’re just along for the ride.

The Ritz bar resembles one of those gentlemen’s cigar clubs you see in the movies. A few round booths span one wall, but for the most part it’s padded leather armchairs tucked throughout the room to provide the illusion of privacy for patrons. There’s even a roaring fire in the fireplace, a real one, which crackles as the server leads us past it.

We settle in a pair of chairs in the corner of the room. Kamal orders a vodka tonic. It’s ten thirty in the morning, but I don’t comment on it. No way am I criticizing my potential employer’s morning beverage selection. Also, I’m a bit starstruck, so speaking might be a challenge in general. I’ve seen this man’s face on the cover of magazines. I’ve followed his career for years. It’s surreal to be sitting across from someone I’ve admired from afar for so long.

“Thank you for coming all this way to see me, Mr. Jain,” I start.

“Mr. Jain! We already discussed this, man—call me Kamal or KJ. ‘Mister’ gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too authoritarian for my liking.”

“Sorry. Kamal.” I decide to be upfront with the guy. I suspect he might appreciate it. “I’m sorry. I’m almost embarrassed by how hard I’m fan-boying right now.”

He gives a loud laugh. “Oh, trust me, I can relate. One time I met Stan Lee at a comic book convention, and I almost came in my pants. Swear to God, I felt a tingle in the dingle.”

I stifle a snicker. “Well, luckily you were able to control yourself,” I say helpfully.

“Barely! That man’s a legend. I’m divorcing my parents and hoping he’ll adopt me.”

The snicker slips out. I already knew from the interviews I’ve seen with him that Kamal has no brain-to-mouth filter. But experiencing it in person is a whole other spectacle.

“Is that a Marc Jacobs?” He gestures to my shirt. “Great fit, bomb cuffs—pricey. Hope you didn’t clean out your savings account for li’l ol’ me. You’re in college, you can’t afford frivolous purchases yet, Colin. I’ll get my assistant to send you a check of reimbursement.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

“All right,” he interrupts, “I’ve got four more minutes. Let’s do this fast.”

Four minutes? He literally just sat down.

I wonder what it’s like to be SO IMPORTANT that you fly to Boston for a five-minute meeting before having to board the old company jet again.

For the next three minutes, Kamal launches questions at me as if he’s firing an interview rifle. They seem to have no rhyme or reason. Jumping from one topic to another before I can blink and only allowing me about ten seconds to answer before firing again.

Who are your artistic influences?

What’s your favorite movie?

Do you eat meat?

Would you be willing to work weekends if needed?

What do you think of No Man’s Sky?

Would you consider yourself a jock?

In fact, the jock issue comes up in at least three questions. I get the distinct sense that Kamal is anti-athlete. Bullied by a jock or two in high school, I suspect.

I can’t tell if I answered a single question correctly, or to his liking. Whereas Kamal moves and talks like a tornado, the interview itself is a tsunami, slamming into me without warning and retreating just as fast.

Before I can blink, he’s shooting to his feet and pumping my hand again. “Can you be in Manhattan in a few weeks?”

“Um, I’m not sure. It depends on my game schedule—”

“It’s a Thursday night—you play on Thursdays?” He frowns. It’s evident that the biggest strike against me right now is hockey.

“No, but…” I wrinkle my forehead. “What’s in Manhattan?” Have I gotten the job? Am I supposed to start working that day? My cover letter clearly stated I couldn’t start until after graduation.