Page 6 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)

I'M SITTING AT a wooden table tucked away in a corner of the university library's third floor, surrounded by towering shelves of books on economics and business theory.

The smell of old paper and wood polish fills my nostrils as I hunch over my textbook, trying to focus on words that seem to swim before my eyes.

This place has always been my sanctuary—the one spot where my brain cooperates and lets me study. But today, the usual magic isn't working. My mind keeps drifting back to last night, to the terrace, to Asher's hands and the sounds he made and—

Focus, damn it .

I shift in my seat, the wooden chair creaking slightly. A girl at the next table shoots me an annoyed glance over her laptop. I mumble an apology and try to immerse myself in macroeconomic theory.

It was just a temporary lapse in judgment. That's all .

I underline a sentence in my textbook with such force that my pen tears through the page.

A lapse in judgment that felt so unbelievably good .

I drop my pen and run both hands through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots as if physical pain might drive away the memory of Asher's touch.

I've spent the entire morning trying to rationalize what happened.

Maybe it was the alcohol (though I'd barely had two beers).

Maybe it was the music, the atmosphere, the stars aligning in some cosmic joke at my expense.

Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. It was a one-time thing. An experiment. Nothing more.

I pick up my pen again, determined to actually accomplish something today. I have a paper to finish and an exam to study for. My GPA doesn't care about my sexual crisis.

The sound of the elevator doors opening breaks my concentration. I don't look up—people come and go constantly in the library—until I feel a prickle at the back of my neck, that sixth sense that tells you you're being watched.

I glance up, and my stomach drops.

Asher stands by the elevator, scanning the room. He's dressed simply in jeans and a gray henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that shouldn't be legal in an academic setting. His hair is in slight disarray, and he carries a leather messenger bag slung across his chest.

For one hopeful moment, I think maybe he hasn't seen me. Maybe I can duck behind my textbook and—

Our eyes meet.

Fuck .

I tense, my fingers gripping my pen so tightly it hurts. A dozen scenarios flash through my mind—Asher smirking at me, Asher making a scene, Asher telling everyone what happened.

But Asher just nods, casual as can be, and starts walking toward me.

Double fuck .

I look around desperately for an escape route, but my table is backed against the wall. Short of diving under the table or climbing the bookshelves like some deranged monkey, I'm trapped.

He approaches with the confidence of someone who's never questioned his place in the world. He pulls out the chair directly across from me—because of course he does—and sits down.

"This seat taken?" he asks, though he's already settling in.

I stare at him, waiting for... something. A smirk. A suggestive comment. A reference to last night.

Instead, Asher simply pulls a laptop from his bag, opens it, and starts typing like we're strangers who happen to be sharing a table. Like nothing ever happened between us.

And somehow, that's worse.

Ten excruciating minutes pass. I haven't read a single word on my page. I'm too aware of Asher's presence—the soft tapping of his fingers on the keyboard, the way he occasionally rubs the back of his neck, the faint scent of his cologne that reaches me every time he shifts in his seat.

This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to pretend nothing happened? How is he so calm about all this?

I tear a piece of paper from my notebook, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet space. I scribble quickly, barely thinking: ' Give me your phone number .'

I slide the note across the table, watching Asher's face for a reaction.

He glances down at the paper, one eyebrow rising slowly. His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close—as he picks up a pen and writes something before sliding the note back.

' Why ?'

That's it. One word. I feel a surge of irritation. Is he really going to make this difficult?

"Just do it," I hiss across the table.

Several heads turn in our direction. A guy with thick glasses makes an exaggerated shushing motion. The girl from earlier glares daggers at me.

My cheeks burn. I slump in my chair, mortified, while Asher watches me with undisguised amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Fuming, I grab the note and scrawl: ' Because I have things to say .'

I shove it back at Asher, who reads it and responds with infuriating slowness, like he's savoring my discomfort.

' Things you can't say here ?'

I write back immediately: ' Obviously .'

Asher's reply comes back: ' About ?'

I stare at the word, my pen hovering over the paper. What exactly do I want to say to Asher? That last night was a mistake? That it can never happen again? That I haven't been able to think about anything else since?

I settle for: ' Last night .'

When Asher reads this, something shifts in his expression. The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. He writes: ' What about it ?'

Me: 'We need to talk about what happened .'

Asher: ' Do we? Seemed pretty straightforward to me .'

The casual dismissal makes my blood boil. I write back: ' Not to me .'

Asher studies me for a moment, then writes: ' What part confused you ?'

I stare at the question, my mind racing. How do I even begin to answer that? The part where I enjoyed another man touching me? The part where I can't stop thinking about it? The part where my entire identity feels like it's been thrown into a blender?

I write: ' All of it .'

Asher's expression softens slightly. He writes: ' That's a longer conversation than we can have on paper .'

Me: ' Then let's go somewhere else .'

Asher: ' Now ?'

Me: ' Yes, now !'

Asher: ' I have a paper due tomorrow .'

Me: ' So do I .'

Asher seems to consider this, tapping his pen against the paper. Finally, he writes: ' Fine. Where ?'

I look around the library. The study rooms are all occupied, visible through their glass doors. The café on the first floor will be too crowded. Then I remember the rarely-used stacks on the fifth floor—ancient literature that no one ever checks out.

I write: ' Fifth floor. Ancient Literature section. Five minutes .'

Asher reads the note, then looks up at me with an unreadable expression. After what feels like an eternity, he nods once and writes: ' See you there .'

He closes his laptop, packs it away, and leaves without another word, taking the note with him.

I watch him go, heart hammering in my chest. What the hell am I doing? What am I going to say when we're alone?

I give Asher a head start, then pack up my own things with shaking hands. As I walk to the elevator, I try to organize my thoughts, to prepare what I want to say. But my mind is a jumble of confusion and desire and fear.

The elevator ride to the fifth floor feels like the longest thirty seconds of my life.