Page 15 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

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DECLAN

Of course this is happening.

Lea is in life drawing.

Because the universe is an asshole.

This is the place that should have been my one escape, the class I’ve been excited for since registration opened. And now she’s here, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light and citrusy that puts all sorts of unwelcome thoughts in my head.

I try to focus on Professor Lucas’ words, but my attention keeps drifting to Lea. She’s pulled her curly hair back into a messy bun, and a few rebellious strands have escaped. My fingers itch to tuck them behind her ear, but my mind screams at me for attention.

Focus, Declan.

“Today we’ll begin with quick gesture drawings—two minutes each.

Then we’ll progress to longer poses.” Professor Lucas gestures to our model, a mid-twenties woman who’s wrapped in a navy robe.

“Remember, these first sketches are about capturing movement and energy, not detail, so don’t get precious about it. ”

As I grab a piece of charcoal, I can’t help but glance at Lea again. She hasn’t looked at me once after that first glance and her clear shock at my presence. Her shoulders are rigid, spine straight as a ruler, and she’s staring at her blank paper like it holds the secrets of the universe.

The model drops her robe and takes her first pose. Usually, this is when everything else falls away—when it’s just me, the paper, and the challenge of capturing the human form in a few quick strokes before moving on to the next in a series of poses.

But today, my mind won’t quiet, because she’s here, the girl I’d convinced myself I’d forgotten, because of all the reasons it made sense to. The fact that she is Mike’s sister, the fact that she hates my guts because she thinks I lied to her, the fact that she didn’t give me the chance to explain.

But now, none of that seems to matter.

And she’s in my head, big time.

My first few attempts are trash. The lines are hesitant, nothing like my usual confident marks. I can’t stop thinking about Saturday night at Marie’s, how easily conversation flowed between us, how her eyes lit up when she talked about her grandmother, and then that kiss.

The model shifts to her next pose, and I force myself to concentrate.

My strokes are better.

Not great, but better.

By the third pose, I’m finally settling into a rhythm. The familiar scratch of charcoal on paper grounds me. I force Lea from my mind with all the mental fortitude I can muster, and focus on the sketches. I block in the basic shapes, letting muscle memory take over.

“Time,” Professor Lucas calls. “Next pose.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Lea shifting position. I try to focus on the model, but my gaze drifts to Lea’s hands as she sketches. Her fingers grip the charcoal with delicate precision, moving in quick, confident strokes across the paper.

But then my thoughts go wild. I watch those same fingers that had tangled in my hair Saturday night, that had pressed against my chest, urging me closer.

And then the memory of her body against mine floods my senses.

The soft curves of her breasts pressing into me, the way her hips had fit perfectly in my palms. My cock stirs, and I shift uncomfortably on my stool.

Focus on the model. The assignment. Anything but Lea.

But it’s fucking impossible, even though she’s completely ignoring me.

When she bites her lower lip in concentration, all I can think about is how those lips felt against mine, how they’d parted on a gasp when I’d slipped my tongue inside and touched hers, how good her ass felt when I ventured south to grab it and?—

The charcoal snaps in my grip.

Jesus Christ, Andrews. Get it together.

“Two minutes,” Professor Lucas calls out.

Oh no…

The model shifts her pose, and I realize I’ve totally missed one of the poses, which is a cardinal sin in a class like this. I can only hope that Professor Lucas doesn’t call for examples, or decide to take a look through our work, given it’s the first class…

I start to sketch the next pose, but again my eyes shift to Lea. Because right now, all I want to do is drag her into the supply closet and make every dirty thought in my head reality. Show her exactly what she does to me. Make her understand that one kiss wasn’t nearly enough.

But I can’t.

Because she’s Mike’s sister.

Because she thinks I lied to her.

Because this is exactly the kind of complication I don’t need right now.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

But it’s more than that. More than attraction to her body. It’s attraction to her mind, and her art. I watch her work, and her drawings are fluid, expressive. There’s a looseness to them that I envy, a kind of wild energy that perfectly captures motion.

She’s good.

Really good.

The knowledge hits me like a punch to the gut. Because of course the girl who gets under my skin like no one else, who makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself, would also be talented enough to make my own work look stiff in comparison.

