Counting Down with You(21)

“We don’t, but you can’t just—” I flail my hands, trying to make my point. Maybe I’m not cut out to be an English major after all, if I can’t manage eloquence in a moment like this. “Why?”

Instead of answering, Ace stands up. “Do you always have ninth free?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Answer mine and I’ll answers yours.”

I sigh. “I have ninth free on Mondays and Thursdays.”

Ace tugs his earphones back from me, wrapping them around his phone before fitting it all in his back pocket. “I have it free every day. We should meet earlier on those days.”

“Maybe I have things to do.”

Ace shrugs. “Never mind then. If you want to, you know where to find me.” He hitches a thumb toward where he was sitting.

Then he saunters toward the staircase, and I have no choice but to follow. “You didn’t answer my question, Ace.”

“I will, once we get to the library,” he says over his shoulder.

As I trail after him, some of the juniors in the stairway give me incredulous looks, and my cheeks burn. I’m glad my skin is dark enough that it can be written off.

Soon, we’re in the library and afforded a semblance of privacy. I take the lead once we’re inside, heading for a table in the back, where people are least likely to stare at us.

“Explain,” I say as I sit down.

Ace takes all the time in the world settling into his seat, even though he doesn’t have a bag to situate. He slowly shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing yet another fancy designer sweater underneath it, and I give him an irate look.

Once he’s finally done, he waves a hand toward my expression. “That’s why.”

“What?”

“How annoyed with me are you right now?”

I snort. “On a scale of one to ten? Fifty.”

“Exactly.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ace leans forward across the table, his gaze dark and hypnotic. “There’s a spark in you, Karina Ahmed.”

“A...spark?” I shake my head. Maybe Ace is high. Maybe he’s been high all day. That would explain a lot, actually.

“A spark,” he repeats. When he reaches for me this time, I don’t shy away. He waits a beat, staring at me, but when I still don’t move—I don’t think I can—he slowly takes my hand, his fingers running down my palm lines. “I want to light a match and send you up in flames. You’re a forest fire waiting to happen.”

A fire. Is it possible Ace read my thoughts earlier?

“That was almost poetic,” I say, even though my heart is beating irregularly now. I’m glad he doesn’t have his fingers pressed against my wrist, where my pulse is jumping. The way he’s looking at me through hooded lids is dangerous, his voice measured and careful like he’s spent a lot of time thinking about this.

“I want to know what makes you come alive,” he says, leaning even closer but he’s grinning now. The brush of his skin against mine feels like a slow burn, lighting me up from the inside. “What are you passionate about?”

“You sound ridiculous,” I say and attempt to turn the conversation back around, hoping it’ll help me stop feeling like a stranger in my own skin. “What are you passionate about?”

Ace’s gaze travels across the planes of my face before he leans back. “I’ll show you.”

He pulls his phone out from his pocket again and unwraps the earphones. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he offers one to me.

“If it’s a jump scare, I’m going to kill you,” I say. I don’t seem to have much restraint left in terms of speaking to him like I would Nandini and Cora. He’s wormed his way under my skin faster than anyone I’ve ever met before.

He waits until I put it in my ear before he presses play on his phone. Lilting piano music begins to play, as hypnotic as Ace’s gaze.

Unable to look at him any longer, I close my eyes and listen, waiting for the words to come.

But they never do. Instead, the music builds into something deeper and more intense. The sounds overlap, multiple melodies weaving together to create something beautiful and moving.

I blink my eyes open and find Ace staring at me, waiting for my response.

“You love music,” I say breathlessly. “Classical music.”

His lips are pulling up again, and this time his smile is warm. His eyes shift from the roaring sea into a calm and gentle river. “I like any kind of music, really. It doesn’t have to be classical, but I do have a soft spot for instrumental music. The Cinematic Orchestra, Sleeping at Last, Lindsey Stirling, artists like that.” He pauses. “I... I like to play the piano.”

I blink. That’s not something I would have ever predicted. “The piano?”

He nods, his gaze distant. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid. It feels like home for me, I guess.”

“Wow.” I blow out a breath. “I had no idea music meant so much to you.”

“Maybe I would’ve told you, if you wanted to do anything besides study for more than two seconds,” he points out, tugging the earphone away from me.

I bite my lip, chagrined. Perhaps I’ve been approaching this studying situation wrong. “I’m sorry.”