“Fine,” I say. “Not yet.”

She frowns. “You can’t live out of a suitcase forever.”

Watch me.

I don’t say the retort that itches on my tongue because: points. If holding in my backtalk gets me home sooner, then I can manage.

“Be careful up there,” Mom says. “And don’t stay out all night. We need to get you to school early to finalize your enrollment.”

Lucky me.

She disappears back into the house.

What did I do to deserve this?

Oh right. Destroyed our family in “an act of wanton irresponsibility” and my “unwavering spiral into delinquency.” Parents can be so melodramatic.

“Happy times with Mom,” Tru mocks. “You’re practically the Gilmore Girls.”

At least he’d had the good sense to stay down. If Mom had seen him up here, I would have had to kill him. And I’m pretty sure cold-blooded murder is the final destination on my delinquency spiral.

I flick him a quick glare before punching him in the arm. “Get off my roof.”

“Technically,” he says, pushing to his feet, “it’s my roof. Well, the old man’s roof, anyway.”

He walks without hesitation right down to the edge, right above the spot where, moments ago, Mom stood lecturing up at me. It’s a miracle he doesn’t fall off.

No, it’s a miracle I don’t push him off.

All I want to do is finish the initial sketches for my strip, unpack enough clothes to wear tomorrow, and then bury my head for eternity under the pillows on my hastily bought bed.

He reaches the edge of the roof, executes a left turn, and begins balance-beam walking along the edge. Whatever. If he falls off it’s not my fault.

“Austin’s not so bad,” he says.

I don’t look up. “Are you still here?”

“You’d miss me if I was gone.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Not yet,” he says.

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Admit it.“ He leans forward, places all of his weight on his left leg, and swings his right leg out over the porch, arms wide like a tightrope walker’s pole. “You never met a charming stranger on your roof in New York.”

I snort. Charming? He’s about as charming as a subway rat.

“I thought it was your roof,” I retort.

“It is,” he says. “But I’m going to let you have it for a while.”

My brow drops. “Why is that?”

“Because…” he says again, drawing out the word. His face is a study in focus as he brings his right foot back in and places it behind his left. “You clearly need it more than I do right now.”

I’m about to snort again when he squats low, swings his arms back, and then—in a blur of motion—flips over backward. My breath catches in my throat as he lands, then wobbles.

“Tru!” I gasp, tossing my tablet aside so I can rush to his rescue.

He starts laughing before I can even push to my feet. “Gotcha!”

As he stands up straight—and sure-footed—my tablet slides quickly down the sloped roof. I scramble for it, but it darts out of my reach. I watch, helpless, as it picks up speed.

Tru bends down and snatches it right before it sails over the edge.

My heart is pounding, and I don’t know if I want to kill Tru or kiss him.

His mouth kicks into a cocky smile.

I hold out my hand as he treads back up the roof. He holds out my tablet, but as I reach for it, he pulls it out of my grasp.

Kill him. Definitely kill him.

“Tru…” I say, hoping my voice sounds like the deadly warning that it is.

He holds the tablet out to the side.

“I think,” he says, “that my daring rescue deserves a reward.”

I choke out a stunned laugh. “A daring rescue that you caused.”

“Hmmm.” He waggles my tablet menacingly.

“Okay, okay,” I relent. “What reward?”

Honest to God, if he asks for a kiss I’m pushing him off the roof. I don’t care if Mom has a conniption or I go to jail for life. It will have been worth it.

“All I ask for”—he steps closer—“is a smile.”

“A smile?” I echo. “You’ve got to be—”

He lifts his brows.

“Fine,” I say, forcing the corners of my mouth up into an imitation of a smile. I point at my face. “See, I’m smiling.”

He immediately hands over my tablet. “Nice to meet you, Sloane Whitaker.”

Then he turns, jogs back down the roof, and jumps off. I gasp and scramble as close to the edge as I can without following him over. I watch in horror as he walks up to the back door and knocks.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

A second later, Mom opens the door. “Hello, Tru.”

Her voice is taut, and I can just picture the disapproving look on her face. One that would be multiplied by a thousand if she knew he’d just been up here on the roof with me.

“Hi, Mrs. Whitaker,” he says to her, “my mom wanted me to ask you and Sloane over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, sounding stunned at the very polite invitation. “What time?”

“Seven.”

“Sounds great. We’ll be there.”

He smiles and nods, then turns to walk away. I hear the door shut as I follow his every step. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or enraged.

As he reaches the fence, he turns to look up at me.

“Welcome to Texas,” he says, before vaulting back over into his yard.

Enraged. Definitely enraged.

Tru landed on the grass in his backyard with a satisfying crunch.

When his mom asked him to go next door and invite the Whitakers to dinner, he had totally planned to ring the doorbell. But then he thought, Why go to the front door when you can climb over the fence?

Knowing his father would hate the idea made it all the more appealing.

He was glad he’d had that brilliant idea. When he looked up and saw the girl sitting on the roof, all alone with the light from the window behind her casting an atmospheric glow around her, the pull had been instantaneous. She looked as alone as he felt.

And she hadn’t disappointed.

As he slipped quietly across the yard, he smiled at the memory of their feisty exchange. She was a prickly one. Small but feisty. He liked that in a girl. Liked that she said what she meant and stood up for herself.

There was a fire in her, one she was trying desperately to keep under control. He hadn’t missed the way her green eyes flashed beneath arched brows a shade darker than her chestnut hair, even when she was trying to pull off the don’t-give-a-shit attitude.

It made teasing her more fun, more of a challenge. He would have to work harder to earn a true smile from her, but when he did, it would be worth all the effort.

There weren’t enough people like Sloane Whitaker in the world.

When he reached the back porch, his footsteps automatically softened. He padded across the perfectly stained and sealed boards, carefully avoiding the one halfway across that creaked like a dying goat.

At the door, he squeezed the handle and turned it slowly, careful not to let metal scrape against metal. Once it was open, he slipped inside and closed it again just as quietly.

His body went on autopilot, treading softly past the kitchen toward the stairs.

His foot had just touched the first step when he heard his father’s angry voice.

“He should be in military school.”

Tru couldn’t hear his mother’s response.

Then his father barked, “Oh no, you couldn’t subject your sweet, artistic son to a system of rigorous discipline. Arlington Military Academy is exactly what he needs.”

Tru didn’t need to hear the rest of the conversation. If they could even call it a conversation. His father barked, his mother simpered.

It was a miracle she had saved Tru from being shipped off to military school for this long.

No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t his mother’s intervention that kept him at home. Despite all the threats, his father didn’t want him out of reach. If he was away at AMA, who would his father berate to feel better about himself? Who would he beat to feel more powerful?