Page 19 of From Square One

“Okay,” I say uneasily. “Then set the scene, I guess?”

Aaron is clearly on the verge of giggling. “Right. April eighteenth, it’s three in the morning,” he says, bracing his hands in a “picture this” pose. “I used to crawl through your window when Logan and I were friends, so—”

“You what?” I choke out.

“Yeah.” He waves his palm dismissively. “Your alarm only monitors the ground floor, and the system logs whenever it’s disabled. If Logan and I wanted to hang out, he couldn’t disarm it without you all knowing he was up to something that night. So instead, I’d climb through your window and go to his room. Or he’d leave through your window.”

This time, my jaw really is hanging, though I can’t tell if I’m more incredulous or incensed.

“You’re a heavy sleeper,” Aaron continues, propping his hands on his hips. The length of his fingers makes his waist look narrower. “The issue is that it takes a while for you to actually go to sleep, so we had to wait until late before making a move. Once you’re out, though, you’re out.”

“How long?” I demand. “How often?”

“Couple of years,” Aaron says. “Usually once a week—more frequently in the summer.”

I stumble back into my bed frame and collapse onto the mattress, then stare at the ceiling in dismay. Aaron Beckham used to sneak in through my window. I was Logan’s first and only line of defense, and I couldn’t even wake to hear the frame sliding open.

Aaron shuffles across the carpet and leans over me with a grin. “Should I go?” he asks seriously.

“No!” I snap, lurching upright to grab him. Only when I’m on my feet do I realize how close he is, and now we’re practically chest-to-chest—or face-to-neck, I guess, since he’s a head taller. Instinctively, I go to nudge his shoulders back.

In a flash, my hands are folded in his.

“No?” Aaron’s fingers work the frigid skin between my knuckles. The moment his warmth permeates me, I sigh softly in relief. Mercifully, he doesn’t hear it. “You want me to stay?”

“I want you to stop withholding information,” I grumble.

One side of his mouth pulls higher than the other, and it’s that crooked, devious smile that puts my heart in the most peril. I shouldn’t be attracted to it, considering it’s my least favorite part about him. “Then I’ll keep painting the picture,” he says, drawing my palms higher, until his warm breath tickles my fingers. “April eighteenth, I climbed into your room at three in the morning. For the first time in all my passes through your bedroom, something happened.” His lower lip grazes my middle knuckle. “Want to guess?”

I readjust my palm to flick his nose. He blinks, startled, then laughs despite my crabbiness. “Don’t make me work for it,” I order.

“But I like making you work for it, sunshine.” The glint in his eyes is wily. “For months, you’ve been a spoiled princess who gets what she wants, because you learned what makes me weak. Tragically, this knowledge is now lost to you. So I get to hold you hostage.”

There’s an underlying something in his voice that causes a shiver to scratch my spine. All I can do is sputter out, “You…you’re treating this like a joke.”

“My feelings for you have never been a joke,” Aaron whispers. He thumbs through my fingers until he finds the one that flicked him—my middle. He plucks it free from my curled fist and nudges his lips against each knuckle, like they’re made of precious jewels rather than flimsy bones. “That night, your light was off, so I thought I was in the clear. But when I crawled through the window…”

Aaron steps back, his fingers sliding away. I hate that a nonsensical part of my brain wants him to keep holding them. I haven’t felt relief in my hands since…well, since he last held them. Annoying.

“What are you doing?” I ask crossly as he snatches a pillow off my bed.

“Recreating the moment.” He nudges it into my chest, winking.

I stare down at it. “Did I…?” My voice fizzles out.

“What do you think?” he prompts.

“I think I probably hit you with a pillow.”

“I think you’re onto something.”

“Oh.” I place the pillow on the bed and wait for him to continue. Aaron gives me this small exasperated smile that seems kinder than not and picks the pillow up, tucking it into my chest again.

“We’re recreating the scene, right? It’s not authentic if you don’t smack me.”

“But I know it’s you, and I let you in this time, so why would I hit you?” I ask sternly. “That’s not fair to you.”

Aaron chews so hard on his index knuckle that he looks like he’s trying to break skin. The thought that I’ve frustrated him to this extent plagues me with sudden guilt.