Page 63 of Beyond the Lines
“Deal.” He extends his hand across the table.
I hesitate before taking it. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, his grip firm but gentle. The contact sends a jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with static electricity andeverything to do with those dreams I’ve been having. And, if I were a betting woman, I’d bank on more dreams tonight…
When I pull away, my fingers tingle. I clench them into a fist beneath the table.
“So,” he says, thankfully oblivious to my internal turmoil, “let’s start…”
“Now?” I say, surprised by his eagerness. “Uh, OK, a few practice rounds?”
“Practice rounds?” His brow furrows. “For a practice piece?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Because that’s redundant,” he says with a hint of amusement. “You don’t practice for practice.”
“I don’t see what’s ridiculous about it,” I argue, annoyance creeping in. “You probably spend hours on the ice outside ofactualpractice. Playing hockey, right?”
His eyes narrow slightly in response to my shot about him playing hockey, and it’s clear he gets the subtext. “Right,” he says, voice suddenly stiff.
Victory warms my chest. “I was thinking we could draw each other, since there’s nobody else nearby…”
He pauses, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. “Do you mean full portraits?”
“No, just…” I gesture vaguely. “Maybe half faces? Like in Holly Coulis’ style, split down the middle?”
He seems to consider this, then nods. “Yeah, I could do that.”
After he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a worn leather sketchbook, he flips through to find a blank page. I catch glimpses of his previous sketches—a landscape that looks like the view from the hockey rink, some figure studies that must be from our class, andthen?—
I freeze.
Page after page of the same profile. Each different, starting more gentle and warm, then graduating to dark and chaotic. But there’s something familiar about all of them. The curve of a jaw, the hint of curly hair, and the tilt of the chin that reminds me of…
Me?
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly to be casual. “Was that the model from last week?
“Uh, yeah,” he says, suddenly very interested in finding the perfect pencil.
Liar.
But I don’t call him on it because that would be admitting I was snooping, and because there’s something oddly thrilling about the possibility that he’s been drawing me. I hate the gooey feeling that I get at the thought, right at the bottom of my stomach, right above?—
“Right.” I snap back, blinking off thepositively fucking evilthoughts. “I’ll start with your left side, you start with my right.”
He nods, positions his sketchbook, and looks up at me with those unfairly blue eyes. “Ready when you are.”
I take a deep breath and lean back against the couch, giving myself a moment to really study him. It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to truly look at him since that disastrous night in the hallway outside Mike’s apartment. Because every time I look at him for more than a few seconds, my anger fades and I?—
Nope! Not going there!
But although I can resist thinking aboutwhyI’m looking, I can’t resist the action itself. His features are strong—sharpjawline, and full lips that curve slightly upward even at rest. His eyes are deep-set under expressive brows, one of which arches questioningly as I continue my examination.
“You planning to draw me or just stare?” he asks softly.
“I’m studying your proportions,” I sneer. “It’s what artists do.”
