Page 102 of The Play Maker

It’s dim inside, just the glow of a lamp in the corner. His bed’s made, but a little rumpled like he sat on it earlier and didn’t bother fixing it. His guitar leans against the wall, catching my eye.

I nod toward it. “You play?”

He shrugs, setting down his phone. “Here and there. Mostly when I’m avoiding studying.”

I blink, stepping closer. “I didn’t know that about you.”

He gives me this half-smile, that crooked grin that makes my chest squeeze in a way I don’t like admitting out loud. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Maisie.”

I raise a brow. “That’s surprising considering how much you talk about yourself.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, his shoulders shaking a little. “You always know how to humble me, Freckles.”

My heart does that annoying thing where it skips. I cross my arms loosely, trying to look unaffected, like he didn’t just call me that nickname I haven’t heard in days.

I nod toward the guitar again. “Will you… play something?”

His eyebrows lift, and the smirk fades just a little.

“You don’t have to,” I add quickly, already regretting it. “Forget I asked.”

“No,” he cuts me off. He swallows harshly, his eyes locked on mine. “I want to.”

Austin crosses the room and settles on the edge of his bed, pulling the guitar into his lap. His fingers skim over the strings, tuning them, then he strums a few soft chords.

I sit on the opposite side of the bed, unable to look away from the way his brows pull together in concentration, the way his jaw flexes as he focuses.

The notes grow more familiar by the second, until I freeze.

Wait.

Is this?—

Set Fire to the Rain.

I blink.

I’d know that melody anywhere. My chest tightens, something warm blooming behind my ribs.

When the last note fades, he looks up at me, his fingers still resting on the neck of the guitar. He rubs the back of his neck, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks kind of shy.

I swallow, my chest tightening with each second his eyes are on mine. “You’re really good,” I say, clearing my throat.

That flicker of nerves crosses his face again, but it’s gone just as fast. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Why that song?” I ask him.

He gives a half-shrug. “Saw your skating video. You used that song, right?”

I blink.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he adds, adjusting one of the tuning pegs without looking at me. “The way you moved. The way it sounded with you.”

My throat tightens.

“I figured if I could hear it again—if I could play it—I’d get it out of my head.” He glances up then, his eyes meeting mine across the bed. “Didn’t work.”

The quiet stretches between us. The guitar’s still in his lap, but neither of us moves. I’m still watching him. He’s watching me. And I wonder if he’s thinking about it—the kiss. The way his hands framed my face, the way he looked at me right before. And the regret riddled on his face right after.