Page 39 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

“It’s not just Mike,” I finally admit, my voice barely audible.

“ Lea ,” she raises her eyebrows, her eyes boring into me.

“It’s not about Mike… or not just about that…” I finally admit. “I’m scared, Em.”

Em turns her head to look at me. “Because of Chris?”

I nod. “I gave everything to that relationship. My summer, my heart, and my…” I trail off, not needing to finish the thought.

Em knows the whole sordid story. “And he was playing me the entire time. What if Declan’s doing the same thing?

Or worse, what if we try for real, and it messes up his hockey, and he resents me? ”

Em wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, sweetie. What if you do nothing but spend all semester drawing endless portraits of what might have been?”

A tear slides down my cheek. I don’t even realize I’m crying until it splashes onto the page, blurring Declan’s carefully smudged jawline. “Shit.”

“For what it’s worth,” Em says, her usual goofiness giving way to genuine warmth, “I think he’s crazy about you. The way he looks at you when you’re concentrating? Like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve, but he’d happily spend the rest of his life trying?”

I stare at her, blinking back tears. “Really?”

“I was there that night at the party,” she says. “When he pulled you away from Ben. That wasn’t just some guy being protective of his friend’s sister. That was jealousy. Territorial, caveman-brain, testosterone-soaked jealousy. It was fucking hot .”

Another tear falls. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You do.” She nods at the sketchbook. “These aren’t just drawings, Lea. They’re what you want. And I don’t want you to miss out on something good because you’re worried about what happened over summer or what might happen if Mike finds out...”

Miss out .

Maybe to the puck bunnies Linc had mentioned in the drawing session, when I’d felt a burning flash of jealousy.

I’m not sure Dec is like that, but I can’t just assume he’ll wait for me forever.

Hell, I’d almost gone home with Ben Mitchell, and that’s so out of character for me, so what’s to say he’s not?—”

“Lea,” Em cuts my thoughts off at the pass, her expression suddenly serious. “Remember when I was terrified to try that rock-climbing wall during orientation?”

“You literally cried.” I can’t help but laugh.

“And barfed,” she adds helpfully. “But my point is, I was sure I was going to fall and die. But I didn’t, and now I have the sweet satisfaction of knowing I conquered that height, plus a lifetime of embarrassing stories about how I hurled on Professor Wilson’s shoes afterwards.”

I laugh again, despite myself. “What exactly is the moral here?”

“No pain, no gain,” Em says with mock solemnity. “Also, sometimes what you think is going to kill you actually gives you the best anecdote.”

“I don’t think this qualifies as?—”

“You don’t have to marry the guy,” Em interrupts. “But what if—and I’m just spit-balling here—what if instead of drawing him obsessively like you’re planning to wallpaper our dorm with his face, you actually give him a chance? Go on some dates and see what happens?”

I chew on my lower lip, considering. “What would I even say? ‘Hey, sorry I treated our hookup like an exorcism, but it turns out I still like you a lot’?”

“That’s actually not bad,” Em says, nodding approvingly. “Maybe with fifty percent less weird ghost-hunter energy… and fifty percent more letting him feel you up…”

“I hate you,” I say again.

“Now come on. Marnie’s waiting to tell us all about Trevor’s perfect symmetrical smile or whatever, and then we can strategize Operation Unfuck Your Love Life some more. ”

“That is a terrible name for an operation.”

“Would you prefer ‘Operation Get Declan’s Mouth Back On Your Mound?’”

“When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise, bitch.” Her usual grin returns. “I just hide it behind all this hot-mess energy so I don’t intimidate people.”

Em’s cackle reverberates down the hallway long after she leaves, but I can’t help but smile.

She’s done a masterful job of cheering me up—even better than the job she did convincing me that maybe I should give Declan a shot—but now I’m excited about some downtime after a few hours with her, Ping, and Marnie.

She’s headed out to meet with her cousin and, finally alone, I flop onto my bed, the mattress squeaking in protest. I pull my laptop closer, positioning it on my stomach as Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet plays.

I’m supposed to be analyzing the cinematography for my Film as Art elective, but I can’t concentrate.

My sketchbook sits open beside me, and soon, my pencil is against the page.

As I draw, Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes gaze lovingly at each other through the fish tank, and I sigh.

Even fictional teenage star-crossed lovers have their shit together more than I do.

I draw a quick slash across the page, starting a new sketch—a study of Claire Danes’ face—but it soon morphs into Declan.

Again .

“God damn it.” I slam the sketchbook shut and toss it off the bed. It lands with a satisfying thud on the floor.

Film forgotten, I stare at the ceiling, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars Em insisted on sticking up there our first week.

(“Trust me, they’re essential for proper college feng shui,” she’d declared with absolute conviction.) The stupid stars remind me of the walking through the campus late at night with Declan.

Everything, apparently, reminds me of Declan.

Declan, who watches me like I’m a masterpiece when I’m just sketching. Declan, who remembers tiny details I mention once. Declan, who makes my whole body feel like it’s been plugged into an electrical socket with one single look.

