Page 18 of Beyond the Lines
“Noted.” His eyes dance with amusement, then he groans. “Oh no, it’s starting…”
I turn and see a group of shirtless freshman guys stumbling out of the house, one carrying a karaoke machine and others hauling kegs. Behind them, a procession of frat boys are hooting and hollering, even as they start to remove some of their clothing.
“The nakedSweet Caroline?” I laugh. “OhGod.”
“Not evenhecan stopthat…” He shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, and as we slip through the gate onto the side street, I find myself relaxing. The night air is cool, and the relative quiet is a relief. Plus, there’s something exciting about this—sneaking away from a party with a handsome stranger who loves art and makes me laugh.
A handsome stranger who might actually get me,a hopefulvoice in my head whispers, and for once, I don’t try to silence it.
We continue bantering as we walk to the diner, and I find myself relaxing more and more. There’s something about Dec that makes me feel… safe. Not just physically—though Idofeel safe with him—but emotionally. Like I can be myself without worrying about being judged.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. I know that.
Because the last time I felt this comfortable with someone this quickly, I got burned.
But this is different.Decis different. I hope.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Dec’s voice breaks into my reverie.
“Oh, just…” I wave my hand vaguely. “You know. Life. Art. Brad.”
“Ah yes, the eternal questions.” He nods sagely. “To Brad or not to Brad…”
I snort. “That isdefinitelynot the question.”
This is dangerous,whispers that voice in my head again.
But this time, I ignore it.
Because maybe I’m not done with guys after all.
Maybe I was just waiting for the right one.
And maybe, this time, thisguy,will be different.
four
DECLAN
The diner’sfluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over everything, making the red vinyl booths look radioactive. But they also illuminate Lea in ways that the dim party lighting hadn’t—letting me see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the flecks of amber in her green eyes, the way her lips curve into the slightest natural pout even when she’s not trying.
Those lips. God, those lips.
I grip my coffee mug tighter, hoping the scorching heat will burn away some of this attraction I’m feeling. Because while yes, I want to kiss her—to lean across this sticky Formica table, draw her face to mine and get lost in her—instinctively, I know that kissing her right now would be the wrong move. And that’s OK, because I’m even more interested in talking to her.
In learning what makes her tick, what drives her art, what brought her here.
Suddenly, I want to knoweverythingabout this girl.
“So tell me more about your Europe trip,” I say, watching as she tears a piece of French toast into tiny, precise squares. “What was your favorite place?”
A shadow crosses her face, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. But artists notice details, and that momentary flash of pain in her eyes? That’s the kind of detail that makes you want to reach for your sketchbook, but also the kind that has the potential to torpedo a magical night.
“We can talk about something else,” I offer quickly, giving her an out.
“No, it’s fine.” She waves her fork dismissively. “It’s just… one bad memory, but the whole trip was amazing.” Her face brightens as she continues. “Greece especially. There’s this tiny village outside Athens where my Mom’s family is from. You’d love it. The light is incredible. Like honey dripping over everything.”
