Page 19 of Beyond the Lines
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 completelycrazy.” 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.
“Nowthere’san 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 possibleway 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 intoyour 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!”
