Page 54 of Oleander

Bathed in sunshine, sleeves rolled up to show off delicate wrists and finely tapered fingers. Bed shorts riding high on long lean legs that were far stronger than they looked.

I picked up my other sandwich and looked out the window, where it was far safer for my eyes. It was a bright December afternoon, with a gentle breeze dancing off the trees and a clear, cloudless sky for miles. With food in my stomach and my new resolution to try and be an actual proper friend to Caspien, I settled in to read.

It was just after four in the afternoon when he stood and declared he was finished. I’d read most ofLa Morte D’Arthurover the afternoon and wouldn’t have minded if it had taken him another hour so I could have finished it.

I stood, groaning a little as the blood rushed back to my butt and legs, stretching my arms over my head to adjust my spine.

I watched him pack away his pencils – I still wasn’t certain if they were the ones I’d bought him for his birthday – into a large wooden box, organising them just so before closing and latching the box. He lifted the large sketch pad and was about to flip it closed when he caught me staring.

“Do you want to see it?” he asked stiffly.

“Yeah. If that’s okay.”

He shrugged and held the pad out to me. Nerves fluttered in my stomach as I took it. I’d no idea how Caspien saw me. I mean, I had an idea, given the things he said and did, but how had he drawn me on the page?

I didn’t even know if he was any good at drawing. That would almost be worse. As I took his sketch pad, I prepared myself to say something kind no matter what. Even if he’d drawn me hideously.

I held my breath and looked down.

Deep down, I suppose I’d known he wouldn’t be bad. I’d yet to find something he couldn’t do, especially if it involved his hands, but nothing prepared me for just how good he was.

In beautifully realised pencil detail, I sat in the window with my head buried in a book and my face etched in furious concentration. He’d picked out the wisps of hair that curled at the back of my head and around my ear, the freckles across my nose and cheeks, the dark shadow of my eyelashes.

Outside, he’d somehow caught the glimmer of sun on the pond as well as a few birds soaring into the sky. There was theintricate detailing of the window frame and the strip of sunlight cutting across the wooden floor beneath me. The composition had an unfinished quality, with the edges fading into the white of the page.

It was exceptional. I felt moved in a way I hadn’t prepared for.

I realised my mouth was open. He stood with his box tucked under his arm and a faint frown on his face as he looked at his own work.

I knew he didn’t need praise, certainly not mine, but I gave it to him anyway.

“You’re really good. This is so good.”

His gaze flicked to mine and I saw the faintest glimmer of something in the corners. Like he was pleased.

He looked back at the portrait.

“It will be better when I fill it in.” He took the pad and folded it closed. “You weren’t as terrible a model as I thought.” He set the box on top of the pad and moved to close the window.

“Is that your way of saying, ‘Thank you, Jude? You sat for hours in a really uncomfortable position for me, and I’m grateful.’”

“Of course not.” He had his back to me now, climbing up on the window ledge to pull closed the little latch on the top. It gave me a ridiculous view of the tops of his thighs and the curve of his arse. I tried not to look. I was about to turn away completely when he twisted weirdly and began to fall.

I rushed toward him and threw my hands up, meaning to catch him, but the gravity was too much and I stumbled too, but backwards, both of us falling into a heap on the floor. Me on my back and him on top, chest to chest, face to face. His mouth was so close that if I reached up just a little...

I couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Not again.

He stared at me, a half-embarrassed, half-angry little frown on his face. I waited for him to lash out with an insult about my clumsiness or stupidity, about it being my fault he fell in the first place.

But instead, he kissed me.

He pressed his lips onto mine, shoved his tongue into my mouth and ravaged it.

Then my hands were in his hair and holding his head in place because the thought of him stopping was the worst thing I could imagine.