Chapter 16
Joel
Well, that sure as shit didn’t go as planned.
But in some weird way, it actually works.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my damp hair as I lean back against the door. My pulse is still too fast—way too fast—and not just because of the shower.
Not just because of what I did in the shower, either.
Did she hear me?
I squeeze my eyes shut, already knowing the answer.
Of course she did.
She was practically standing outside the damn door.
And instead of walking away—she stayed.
She listened.
A groan builds in my chest, half frustration, half disbelief. My heart is still hammering, which is objectively fucking stupid. I should be mortified. I should be figuring out how to avoid eye contact for the next week after the shit she just overheard.
But all I can think about is the way her breath hitched.
The way her face flushed when she realized I knew.
Jesus.
This is not how I wanted to confirm Anna might actually be into me. There were—are—a thousand better ways to push her buttons.
But this? This is…
Oddly hot.
It shouldn’t be, and yet, all I can think about is the way she looked at me.
Wide eyes. Parted lips. Cheeks flushed like she’d been the one caught.
And the second she realized I knew?
She shut down.
Too late, though. Because I saw it.
I push off the door, shaking my head.
Anna Chang is attracted to me. There’s no doubt in my mind.
She might wanna pretend she hates my guts and thinks I’m the worst human on the planet, but I know the truth. It’s all one big cover-up to protect how she really feels.
And now? Now I’m going to push until she stops fighting it because, damn, I miss her.
I brace my hands against the dresser, taking a slow breath, trying to piece together the mess in my head.
I mean, at least we’re no longer on the questionable side of an age gap. We’re adults now, not seventeen and fourteen.
She’s still Ethan’s sister, though.
That’s the only problem here.
Or at least, it should be.
Right?
Would he kill me if he knew I was thinking about making a move on his sister?
I snort. Ethan isn’t the person I should be worried about.
No, the real threat is the woman currently sitting in her room—probably plotting my murder.
And if Anna decides I need to be eliminated, it won’t be quick. It’ll be methodical. I’ll probably wake up with my guitar strings cut, my coffee mysteriously replaced with salt water, and my phone rigged to play nothing but K-pop girl groups at full volume whenever I try to open Spotify.
I grin.
I could totally see her doing all of that.
But the thing is, if Anna is that mad, it means she felt something.
And if she felt something once? I can make sure she feels it again.
I exhale, my pulse finally starting to level out as I drop my towel to the floor and sit on the edge of the bed.
Tomorrow, I push a little further.
Tomorrow, I make her engage.
I lay back on the bed and stretch my arms behind my head, my mind already flipping through the possibilities.
She sure as shit won’t let herself admit she feels something, so I have to make her forget she’s supposed to be fighting it.
And I can’t wait to do it.
* * *
Over the years, I’ve learned that the trick to getting under Anna’s skin isn’t pushing her.
It’s giving her something to fix.
That’s why I’m not in my room right now.
I could easily work on this song behind closed doors, where she wouldn’t be forced to acknowledge me. But that would defeat the purpose.
Instead, I’m sprawled across the couch in the living room, guitar resting on my thigh, fingers lazily strumming out the chords to the song I sang at Nocté.
It’s good—but it’s not right yet.
There’s something missing.
And while I could probably mess with it until things click, I need Anna to help me find it.
Finally, I hear her bedroom door creak open, and I school my expression into one of deep, brooding concentration, my fingers idly plucking at the strings as I hum the melody under my breath.
I don’t look up. I don’t need to.
I can feel her glare.
And then—the hesitation.
That fraction of a second where she almost asks what I’m doing before catching herself.
I bite back a smirk.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
I drag out a sigh, shifting slightly on the couch as I deliberately botch the next chord.
Wince. Groan. Shake my head like I’m frustrated.
Damn, I’m good. I should have gone into acting.
Anna still doesn’t move.
She’s trying so damn hard not to take the bait.
It’s so fucking hard not to grin like an idiot.
I strum again—worse this time.
Oh, it’s a deliberate mess. A sound so wrong, so painfully off-key, it could haunt a nun’s nightmares.
Anna huffs.
I fight back the grin.
Almost there.
I strum again, singing under my breath a set of lyrics that obviously don’t work.
She growls.
Hooked.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Bingo.
I glance over to her, keeping my expression neutral. “Hmm?”
Anna is standing in the kitchen now, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug. I guess she’s over needing to run out for her morning java. Her other hand is planted on her hip and her glare is scalding enough to burn through concrete.
“Why the hell are you in the living room?” She spits out, her brows tugged in tightly.
