Page 8 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)
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DECLAN
The diner’s fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over everything, making the red vinyl booths look radioactive.
But they also illuminate Lea in ways that the dim party lighting hadn’t—letting me see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the flecks of amber in her green eyes, the way her lips curve into the slightest natural pout even when she’s not trying.
Those lips. God, those lips.
I grip my coffee mug tighter, hoping the scorching heat will burn away some of this attraction I’m feeling.
Because while yes, I want to kiss her—to lean across this sticky Formica table, draw her face to mine and get lost in her—instinctively, I know that kissing her right now would be the wrong move.
And that’s OK, because I’m even more interested in talking to her.
In learning what makes her tick, what drives her art, what brought her here.
Suddenly, I want to know everything about this girl .
“So tell me more about your Europe trip,” I say, watching as she tears a piece of French toast into tiny, precise squares. “What was your favorite place?”
A shadow crosses her face, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. But artists notice details, and that momentary flash of pain in her eyes? That’s the kind of detail that makes you want to reach for your sketchbook, but also the kind that has the potential to torpedo a magical night.
“We can talk about something else,” I offer quickly, giving her an out.
“No, it’s fine.” She waves her fork dismissively.
“It’s just… one bad memory, but the whole trip was amazing.
” Her face brightens as she continues. “Greece especially. There’s this tiny village outside Athens where my Mom’s family is from.
You’d love it. The light is incredible. Like honey dripping over everything. ”
I lean forward, genuinely fascinated. “Did you paint or sketch very much while you were over there?”
“Some…” She trails off, stabbing a piece of French toast with more force than necessary. “Although I found it difficult to focus on art while I was there…”
“How come?”
Lea’s laugh has an edge to it. “Because my Mom tells me I’m doing it all wrong.
My grandmother was from that town, but she was also this famous artist in Greece, who dropped out of art school to stage her own exhibition.
She built this whole career exhibiting in Paris, London, Athens, Madrid, and New York… ”
“Sounds like a pretty badass grandmother…” My voice trails off, inviting her to elaborate more.
“She was. I loved her to bits. But she was also completely crazy.” Lea shakes her head. “She once painted an entire series using only red wine.”
I smirk. “That actually sounds amazing.”
“It was. Until she got drunk on her supplies and tried to fight a street vendor who criticized her technique.”
I find myself laughing louder than I have in months, causing every other patron in the diner to stare at me. “Please tell me she won.”
“Turns out her paintbrush doubled as an effective weapon.” She grins at the memory, then takes a sip of coffee, and I notice her hands are trembling slightly.
“So anyway, Mom thinks I should be following in her footsteps. Living rough, exhibiting in rebel galleries. Not ‘wasting fifty grand a year on art school.’”
“I never had that problem,” I laugh. “My parents wanted nothing more than for me to go to school and get away from the ranch…”
“A ranch?” Her eyes widen in shock. “Like, an actual working ranch with cows and everything?”
“Complete with my Dad yelling at me to stop sketching and help with the fence repairs.” I smile fondly, although I omit the bit about Mom always telling me to focus more on hockey because… well, because, for some reason, I don’t want to share anything about hockey with Lea. “Yep, cows and all…”
“I can almost picture you in cowboy boots and a Stetson,” she smirks, taking a bite of French toast.
“Now there’s an image that’ll kill my aura,” I laugh.
“I wouldn’t say that…” she says, her eyes locked onto me.
Her gaze warms me as much as the food and the coffee, and I can feel myself flushing red. I briefly consider kissing her again, then I ditch the idea, because if there’s one possible way to detonate an otherwise great night, that might be it. And, right now, it’s not worth the risk.
“So… your parents?” She breaks the silence, looking for any topic to bring us back on track.
I lean back, draping my arm over the back of the booth, breaking the connection. “My Dad’s a third-generation cattle rancher, Mom runs this farm-to-table restaurant in Billings that sources all its meat from our ranch. She’s the head chef and mentors other female chefs. Pretty badass.”
“Sounds like it runs in our families.” Lea smiles, then adds quickly, “The matriarchal badass thing, I mean. Not the chef thing. I?—”
“I got what you meant.” I grin at her flustered backtracking. “So what’s the story with your folks?”
