Page 20 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

eleven

LEA

The wind is a sadistic bastard today.

As I wait outside the art building, I’ve got my arms wrapped tightly around my torso as if it’s the only way to hold my ribcage together. The sudden cold snap caught half the campus off guard, including me in my criminally thin sweatshirt and jeans that might as well be tissue paper.

“Stupid weather. Stupid Declan. Stupid Professor Lucas,” I mutter.

I’ve been pacing this spot for ten minutes, waiting for Declan to emerge from the building. I could have been inside where it’s warm, but no. I wanted neutral territory for this confrontation. Somewhere private enough that I can say exactly what needs saying.

Look, Andrews, we’re stuck together for this project, but I have rules, and this doesn’t mean we’re friends…

I rehearse my speech in my head for the ninth time. I will be professional. I will be calm. I will absolutely not think about how his stupidly perfect face, or how his eyes show laugh lines at the corners when he laughs, or how his lips? —

No.

He’s Declan the Dick.

Remember him lying.

Remember him crushing your artwork.

You need to be as cold as the wind.

I stomp my foot, partly to get blood flowing and partly to physically crush that particular memory. But a gust of wind cuts through my sweatshirt, and I hiss. At this rate, they’ll find me as a popsicle, my final expression frozen in a scowl directed at the art building’s double doors.

Fitting.

Frustrated while waiting, I decide to call Em. Pacing as it rings, finally she picks up, but I don’t even give her the chance to speak. “Fuck my life,” I say.

“Uh, hi!” she says. “What’s up, Lea?”

I sigh. “Declan the Dick and I are going to be partners in an art project. For six weeks. For thirty percent of my grade.”

“That’s… uh…” Her voice trails off for a second. “Lea, why didn’t you just pick a different partner?”

I glare at the phone and will it to spontaneously combust, but unfortunately, it remains a regular iPhone. Instead, I sigh again. “I didn’t pick , Em…”

“Oh,” she says, sounding distracted. “Well, just ignore him and communicate only through passive-aggressive Post-it notes for the entire project.”

“Not an option,” I glance at the door again. Still no Declan. “We have to actually work together…”

“Then, put your big girl pants on, and tell him how it’s going to be. Like: ‘Listen up, Declan the Dick, here are my boundaries, and if you cross them I’ll stab you with my charcoal pencil…’” her voice trails off again. “Uh, Lea, I’m going to have to call you back in a few minutes, OK? ”

“OK…” I say, frowning in confusion. “Em, what exactly are you doing?”

“Nothing!” she says, and hangs up.

I stare at the phone, confused, then laugh despite my current predicament. I’ve got no idea what she’s doing, but I’m sure I’ll find out later, and it won’t be boring. Because Em is chaotic, brilliant, and possibly the best random roommate assignment in college history.

I appreciated her being there at the game last night. And, even afterwards, when we went looking for Mike and found him brooding in a corner, she’d cheered me up. Food trucks and cinnamon cider became our mission, along with an agreement to avoid any topic related to Declan the Dick.

Then, finally, the door opens.

And there he is.

Declan exits the building alone, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a navy-blue peacoat that looks both expensive and unfairly warm. His hair is slightly disheveled, and he’s got his messenger bag slung across his body, the strap cutting a diagonal line across his broad chest.

Don’t look!

He hasn’t seen me yet and, for a dangerous second, I let myself look—really look—at him.

The strong line of his jaw. The way his brow furrows slightly when he’s lost in thought.

The whole package is pretty good, really, that I once found so attractive and now just reminds me that he’s a hockey player.

Knock it off, I mentally scold my body. We hate him now, remember?

He’s Mike’s teammate.

He lied to me and insulted my art.

And then he acted like a total jerk.

So why did my heart just start pounding in my chest ?

I force down the gooey feeling in my belly, the same one I had the night he kissed me outside my dorm, and as I do, for a moment, I wish he was different.

That he’d stayed the cute guy I went to that diner with, the one I felt like I could talk to for hours.

Then I remind myself that that guy never existed; he was always just a mirage.

This is the real Declan.

Gorgeous, yes, but also a douchebag.

