I crossed to him and snatched it out of his hand. “Why are you in my room?” I demanded, finally finding my voice. “Mostly considering apologizing for the rock,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Mostly?” He shrugged and began to wander the room. “I’ve never been inside your house before. I wanted to see what it was like.” “You could have used the front door,” I pointed out. If I were a cheerleader, I’d know how to flirt. I’d have showered and be wearing matching pajamas and lip gloss. I’d toss my hair without hurting my neck, and he’d feel compelled to kiss me. But I wasn’t a cheerleader. I
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