The Chase (Briar U, #1)

by Elle Kennedy

“Oh really? You received word? Did they send a telegram?”

Oh my God. They’re the charity?

“Your last name is Heyward-Di Laurentis. You are not, and will never be, homeless.”

the cavalier, nothing-in-life-ever-ever-gets-to-me voice that I’ve perfected over the years. It’s my armor. I pretend that my life is a beautiful Victorian house and hope that nobody peers close enough to see the cracks in my facade.

“I’m trying to understand how you think your version of the story is in any way more palatable than mine.” He suddenly curses.

“Aw fuck, didn’t I hook up with Lacey at your eighteenth birthday party?” A pause. “The herpes trip would’ve happened before that party. Dammit, Summer! I mean, I used protection, but a warning would’ve been nice!”

“No, you didn’t hook up with Lacey. You’re thinking of Laney, with an ‘N.’ I stopped being her fr...

“Because she slept with my brother when she was supposed to be hanging out with me at my party. That’s not cool...

I don’t care how snide I sound. I’m feeling snarky, and my nerves are shot.

My heartbeat stutters. “I remember Fitzy,” I say as casually as I’m capable of—which is not casual at all. Even I can hear the excitement in my voice.

Who can blame me, though? Fitzy is short for Colin Fitzgerald, and he just happens to be THE UNICORN. The tall, sexy, tattooed hockey-playing unicorn of a man who I might have a teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy crush on.

Okay, fine. A big motherfucki...

He’s so…magical. But he’s also out of reach. Dean’s hockey friends are usually all over me when...

He’s exasperating. Not that I expect every male in my vicinity to fall at my feet, but I know he’s attracted to me. I’ve noticed the way his brown eyes smolder when he looks at me. They frigging smolder.

No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be friend-zoned before I’ve even made a move.

If I’m seeing my unicorn tonight, I plan on dolling myself up from my head down to my toes. That boy isn’t going to know what hit him.

I want to say no. But I also want to say yes. I call this the Summer Dilemma—the frustrating, polar reactions this green-eyed, golden-haired goddess sparks in me.

Fuck yes and hell no. Get naked with her. Run far, far away from her.

Besides, when it comes to Summer Di Laurentis, my flight instinct always wins out.

I hate EDM, and I don’t like these kinds of bars, the ones with a dance floor and deafening music.

I hate EDM, too

The owner of Gunner’s Pub should’ve called this place Gunner’s Club. Then I could’ve turned right around when I saw the sign and spared myself the shattered eardrums.

“You know, they warned me you were a curmudgeon, but I didn’t believe it until now.” “Who’s they?” I ask suspiciously. “And hey, wait. I’m not a curmudgeon.”

“Seriously, Fitz, what do you have against fun?” An unwitting smile breaks free. “Got nothing against fun.”

“All right. Then what do you have against me?” she challenges. “Because every time I try talking to you, you run away.”

We’ve had a whopping total of two encounters, but that’s plenty of time for me to know she’s the type who thrives on drama. I hate drama.

Same

I dip my mouth toward her ear, and I’m surprised that I barely have to bend my neck. She’s taller than the average chick, five-nine or ten, and since I’m six-two and used to towering over women, I find this refreshing.

And don’t get me started on her dress. White, strapless, short. So short it barely grazes her lower thighs. God fucking help me.

I quickly straighten up before I do something stupid, like kiss her.

When the coughing fit subsides, I find those green eyes dancing at me. Her lips are curved in a devilish smile. She knows exactly what got me flustered.

Our other roommate, Hunter, is dancing with three girls. Yup, three. They’re all but licking his face off, and I’m pretty sure one has a hand down his pants. Hunter, of course, is loving it.

Oh boy

And at Briar, with a hockey team that has a dozen Frozen Four championships under its belt and more nationally televised games than any other college in the country? The hockey players are gods.

Except for me, that is. I play hockey, yes. I’m good at it, definitely. But “god” and “jock” and “superstar” are terms I’ve never been comfortable with. Deep down, I’m a huge nerd. A nerd masquerading as a god.

Or maybe it doesn’t frickin’ matter how she knows, because if it did matter, then that means the weird prickly sensation in my chest is jealousy. And that, frankly, is unacceptable.

Summer does another visual sweep of the crowd and blanches. “Oh my God. Gross.” She cups her hands to create a microphone, shouting, “Keep your tongue in your own mouth, Dicky!” Laughter sputters out of me.

No way Dean could’ve heard her, but I guess he possesses some sort of sibling radar, because he abruptly pries his lips off his girlfriend’s. His head swivels in our direction. When he spots Summer...

I’m not gonna lie—the fact that Summer lives in penthouses and owns clothes that cost thousands of dollars is slightly unsettling.

Agreed. Expensive clothing is so stupid.

“Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” she pleads. “Positive.” “You’re the worst. I’ll be right back.”

The uncomfortable prickling sensation returns, this time traveling up my spine. It’s not jealousy, though.

Uh huh, you keep telling yourself that

Despite the frigid temperatures outside, she chose not to wear tights or pantyhose, and, as my old man would say, she’s got legs for days. Long, smooth, gorgeous legs that would probably look so hot wrapped around my waist.

“Definitely. I heard phenomenal things about the Fine Arts program. And, obviously, the hockey program is stellar. They offered me a full ride to play, and I get to study something I’m really into, so…” I offer a shrug in return.

“That’s so important. Doing what you love, I mean. A lot of people don’t have that opportunity.”

“Well, I’ve been passionate about stuff—interior design, psychology, ballet, swimming. The problem is, it never sticks. I lose interest quickly. I haven’t found a long-term passion yet, I suppose.”

Oof i feel that. Hyperfixation.

Our fingers brush briefly, and I pretend not to notice the spark of heat that races up my arm.

She’s got small hands, delicate fingers. It’d be a challenge to draw them, to capture the intriguing combination of fragility and surety.

“You’re doing it again.” There’s accusation in her tone. A bit of aggravation too. “Doing what?” “Zoning me out. Curmudgeoning.”

Dammit, I gotta stop this. She’s not my type.

There’s no way I’m her type, either. I have no idea why she’s spending New Year’s Eve talking to a scruffy, tatted-up goon like me.

“Sorry. I’m not very chatty. Don’t take it personally, okay?” I steal my bottle back.

“Okay, I won’t. But if you don’t feel like talking, at least entertain me in other ways.” She plants her hands on h...

Once again, I choke mid-sip. Oh, sweet Jesus. Did she seriously just say that? I glance over, and she’s got one perfect eyebrow arched, awaiting my response. Yup. She said it.