Page 37 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

My voice trails off. The night of the party, he’d seen me peel Lea away from Ben Mitchell and follow her outside, but I hadn’t told him what happened. I’d just texted him saying I was too angry to go back to the party and that I was going home. But it’s clear he suspects more happened…

“No,” I lie, again, which is becoming a habit. “But I can’t draw her…”

Doing so would be an incredibly bad idea right now…

“Who then?”

This could work .

Linc is the perfect solution to the problem I’ve been dreading. Because, tonight at our project catch-ups, Lea and I are meant to draw each other again for the first time since that night, and I’m not sure if I can handle that sort of intensity and attraction…

“Hey, Linc, did you want me to come to Maine’s party tonight?” I say.

“Of course I do, numbnuts.” He shrugs. “Why? ”

“Well,” I say, grinning. “I’m going to need your help…”

I’m early to the studio, because I’m a masochist, apparently.

Waiting for Lea, I arrange my pencils on the small table by the easel, then rearrange them, then do it a third time. My need for order feels pathetic even to me, but I need something to do with my hands that isn’t texting her.

When she finally arrives, she’s bundled in a thick sweater, despite the studio’s persistent overheating problem. She gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, awkward and forced, like most of our conversations these last few weeks have been.

“Hey,” she says, dropping her bag by the second easel, which I’ve made sure is on the other side of the room to me.

“Hey yourself.” I sound like I’m auditioning for a teen drama, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sorry I’m late.” She digs into her bag, pulling out supplies. “Professor Winthrop kept us over.”

“No problem. I just got here.” I’ve been here twenty minutes, but the wait was preferable to this awkward small talk.

She nods, carefully unpacking her stuff—a set of charcoals, her sketchpad, and an array of pencils that make mine look amateur. The silence between us is like poison, hurting me, because there’s so much I want to say that I know I can’t without hurting her .

“So, I was thinking—” I start.

“About the project—” she says simultaneously.

We both stop. And we both smile .

And it’s the warmest look I’ve seen on her face since that morning.

She gestures for me to continue. “You go.”

I nod. “I know you wanted to draw each other, but I’ve got a surprise…”

As if on cue, the studio door opens, and Linc strolls in wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips and a devilish grin on his face. His most striking feature, however, is his hair—dyed a shade of red that would make Ronald McDonald question his life choices.

“What’s up, artists?” Linc gives us a little twirl. “Ready to capture all this?” He gestures to his body with a flourish.

Lea’s mouth drops open. “Um…” she manages, looking at me for an explanation. “Dec?”

“I thought we’d be able to concentrate more—and collaborate, if we need to—if I got us another model, so Linc is going to pose for us,” I say.

Linc sheds his towel and strikes a pose, one hand on his hip. “Draw me like one of your French girls, Andrews.”

Lea’s cheeks flush a shade that matches Linc’s hair, and it makes me melt for her all over again. I catch her looking at him there , and it’s only then I wonder what Mike will do if he finds out that Lea has seen two of his teammates’ junk…

Lea finally finds her voice. “You can’t just… I mean, we can’t…”

“Yeah, we can, but not…” I gesture at Linc’s entire body. “Not all of… that.”

“Rude.” Linc pouts.

“His legs,” I explain to Lea. “They’re covered in scars from surgeries. Four knee surgeries, two torn patellar tendons, plus a tibial shaft fracture. Good textures.”

“Wow, way to make a guy feel sexy, Dec.” Linc gives an exaggerated sigh but doesn’t seem genuinely offended, even as he puts the towel back over his midriff.

I turn back to Lea, whose expression has shifted from horror to curiosity. “What do you think?”

She tilts her head, considering. “Yeah, that could actually be fascinating. The juxtaposition of the athletic body with the evidence of injury and recovery…”

“So you want just my legs?” Linc clarifies, sounding mildly disappointed. “Not the full Monty?”

“Just the legs,” I confirm firmly.

“Fine.” He sighs dramatically. “But I expect top billing in the sign: ‘Featuring the magnificent lower appendages of Lincoln Garcia.’”

Lea snorts, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I’m pretty sure we can manage that.”

“Great.” Linc adjusts his towel, securing it better, then looks between us. “So, how do you want me?”

“Sitting is fine.” I move a chair to the platform. “Just so we can see the scars on your legs.”

Linc positions himself, then gestures up at his hair. “You don’t want to include this masterpiece? The whole second line did it an hour ago.”

“You look like a literal leprechaun,” I inform him.

“A sexy leprechaun,” he corrects.

“Is that a thing?” Lea asks, her lips twitching.

“It is now.” Linc winks at her.

I feel a ridiculous stab of jealousy, which is absurd because Linc is just being Linc. And besides, Lea made herself perfectly clear I have no right to be jealous. We fucked it out, and now we’re done.

“Let’s get to work,” I say, more sharply than intended.

As Lea sets up her easel, I catch myself watching the careful way she arranges her workspace, how she pushes that one particular curl behind her ear when she’s concentrating. When our eyes meet accidentally, we both quickly look away.

This is torture. Pure, self-inflicted torture.

