SLOANE
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Dad’s typing was the only sound besides the low rattle of the basement AC unit and the occasional buzz of phones on silent.
I tried to focus on my email.
Failed.
“You’re staring.”
My eyes snapped up.
Chase wasn’t looking at his phone anymore. He was looking at me—elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly, that infuriating half-smile already in place, the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
“I’m not,” I said.
“You are.”
“I’m reading emails.”
“You’ve been on the same one for ten minutes.”
I locked my phone. “Maybe it’s a long email.”
“Maybe you’re a terrible liar.”
Dad didn’t look up. Earbuds in. Still typing. Oblivious.
Chase stretched his arms overhead—slow, deliberate, every muscle in his torso catching the weak bas
