“You followed me earlier today. On Instagram? I checked out your page.”
Wait.
I forgot about that. I—being the idiot I am—didn’t remember that in addition to my academic successes, I also have very juvenile song covers uploaded on my page. Given the number of followers he has, I assumed he wouldn’t notice @notkrishnakumar with her measly seven hundred followers. Much less scroll through my page.
I want to bonk my head into the shelf right about now.
“Why are you making that face?” Rudra asks, and I register that my face is all scrunched up like I’m constipated or something.
“Just pretend you didn’t ever look at my account.”
“Uh. Okay,” Rudra says. “Can I ask why, though?”
“I mean, it’s embarrassing that you saw my page. With my mediocre singing reels. You have one hundred and forty thousand followers who love your music—you’retalented.”
“Thank you,” he says bashfully. “You’re a good singer. Definitelynotmediocre—another thing to add to the list of why Amrit is the lucky one. Not that you have much to worry about to begin with. I’ve seen the way he looks at you—he knows it too.”
For a moment, I’m taken aback Rudra noticed that at all. He’s always been so quiet and distant, lurking in the background, that I forgot he was there during most of our parties and hangouts. Were Amrit and I so obvious about crushing on each other that even he noticed?
I raise my chin, tamping down the surprise and going back to the pressing matter at hand. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think it’s rich calling someone spoiled when you’re loaded yourself,” I say, thinking back to what started this whole argument.
“True.” Rudra straightens, dusting the sleeve of his shirt. He discards his CocoCart cup.
I look at him in disbelief. “You’re not going to counter that?”
“No.”
“Why not?” I sound absurd, but Rudra has pushed all my buttons—and call it an achievement kink if you want, but now, I need to win this argument.
“Because you’re... right?” he says, a smile playing along his lips. “Anyway, we should head back. Priti will probably be wonderingwhere we are.” He starts walking away, and I follow him, rolling my eyes, becauseobviouslyhe’s gone right back to thinking about Priti. Not that it concerns me, because my Raj is waiting for me in Goa.
And you bet I don’t need anyone to tell me “?? ?????? ??, ?? ?? ???? ??????”*for me to go claim him.
Rudra takes a left, slipping out of the alley of bookshelves, and I start to turn, when there’s a sudden jerk on the strap of my fanny pack. I look back, frowning, and find the denim material stuck on the hook of one of the racks.
“Wait up!” I call after Rudra, and yank at the strap.
Rudra halts, and I stumble, finally free. But to my utter horror, the rack, constructed out of rickety metal, wobbles dangerously for a moment. Before I can find my balance and rush to stabilize it, it teeters, piles of books falling to the floor.
And then the entire thing topples like a house of cards.
There is a loud, resounding crash as metal hits cement. Books skid across the floor, and a cloud of dust whirls upward, whooshing right up my nostrils. Rudra and I are both frozen, watching the mess I’ve just created. My nose tickles, and I shut my eyes, hoping to let the sneeze out, but nothing comes.
Great.
Just fucking great.
Trust me and my clumsy ass to pull over anentire rack of bookswhen we’re already running late.
There is a shout from the other end of the warehouse, and it takes me a second, mid-sneeze, to realize we’re going to get caught. But Rudra is quick to react, and he’s grabbing my arm and pulling me to the right, into a narrow corridor between bookshelves set so close together I can barely move without almost shoving more racks to the floor.
Rudra stops at the end of the corridor, where a rack is stacked up against the wall, creating a dead end. I skid to a stop, breathing heavily.
“Where—”
