And it does continue to burn; there’s no denying that. With every volley we throw back and forth, the electricity between us sparks more dangerously, and that delighted, wicked amusement in Aiden’s gaze flashes brighter and brighter. Despite my position simply lying here, I’m out of breath like I’ve just run a marathon; I can feel Aiden’s chest heaving beneath me, feel each and every one of his fingertips digging into my side.
We’re standing on the edge of a precipice, and we’re going to fall if we don’t move.
“If you don’t stop touching me like that in the next three seconds,” I breathe, letting my head hang so that my lips ghost over his skin, “I’m going to kiss you. I’m also going to assume you’ve changed your mind about being involved with me romantically.”
And for the briefest of seconds, Aiden defies my expectation: his grip on me tightens. But then I feel a burst of breath somewhere around my hairline, the faintest hint of a laugh. “So reckless,” he says, sounding amused. “You would really jump in just like that?” Then he releases me altogether, his hands lingering only long enough to lift my body off of his. Heshifts me gently to the floor next to him, and I shiver at the sudden feeling of the cool tile against my skin.
“Go lie down,” he says from next to me. “You’re probably going to be sore after being stuck up there.”
But I don’t move. I don’t even look at him until his back is turned and he’s leaving the room.
Then I rush upstairs to my little loft bedroom, sit down at my laptop, and begin to write. My detective willnotbe climbing into the murderer’s house via a window.
She deserves better.
She also deserves a book that works better than this one is working. I finish out the scene halfheartedly, sighing to myself.
What am I doing wrong? Why isn’t this working?
I’m laying groundwork for clues. I’m setting up suspects. My detective is finding little snippets of proof exactly where I want her to find them. So what’s wrong? Why does it feel like there’s something missing?
When I knockon Aiden’s bedroom door a couple hours later, it’s with a shaking fist and excuses on my tongue.
My mind is a free-for-all right now. It’s nuts in there. There’s too much going on, and I can’t keep track of any of it. Sandra von Meller, and my mother, and Gus and the Betties and Lionel Astor and Thomas Freese and my murder novel andAiden,Aiden’s hands holding me in that white-knuckled grip?—
“Hey,” I call, banging a little louder. “Can I come in?”
I hear footsteps, and then a second later Aiden’s voice floats toward me from inside the room. “Why do you want to come in?” he says, the words muffled. I think he’s standing right on the other side of the door.
“I want to ask you something,” I say. There’s a bite ofimpatience in my words, but that’s okay; maybe it will cover up how nervous I am. “Come on, let me in. I feel stupid talking to the door.”
“You probably look pretty silly, too.”
I roll my eyes, mostly because he’s correct. And he called me reckless earlier, but he’s clearly the opposite—he’s being careful now, going so far as to keep this physical barrier between us.
Was he right? Was it a reckless promise to make, that I would kiss him if he didn’t let go of me?
It’s possible.
I’d even say probable.
But I meant it. And I’d say it again. When it comes to my heart, I’m a seize the day kind of girl.
And I was ready tocarpethatdiem.
I’m just lifting my hand to knock again when the door swings open, and I jump, startled. The man whose day I was ready to seize is standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed as he stares down at me.
Elegance!I demand of myself, straightening my back so I’m not slouching.Poise! Never let him know he makes you nervous.
“Hi,” I say, shouldering past him and barging into the room.
“By all means, come in,” he says in a dry voice.
“You got to poke around in my room,” I say as I waltz over to his desk. “Still grading papers?”
“Trying to,” he says as he strolls toward me, his hands tucked in his pockets. “Someone keeps interrupting me.”
“Sad,” I say with not an ounce of sadness.
