Page 63 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“Yes, there is,” he says, his voice bland. “You got stuck in a bathroom window, landed on top of me, and then shamelessly told me how good I smell and how comfortable I am to lie on top of. I could tease you about this for years, and it still wouldn’t get old.”

I prop myself up on my elbows so that my upper body hovers over him by a couple inches—just enough that I can deliver a nice glare. “You wouldn’t dare,” I say, my eyes narrowed.

But that’s a stupid thing to say. Of course he would dare.

“I absolutely would,” he says—so there’s that suspicion confirmed. His little smirk tugs wider. “Did you not hear me? You werestuck in a window.In thebathroom.What part of that isn’t funny?”

“At least I don’t have mashed potatoes in my ears,” I say with a smirk of my own. “Unless that’s some sort of mold…?”

Aiden’s face morphs into a scowl, and he reaches both of his hands up. “Stupid high schoolers. I thought I got it all out the other day—which ear?”

“That one,” I say, nudging his right ear with my nose.

“Fine,” he says, pulling his sleeve over his hand and using it to rub furiously at the inside of his ear. “Fine. Maybe I have mashed potato in my ear. Butyou”—his other hand reaches down and pokes me in the side, causing me to yelp—“you called yourself a pear. I’m not the only strange one in this room.”

“Hey,” I say hotly. “Pear-shapedis a widely accepted term. Nine out of ten women would know exactly what I meant.”

Aiden snorts, a puff of breath I feel against my lips. There’s something challenging in his gaze, though, a spark of daring that appears two seconds before I feel them: his hands, on either side of me, starting at the outside of my hips and trailing lightly up until they reach my ribcage.

He never strays from his path up my sides, never drifts into territory that would earn him a knee to the groin, but his touch is full of fire nonetheless—though not even his fingertips burn as hot as his eyes. “There’s nothing pear-shaped about you,” he says.

“Careful.” I drop the word into the suddenly silent space between us, my heart thundering. “You’re moving awfully close to flirtatious.”

“At least I don’t go around telling people how good they smell,” he says, and there’s that smirk again.

“It’s called a compliment,” I fire back. “It’s part of beingniceandsocial.”

His hands tighten around my ribcage, pulling a little gasp from me, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I can be nice,” he says as his eyes blaze hotter, full of that stupid defiance that makes me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. “I can be social.”

“I doubt it,” I say with a snort. “You sit around on the weekends reading Shakespeare—”

“Shakespeare was a brilliant storyteller—”

“He had a cute little earring, just like you,” I coo, leaning down a few inches and nudging his ear with my nose again.

“And maybe he went around licking his roommates, too,” Aiden shoots back immediately. There’s a breathless quality to his voice, and his hands tighten further around my ribcage.

Does he even realize what he’s doing? Does he realize that he’s trying to pull me closer as the fire in our words burns hotter?

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 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?

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