“Not necessarily,” I counter. “He was a poor kid from Detroit when he designed his first game—he actually stole a lot of the parts he needed to build his own computer. The company is his baby. I think he takes a hands-on role as often as he can.”
“Either way, we’re here tonight to celebrate that you caught the eye of a major game designer and that’s amazing,” Summer declares. “Even if you don’t get the job, it’s an honor that you were even considered.”
“Let’s toast!” Hollis pipes up, raising his pint glass. “Time is money!”
Nobody participates in his toast, but I take pity on the guy and tap my Sam Adams bottle against his glass. It was Hollis’ idea to go out and celebrate, and as much as I don’t like being the center of attention, I’m touched that he’s so supportive of me. I think he’s more thrilled than I am at the possibility that I might snag a position at Orcus Games.
Luckily, the bar isn’t too crowded tonight, probably because we didn’t have a game. Malone’s tends to be a Briar hockey bar, though we do get the occasional football player in here. Typically, though, the football guys prefer their off-campus houses to the very pathetic Hastings nightlife. They’re notorious for their house parties. Me, I prefer the bar. Means I don’t have to clean up after anyone. Plus, the beer is cheap and Friday nights they have half-price wings.
“Oh, fine,” Summer relents, raising her glass to Mike’s. “Time is money!”
She flashes me a wink and a smile, and my insides promptly melt like butter on a hot pan. She has the kind of smile that makes a man want to start writing very bad poetry. Dazzling and genuine and as beautiful as the rest of her.
I’ve been in a permanent state of semi-hardness since we got here. When we left the house, Summer looked like a snowman, bundled up in parka with a fur hood, gloves, scarf, the whole winter shebang. Then we got to Malone’s, where she unzipped the coat and removed the rest of the gear to reveal skinny jeans that cling to her impossibly long legs and a boner-inducing crop top. The top is a halter-style one that leaves both her back and midriff completely bare. It’s amazing.
“Brenna texted she’s here,” Summer says, checking her phone. “Do you guys see her?
“My Juliet has arrived!” Hollis says happily.
Hunter snickers. “Dude. She’s not interested.”
“Really? Because I seem to remember her looking very interested when she walked into my bedroom last week…and looking very satisfied when she walked out of it…” He waggles his eyebrows.
Summer flicks one of Matt’s French fries at Hollis. “One—no locker room talk, please. Two—Hunter’s right.”
“I’m always right,” Hunter says.
“Where is she…” Summer twists around, flashing the bare expanse of her back.
Jesus. It’s as pretty as the rest of her. Delicate shoulder blades. Smooth, tanned skin.
My semi turns into a fully as I envision kissing my way down the bumps of her spine until my lips reach the top of her perfect ass. I’d use my hands to squeeze it. Hmmm, and what would I do with my mouth…maybe I’d nibble on one of her firm, round ass cheeks.
Motherfucker. Thank God the booth’s table covers my lower body, because I’m hard as a rock now.
“Why are you guys hidden in the corner?” Brenna demands when she finally appears. “How am I supposed to ogle all the hot men if I can’t see them?”
“You can ogle me,” Hollis offers.
She ignores him and scopes out the seating situation. When she realizes neither side of the booth can accommodate her, she shrugs and grins at me. “Guess you can be my chair, Fitz.”
My mouth opens to voice a protest, but it’s too late. She’s already plopping onto my lap.
Brenna’s eyes widen.
She squeaks in surprise, and I curl my fingers around her hip and shoot her a warning look. If she says one word about the erection pressing against her left butt cheek, I’ll be the target of my teammates’ ragging until the end of time.
“What is it?” Summer asks in concern.
Brenna recovers quickly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you. I think I’m sitting on your phone, Fitz.” She makes a big show of shifting around, then slides her hand in my pocket and pulls out my phone. “This was digging into my butt.”
“Hot,” Hollis says.
She ignores him again, probably because she’s focused on fishing her own phone out of the pocket of her black hoodie. The sweatshirt is half unzipped, revealing the tops of a black lacy bra. Only Brenna would wear a zip-up with nothing but a bra underneath.
She texts something one-handed, and I stifle a resigned sigh when my phone buzzes. I nonchalantly read the message.
BRENNA: Please please tell me that boner isn’t because of me!