Although he does look as if he’s struggling a bit…

I watch him shuffle down the steps, lost in his thoughts, his movements lacking their usual fluid grace, and he even winces slightly when his foot hits the bottom step.

The dark circles under his eyes are visible even from here, and there’s a defeated slump to his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

Is he injured?

Part of me—the part that still remembers him listening intently as I described my grandmother’s paintings—wants to ask if he’s OK. The rest of me—the part that remembers his lies and his cruel critique—hopes whatever is bothering him hurts like hell.

Then he looks up and spots me.

Surprise flashes across his face, followed quickly by wariness, and something else I can’t quite identify. Regret? Annoyance? Exhaustion? Or maybe he’s just wondering why there’s a half-frozen girl glaring at him like he commanded the wind to drop twenty degrees today.

Declan visibly sighs, then starts walking toward me. There’s none of that easy confidence I remember from our night at Marie’s. He looks like a man heading to the gallows. And, although I keep my expression neutral, I also feel a mix of satisfaction and sadness as I watch him.

I cross my arms tighter, both against the cold and to create a physical barrier between us. As he gets closer, I notice more details—the tension in his jaw, the slight pallor beneath his stubble, and the way he keeps his gaze just slightly averted from mine.

He doesn’t look like Declan the Dick anymore.

The lying, cruel hockey star.

He looks… beaten.

I open my mouth to speak, to launch into my carefully rehearsed speech. But before I can say a word, another gust of wind hits me from behind, so fierce it actually pushes me forward a step. My hair whips across my face, momentarily blinding me, and my teeth chatter audibly.

I must look like a complete disaster—cold and disheveled.

Declan’s expression shifts. The wariness remains, but now there’s concern too, eyebrows drawing together as he takes in my obvious discomfort. His hands come out of his pockets, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he might offer me his coat.

Don’t you dare pity me, Andrews.

But despite my bravado, I know—with absolute certainty—that if he does something that considerate, that gentlemanly , my resolve will crack like thin ice. So I square my shoulders, ignore the cold that’s settled deep in my bones, and speak before he can.

Time to set some boundaries.

“Declan,” I say, my voice shakier than I want it to be.

“Lea,” he says, then shifts his weight, wincing slightly. “We need to talk.”

“About the project,” I agree, teeth still chattering. “Ground rules.”

Declan glances around. “Maybe we should go inside if you’re cold? ”

“I’m fine,” I lie, even as another violent shiver runs through me.

He stares at me for a beat, then unbuttons his coat. “Here.”

“I don’t want your?—”

“Just take it.” His voice is firm but not unkind. “Consider it a peace offering.”

I hesitate, pride warring with the desperate need for warmth. The wind picks that moment to send another arctic blast my way, and practical concerns win out. I take the coat with stiff fingers, wrapping it around my shoulders without putting my arms through the sleeves.

“Thanks,” I mutter, immediately warmer. “But to be clear, it’s just a ceasefire for the duration of the project, not peace. Because I’m still mad at you.”

“Ditto.” Declan scratches the stubble on his chin. “But we both need to do well on this project.”

“I’m aware.”

“Let’s just figure out when we can meet.” He pulls out his phone, voice cold and all business as he opens up his calendar app. “I have hockey practice most afternoons from Monday through Friday. I’m free most evenings after seven, except game nights, and weekends depend on away games.”

He rattles off his availability like he’s reading a grocery list, all business and straight to the point.

Which should be fine, right? Professional.

Distant. But the way he’s just assuming I’ll be available when he is, and that I’ve got nothing better to do, irks me.

And, suddenly, the ceasefire is looking a little shaky.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues without waiting for my input on meet-up times, bulldozing right over anything I want to say. “We should focus on realistic style. That’s where my strengths are. And charcoal pencil works best for bigger pieces?—”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “Just stop.”

Declan’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyebrows lift in surprise. “What?”

“This is a two-person project,” I say. “You don’t get to decide everything unilaterally. Maybe I don’t want to do nights. Maybe I hate charcoal pencils.”

“Do you?”

“What?” I say.

“Hate charcoal pencils.”

I pause a beat too long. “Yes.”

His lips quirk up slightly. “No, you don’t.”

“How would you know?” I challenge, wrapping his coat tighter around me.

