The Next Line ( The Lineage Series #2)

Chapter 9

She has a point.

We duck out of the common area, trying to blend in with the crowd of students heading toward the smaller theater on the third floor.

Juilliard is huge, but once you know your way around, it feels like its own little world.

And Ginny?

She's already running it.

We slip into the back row just as she steps onto the stage, the lights hitting her face, her expression going from playful to deadly serious in half a second.

And then she starts.

It's... incredible.

She's a natural, every word landing perfectly, every pause deliberate.

Lena elbows me halfway through.

"Remind me why we're the ones doing math homework when she's out here giving an Oscar performance?"

I just shake my head.

Because I don't know either.

But watching Ginny own that stage makes me remember why we're all here.

To be good.

To be great.

To make people stop and listen.

And for the first time all day, I stop worrying about Spanish tests and engineering homework and who's watching from across the street in his bedroom window.

For the first time all day...

I finally found my second home to be.

𐦟𐦟𐦟

My body aches in the best way as I collapse onto a stool in the kitchen.

Juilliard took everything out of me today.

Between ballet, Spanish, and engineering—all before noon—my brain feels like it went through a blender. And don't even get me started on my professor, who only spoke in Spanish the entire time like we were born fluent.

But I'm here.

I survived my first day.

And for the most part?

I'm proud of myself.

Until Mom brings up the one thing I absolutely don't need right now.

"You know," she says, plating dinner, "Joshuan was always good at Spanish in school."

I almost choke on air.

Lena—who has been the definition of a menace all day—literally freezes mid-sip of her drink.

Because we both know where this is going.

"Oh?" she says, way too interested, eyes flicking between me and Mom.

I glare at her.

"Yep," Mom continues. "I bet he'd be willing to tutor you if you asked."

No. No. No. No.

Absolutely not.

I cannot sit across from him for hours while he corrects my pronunciation and calls me princesa in that voice.

"I'm fine," I blurt out, way too fast. "Totally fine. I'll figure it out."

Mom shrugs, unconvinced, and turns back to the stove.

Lena, on the other hand, is grinning like she just won the lottery.

"Oh, this is too good," she whispers.

And then—

It gets worse.

Because Joshuan walks in. He and Jamie have been throwing the football around all day because Jamie is preparing for next year's football season at Columbia University, hoping to impress scouts and secure a spot in the NFL.

Joshuan moves through the kitchen like he owns the place—hoodie slung over his head, sweatpants low on his hips, gold chain peeking out from under his collar.

It's annoying how effortlessly fine he looks.

It's more annoying that I notice.

"Smells good in here Mrs.Sinclair," he says to my mom, leaning against the counter, like he isn't dangerously close to me.

Mom smiles. " Thank you Joshuan, I'm just roasting from vegetables but Aurora just got home from her first day at Juilliard."

Joshuan's eyes flick to me.

Locked in. Oh shit.

Like I'm the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

And that's when everything goes downhill.

His gaze drags down—slow, assessing, taking me in completely.

The leggings.

The cropped ballet sweater slipping off one shoulder.

The fact that my hair is still slightly messy from practice.

And then—

He moves closer.

Not enough for Mom to notice.

Not enough for it to look like anything.

But enough for me to feel the warmth of his body just behind mine.

Enough for his breath to brush my ear when he leans in.

And then—

"Looks good on you, princesa."

I forget how to function.

The heat from his voice alone shoots straight down my spine.

My grip on the counter tightens because my knees suddenly feel very unreliable.

And I know—I KNOW—that he meant for me to hear that.

Only me.

Mom is still blissfully cooking.

Lena, meanwhile, has fully stopped breathing.

But he isn't done.

No, he pushes it further.

His voice drops even lower, the words brushing against my skin this time.

"I could think of a lot of things to do to you in that outfit."

Lena chokes so violently on her drink I think she's about to die right here in the kitchen.

Mom turns, concerned.

"You okay, sweetie?"

Lena is struggling.

Wheezing.

Red-faced.

Coughing like she just inhaled an entire bottle of hot sauce.

Meanwhile, I am dying in a whole different way.

I don't breathe because I can still feel his voice on my skin.

Joshuan?

He just grins.

Because he knows exactly what he did.

I grab my plate way too aggressively and power-walk out of the kitchen.

I don't breathe until I'm in my room, door closed behind me, heartbeat slamming in my chest.

I shouldn't be affected.

I shouldn't.

But I am.

And that's the problem.

Because if I don't get this under control?

He's going to ruin me for sure.

God kill me now.