Page 61 of Burning Embers

He simply grunts in response, but I don’t peel my gaze off of the canvas to see his reaction.

“They must’ve told you about the strange new girl.” I chuckle as I begin to make tentative strokes over the canvas. “Is that why you’re sitting next to me? To keep an eye on me?”

He doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. My best friend is Grayson, after all. Silence is his middle name.

Okay, that’s a lie. It’s Liam. But still.

We both focus on our work for the next few minutes, and I try my damnedest not to look over at him. I can feel his presence as keenly as I would a blade in my side, embedded just beneath my rib cage.

Think, Izzy. Think.

How can you get him to talk to you?

You can’t force your friendship on him,a snide voice in my head remarks.

Um…have you met me? I most definitely can.

I decide I’ve been using way too much orange in my painting—it looks like a carrot had sex with slime and produced a deformed orange baby—and move to clean out my paintbrush. Perhaps I could add some red and yellow? Maybe blue?

“Damn,” I murmur as I pull my paintbrush out of the water, only to see that it’s still covered in dark paint.

We need clean water. Pronto.

I stand, reaching for the cup, when my foot catches on the edge of the easel. A surprised squeak escapes me as I begin to fall forward…

But just before I can become intimately familiar with the ground, arms grab me, keeping me on my feet. All I can see is a broad chest obscured by a gray, stained T-shirt. I move my gaze upwards, past the stubble lining his jawline, past the scars marring his face from old pimples, past the crook in his nose.

His blue eyes hold mine hostage for a fraction of a second before he pushes me away as if I’m toxic.

“Be more careful,” he snaps, anger flaring in his eyes. “You can’t expect me to always save your clumsy, dumb ass.”

He gives me a scowl that would make a lesser woman piss herself.

I don’t piss myself.

I just get pissed.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I snark back.

I want to say thank you for catching me…but I’m too freaking irritated to do anything but glare at him.

Why is he acting like my clumsiness is a personal affront to his well-being?

“Just watch where you’re fucking going from now on,” he barks, already reclaiming his seat in front of his easel.

His huge shoulders and back block his canvas from view as I stand there gaping at him.

What thefuckis his problem?

“You stupid, micro-penised, dick-faced, ass-munching, butt-sucking dildo,” I growl under my breath.

He stiffens—having no doubt heard me—but remains silent.

For all of two seconds.

“Have you seen the size of me?” he rumbles, gesturing towards his huge body. “Do you really think I’ll have a micro-penis?”

“You have to be compensating for something,” I snap back, even as my thoughts stray to his dick.

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