“Your bag.” He points to my messenger bag, where the edge of my charcoal case is visible. “Those are the same ones I use. They’re expensive…”

Heat rises to my cheeks, despite the cold. “Fine. I don’t hate charcoal. But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The point is—” I take a deep breath “—this isn’t just about you. I need to do well on this project too.”

Declan huffs out a frustrated breath, creating a small cloud in the cold air between us. “Look, I really need this, OK? Professor Lucas was considering me for the select seminar, and after what happened between us in class…”

“After you savaged my work, you mean?” I can’t resist the cheap shot, crossing my arms over my chest. “ That class?”

“After our… disagreement,” he says carefully, ignoring my jab, “my chances took a serious hit. This project is my way of getting back in her good graces. ”

Something inside me snaps.

For a moment, I’d actually felt bad for him, with his limping and his tired eyes.

But now?

Fuck him .

Declan the Dick, indeed.

“Are you kidding me?” I take a step closer. “You think you’re the only one who wants a spot in that seminar? I showed Professor Lucas my portfolio during office hours last week, and she said as long as I keep practicing, I’d be a ‘shoo-in’ for one of the spots.”

“Lea.” He sighs. “You’re a freshman, you’ve got four years…”

“So?” I shrug. “I want that spot.”

Declan’s jaw tenses, a muscle working in his cheek. “So we’re competitors.”

“Apparently.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, the wind howling around us.

Declan blows out a breath of frosty air. “This is…”

“A nightmare?” I offer.

“I was going to say ‘unfortunate,’ but sure, let’s go with nightmare.”

We stand there, two artists with competing dreams, and mutual loathing. I’m now warm enough in his coat that my brain has stopped focusing exclusively on not freezing to death and can return to the matter at hand, but now there’s something else pressing on me.

The fact that we’re standing inches from each other for the first time since…

Since that kiss.

And a very small part of me wants to close the distance, wrap my arms around him, and kiss away all the anger and hurt. It would be so easy— so much easier than being as miserable and as mad as I’d been for over a week now—and I can see from the look in his eyes he’s fighting the same battle.

I imagine what it’d be like to be held in his arms. Squeezed tight.

I wonder—not for the first time, if I’m being honest—what it’d be like to be taken back to his apartment, stripped out of this coat and my clothes, and thoroughly fucking ravaged by him.

The thought goes straight to my core… right between my thighs…

“Look,” Declan says. “We’re both stuck with this. We both want the same thing. So maybe we find some middle ground?”

I study him for a moment. He looks sincere, and that’s the most annoying part—I want to keep hating him, but he’s making it difficult. “What do you suggest?”

“We try a few different things. See what works for both our styles. Practice rounds before we do the first assignment.”

It’s a reasonable suggestion, which irritates me further. “Fine.”

“When are you free?”

I mentally review my schedule. “Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons. Some Tuesday evenings depending on my brother’s games.”

“Your brother’s games?” Declan’s voice sounds oddly strained.

“I promised to go to all of them,” I say with a shrug. “To support him.”

He nods, looking uncomfortable. “Library? Thursday night? Seven-thirty?”

“That works.”

“We’ll need a quiet area,” he yammers on. “And to bring our own supplies, ”

“I know how art projects work, Declan.”

“Right.” He shifts awkwardly. “I should get going. I have a team meeting.”

I start to shrug off his coat, but he holds up a hand. “Keep it.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity, it’s common sense. It’s freezing, and I have two more.”

We stand there for a moment, at an impasse.

Finally, I nod, and after one last look at me, during which I think he might smile but instead offers a weird sort of grimace, he turns and walks away, his gait still slightly off.

I watch him cross the quad, wondering about that limp and his clear exhaustion.

But it’s not my problem.

He’s not my problem.

With a sigh, I turn and head toward my dorm, Declan’s coat still wrapped around me.

It’s warm and smells like him, and I hate that I notice.

That I care. It’s the same scent that’s taken up residence on Marnie’s dress from the night of the party, the black one I wore when I met him, when he kissed me.

The dress I haven’t yet built up the courage to wash.

Because, like it or not, angry or not, I can’t seem to get him out of my head.