Declan, who I kicked out of my life because I’m terrified.

But, if nothing else, Em’s intervention has opened my mind, just a crack, to?—”

A knock at the door interrupts my spiral of self-pity.

Probably Em forgetting her key again.

“Coming!” I call, pausing the movie and slipping off the bed.

But when I finish wrestling with the deadbolt and open it, it’s not Em.

It’s Declan.

He looks wrecked. Hair disheveled, like he’s been drumming his fingers repeatedly through it. There are dark circles under those blue eyes I can’t stop drawing, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, like he’s just sprinted across campus.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough, glancing down at my body, then back at my face.

My brain short-circuits. I’m suddenly acutely aware that, after returning home and changing, I’m wearing threadbare pajama shorts and an old T-shirt with a faded picture of Frida Kahlo on it. No bra. Hair piled in a messy bun. Zero makeup.

Perfect.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask.

He swallows visibly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“I know what time it is.” His eyes bore into mine. “I haven’t slept in two days.”

Two days…

Since our last project catch-up…

Shit…

“Lea,” he says. “I know what you said that morning, and I’m fully aware you’ve said nothing about it since, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. Part of me wants to slam the door in his face just to protect myself from the possibility of being hurt again. Part of me wants to drag him into my room by his shirt. The fact it’s not an instant decision of the former is probably a credit to Em’s intervention.

I say nothing.

“Look, I know I’m the last person you want to see right now,” he interrupts, words tumbling out. “But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend I’m not thinking about you every second. I can’t pretend I don’t want you. I can’t just show up to class or project catch-ups and talk about bullshit.”

“Declan—”

I’m done,” he says softly. “Done denying what I feel for you. Denying how much I want you. Done making up excuses for why we shouldn’t be together.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. “That’s a lot of being done. ”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

“Dangerous.”

“You’ve got no idea…” One corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, then his expression turns serious again. “If you want me to go, tell me now, and that’s it. You’ll never have to deal with me again. But I promise if you give this a chance, give me and us a chance, I won’t hurt you, Lea?—”

I resist the urge to run .

But I still can’t quite manage to say anything.

“I won’t cheat on you… I won’t do anything that asshole did to you—” His voice trails off, until I nod, then he continues.

“And if one day you decide you don’t want me, then that’s cool.

But damn I want to try and see wherever this leads, because I’ve never wanted anything more. Not hockey. Not art. Just you.”

The moment stretches between us, crackling with possibility.

He’s made his case and left it up to me. I know if I say no, he’s gone.

This is it.

The cliff edge.

Jump or retreat, but either way, nothing will be the same again.

Chris’s face flashes in my mind.

Then Mike’s.

Then I think of Em’s voice: No pain, no gain.

I decide

“No risk it, no biscuit,” I say, softly, then look up at him and smile. “Isn’t that what you meatheads say?”

I grab his face and crush my mouth to his.

For a split second, he freezes—then his arms wrap around me, lifting me off the floor as he pushes us into my room.

He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m oxygen, whereas I hold onto him like he’s the last thing keeping me from falling into the abyss.

It’s desperate and hungry and so goddamn perfect.

When we stop, breath ragged, he presses his forehead to mine. “Is Em home?”

“No,” I manage to gasp out as he puts me down.

“Good.” He closes the door shut behind him. “We need privacy.”

“Why?” My voice is impossibly small. I’ve decided, but I’m still afraid.

He pulls back, cupping my face in his hands. “Because I’m taking what’s mine.”

“Bed,” I say, backing up and hooking my fingers in his belt loops to drag him with me.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He follows, and we shed clothing as we go. By the time we’re to the bed, we’re both naked, and I fall back onto my mattress, and he comes down on top of me, his weight delicious and solid, dependable and safe?—”

“You’re sure?” he whispers against my lips, even as he’s naked on top of me. “Because if we do this?—”

“Thank you for being so considerate, but I’m sure,” I cut him off. “I’m so sure I feel like I might combust if you don’t touch me now.”

He groans, capturing my mouth in a kiss that makes me see stars—real ones, not the stupid plastic glow-in-the-dark kind on my ceiling. His hand skims up my side, cupping my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. I arch into his touch, gasping.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs against my neck, “ how many times I’ve thought about this over the past few weeks?”

I dig my nails into his back, scraping them down the warm skin. “Show me, Declan, please.”

His eyes meet mine, and there’s vulnerability there alongside the desire.

Not just lust—something deeper. Something that terrifies me and thrills me in equal measure.

But it’s different from the times I’ve been with someone else, because I know if I asked him to stop, or told him exactly what I need, he’d comply.

“I will,” he promises, his voice rough. “All night if you’ll let me.”

As his lips trail down my body, I close my eyes. For the first time since Europe, since Chris, I’m not thinking about what could go wrong. I’m not remembering past pain or anticipating future heartbreak or making some excuse to pull away from something scary.

I’m just here, with Declan, letting myself fall.

And it feels like flying.