I barely keep my lips from twitching as I spin around to face her. “Closed-in rooms mess with my process.”
Anna blinks. Then she glares harder. “Your process?”
I nod, looking solemn. “Yeah. Creativity needs space to breathe, Ace. The energy in my room felt… stifling.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s debating whether to murder me or just kick me out entirely.
I strum another dissonant chord.
Anna inhales sharply through her nose, like she’s practicing restraint—which, honestly, is impressive considering I just massacred a chord progression right in front of her.
I strum again, letting the wrong notes linger, watching as her grip on her coffee mug tightens.
Then, with a slow, calculated exhale, she sets her mug down a little too hard.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking.
“I need one morning,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “One single, solitary, Joel-free morning where I can drink my coffee in peace without whatever the hell this is.” She gestures vaguely in my direction.
I give her my most innocent look. “Music?”
She scowls, jabbing her index finger at me. “That’s not music. That’s a war crime.”
I fight back a chuckle, tapping my fingers idly against the body of the guitar. “So, you agree it’s bad?”
Anna narrows her eyes.
Damn, she’s salty today.
Which… makes sense. After last night, she’s probably still reeling. Not just from hearing me in the shower. But from the fact that she listened and then got caught.
A flicker of heat slides down my spine, completely uninvited. I shut it down before it can go anywhere dangerous, but then—
Another thought blindsides me—one I wasn’t expecting.
One I should not be fucking having.
Was she…?
My fingers falter on the strings. My stomach free-falls. My pulse rockets.
Oh. Fuck.
I was so caught up in what she heard—what she knew—that I didn’t even consider what she might have done about it.
What if she was just as turned on? What if she touched herself last night—because of me?
Why didn’t I listen for—
Fuck.
The thought punches me in the gut so hard, I physically shake my head, like I can dislodge it before it goes any further.
Nope. Nope. Shut it down. Now.
Because if I don’t?
I will not be able to function today.
I shift on the couch, clearing my throat, forcing my fingers back into motion on the fretboard.
Focus, Price. Mission first.
“I still don’t understand why you’re out here.” Anna folds her arms, glaring like she wants to incinerate me on the spot. I’m actually starting to love it.
I sigh like she’s exhausting me. “I told you. Creativity needs space. You should know that.”
Anna’s eye twitches.
“Go to Nocté.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Play in the green room. Hell, play in the walk-in fridge for all I care. Just get out of my space.”
I pluck a few more strings, cocking my head like I’m analyzing the sound. “Mm. Yeah, no. That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “Nocté doesn’t have the right energy.”
She stares at me, deadpan. “The right energy. What, are you some sort of New Age nutter now?”
I nod.
Anna closes her eyes, her lips parting slightly like she’s praying for strength.
It’s adorable.
She inhales through her nose. Exhales through her teeth like some sort of banshee.
Then she grabs her coffee, turning on her heel.
My heart sinks and my stomach flips.
Mission failed.
Or so I think.
Because just as she steps into the hallway—I play the wrong chord again.
I make sure it’s bad.
Like nails-on-a-chalkboard, send-a-music-teacher-into-cardiac-arrest bad.
Anna stops.
Her entire body locks up—very similar to last night.
She stays frozen there, gripping her coffee mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to sanity.
I pluck another atrocious note, dragging it out long enough to make even an AI-generated music bot short-circuit.
Anna stiffens like I just personally insulted three generations of her ancestors.
She’s fighting it.
Come on, Ace. You know you want to.
I strum again—slow, wrong, and offensive to the very concept of sound.
Her shoulders inch up some more and I can practically hear the gears in that big, beautiful brain of hers turning.
Almost there.
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath, like she’s cursing the gods for putting her through this. A small lopsided grin slips through.
One more.
I strum—a truly heinous combination of notes that would make a ghost pack up and leave a haunted house.
Damn, I’m getting good at these analogies.
Her entire body jerks like I just set off a nuclear detonation.
And then—she cracks.
Anna spins so fast, I barely have time to school my expression before she’s stomping toward me, murder evident in her dark eyes.
She drops her mug to the coffee table with a loud thud. “Move.”
I do as I’m told.
But I make sure there’s not much space.
She drops onto the couch beside me, her knee barely brushing mine as she yanks the guitar from my hands, her scowl deep enough to level a city.
But she’s here. She’s engaging.
And as her fingers settle over the frets, something in my chest tightens.
Because for the first time in years…
She’s not just arguing with me.
She’s creating with me.
And fuck, if that doesn’t feel a little like hope.