Page 23 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

Page after page of the same profile. Each different, starting more gentle and warm, then graduating to dark and chaotic. But there’s something familiar about all of them. The curve of a jaw, the hint of curly hair, and the tilt of the chin that reminds me of…

Me?

“What?” he asks, catching me staring.

“Nothing,” I say, too quickly to be casual. “Was that the model from last week?

“Uh, yeah,” he says, suddenly very interested in finding the perfect pencil.

Liar.

But I don’t call him on it because that would be admitting I was snooping, and because there’s something oddly thrilling about the possibility that he’s been drawing me. I hate the gooey feeling that I get at the thought, right at the bottom of my stomach, right above?—

“Right.” I snap back, blinking off the positively fucking evil thoughts. “I’ll start with your left side, you start with my right.”

He nods, positions his sketchbook, and looks up at me with those unfairly blue eyes. “Ready when you are.”

I take a deep breath and lean back against the couch, giving myself a moment to really study him.

It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to truly look at him since that disastrous night in the hallway outside Mike’s apartment.

Because every time I look at him for more than a few seconds, my anger fades and I?—

Nope! Not going there!

But although I can resist thinking about why I’m looking, I can’t resist the action itself. His features are strong—sharp jawline, and full lips that curve slightly upward even at rest. His eyes are deep-set under expressive brows, one of which arches questioningly as I continue my examination.

“You planning to draw me or just stare?” he asks softly.

“I’m studying your proportions,” I sneer. “It’s what artists do.”

“Is that right?” There’s a hint of teasing in his voice. “And your findings?”

“Your left eyebrow is slightly higher than your right,” I say, pleased with how clinical I sound. “And your ears aren’t perfectly symmetrical.”

“Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I’m just being observant.”

“Observant,” he repeats, and I swear his eyes darken slightly. “Of course.”

“What?” I glare.

He tilts his head, gaze sliding over my features. “Your lips are a little fuller on the right side. Your left eyebrow has a tiny scar through it—right there.” He points to his own eyebrow to demonstrate. “And when you concentrate hard, you get this little crease right between your eyes.”

My breath catches. I didn’t realize he’d been looking at me that closely. “Shut up, I do not!”

“Going to need Botox when you’re all grown-up…” His voice is teasing, warm… and his face lights up, banishing the gloom that’s been there for weeks.

And, for the first time since the Diner, he gets a smirk out of me. “Lacks soul and going to need injections… great…”

Something shifts in the air between us, charged and dangerous.

I drop my gaze to my sketchbook, heart pounding as I begin to draw the curve of his jaw.

We work in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the soft scratching of pencil against paper and our breathing, which seems unnaturally loud.

Drawing him feels intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Each stroke captures some essential truth about him—the stubborn set of his mouth, and the intensity in his eyes.

By focusing on these details, I’m admitting to myself how closely I’ve been watching him, how aware I’ve been of his presence all along.

His pencil moves with surprising grace for someone with such large hands. I find myself watching his fingers more than I should, remembering how they felt against my skin that night outside my dorm, how I can’t stop dreaming about how they might feel roaming other places over my body…

“Stop moving,” he murmurs, not looking up from his page.

“I’m not moving.”

“Your breathing changed. It makes your shoulders shift.”

Has he really been paying that much attention to my breathing?

The thought sends heat coursing through me…

“Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to take slow, measured breaths.

When I glance up again, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. There’s something almost predatory in his gaze, like he can see right through me—through my clothes and my underwear, past all my anger and defensiveness, past all my hurt from him and from Chris…

And to the desire underneath.

And, in a display of perfect timing (not!), I gasp a little when he reaches out and puts his hand on my chin, lifting it slightly higher. His touch is light, clinical even, but my skin tingles like he’s branded me. Every nerve ending in my body seems to redirect to that single point of contact .

“Tilt a bit,” he says, his voice low. “I’m nearly finished with the curve of it.”

My cheeks burn, a warmth that spreads rapidly through my entire body, and suddenly I’m aware of a wetness… an aching… between my thighs.

Houston! We have a problem! My mind screams at me. Draw! Damn it!

I try to keep still for him, while simultaneously dealing with my feelings— those feelings—and trying to get my sketch done.

My eyes lock onto his mouth as I draw, but then my gaze drops lower, to areas of his body that I’m not supposed to be focused on right now.

To his shoulders—broad, round muscles I clung to as he stole my breath with that kiss.

To his hands—strong, calloused, yet gentle, as they’d gripped me and pulled me close.

To his chest—which has felt so good pressed against me.

To his groin—which?—

Oh god, stop!

I shake myself out of it, tearing my eyes away to focus on my drawing. The next few minutes are a mess of stops and starts and an embarrassing amount of erasing as I try to capture his features without getting lost in them.

But eventually, I find my rhythm, and the pencil becomes an extension of my hand, moving across the paper with newfound confidence. I lose myself in the work, in the challenge of capturing the subtle planes of his face.

When I next look up at the clock, I’m startled to find an hour has passed, because it felt like a few minutes. Declan has set his pencil down, apparently finished, and he’s just looking at me .

“Switch?” he suggests, extending his sketchbook toward me.

“OK,” I say, with a confidence I don’t feel.

My stomach tightens with both anticipation and dread. I hand him mine, careful not to let our fingers touch—lest that set off a whole new chain reaction of feelings—and take his in return.

The breath goes out of me when I see what he’s created.

It’s me, but not quite me—both more and less than me.

He’s drawn my profile with such attention to detail that I’m stunned. Yes, the drawing is abstract, with bolder lines than I’d use myself, but he’s nailed the shape of my mouth, and the curve of my chin.

Even with half my face, he’s captured everything.

The piece is full of passion, skill, and flair. There’s life in it—a vibrancy that seems to pulse off the page. It makes me look… beautiful, but not in a conventional way. Beautiful in a way that’s fierce and unapologetic.

Like how my grandmother used to paint.

“Declan,” I say, eyes still locked on the sketch. “This is incredible…”

I look up at him, feeling gooey, but the feeling evaporates instantly. His eyes are on my drawing of him, brow furrowed, squinting slightly as he studies it closely. My heart sinks as I watch his expression.

The slight downturn of his mouth.

The deepening crease between his eyebrows.

It’s the exact same expression he wore in class when we wrote critiques of each other’s work. The same look that accompanied the remarks that have haunted my attempts to create ever since .

“You hate it,” I say, a conclusion, not a question, my voice smaller than I’d like.

He doesn’t answer immediately, still examining the sketch with that critical gaze, and my anxiety spikes. Suddenly, I feel worse than that moment when I found out Declan lied to me and worse than the moment he’d delivered his stinging critique.

Because this, looking at him silently judge my work, is a kill shot to my soul.

“Forget it,” I blurt out, stuffing my things into my bag. “Forget this whole thing. Forget the project, forget the class. I’ll just take life drawing next semester. There’s still time before the add-drop period ends. You’ll just have to tell Professor Lucas to find you another partner…”

Then I turn and I’m gone .

For good .

I’m vaguely aware of him calling after me, louder than is advisable in a library, but I’m already through the door and into the hallway. My vision blurs—stupid tears threatening to fall—as I scan for somewhere to escape.

I can’t bear to hear his criticism, not right now, not when I was finally starting to feel like maybe I could create something vaguely worthwhile again, and starting to feel that about him once more.

I just have to escape.

The nearest door is a single-stall bathroom. I grab the handle, ready to duck inside and barricade myself, when suddenly his hand covers mine on the handle. In one fluid motion, he pushes me inside, closing the door behind us.

The click of the lock echoes in the tiny space.