16. In Which Juniper Meets the World’s Most Glorious Abs #2
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.
He shifts 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 will not be 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 knock on 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 and Aiden, 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 of impatience 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 to carpe that diem .
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.
“Yes,” he says. “I can tell you’re really torn up about it.” Then he cocks one inquisitive brow at me. “What do you want, Juniper?”
“I want my brain to stop hurting,” I say.
“Everything that’s been happening is buzzing around in there.
Like flies. Like a million puzzle pieces from a million different puzzles have spilled, and now I’m trying to put them back in the right boxes.
Like…” I trail off, biting my lip as I stare absently at the papers on his desk.
“Like everything I know is floating, hovering just above my head, and I have to grab all those thoughts before they drift away, lost in the wind.”
I turn to him, opening my mouth to speak again, but I freeze at the expression on his face—some sort of interested amusement.
“What?” I say. I abandon his desk and begin wandering aimlessly around the room, taking in details. I point at his face as I walk. “What are you doing?”
He shrugs as he sits on the edge of his bed. “Just waiting,” he says, his eyes following me with interest.
I blink at him. “For what?”
He continues to watch me, still looking intrigued. “To see what you’ll say next.”
I snort, trying to avoid blushing through sheer force of will.
Does that even work? Is that a thing? I should look it up.
It might be a useful skill to have. “I’m just rambling,” I say, drifting toward a large chest of drawers.
I pull the top drawer open, peeking inside—shirts.
I close that drawer and move on to the next one—socks, all folded neatly, mostly argyle.
I bet he has one row in his closet dedicated solely to tweed blazers.
When my hands close around the knobs of the third drawer, he speaks again. “Not that one.”
“Third drawer down is the underwear drawer,” I say with a nod. “Good to know.” Then I move my hands to the fourth drawer.
“Juniper,” he warns, and I turn around. “Cut it out.” His eyes narrow on me as he goes on, “Are you one of those people who likes to annoy everyone else when you’re bored? You know that’s the worst kind of person, right?”
“Do you have two underwear drawers?” I say, staring down at my fingers on the knob of that fourth drawer.
“Juniper.”
I sigh, abandoning the chest of drawers. “I’m aware, yes. But I don’t think I’m that kind of person. I’m not bored right now. I just can’t figure anything out.”
He nods. “Great. So you’re someone who doesn’t want anyone else to be at peace if you yourself can’t be at peace either. That’s probably worse?—”
“It’s not that,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “Ugh. You’re misunderstanding me on purpose. I just need to talk things through with someone, and you happen to be the lucky winner.”
“Then stop poking around and start talking,” he says. He sounds just as exasperated as I do.
“You explicitly agreed that I could invade your privacy in your room,” I say.
“I—yeah, I did,” he begins, running his hand over his hair, “but?—”
“However,” I cut him off. “I will let you off the hook. If .”
He’s still sitting on the bed, but now he straightens, angling his body toward me. His eyes narrow. “If…?”
“ If you show me one tattoo.” I hold up a finger. “Just one.”
He lets his body relax again, a lazy smile flitting over his face. “Deal.” He stands up without any further prompting, lifting his shirt.
And…holy abs.
“Wildly unnecessary.” It pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, but come on. If you look that good in a stuffy tweed blazer, you shouldn’t also look good shirtless. It’s just rude. “Where’s the tattoo?” I say, rallying every last brain cell at my disposal.
Aiden points to a little x right over his heart. His lazy smile has turned into that signature smirk, but I don’t even call him out; he’s earned this one.
Yep. Smirk away, my friend. That is a fine set of abdominal muscles and a lovely pair of pecs.
“ X marks the spot?”
He nods, letting his shirt drop—sad.
“Did it hurt?” I say.
“Nah,” he says. He shrugs and sits back on the bed. “It wasn’t bad.”
“Neither was mine.”
His eyes jump to me, and I watch for a second as his gaze moves up and down my body. Then, with quickening breath, I wait as it settles somewhere right around my belly button.
Like he’s using x-ray vision, and he can see what’s inked over the scar on my lower back.
And in my mind, from the recesses of my memory, come the words he spoke all those years ago: You can cover up a scar if you don’t like it, though.
You can keep it covered or even get a tattoo there or something.
“Ah,” I say softly as the pieces fall into place.
How long has he known? “You remembered.” I move slowly toward him, my pulse pounding through my veins as my mind works to catch up.
What does he think of me now that he knows what happened all those years ago?
What does he think of the poor, silly little girl who went dumpster diving for breakfast?