But as Linc settles in, regaling us with jokes and stories, I realize having him here is actually a relief. His presence creates a buffer, making it impossible for me to say something stupid.

I pick up my pencil and start sketching the long, jagged scar that runs along Linc’s left knee. The act of creation centers me, as it always does. In this space, I know who I am and what I’m doing.

“So, Lea,” Linc says conversationally as if sitting while people draw him is the most natural thing in the world, “Dec tells me you’ve got a killer eye for detail.”

She glances up, surprised. “He did?”

“Well, no,” he says. “But I figured he must be trying to match your skill, since he’s been drawing that picture of you for, like, ever.”

My pencil freezes mid-stroke. “Linc,” I warn.

“What picture?” Lea asks, looking at me in a way she hasn’t in days.

“Ignore him,” I say quickly. “The hair dye has seeped into his brain.”

“Whatever, bro.” Linc grins, completely unrepentant. “Just telling it like it is.”

I focus intensely on my sketch, refusing to look at either of them. But I can feel Lea’s gaze on me, questioning, curious. After a moment, she returns to her own work, and I exhale slowly.

We fall into a comfortable rhythm of drawing and light conversation, mostly Linc telling stories about the hockey team’s antics and trying to make Lea laugh with jokes about Mike.

After a while, though, I stop hearing him entirely. The world narrows to just my pencil, the paper, and the careful interplay of light and shadow as I trace the web of scars across Linc’s knee. There’s a strange beauty to them—testament to pain, resilience, and healing.

The largest one curves like a crescent moon beneath his kneecap, raised and slightly paler than the surrounding skin. The tissue looks tight, almost like it’s pulling against itself. I reach for a softer pencil, wanting to capture the subtle tension in that damaged tissue.

The way it fights against itself.

That feels familiar somehow.

My hand moves with confidence I rarely feel on the ice anymore. Every stroke feels right, purposeful. I gently blend the edge of the scar with my fingertip, smudging the graphite to create that slight puckering effect where the tissue stretches.

Time dissolves.

“Dude, did you hear me?” Linc’s voice suddenly penetrates my concentration.

I blink, surfacing. “What?”

“I said my phone is blowing up,” he says. “Maine wants us over there…”

“Oh, yeah, cool.”

I glance at my sketch, surprised by how much progress I’ve made on completing it. The drawing has taken on a life beyond mere reproduction—there’s emotion in those scars, a story.

“I’m almost done with the sketch if you want to take off soon…” I say, then look at Lea, who nods that she’s almost done, too. “Lea as well.”

“OK, good.” Linc holds up his phone. “Because Maine says to ‘hurry the fuck up to the fucking party’ because—and I quote—‘these freshmen are hot as fuck.’”

I glance up, because I know it’s another shot fired by Linc at the situation between Lea and I. And when I catch Lea’s eye, she’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read—part curiosity, part…

Desire?

Jealousy?

It’s like there’s a question in her eyes, asking whether I’ll be taking advantage of some of those freshmen, but she doesn’t ask it. I wish she would—ask that, or anything else—because it’d be the first real conversation we’ve had in weeks.

And the answer is no.

Because, looking at her, I can see the only person I want to be with, even if I can’t be. I’ve never been interested in fucking the puck bunnies, but now more than ever the thought leaves me cold.

And, just like that, any benefit from having Linc here has evaporated.

I can’t stop thinking about her again.

I’m about to open my mouth to say something to her when a phone buzzes.

Linc sits up straighter, clearly uncomfortable with the charged atmosphere. “Is that yours or mine?”

“Mine,” I say, digging into my pocket, glad for something to break me out of my focus on Lea. It’s a text from Mike, but I pretend it’s a call. “Hey.”

I step into the hallway, pretending to have a conversation while my heart hammers in my chest. After a moment, Linc joins me, still wearing just the towel, eyebrows raised.

“Smooth, Andrews. Very convincing.” He smirks, then lowers his voice. “The sexual tension in there is thicker than Coach Barrett’s neck.”

“It’s nothing,” I insist, still pretending to listen to my nonexistent caller. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Sure, whatever.” Linc doesn’t look convinced. “You should come to the party—it might help you stop making moon eyes at Mike’s sister for five minutes.”

As I give him the finger, he returns it cheerfully before walking off. “See you at Maine’s place,” he says.

Alone in the hallway, I end my fake call and lean against the wall, exhaling slowly. I need to get a grip. I came up with this whole Linc-as-model plan to make things less awkward, not more.

When I glance back through the studio door’s small window, I see Lea still at her easel, eyes focused intently on her drawing.

The soft afternoon light streaming through the high windows catches in her hair, turning the edges to gold.

She bites her lower lip in concentration, a habit I’ve noticed she has when she’s completely absorbed in her work.

She’s so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

I should go back in and tell her that the hooking up didn’t “fuck it out” just made me want her more.

I should tell her that I don’t care what Mike thinks.

I should tell her that I know she’s scared and still hurting, but we’ll work through it together.

I should tell her that I want her more than anything, and that if she wants me, we can make it work.

But I don’t do that.

She’s already made her choice clear .

One time, that’s all. Those were her terms.

So instead, I put on my game face, and go back in there to pack up my stuff.