Page 23 of Taking A Chance

Claire’s eyes bulge. “Wait,” she says. “I’ve clearly missed a whole chunk of information.”

I regale the details of the past couple of days to her—my anger about some of it, my reluctance about the rest, and my general displeasure with Declan.

“Um,” she says, her eyes portraying her bewilderment, “this is great.”

“What?” I blink at her several times, not fully understanding how she gotgreatfrom what I’ve just told her.

“Look, Cora. My dear friend, Cora. All I’m saying is, this feels like one of those times when someone needs to remind you there’s a fine line between love and hate. And lust and hate for that matter,” she says.

“Oh my god, no. The line between me and Declan is so thick, you can barely see from one side of it to the other,” I reply.

“Uh huh,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

I hate it when she gives me that dismissive response. “You don’t have to believe me. It’s true,” I push.

“Okay. Well, when he’s done painting you, I want to see it. And I want to see the unfinished one you stole from him, too,” she says.

“It’s my face!” I snap, my voice raising higher than intended.

“It’s his hard work,” she counters, turning to leave my desk.

My friends are good for nothing. No one is on my side. Not a single one. They’re all mesmerized by the hot guy across the hall with his long wild hair and nice smelling skin, and artistic ability, and large hands, and—I’m going to stop there.

I shake my head and turn back to the task at hand: Identifying his cologne.

* * *

I collectDeclan’s jacket from the hook in my bedroom where it’s been since I brought it home. I’m back in the same set of undergarments I was wearing the other night, thanks to doing laundry last night. I throw a comfy dress on over it; one that’s easy to slip off. I thought about walking the short distance in only his suit jacket again but decided against it.

I knock on his door promptly at seven, just as the note I left taped to his door this morning indicated. I hear some shuffling around, and finally, the door opens. Unfortunately, Declan is shirtless.Is that actually unfortunate?The expanse of his bare chest is just below eye level for me and I take in the sight of him. The lightest layer of hair spreads over his chest, not so thick it borders on too much, but it’s enough to shove aside any notions about the matured state of his body.How old is he, anyway?

“Hi,” I say, stepping past him and trying not to make eye contact with his nipples.

Shutting the door behind me, he clears his throat. “Thanks for coming.”

“You can thank your friend with the slick tongue,” I say. I set the jacket down and slide the dress up over my head.

“What are you doing?” he asks, which causes me to pause mid-lift, because aren’t I supposed to be taking this off?

I finish pulling the dress over my head and toss it aside. “Um, getting ready.” I slide his jacket over my shoulders and sit where I was the other night. While I make every attempt to re-create my position exactly as it was, I feel his eyes on me.

“What?” I ask.

Declan’s eyes carry confusion, though I’m not sure why. His hands haven’t left his pockets, and I watch him swallow.

“Nothing, nothing,” he says. “Sorry.”

He positions himself in front of his canvas and squirts some paint onto a palette from various tubes. I watch as he carefully selects a brush and swirls it into a dark shade. The man does have very large hands. They’re nearly twice the size of mine. And yet, as I watch him, they seem so gentle at the same time. He’s definitely capable of a soft touch, which makes sense given he paints in fine detail.God, Cora, stop staring at his fingers.

His hair is down tonight, not back in the messy knot like usual. It cascades down over the edge of his shoulders, the ends falling just below his collarbone. Admittedly, I’ve always wanted to touch it. Even in the midst of my most heated moments with him, part of me has always secretly admired his hair. I wonder if he uses some kind of product in it. I’ll have to excuse myself to the bathroom again at some point to check.

“You left your clothes here, and after hearing about cleaning my jacket, I washed them for you. They’re over there,” he says, pointing to a small table in the corner.

My clothes are neatly folded in a pile on top. I’m slightly impressed by the kindness of the gesture, considering how hateful I’ve been.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Declan nods in response, biting into his bottom lip as he paints stroke after stroke on the canvas. Part of me wishes I could watch him make them, but I can’t very well do that from this side of the canvas.

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