Page 43 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

twenty-five

LEA

I knock on Declan’s apartment door, my portfolio clutched under one arm, sketchbook balancing on top. The corridor is silent except for the distant thump of someone’s bass-heavy music and the tap of my foot, nervous about being caught until we’re both safely stowed inside.

My nerves are completely stupid.

We’ve been sneaking around for weeks now, and this is just another night, another drawing session—just the last of our practice drawings before the final project. Fuck that, who am I kidding. It’s going to be the two of us. Alone. In his apartment. With a perfectly good bed only yards away.

Complete concentration required, Altman. Complete professional focus.

The door swings open, and all my carefully constructed professionalism evaporates in the searing heat of Declan’s smile. His hair is damp, like he just showered, and he’s wearing a faded Metallica T-shirt that hugs his chest in ways that make me want to play him like a guitar.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm velvet. “Come?— ”

I don’t let him finish before I’m stepping into his space, my portfolio slipping to the floor with a soft thud as I press my mouth against his. He makes a cute little surprised sound that quickly transforms into a groan, his hands finding my hips and pulling me in closer to him.

“Someone’s happy to see me,” he murmurs against my lips.

“It’s been two days,” I breathe, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Too long.”

His laugh rumbles through both our bodies. “We had a class together yesterday.”

“That doesn’t count.” I slip my hands under his shirt, running my palms up his warm back. “You sat across the room and pretended I didn’t exist.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he corrects, pressing me against the wall beside his still-open door. “I was surviving.”

His mouth finds my neck, and I tilt my head to give him better access, my eyes closing as sensation floods through me. My entire body feels like it’s humming, every nerve ending crackling with energy. But when I hear a laugh from around the corner, I realize where we are.

“Declan,” I whisper, even as I arch into him. “We’re in the hallway.”

“Mmm,” he agrees, completely unconcerned as he continues his work.

I push ineffectively at his shoulders, laughing. “Stop, we’ll get caught.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, but he pulls back, his blue eyes dark with want.

The logical part of my brain—the increasingly smaller portion not consumed with wanting to tear his clothes off and let him fuck my brains out—reminds me why we’re here, and that even if we are going to fuck, it’s better to do it where Mike or one of the other hockey guys won’t see.

“Art project,” I say, though it comes out breathier than intended. “Final drawing. Remember?”

He sighs dramatically, stepping back to let me pass into his apartment. “Right. Because I definitely invited you over to draw.”

I pick up my fallen portfolio with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn’t much considering my legs feel like the overcooked pasta from the dining hall. And when I step past him and head for his living room, I resolutely ignore how good he smells, lest we start clawing at each other again.

“I had an idea for tonight,” I say, setting my materials on his coffee table. “Something different.”

His expression shifts from playful to intrigued. “Yeah?”

“I think we should draw each other.” I hold up a hand before he can speak. “And if Linc walks in, we’re done. No more study sessions with Leprechaun Boy.”

Declan raises a single eyebrow, because he clearly understands the significance. The last time we drew each other—officially, at least, as opposed to doing so on our time—was the moments before that bathroom incident. With the explosion of emotions that followed that, we’ve avoided it…”

Until now.

“I’m ready, I think,” I say with a smile.

A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you suggesting we submit nude drawings of each other for an official school project? Because while I’d love to capture your body on paper…

” His gaze trails slowly down me, and I feel it like a physical touch.

“I’m not sure Professor Lucas would appreciate it… ”

I shove his shoulder, heat blooming in my cheeks. “No, you perv. We’ll be clothed. The wrinkles in the fabric will add texture, show off more of our skills.”

“Shame.” He catches my hand and pulls me closer again. “I was getting excited about taking a more… anatomical approach to our assignment.”

“You’re impossible.” But I can’t help smiling.

“I’ll go first.” He moves to his couch, stretching out on his side with his head propped on his elbow, one leg bent. The position does ridiculous things to his body—highlighting the length of his torso, the breadth of his shoulders, and the strong line of his jaw.

I just stare at him for a minute.

The past few weeks have been… magical is the only word that fits. After everything, we’ve somehow landed in this perfect, secret little bubble. My first year of college is nothing like I’d planned, but it’s better, and I feel like I’m back on track.

I feel settled.

Calm.

Happy.

“You’re staring,” he points out.

“I’m supposed to be staring. I’m drawing you.”

“You haven’t picked up a pencil yet.”

I snatch up a pencil, holding it like a weapon. “There. Happy?”

“Getting there.” His lips curve into the slow smile that never fails to make my stomach flip. “You look beautiful tonight.”

I glance down at my outfit—just simple leggings and an oversized sweater with the Eiffel Tower on it that slips off one shoulder. “Nothing special. I didn’t even try.”

“That’s why it works,” he says simply .

I busily arrange my pencils, hoping he can’t see the blush creeping up my neck. Even after weeks of this—of us —I’m still not used to how he looks at me. Like I’m something precious. Something worth looking at. Something that he’s at risk of ravishing at any single moment.

“Stop distracting me,” I say firmly, though my voice wavers slightly. “This is serious art time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He adjusts his position slightly, his T-shirt riding up to expose a sliver of toned stomach. “Is this pose working for you?”

