SLOANE
The basement had become our unofficial refuge.
By evening the heat upstairs was murderous—thick, suffocating, pressing against the skin like wet wool. Down here the old window unit chugged valiantly, spitting cool air in erratic bursts. Dad had long since retreated to his office with noise-canceling headphones and a fan pointed at his face. Victoria was out hunting for more fans and ice packs at the hardware store.
That left the basement to us.
Chase was sprawled on the leather couch, one leg kicked over the armrest, phone balanced on his stomach. I sat cross-legged on the floor with my back against the coffee table, laptop open but screen dark. I hadn’t typed a word since the skating lesson. My brain kept replaying the feel of his hand steady at my waist, the way his breath had
