37

Ariel Beckham.

"Ramirez?" I whisper as I step back, stunned that he actually climbed a building to get to me. In a fluidity that matches water, he slips through the window, landing silently in the room like it’s nothing, straightening the hem of his shirt like he hasn’t just scaled a building. I rush to lock the door, glancing back to make sure Hannah is still asleep. Thank God her parents aren’t home—just her grandma, who’s probably fast asleep by now.

As soon as the lock clicks, I turn to face him, and my frustration wavers. How can I be angry when he’s standing there in that tight, fitted shirt that practically hugs every inch of his chest? It’s ridiculous, like a second skin, showing off the hard planes of his body. His chest is solid, sculpted, and I can already imagine how warm his ski……