“A while,” Summer admits.

“Uh-huh.” He scowls at her. “Oh, and a heads-up? Next time you’re trying to hide something from me, maybe don’t post a pic on social media?”

She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.”

He’s outraged. “So you wanted me to find out on social media?”

“No, you didn’t even cross my mind. Fitzy and I went to a party. I took a picture of us together. I posted it on Insta. Nowhere in that chain of events did I think about you. Wanna know why? Because it had nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” he fires back.

Ah. Now I know where she gets the drama-llama from.

Dean’s murderous glare whips toward me. “This is my little sister, man!”

“I know,” I answer calmly. “And I care about her a lot.”

“Yeah, Dicky,” Summer chimes in. “This isn’t just sex between us, okay? I mean, we are having sex, lots of it, but—”

Dean drops his head in his hands. “Why, Boogers? Why do you have to say stuff like that?”

She huffs. “So you’re allowed to talk about your sex life with me, but I can’t talk about mine with you?”

“I never talk about my sex life with you! It’s a taboo topic! Taboo!” He lets out a groan thick with aggravation. Then he inhales slowly. His gaze shifts between us. “That’s it? You guys are together now?”

I look at Summer, who fifteen minutes ago was threatening to break up with me. No, not even threatening—she did break up with me. I just wouldn’t allow it.

Her mouth hitches up in a rueful smile. “We’re together,” she confirms. “Colin is my boyfriend.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The resignation in her tone is kinda adorable.

Dean gives a slow nod as he carefully studies my face. “So you’re with my sister? You’re my sister’s boyfriend?” He sounds as resigned as Summer.

I swallow a sigh, because I know exactly where this is going. “Yes.”

“Okay, then.” He rakes one hand through his blond hair. “You ready?”

My sigh slips out. “Let’s get it over with.”

Summer’s head swivels from me to Dean, confusion swimming in her expression. “What are you guys talking about?”

Dean gets to his feet. So do I.

“Sorry, Boogers. It needs to be done.”

“Needs to be done,” I echo guiltily.

When Dean cracks the knuckles of his right hand, understanding dawns in his sister’s eyes. “You’re going to hit him?” she exclaims, jumping to her feet. “What the hell! No way!”

“Fitz knows the code. He didn’t follow it. Therefore…”

Dean’s right. There is a code. Other teams might have rules about not dating a teammate’s sister or ex or whoever else is off-limits, but our team never strictly adhered to anything like that. Our rule was much simpler—ask before you go there.

Even if the other guy says hell no, you could probably do what you want anyway, since there’s no way for him to enforce anything. But that’s not what the code is about. It’s about respecting your teammate.

Dean cracks the knuckles of his left hand.

“You’re insane. Don’t you touch him, Dicky!”

She tries to throw herself between us, but I gently move her to the side. “Just let it happen,” I tell her. “It’s really not a big de—”

The fucker doesn’t throw a punch.

He knees me in the balls.

I drop like a stone, stars flashing in my field of vision as the pain twists my gut. I curl over and grip my junk, trying to catch my breath. “Jackass,” I croak, staring accusingly up at Dean.

“Dicky! Why would you go for his balls! We need them to make your future nieces and nephews!”

“Nieces and nephews plural? How many kids you planning on having?”

“A lot!”

“You’re not allowed to get pregnant until you’re at least thirty. I’m not ready to be an uncle.”

“Oh my God. Life isn’t always about you!”

They stand there bickering as if I’m not bent in half on the marble floor, gasping for air. “I’m not having kids with you,” I wheeze at Summer. “I don’t want to be part of your insane family.”

“Oh hush, sweetie. It’s too late. I’ve become attached.”

You’d think it would be impossible to laugh while I’m writhing on the floor in agony.

But Summer Heyward-Di Laurentis makes everything possible.

30

Summer

My last check-in with Erik Laurie takes place the Monday before the fashion show. I would’ve liked to talk to him after our History of Fashion lecture this morning, but he had a line of students waiting to speak to him. So I killed two hours on campus and then walked over to his office during his official hours.

I hate meeting in his office. I find he’s always extra smarmy behind closed doors. He’s already winked about four times, made one flirty comment about how I should walk in my own show, and now his hand grazes mine (intentionally, I suspect) as he passes me the schedule for Friday night. It’s the equivalent of a band’s set list, with the names of each student designer and the order in which they’ll be debuting their lines.

A glance at the schedule reveals that Summer Lovin’ is opening the show. Crap. I would’ve preferred to be somewhere in the middle of the pack. Opening a fashion show is a lot of pressure.

“I want us to start the night with a bang,” he tells me, winking again. “Your swimsuits will do that, I suspect.”

Ew. Why does he say things like that? Paired with the sleazy wink, his words make my skin crawl.

“Whatever you think is best.” I paste on a cheerful smile. “So we’re all set?” I want nothing more than to leave this man’s office.

He smiles back. “All set.”

Relief floods my belly. I hop to my feet and pick up my Prada tote. My head is down as I tuck the schedule into my bag, so I don’t see Laurie round his desk. When I lift my head, he’s standing about a foot away from me. Which is a foot too close.

I hastily take a step back. “Anyway, I’ll see you Wednesday.” We’re having another lecture this week so he can return our midterms and discuss the final paper. “I’m excited to get my midterm—”

“How long are we going to keep fighting this?”

I blink, and he’s no longer one foot away. It’s a mere inch now. And his long fingers are caressing my cheek, unleashing a flurry of shivers—and not the good kind. I’m too stunned to push his hand away, and my brain is still stuck on the throaty question he’d voiced.

Keep fighting this? Is he for real? Does he think his pervy feelings are reciprocated? That we’ve been engaged in some forbidden love affair this entire semester?

“Summer,” he says thickly, and I don’t miss the flare of passion in his eyes.

I gulp. Hard. And then I lick my lips, because they’re suddenly so dry that they’re sticking together, and I need them to unstick if I’m going to get any words out.