Page 156 of Brazen Mistakes

Jansen’s sheets covering the windows hint at our reality, though. Add to it my anxiety over Jansen and RJ doing a job without me, my awareness of how dangerous tomorrow will be, and the knowledge that our main fence is not available for big gigs right now, and well, my happy ending seems pretty far away.

Then there’s the weird vibes Jansen’s been giving off lately and Trips’ ever-growing need to stay apart. It’s nothing like the movies.

After the credits roll, Walker and I start up the stairs, my phone chirping with an alert that Bryce is nearby. Peering out, I catch sight of his silver sedan, two doors down. My anger spikes. But I don’t let it take hold, instead alerting the guys with a “hot coffee” text. I have enough to worry about, and if he’s here, he’s not catching Jansen and RJ on their job, which is a small mercy I’m grateful for.

Walker sets me up on his couch with a blanket and hot cocoa, both of us choosing to ignore the alert. He turns on some trancelike music and it helps. A bit. Then he drags me onto his lap, his sketchbook beside us. That helps more.

“Was I good?” I ask, hoping to get things back on track.

“Good enough, I suppose.”

I nip his ear, and he laughs. “You did your mandatory taste testing, no worries. I guess I’m just nervous.”

“You? Nervous?”

“Super fucking nervous.”

“Like at your studio? You don’t have to share if you don’t want to.”

He brushes a hand over the sketchbook. “I want to. They feel really personal. Which is ridiculous because they’re of you. I guess they should be personal to you, not me.”

I force him to face me. “Walker, I’m not an artist. I never will be. But it’s easy to see that you put a piece of your soul into your art. And it should feel weird to tack up a piece of your soul on the wall and ask people to judge it. If it didn’t, I’d be worried about you.”

His lips are warm as they brush against mine. “How do you always know what to say?”

“I don’t. Hardly ever. But I do care about you. I love you, Walker, which means I want you to feel cherished, safe, and protected.”

“Are you some secret ninja master? Going to fight off all my monsters?”

I punch him in the shoulder, and he laughs again.

“Not your body, you doofus. I’m shit at that. We can leave bodily harm prevention to Trips and RJ. But I’ll try my best to protect your heart.”

He kisses me again, and I fall into his touch, almost letting him distract me.

But I pull back. “Are you going to share?”

His breath huffs out as he glares down at the sketchbook. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Setting the book on my lap, he pulls me close, then flips it open, rifling past some still lifes and a study of squirrels before I find myself.

Me. Page after page of me.

Like his studio at the end of the semester, it’s both awe-inspiring and overwhelming. There are drawings of me laughing. Me sleeping. Thinking.

A few pages later, I find the drawings he made of me and Jansen, and goosebumps pebble my skin.

I look bold. Wanton and strong.

The final drawings of that series are hardly more than the barest sketches, Walker hurrying to join the fun, but the emotion there. The trust and joy that I’m finding, they’re captured in their entirety.

“Walker,” I whisper, closing the notebook, too overwhelmed to keep looking. “How do you do that?”

“Do what, princess?”

“Make me look like the better version of myself?”

“Clara, I draw what I see. And that’s what I see when I look at you.”

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