Page 22 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

thirteen

LEA

I’m waiting in the Attic library for Declan, and it’s ridiculous how many times I’ve rearranged my pencils. First by color, then by length, and now I’m sorting them in order of how sad I’d be to lose each color if I snapped it in half in anger or frustration at him.

My leg won’t stop shaking. I press my palm against my knee to still it, but the second I remove my hand, it starts up again like it’s got its own nervous system. Which, honestly, fair. My entire body has been a mess since Professor Lucas decided we’d make the perfect pair.

I check my phone again. He’s officially seventeen minutes late, which is seventeen minutes I’ve spent terrified that when it comes time to complete this project with him, I’ll produce total shit. His critique shouldn’t get to me that much, but it did.

My dorm room trash can is overflowing with crumpled sketches, each one abandoned the moment his words creep back into my consciousness. I can’t even make it through a simple figure study without hearing his voice and immediately losing confidence.

I fidget with my pencil case, unzipping and zipping it for the fourth time. This is stupid. I’m stupid for letting his criticism get to me. My grandmother would be appalled—she’d tell me to channel that anger into my art, make it fierce and unapologetic.

And then there’s the other thing.

The thing I’m trying desperately not to think about.

The dreams.

About him.

It was bad enough when he gave me his coat that night outside the art building.

The weight of it on my shoulders, the scent of him wrapping around me like an embrace.

But my subconscious has taken that moment and run with it, creating scenarios that leave me waking up flushed and tangled in my sheets.

Last night’s dream was particularly vivid—Declan pushing me up against his easel, his charcoal-stained fingers leaving marks on my clothes and my skin as he stripped me bare. His hands hot between my thighs, telling me to “hold still” while he “studied my form,” stroking my clit…

I’d woken up with my hand already between my legs, sheets damp with sweat.

It wasn’t the first time, either.

Before that, it was him bending me over a desk in the empty classroom, his hands gripping my hips so hard they left bruises shaped like thumbprints as he thrust into me from behind, whispering in my ear how the best art comes from filth and pain…

These dreams have been happening with frustrating regularity, and they all end the same way—with me coming so hard my whole body shakes, only to wake up alone, aching and unfulfilled.

But even more frustrating is that these fantasies have invaded my waking hours, dominating my thoughts at any and every minute of the day. I’ll be sitting in class, then suddenly wondering what Declan would look like naked.

Is his chest dusted with the same light-brown hair that grows on his forearms?

Do his hockey-toned abs have that perfect V-shape disappearing into his jeans?

And his cock… is it as impressive as the bulge I felt pressed against me when we kissed?

Argh! I scream silently. This is completely unacceptable, Lea!

Because I’m angry at him.

I need to be angry at him.

Anger is safe. Anger doesn’t lead to heartbreak in Europe with beautiful blue-eyed boys who have secret girlfriends. Anger means I won’t get hurt again if I open the door to possibility and attraction just a little, only to have it slammed in my?—

The door to the stairs creaks open, pulling me from my thoughts, and there he is, staring at his phone, completely oblivious to my existence or the fact that he’s almost twenty minutes late. For a moment, I can just look at him without him noticing, and?—

Damn him.

His hair is still wet from what must have been a recent shower, dark strands catching the light. His cheeks are flushed from the cold outside, the tip of his nose just slightly pink. He’s wearing a gray thermal Henley that hugs his torso like a second skin .

It’s like he’s been designed in a lab specifically to torment me.

And man do I want to draw him.

I snap my gaze down to my sketchbook just as he looks up, pretending I’ve been absorbed in my work. Not that there’s anything to be absorbed in—the page is embarrassingly blank, because I’ve been totally consumed by thoughts of him and fear of his criticism.

For days .

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me. “Sorry I’m late. Coach kept us for extra conditioning.”

His voice is huskier than usual, like he’s been yelling, and there’s a weariness around his eyes that wasn’t there before. Despite my resolution to remain angry, something uncomfortable twists in my chest. Something that too closely resembles concern, which I squash immediately.

“Whatever,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes, but trying to project the ‘I’m pissed at you but saying it’s fine’ vibe. “Let’s just get started.”

“Are you sure you’re OK?” he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes me want to scream.

