Page 7 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)
“Would you believe it wasn’t my first choice?” I laugh, then tell him about my Rhode Island School of Design rejection, the gap semester, how I ended up here almost by accident. “But I’m actually really glad now. The art program here is amazing, and…”
“And?” he prompts.
I hesitate, then try to keep my tone light. “And the company isn’t bad either.”
“Oh, so I should be flattered?”
“Absolutely.” I grin. “I don’t just hide in a corner of a party with any stranger…”
“Hey, I’m an excellent candidate. I have beer, and I can draw.”
I laugh, but there’s truth in his words. Something about him puts me at ease in a way few people do. Maybe it’s the art connection, or his dry humor, or just… him. Between Em and Declan, I’ve kicked off my college experience in the best possible way.
And I also can’t deny the chemistry between us.
The way I laugh at his jokes, the way I blush every time he says something complimentary towards me. We’re eating out of each other’s hands, feasting on shared attraction and shared interests, and there’s electricity between us that’s impossible to deny.
Deny it , my mind shouts at me. Lea, for the love of God, deny it!
I shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable. “Favorite artists?”
“Contemporary or classical?”
“Either. Both.”
“I love Arden Surdam’s work. And Daniel Gordon…”
He launches into an enthusiastic explanation, and his hands move expressively as he talks. I find myself watching them—artist’s hands—as much as his face. There’s something captivating about the way he talks about art, like he’s revealing pieces of himself.
“What about you?” he asks. “Who inspires you?”
“Jenny Holzer,” I say without hesitation. “And Jean Shin…”
We fall into an easy conversation about art, the places we’ve been and would love to go, about the certain pieces that have stopped us in our tracks and made us see the world differently—that oh my God you have to check out—and as we do, the party fades into background noise.
I can’t remember the last time I clicked with someone like this.
Even with Chris, our conversations never went this deep this fast. We’d discussed travel and music and movies, sure, but those conversations were nothing like this—not about the things that really matter to us.
Then, out of nowhere, a thought catches me off guard as we talk.
God, I want to draw Declan.
I haven’t felt the urge to sketch someone this strongly since…
well, since Chris. But where Chris had been all sharp angles and dramatic contrasts, Dec is different.
There’s a softness to him that belies his athletic build, something almost classical about his profile, and my imagination is ablaze with possibility.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. You’re not doing this again.
But even as I think it, I know it’s too late. I’m already mentally considering how best to capture the exact shade of his eyes in the half-light. Then, for a brief moment, my mind flashes to imagining what he’d look like without his clothes on, alone with me in my bedroom, and I flush beet red.
“Are you OK?” Dec’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “You went quiet there for a minute.”
“Uh… just thinking.” I look away so he can’t see me blushing, gesturing vaguely at the party, desperate for a change of topic. “Wonder how Brad is going…”
Dec chuckles, looking at Sarah / Sienna. “Well, she’s crying into her phone… so now we get to bet on how long before she sleeps with someone else?”
“Twenty minutes, tops.” I pretend to consider. “Unless Brad shows up to ‘explain.’ ”
“Oh God, please let Brad show up.” Dec leans forward eagerly.
“No!”
“Yes!” Dec insists. “Think about it—the spectacle…”
“The potential violence…”
“The entertainment value .” He grins wickedly. “We’re artists , Lea, we need drama in the human form to live , to breathe !”
I find myself laughing harder than I have in a long time. “What do you think Brad looks like?”
He snorts. “I’m picturing a backwards baseball cap and a tank top that says ‘Suns Out, Guns Out.’”
“Nah, that’s too obvious,” I slap his leg playfully, then instantly pull my hand away. “I bet he’s one of those guys who wears salmon-colored shorts…”
“And boat shoes…” Declan continues, not making a big deal about me momentarily touching him.
“With no socks?”
“ Obviously . And probably a polo shirt with the collar popped.”