I grip my pencil tighter. “The pose is fine. Just stay still.”

My initial marks are hesitant. He’s not making this easy—lying there like some Renaissance painting come to life. When the hockey uniform comes off, Declan is all lean muscle and fluid grace. Even at rest, there’s a coiled energy to him, like he could spring into motion at any moment.

He’s an artist, with an artist’s gentle soul.

But with the Incredible Hulk’s body.

Even as my pencil moves faster over the page, I risk glancing at his face and immediately regret it. He’s watching me with that penetrating gaze that makes my insides turn to liquid.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter

“Like what?”

“Like you’re mentally undressing me.”

“But I am mentally undressing you.” His voice drops. “Should I stop?”

I hide my smile behind my sketchpad. “Yes. We’re being professional artists.”

“Right. Professional.” He shifts, and I see he’s fighting back a smile too.

“Declan…” I sigh.

He grins. “I should point out that artists and their models have a history of?—”

“Don’t finish that,” I warn, but I’m laughing. “We have an assignment due.”

As I work, tracing the curve of his jaw, and the breadth of his shoulders, I’m struck by how comfortable this feels. How right. An easy silence falls between us, broken only by the soft scratch of my pencil and the occasional direction to adjust his position.

And that’s when it hits me, with the force of a sledgehammer.

I love him.

The realization makes my hand freeze mid-stroke. When did this happen? This feeling that’s so big it makes my chest ache with the pressure of containing it. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

It’s incredibly inconvenient.

Because loving Declan means the stakes just got a lot higher.

It’s not just about sneaking around and having fun anymore.

It’s about lying to my brother. It’s about potentially fracturing his relationship with his teammate. It’s about the scout and hockey and Declan’s future and my future and a million other complications.

“Hey.” Declan’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “You look like you just saw a ghost. Did my face suddenly get that hard to draw?”

I force a smile. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not when I’m still processing it myself. “Just… stuff. ”

“Specific.” He sits up, concern replacing playfulness in his eyes. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I just…” I sigh, setting down my pencil. “I saw Mike today. We had lunch.”

Declan’s expression shifts subtly. “How is he?”

“Still weird. Distant.” I twist a strand of hair around my finger.

“The ankle?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “He won’t talk about it. Just changes the subject every time.”

Mike’s been avoiding everyone lately, spending more time alone, and shutting down conversations about hockey or his future.

He hasn’t told me or Declan or anyone else on the team anything, let alone our parents, and every time I’m with him, I feel this crushing weight of guilt about Declan. Like I’m betraying him.

“I hate lying to him,” I admit. “We’ve always been honest with each other.”

Declan’s face falls slightly. “I know. I hate it too,” he says.”

“But I don’t want to stop… this.” I gesture between us. “And I feel awful.”

He moves to the couch beside me, taking my hand in his. “Hey, look at me.”

I do, reluctantly, because looking at him just intensifies everything I’m feeling.

“It’s going to be OK,” he says, squeezing my hand. “We’ll figure it out. And if you want to tell him sooner, we can.”

The tenderness in his voice makes my throat tight. “No, I… I don’t know what I want right now… except you. Just… a lot of things on my mind.”

He brushes a curl away from my face. “I get that. And I’m here, whenever you need to talk.” His lips quirk up. “Or not talk. I’m good at that too.”

I laugh despite myself, shoving his shoulder lightly. “I know exactly what kind of ‘not talking’ you excel at, Andrews.”

“Guilty as charged.” He winks, and then his expression softens again. “But seriously. When I’ve got stuff weighing on me, especially with hockey, I draw.”

“Is that why you have so many sketches of hockey players looking frustrated?” I tease.

“Actually, yeah.” He looks slightly surprised that I picked up on that. “By the time I finish pouring all that frustration onto paper, it’s like… I don’t know. Like I’ve been scrubbed clean. The problems go from mountains to molehills.”

I study his face, the genuine passion there when he talks about art. It reminds me of that first night at Marie’s Diner, before the complications, when he was just a cute guy who loved drawing as much as I did.

“Hockey frustrates you?” I ask carefully, remembering how underwhelmed he was by the scout’s interest—something that should have been a dream come true.

He hesitates, and I can see him deciding how much to share. “Sometimes. It’s… complicated.”

I want to press further, to understand this puzzle piece of him that still doesn’t quite fit with the rest. But something in his expression tells me he’s not ready to lay it all out.

So instead, I reach for his hand again, and repeat his words back to him. “Well, any time you need to talk, or not talk, I’m here too.”

“I know.” He smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Speaking of drawing, it’s your turn to pose.”

I smile. “My turn to be ogled, you mean? ”

“Can’t help it,” he admits, his gaze impossibly warm. “You’re ogle-worthy.”

I adjust my position on the couch, trying to strike an artistically interesting pose while also remaining comfortable. “You only want me for my body,” I joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, his expression turns serious, almost vulnerable. “You know that’s not true, right?”

My pulse quickens painfully in my chest. Because I do know. And that’s what makes this so terrifying and wonderful all at once. “I know,” I whisper.