“My parents are both doctors in New York,” she offers, stirring her coffee absently. “Dad’s a pediatrician, which basically means he’s a professional goofball.” She smiles fondly. “Mom’s a hematologist. She’s… different. More reserved. Watches everything like she’s collecting data for a study.”
I notice she’s careful with her words about her mother, measuring them out like ingredients in a recipe. Between the story about Greece and the clipped description of her mother, there’s more there—tension there—but I don’t push her for detail. Instead, I focus on what she’s willing to share.
“So you’re a doctor’s kid,” I say, unable to resist teasing her. “That explains the methodical way you’re dissecting that French toast.”
She glances down at her plate, where she’s arranged the pieces in a perfect grid, and laughs. “Oh God, I’m turning into my mother.”
“Could be worse,” I point out. “You could be turning into your grandmother. Then we’d have to worry about you getting drunk and attacking people?—”
“What?” Lea’s eyes narrow as I suddenly stop talking.
I cover my mouth to stop from laughing too obviously, then gesture with my chin at the door. She turns to see what I’ve just noticed: the girl from the party—Sarah? Sienna?—and who we can only assume is Brad, complete with a new black eye…
“Ouch,” she laughs. “But at least we were right about the popped-collar polo shirt and boat shoes…”
I grin. “How about I introduce you guys? You said you wanted to make a few more friends tonight!”
“I said nothing of the sort! And if you dare, I’ll…” She throws a piece of French toast at me.
I catch it and pop it in my mouth, chewing with a smile while maintaining eye contact. Then we both have another of those moments, the air between us electric with promise. Her eyes darken slightly, but then she breaks into a grin and shakes her head.
“You’re trouble,” she says, but her tone suggests she doesn’t mind the playful banter.
“My middle name.” I wink, then immediately wonder if that was too much.
“Is it, just?”
“Actually, my middle name is Terrance.”
“That’s far less badass than trouble…” She laughs and steals one of my hash browns.
“Thief.” I pull my plate closer protectively.
“How else can artists afford to live?” she declares dramatically.
And just like that, we’re back to easy banter, the warm tension diffused but not forgotten. It’s still there, humming beneath the surface, but it’s not overwhelming anymore. It’s just… nice. Comfortable. Like we’ve known each other longer than a few hours.
I could stay here all night.
I want to stay here all night.
But when I glance at my watch, I realize it’s already past three in the morning. We’ve been talking for hours, and while I don’t want this to end, I also don’t want to be the reason she’s exhausted tomorrow for the first day of classes. That’d be one way to leave a lasting impression.
“We should probably head back,” I say reluctantly. “It’s getting late, and this place closes soon.”
She checks her phone, and her eyes widen. “Oh wow, I didn’t realize. I’ve actually got breakfast plans in a few hours…”
“Sorry if I’m ruining your beauty sleep,” I smile, then backtrack. “Not that you need it, of course…”
She blushes, then looks up at me, something vulnerable in her expression. Suddenly, I wonder if it has something to do with the flash of pain I saw on her face when I first asked about Europe, but I’m not about to blurt out and ask her that. If she wants to tell me, she’ll do it when she’s ready.
“Thanks, Declan,” she says. “This… was really nice…”
“Yeah,” I agree softly. “It was.”
I signal for the check, and when it comes, we have our first awkward moment of the night arguing over who should pay the bill. I win by pointing out that I’m the one who suggested coming here.
“Fine,” she laughs. “But you only get to pay if you draw me a picture in the margin…”
I grin, then get to work satisfying her demand. I write out how much for the tip and for the total, then do a little doodle of the two of us sitting in the booth, sharing French toast, both smiling.
For a moment, I get lost in the drawing, but when I’m done I look up at her. She’s gone all gooey, smiling across the table at me, and when the waitress comes to take the cash, Lea asks if she can keep the check.
“No problem, honey,” the waitress gives a knowing smile. “Looks like you’ve got a good one…”
The sight of Lea beaming sends my heart to the moon, and after she sticks the drawing in her purse, we beat a hasty retreat from the diner, stifling laughs as we pass Brad and Sarah/Sienna.
Outside, the night air is cool enough to make her shiver slightly in her dress. Without thinking, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders, a little chilly myself but desperately wanting to keep her warm.
“Such a gentleman,” she teases, but she pulls it closer around herself.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I warn. “I have a reputation to maintain.”