We both dissolve into raucous laughter. The movement brings us closer together, and suddenly I’m very aware of how little space there is between us. Dec shifts slightly, and his knee brushes against mine. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice taking on a different tone. “Do you want to get out of here?”
My stomach drops to the core of the Earth, and I tense up immediately, feeling like all the energy and warmth has been sucked out of the conversation. Because of course —of course—this is where it was heading. He might be different from the other guys at this party, but he’s still a guy, and? —
“Not like that,” he adds quickly, clearly sensing I’d gone ice-cold. “I just meant… there’s this diner nearby. Marie’s. Good coffee, good French toast, no EDM…”
I study his face, looking for any sign that this is a line, and his real intent is to whip me away to his apartment, get me naked and ravish me.
Not that that sounds like such a bad idea, but I was enjoying just talking to him, and I’m worried my embargo might be a little shaky if push comes to shove.
But coffee and French toast?
There’s no harm in that, right?
“I don’t know,” I say, unsure.
“No problem, another time, maybe,” he says. “Hand me your phone?”
I stare at him for a second, confused, then do as he asks.
I unlock my phone, and hand it to him. Any concern I have about what he’s doing disappears when I realize he’s putting his number in my phone, and then he hands it back to me with no drama.
He’s giving me the choice. And that means the world to me after Chris lied to me and made me feel so fucking small.
“Text me, or not, you’ve got the option either way,” he says. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lea, and I’d love to talk more about art with you.”
And like that, he’s climbing to his feet, clearly intending to head back inside the party, taking my uncertainty for a rejection. No pressure, no hard sell, no gross pickup lines, and no sleazy glares or sweaty gropes. And, as he takes a few strides away, I suddenly don’t want the night to end.
Watch the fuck out, Lea , my mind shouts. You might have found a nice guy!
“Wait,” I say.
He turns. “Yeah? ”
“French toast, you said?”
“The best.” He nods. “Although you might prefer to wait for Brad…”
I laugh. “You make a compelling argument.”
“I try.” He grins. “And I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
I pretend to consider, even though I’ve already made up my mind. Because yes, I barely know him, but I also feel like I’ve known him forever. And the thought of ending this conversation right now feels so wrong somehow. I stand, wobbling slightly on my heels.
Dec reaches out to steady me, his hand feeling warm on my elbow. “You good?”
“Great,” I smile. “But I reserve the right to stab you with my fork if you try anything.”
“Noted.” His eyes dance with amusement, then he groans. “Oh no, it’s starting…”
I turn and see a group of shirtless freshman guys stumbling out of the house, one carrying a karaoke machine and others hauling kegs. Behind them, a procession of frat boys are hooting and hollering, even as they start to remove some of their clothing.
“The naked Sweet Caroline ?” I laugh. “Oh God .”
“Not even he can stop that …” He shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, and as we slip through the gate onto the side street, I find myself relaxing. The night air is cool, and the relative quiet is a relief. Plus, there’s something exciting about this—sneaking away from a party with a handsome stranger who loves art and makes me laugh.
A handsome stranger who might actually get me, a hopeful voice in my head whispers, and for once, I don’t try to silence it.
We continue bantering as we walk to the diner, and I find myself relaxing more and more. There’s something about Dec that makes me feel… safe. Not just physically—though I do feel safe with him—but emotionally. Like I can be myself without worrying about being judged.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. I know that.
Because the last time I felt this comfortable with someone this quickly, I got burned.
But this is different. Dec is different. I hope.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Dec’s voice breaks into my reverie.
“Oh, just…” I wave my hand vaguely. “You know. Life. Art. Brad.”
“Ah yes, the eternal questions.” He nods sagely. “To Brad or not to Brad…”
I snort. “That is definitely not the question.”
This is dangerous, whispers that voice in my head again.
But this time, I ignore it.
Because maybe I’m not done with guys after all.
Maybe I was just waiting for the right one.
And maybe, this time, this guy, will be different.