My heart double-thuds.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

He is the last thing I expected to see out my window, but I can’t help the little thrill that wonders what he’s doing here. A shiver of anticipation tickles down my spine.

I try to pull open the window, but with his weight pressing against it, it won’t budge. No amount of grunting or pushing makes it move. I’m pushing so hard I’m afraid I’m going to break the entire window frame. Nothing.

“Get back,” I whisper-shout. “Tru, move.”

“Don’t make me go,” he moans.

My heart clenches at the pain in his voice.

“Shhhh!” I make a back away gesture, but his eyes are closed. I mutter to myself, “You have got to be kidding me.”

If I leave him out there, one of two things will happen. Either he will make so much noise that Mom will come investigate, in which case I will never be allowed to leave my room again. Or he will eventually fall off the roof, in which case I will have to explain—to my mom, to his mom, to the police—why my neighbor is dead in my backyard.

Getting him inside is the only option. I have to risk waking up Mom to make that happen. Mom’s wrath is preferable to a manslaughter rap—but just barely.

With my palm flat, I smack against the glass right next to his face.

He jerks up, and before he can complain, I yank the window open and slap my hand over his mouth. His skin is cool in the night air, but his lips are burning hot.

The shaggy tips of his hair tickle at my wrist.

“Keep quiet,” I whisper. “My mom will kill us both and ask questions later if she finds you here.”

He seems to understand, because he doesn’t speak when I pull my hand away. His eyes drift closed, and he starts to fall in through the window.

I catch his shoulders, barely able to hold him up. “Come on, dude, help me out.”

He mumbles something unintelligible.

The smell of alcohol surrounds him like a cloud.

Great. I’m on my own.

Somehow, through a masterful feat of pulling and prodding, I get him inside and sitting on the edge of my bed. Shaking my head, I turn to close the window and the blinds.

“What do I do when I’m drunk?” I mock to myself. “Oh, climb onto roofs and wake up sleeping neighbors.”

I need to sober him up if I want to get him home before Mom comes asking questions. Can I sneak downstairs and make him a cup of coffee—or ten—without waking her up? I have to try.

But when I turn to tell him I’ll be back in a minute, he’s not where I left him. Or, more accurately, he’s not how I left him. Instead of sitting on the edge of my bed, he’s lying in the center of it. On his side, face buried in my pillow, boots tangled in my comforter.

I can’t even be mad. He looks so peaceful. Like, for once, he isn’t putting on the charming guy facade. He isn’t playing the role of Tru Dorsey. He just…is.

I have the overwhelming urge to cuddle in next to him, to smooth back his hair and tell him everything will be okay. But what do I know? I heard the way his dad was raging at his mom. Maybe it won’t be okay.

Maybe he needs a good night’s sleep more than anything.

Looks like I’m sleeping on the floor.

I take a moment to remove his boots—because, seriously, gross—and snake a pillow from the other side of the bed. As I do, I indulge the impulse to smooth a lock of dark hair behind his ear.

He smiles in his sleep.

My entire body tingles.

This situation is way more dangerous than I originally thought. Having these feelings for Tru is not an option. For so many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I’m not going to be in Austin for any longer than I have to be. I am not about to start forming any attachments that will make leaving hard.

Add to that my disastrous near-miss romance with Brice—what an awesome track record I have—and my own parents’ less-than-affectionate marriage, and I am a relationship train wreck waiting to happen.

If I want to save Tru—and myself—from heartache down the line, I won’t ever let this connection between us get anything close to serious.

Distance. I need distance.

I cross to my door, making sure the lock is engaged before settling down on the floor in front of it. If Mom is concerned about the idea of my just getting a ride to and from school with Tru, imagine if she found him sleeping in my bed.

Even the thought of being grounded for all eternity can’t keep the smile off my face as I drift back to sleep.

The first thing I am aware of in the morning is the stabbing pain in my neck. Seriously, it’s like someone shoved a knife into the spot where my neck meets my right shoulder. As I twist my head from side to side, I slowly come to consciousness…and slowly remember why I am sleeping on the floor.

I sit up, push a clump of hair out of my eyes, and look at the bed. Tru is sitting on the edge with his head in his hands.

“You look great,” I say.

He shakes his head, doesn’t look up.

I push to my feet. “Clearly you feel as great as you look.”

After tossing my blanket and pillow onto the end of the bed, I sit down next to him. I hand him the bottle of water I always keep on my nightstand.

“Here.” I push it into his hand. “You need to hydrate.”

He doesn’t say a word, but he unscrews the cap and throws back a long swig.

While I don’t personally have a lot of experience with overdoing it with the hooch, Tash thinks a party isn’t a party until she’s drowned her inhibitions. I’ve spent far too many mornings at her house, holding back her hair.

At least Tru doesn’t look green. Hopefully that means I’ll be spared witnessing the worst parts of a hangover.

The bed shifts as he leans to the side and digs a hand into his pocket. He pulls out a small tin of mints, flips open the lip, and holds it out to me. I take one. Then watch as he tosses back half a dozen.

I’m amazed that his eyes aren’t watering.

“How did I get here?” he finally asks.

I point at the window. “Your usual way.”

He squints at the barest trace of sunlight that seeps through my blinds.

His mouth kicks up in a wincing smile. “Pretty impressive.”

“Are you kidding?” I shove at his shoulder. “You could have broken your neck.”

“I’m like a cat,” he says. “Always land on my feet.”

“Well, don’t go testing the nine lives theory on my roof.”

“Would you cry for me?” he teases.

Is he serious?

“I’ve only known you a week,” I say, “and I’ve already seen you wasted twice. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Yeah,” he replies with a surfer dude drawl. “Next time I get to see you wasted.”

“What is your problem?” I demand. “It’s not normal to get drunk twice in the first week of school.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not in New York.”

“Are you never serious?” I run a hand through my hair. “Do you know how bad things could go if you got caught? Your entire future could be up in smoke.”

A year ago, I would have been the one on the other side of this conversation. Hell, a few months ago, I was ready to throw away everything for the thrill of a dangerous act of art.

Now that I’ve seen what there is to lose—my home, my friends, my happy family—I have a different perspective. Now I can see what he’s throwing away.

“Life has consequences,” I say, wincing as I repeat words Mom has said to me more than a few times.

Tru just smiles. He’s trying to look unconcerned, like I’m overreacting to the situation, but there is something in his eyes that tells me real emotions are lurking beneath the surface. Real emotions that he doesn’t want anyone looking at too closely.

Whatever. If he’s going to keep everything locked away, then I’m going to stop even trying to figure him out.

“Next time,” I say as I push to my feet, “knock on someone else’s window.”

I start to walk away, but before I can move, his hand wraps around my wrist.