Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“You kissed him before the date?”
“No, I didn’t kiss the one I’m going out with. Well, I did, but that was a while ago. On Saturday I kissed the other one.”
“Hunter.”
“No. Fitz.”
“Fizz?”
“Fitz!” I sputter. “Colin Fitzgerald. Mom, keep up.”
“Sorry, Summer, but maybe I’d have an easier time keeping up if your love life wasn’t like an episode of The Bachelor.”
“The Bachelorette,” I correct. “Okay. Pay attention. Hunter is the one I’m having dinner with tonight. Fitz is the one I kissed.”
“I see. And you have feelings for both of them?”
“Yes?”
“Is that a question?”
“No? I mean, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“Well, I’m not sure what to say to you, sweetie. You’re skimping on both the context and the details. I suppose pick the one you like more?”
“Mom! That doesn’t help at all,” I grumble. “Whatever. I’ll figure it out on my own.” I mimic her crappy suggestion. “Pick the one you like more. Come on, Mom. Get it together.”
Her laughter tickles my ear. “Hey, it’s all I’ve got. Call me later. Let me know how everything shakes out.”
Wonderful. Usually my mother dispenses the sagest advice in the world. Today she gives me nothing. Even grammatically incorrect fortune cookies offer better solutions than pick the one you like more.
Besides, it’s not a matter of liking. Half the time I’m not sure I even like Fitz. He drives me bananas most of the time. But I’m drawn to him, and he’s on my mind constantly, a lot more than Hunter is.
In all honesty, I wouldn’t be considering going out with Hunter if Fitz came up to me and said, “Let’s do this.”
But Fitz isn’t saying that. He isn’t saying anything, except that he’s “bad at expressing feelings” and “not good at this shit.”
What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Beg him to magically be good at “this shit”? Forget that.
Hunter is a great guy, and we get along so well. What’s the harm in getting to know him better?
You’ll be leading him on.
Not necessarily. Maybe we’ll have so much fun on the date that my feelings for Hunter will eclipse my feelings for Fitz.
Or that won’t happen at all, and you’ll be leading him on.
Do I keep the date or cancel it? I have no idea what to do.
I’m still debating it when I take a shower later. A worry-free shower, thanks to the new lock Hollis installed on the bathroom door.
I’m still debating it as I dry my hair and get dressed. I pair a dove-gray sweater dress with black stockings and Jimmy Choo lace-up combat boots, black suede.
I’m still debating it when Hunter calls out from downstairs that he’s warming up the car.
And I’m still debating it when Fitz enters my bedroom without knocking and levels me with two husky words.
“Don’t go.”
23
Summer
“W-what?” The question comes out in a fast, quavery squeak, as my heart stutters mid-beat.
Fitz’s long, muscular body advances on me. I find myself moving backward. Moving away from him, because his intensity is a bit terrifying. Usually his eyes are a normal shade of brown. Right now, they’re dark chocolate and liquid fire. The heat of them sears right through me.
I move until I can’t move anymore—because my butt meets the wall. Fitz doesn’t stop until his body is a mere inch from mine. If I inhale, my breasts would rise and probably bump his chest.
“Summer.” His voice is low, tormented.
His rough fingertips graze my cheekbone. I can scarcely breathe. My worried gaze flicks toward my bedroom door. It’s ajar. Hunter or Hollis could walk by at any moment and see us.
“Don’t go with him tonight.” It sounds like the words are being ripped out of his throat.
My pulse quickens. Fitz’s lips are so close to mine I can almost taste him. His chest tat peeks out the top of his worn, gray T-shirt, and I have to fight the urge not to reach out and run my fingers over the faded ink.
“Don’t go with Hunter,” he rasps, those molten eyes locking onto mine.
I find my voice again, though it’s shakier than I’d like. “Give me a reason not to.”
He visibly swallows.
I silently implore him. I can’t speak the words for him, but if he doesn’t want me to go out with Hunter, then he has to tell me why. He needs to tell me why.
He doesn’t. A muscle in his jaw tics, but still he doesn’t speak.
“What the hell is going on, Fitz? Because it kinda feels like this is you wanting to have your cake and eat it too. We hooked up, and then you pushed me away. You don’t get to make demands now about who I go out with—I owe you nothing. You had your chance.”
“I know,” he finally says, sounding as confused as I feel.
Clearly when he stormed into my room, he didn’t have a damn thing rehearsed other than “don’t go with Hunter.” Well, that’s not enough for me.