“Two minutes. Last short pose,” Professor Lucas announces. “Make it count.”

As the model shifts again, I drag my attention back to my easel, but it’s too late. The pose is ending, and all I’ve managed is a few halfhearted marks that look more like chicken scratch than anything resembling human anatomy, on top of the pose I missed entirely.

As I sketch the final pose, Professor Lucas looms over me. As she studies my… ‘work’… her eyebrows lift slightly. “Interesting approach today. Very… different.”

Translation: What the hell happened to you ?

I force a smile. “Trying something new this year, Professor… Minimalism is the new black.”

She nods, but I can tell she’s not buying it. Neither am I, honestly. I’ve worked my ass off for years to prove I deserve one of the few spots in her special select seminar. And now I’m throwing it away because I can’t handle sitting next to a girl who probably hates me?

Get it together.

The model takes her position for a longer pose—twenty minutes this time. I take a deep breath, determined to focus. But as I lift my charcoal to make the first mark, Lea shifts beside me. Her arm brushes mine, barely, and electricity shoots through my entire body.

The charcoal snaps again.

Shit.

Ten minutes later, and I’m still staring blankly at my sketchpad, my charcoal hovering uselessly above the pristine paper. I should be drawing, because this is my element—the thing that makes me feel alive, along with hockey—and my ticket to the select seminar…

But all I can think about is Lea sitting next to me.

Her presence is like an electric current, making my skin buzz with awareness. Every small movement draws my attention—the way she bites her lip in concentration, how her curls fall forward when she leans in to add detail, the soft scratching of her charcoal against paper.

I force myself to focus on the model. I’ve wasted half the time, but I can do this. I’ve done hundreds of figure studies before. But my hand feels clumsy, disconnected from my brain. The lines come out wrong—too harsh, too tentative, never quite capturing what I see.

“Ten minutes left,” Professor Lucas announces. “Make them count.”

Shit.

In desperation, I spend the next ten minutes scrambling to catch up to the rest of the class and produce something , and when the time is up… well… at least I’ve got a mostly human-looking sketch on the page. But it’s a mess, and I’m ashamed of it.

“Alright,” Professor Lucas’ voice cuts through my self-flagellation. “Let’s see...”

My stomach drops as she begins collecting everyone’s drawings.

This can’t be happening today.

Not with that on my page.

And with Lea right here.

Professor Lucas shuffles the papers with practiced efficiency, then starts pinning them to the corkboard at the front of the classroom. My chest tightens as I spot my work among them, the unfinished poses glaringly obvious next to the others, easily the worst of all the students here.

“Now,” Professor Lucas says, “I want you to really look at each piece that I’ve pinned to the wall.

Write at least five constructive criticisms on the different drawings that speak to you.

Be specific. Be honest. But remember that this isn’t about tearing down or puffing up, it’s about helping each other grow. ”

I barely register her words. My gaze keeps drifting to Lea, but she’s pointedly avoiding looking in my direction. Her jaw is set, shoulders tense. The memory of our encounter in Mike’s hallway flashes through my mind—the hurt in her eyes when she realized who I was, the way she’d stormed off.

I move mechanically through the critique process, scribbling generic comments on random drawings. My mind is too scattered to offer anything truly insightful. Besides, I can’t stop watching Lea as she studies each piece with careful consideration, taking her time to write thoughtful notes.

When she reaches my drawings, she pauses.

Her expression doesn’t change, but I see her grip tighten on her pen before she starts writing.

I want to know what she’s jotting down. I need to know, right the hell now.

But I can’t bring myself to walk over there.

So instead, I walk over to Lea’s drawing and write a comment.

“That’s time, check out your feedback, and then you can go,” Professor Lucas calls out. “Have a great day, and see you all next time…”

I watch as Lea approaches her own drawing, probably to see what feedback she received. Her mouth falls open as she reads, and something twists in my gut. Because I know exactly what she’s seeing—the harsh criticism I left in a moment of frustrated jealousy.

Technically proficient but lacks soul. Safe choices. No risks taken.

The words mock me now. Because they’re not really about her art at all. They’re about me—about how I played it safe by hiding who I was, about how I took the coward’s way out instead of being honest with her. And now I’ve hurt her again.