“I’m fine, Declan,” I snap, more harshly than I intended. “I’m just eager to get this over with.”

He goes quiet, and I risk a glance up. He’s watching me with those intense blue eyes, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

A droplet of water falls from his hair and onto his collarbone, sliding down beneath the collar of his shirt.

I follow its path until I realize what I’m doing and jerk my gaze away.

“Look,” he says after a moment, “I know this isn’t ideal for either of us, but we need to make it work.

I feel him looking at me, wanting to say more to me, but I don’t want him to say it. So I unzip my messenger bag, extracting a leather notebook with multicolored tabs sticking out at various angles. I flip to a page marked with a bright yellow Post-it.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, adopting a professional tone, “that we should try different styles for each of the five drawings before settling on one for the final.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Different styles?”

I nod. “For the first two, we could mimic Surdam and Gordon’s techniques.”

Declan stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.

“What?” I ask, feeling defensive, my hackles suddenly back up.

“Uh, just…” He shifts in his seat. “How did you know they’re my favorites?”

My face heats up. “You told me. At the diner,” I say, like it should be obvious.

His brow furrows. “That was two weeks ago.”

“So?” I say, lifting my chin. “I listen to my friends…”

“Apparently.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “We’re friends now?”

“No, I just thought we were,” I say, cold. “Because I also tell them the truth…”

He visibly sags. “Cool.”

I press on before I can dwell on how that hint of a smile a moment ago made my stomach flutter. “For the third piece, I thought we could try Holly Coulis…”

“Her bold colors and clean lines would be a nice contrast…” he says, his voice flat, almost sad. “Your favorite, right?”

“Whatever,” I say. I should not find it charming that we both remember our conversation in such detail. “It wasn’t that difficult to remember.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “What about the last two drawings?”

I pull out another color-coded sheet. “Well, I?—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “You’ve planned those out too?”

“What’s wrong with being prepared?” I bristle. “Better than just winging it.”

He shrugs. “Maybe for the last two, we could just… do what feels right?”

“‘Do what feels right’ isn’t exactly a plan.”

“Not everything needs a detailed roadmap, Lea.” He taps my notebook with his finger. “Sometimes you need to be less strict with your art, let it breathe a little.”

“How would you know what I need to do with my art?” The words come out sharper than I intended.

He doesn’t flinch. “You told me. At the diner. Said you wished you could be more spontaneous and take more risks… like your grandmother…”

His words land like an uppercut, and I feel something warm and uncomfortable blooming in my chest. And, suddenly, my carefully constructed wall of anger develops a tiny crack.

It’s disorienting, realizing he wasn’t just making polite conversation that night—he was listening and caring enough to remember.

“Fine,” I say, looking down at my notes. “For the last two, we can embrace the chaos, take some risk, and do what ‘feels right’.”

“Deal.” He extends his hand across the table.

I hesitate before taking it. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, his grip firm but gentle. The contact sends a jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with those dreams I’ve been having. And, if I were a betting woman, I’d bank on more dreams tonight…

When I pull away, my fingers tingle. I clench them into a fist beneath the table.

“So,” he says, thankfully oblivious to my internal turmoil, “let’s start…”

“Now?” I say, surprised by his eagerness. “Uh, OK, a few practice rounds?”

“Practice rounds?” His brow furrows. “For a practice piece?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Because that’s redundant,” he says with a hint of amusement. “You don’t practice for practice.”

“I don’t see what’s ridiculous about it,” I argue, annoyance creeping in. “You probably spend hours on the ice outside of actual practice. Playing hockey, right?”

His eyes narrow slightly in response to my shot about him playing hockey, and it’s clear he gets the subtext. “Right,” he says, voice suddenly stiff.

Victory warms my chest. “I was thinking we could draw each other, since there’s nobody else nearby…”

He pauses, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. “Do you mean full portraits?”

“No, just…” I gesture vaguely. “Maybe half faces? Like in Holly Coulis’ style, split down the middle?”

He seems to consider this, then nods. “Yeah, I could do that.”

After he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a worn leather sketchbook, he flips through to find a blank page. I catch glimpses of his previous sketches—a landscape that looks like the view from the hockey rink, some figure studies that must be from our class, and then?—

I freeze.