My cheeks burn as my eyes sting with unshed tears. I don’t think I want to know the answer to that question. I don’t want to know what he thinks of me now.
“Yes,” he says, unapologetic. “I remembered.” His smirk has vanished; his eyes are still fixed on my torso as I approach.
“When?” I say, tilting my head.
“I saw the picture of you in your room.”
Of course. Duh.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. It’s fine that he knows. No matter what he thinks, I’m okay. I can be okay no matter what anyone thinks.
“Did you know who I was the whole time?” he goes on.
“I knew the second we met when I was seventeen.”
He widens his knees as I reach the edge of the bed, allowing me to step in closer. It’s an intimate provision, but I know he’s allowing me this near so that I can show him the tattoo. So I move into his space and then turn around, lifting my shirt just high enough that he’ll be able to see.
A thin, raised scar and six words above it: Never more than you can handle.
I don’t jump when I feel his fingers, warm and gentle, tracing the scar. I let him take that liberty, touching me, outlining the scrolling font. I don’t jump either when he lifts his other hand and holds me gently by the hips, turning me around until I’m facing him once more.
I reach out, slowly at first, tentatively, until I see that he’s not going to stop me.
Then I reach around the back of his neck, feeling along his hairline until I find it: the thin white line he showed me that day, the one he got from trying to cut his own hair as a child.
I run my thumb over the spot, only noticeable because I remember where it is, as his grasp on me tightens, his fingers digging into my hips as his eyes hold me captive.
We know each other’s scars.
“You’re bruised,” he says, his eyes narrowing on the strip of stomach still exposed as I hold my shirt up with my free hand. I let the hem fall.
“Yes,” I say. “From the windowsill.”
“Take some ibuprofen.”
“I will. ”
He nods. Then he points to his desk chair. “Sit. What did you want to talk about?”
…That’s it?
He’s not going to say anything else?
A wave of relief and gratitude hit me, so potent that I once again have to squeeze my eyes shut to fight off the tears.
“I think we need to talk to Rocco again,” I say, taking a seat in the desk chair.
It’s one of those fancy-pants ergonomic ones, the kind that offers lumbar support and a whole bunch of other nice crap.
Aiden nods. “Okay,” he says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why?”
“Because.” I run my fingers through my hair, sighing.
“I can’t stand this dead end. Matilda still hasn’t gotten in touch with details about Thomas Freese’s suicide.
” Something sharp and mournful plucks at me when I say this, and I push away the thought that my father really could be dead.
“Maybe if we asked Rocco, we could somehow set up a meeting with his brother. Lionel has to know something, doesn’t he? ” The question sounds desperate.
Aiden’s brows furrow as he stares absently at the floor, a pensive expression on his face.
He’s clearly miles away despite sitting not three feet from me.
When he finally speaks, his words are thoughtful, like he’s still piecing them together.
“Which mystery are you trying to solve right now?” he says.
I frown at him. “The only mystery currently in our life. Sandra von Meller.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says.
“That’s not right. There are two main mysteries we’re dealing with right now.
Aren’t there?” He seems to be talking partly to himself.
“I agree that they’re probably connected somehow, but there are definitely two.
So which one is it?” He redirects his attention to me.
“Are you trying to find your father, or are you trying to find who killed Sandra?”
I blink at him as my racing thoughts shudder to a stop.
He’s…right. He’s completely correct.
Those are two different questions.
And I’ve been trying to answer both of them—at the same time and with the same bits of knowledge we’ve been able to find so far.
But that’s not going to work, is it? I’m missing in-depth details from both mysteries because I keep throwing out the tidbits that don’t answer both questions.
“Like a woman interviewing for two separate jobs in two separate fields,” I say to myself, trying to straighten these thoughts out.
“She prepares for the job interviews by studying only the questions that she’s likely to receive from both interviewers.
And in the end she doesn’t get either job, because she didn’t prepare for the specifics of either one. ”
“Yes,” Aiden says, leaning back and looking satisfied. “Exactly. So I’ll ask again: Which mystery are you trying to solve? Which question are you trying to answer?”
“Sandra,” I say. I sit up straighter in the absurdly comfortable desk chair. “I want to know about my dad, but Sandy is more important right now.”
“I agree,” he says, nodding sharply. Something glimmers in his eye, a grim determination. “In that case, the person we need to talk to is not Rocco Astor,” he goes on. His gaze clashes with mine, sending a thrill down my spine. “It’s Tonya von Meller—Sandra’s mom.”
* ? Jump to the Bonus Content section in the back of the book for this scene from Aiden’s point of view!
* ? There is, and he loves it.