“I know I messed up.” Remorse swims in his eyes. “Avoiding you after what happened in the locker room was so fucking stupid. And selfish.”
“No kidding.”
“I’m sorry for that,” he says hoarsely. “I really am. And I’m not trying to have my cake and eat it too. Or at least I’m not doing it intentionally. All I know is that I feel sick about the thought of you going out with him tonight.”
I wait for him to elaborate. As usual, he doesn’t.
“Then tell me why I should stay here, Fitz! And don’t say it’s because you’re hard twenty-four-seven because of me. We can’t hook up anymore, okay? I’m not interested in a fling with you. I get the feeling you don’t do flings, anyway.”
“I don’t,” he says hoarsely.
“Then what is this?” Frazzled, I gesture between us. “Why shouldn’t I date Hunter?”
“I’m not saying you can’t.”
“You’re not saying anything at all!” I remember the open door and quickly lower my voice. “What do you want, Colin? Just tell me how you feel.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. I can’t pick out a single emotion in his expression. He’s so good at that, placing a veil over his eyes. He guards his thoughts and emotions with the dedication of a Secret Service agent. Hell, he’d probably rather take a bullet than show anyone what he’s feeling.
And whether he means to or not, he’s playing games with me. I like games—the ones you play at parties, with friends. When it comes to my love life, I’m not interested in having to guess what the other person is feeling or thinking.
“I have to go,” I mutter.
He makes a frustrated noise under his breath. “Summer.”
But I’m already marching out the door.
And he doesn’t stop me.
Needless to say, I’m more than a little distracted when Hunter pulls out my chair at the nicest restaurant in Hastings. It’s called Ferro’s, and it comes highly recommended by both Allie and a friend of hers, Grace Ivers. Grace is Logan’s girlfriend, and apparently they eat at Ferro’s all the time.
I can’t deny that Hunter looks hot tonight. His tight ass fills a pair of trousers very, very nicely, and he recently got his hair buzzed. I prefer shorter hair on guys.
While I check him out, he’s doing the same to me. His sultry gaze admires me from across the table. “That’s a great dress, Blondie.”
I manage a smile. “Thanks.” Can he tell that I’m preoccupied? Or worse, can he tell I’m upset? Because I am. I’m still so shaken from that encounter with Fitz.
Why couldn’t he just tell me how he felt? Why do I have to pry the details out of him like I’m trying to extract a splinter from under my fingernail? Talking to Fitz is painful and frustrating and I don’t fucking understand him.
I don’t even notice the waiter coming by to take our drink order until Hunter says, “Summer? Vodka cran?”
I hastily shake my head. “Water for now,” I tell the waiter. After he leaves, I explain my choice to Hunter. “I haven’t eaten in hours. I don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.”
“Yeah. Makes sense.” He watches as I unroll my napkin.
It’s a fancy cloth one, and my hands tremble slightly as I smooth it over my lap.
A crease lines his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just been a long, somewhat crappy day.”
“You had to see your academic advisor, right? How’d that go?”
“Not great. Richmond hates my guts.” My cheeks hollow as I grind my teeth together. I force myself to stop. “He pretty much baited me into saying one of my professors creeps me out and then scolded me about how I shouldn’t be making accusations.”
“Accusations?” Hunter sounds alarmed. “What’s this fucker done?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Really, he hasn’t done anything. But he creeps me out, and he’s kinda handsy. I told Richmond about it and, like I said, got scolded.”
The waiter returns with our waters and asks if we’re ready to order. Neither of us has even opened the menu yet, so Hunter says we need more time.
We pick up our menus. I try desperately to concentrate on the app list, but my brain is still back in my bedroom with Fitz.
Hunter releases a heavy sigh.
I lift my head. “Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m fine.” He gives a wry shake of his head. “You, on the other hand? Doesn’t seem like you’re fine.”
I offer a feeble assurance. “I am.”
“Summer, I’ve been living with you for a month now. I’m pretty good at deciphering your moods. You’re extra distracted tonight.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I clasp my hands in my lap. “I…”
He hesitates for a long moment, then asks, “What’s going on between us?”
Misery burns my throat, stings my eyes. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling, because I don’t know what I’m feeling.