I lean forward, but he doesn’t let me past him. His eyes stroke my face in the same way it did back at Uptown Nails and IthinkI can read his mind today. He’s telling me to settle down, but there’s also something else going on up there.
“No more Twitter,” he states in a matter-of-fact tone, as if we haven’t been using it as a secret means of communication all week.
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘no more Twitter,’” he repeats, reaching over me to snatch my backpack from the backseat.
It sounds like he’s speaking a foreign language and my brain starts re-analyzing the subtweets I’ve already over-analyzed the entire week we’ve been playing. Because what the hell did I miss? I followed the rules—no naming and shaming, no face no case, tweeting and deleting—just straight subliminal vibes.
I stumble onto the sidewalk into his solid chest.
“Excuse me? I’m not understanding?”
He reaches around me, slamming Gus’ door and tossing my backpack over his shoulder. “I’m not repeating myself again.”
Gus hits the gas and eases away from the curb, leaving me in a fog of confusion.
Ace gives him a wave and then curls his arm around my stomach.
I scoff, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Nigga, you can’t tell me what to do.”
I want to rescind my residency on Planet Ace, STAT, but Ace doesn’t care.
He drops his arm and leaves me on the sidewalk, strolling to a side door connected to the building. I already want his calloused hands back on my stomach, but I’m supposed to be pissed off. That isn’t how he’s wired my brain though.
A white couple and their bulldog sidestep me as he stands at the door.
“Bring your ass inside.” He rolls his eyes. “Got all these people in our business.”
Damn him and that “our” shit. I hate and like that word just like I hate and like him, but I’m CeCe’s child, so my feet stay planted on the sidewalk.
He leans back against the door with a lazy smile and slides my backpack off his shoulder.
“Your phone going off.” He chuckles, pulling the bag apart and digging his hand inside. “This bet not be one of your lil’ Twitter fans. Now I gotta tell them you in trouble and can’t tweet because you’re a chronic over-sharer.”
It was probably Chelsea responding to my curious text from that morning about Bryson and what I should do if he tries to kiss me for the second time in our lives—hypothetically,of course.
When he pulls out my phone, I power walk across the sidewalk like he wants.
“Ace!” I hiss. “Gimme my phone.”
I slam my body into his without thinking, and my hives come back in droves. They’re so overwhelming that I forget why I’d been barreling toward him. He moves as quick as he does on the court and tangles his arms back around my stomach, pulling us inside.
“Calm down,” he mutters into my ear. “Why I have to do all that to get you to come here?”
“Because...” I hold on to the rest of my shameful words.
“Because what?” He peels his arms from around me and glides towards an elevator at the end of the hallway we’re standing in. “I guess you can tweet me and tell me next week if I let you log back on Twitter.”
“You still on that?”
“Hell yeah,” he calls from over his shoulder as the elevator dings. “Twitter ain’t your diary.”
There’s a difference between getting in trouble by Ace than it is by Marcus. Marcus never banned me from any socials, took my phone for doing something I shouldn’t and his chastisingnevermade my nipples hard. Shit, nobody has ever done that.
Ace bunches my cellphone and backpack in his hands and walks into the elevator with me on his heels.
“I never said it was my diary.” I cross my arms and try not to stare at the digital keypad he taps a key fob against.
