Page 29 of Royal
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “I misjudged how long it would take—”
In clear exasperation, he slashes a hand through the air, uncomfortably close to my nose. “Unnecessary explanations only waste more time.”
My lips part in surprise at the aggressive stance he’s taking with me, but I nod. He isn’t at all the go-with-the-flow art teacher I imagined he’d be.
“Here.” At my feet, a dark-haired guy has taken it upon himself to pick up my mess. He rises, handing me my things without looking at me because his eyes are narrowed on Dr. Kinman. Locked there, really.
I swallow hard. It’sEmory.And he’s staring our professor down like he might like to detach his head from his body. My eyes widen, and my heart rate increases as I watch the nonverbal face-off between the two of them. A shiver runs through me.
I don’t know whether to be impressed or what, but Emory isnotthe first to look away. With a rough clearing of his throat, our professor refocuses his attention, addressing the rest of the class as he continues through the syllabus. Slowly, everyone’s gaze shifts away from Emory and me. Old jerk. The crazy part is that he asked us to read the syllabus before we got to class today, so missing five minutes of the recap shouldn’t have been a huge deal. Still. I don’t like being the center of the sort of shitstorm that mistake created, so I won’t be late again.
I swallow, finding myself rooted to the floor. My eyes drift around the room, and I take a few deep breaths before hugging my things tightly to me. Is there even a seat available?
“Come on. This way,” Emory whispers, his voice all rough, like gravel. He puts a light hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the back of the studio where there’s an empty stool and easel. And that’s when I realize, yep, it’s right next to his, almost as if he were waiting for me. Or maybe it’s that he seems a little scary at first glance, and no one else wanted to sit next to him.
As we reach our seats, he leans close. “I see now that the Calamity Jane nickname Benneti gave you is fitting. Funny that he should pick up on that so damn quickly, huh?”
I roll my eyes and shrug, setting my things down, then have a seat on the stool at my little station, my eyes furtively darting to the front of the room. Maybe I’m reading into what’s not there, but it seems like the professor is purposely not looking in this direction.
From what he’s saying, though, we’ll be at our current stations for the entire semester. My eyes flick to Emory, my lips curving when I catch him watching me. I pick up one of my drawing pencils and poke him.
He waits until our grumpy asshole of a professor turns to point out something on the screen behind him before he meets my gaze. I carefully mouth, “Thank you.”
Waving away my show of gratitude like what he’d done was nothing, we both turn our attention to the front of the room. I’m surprised to find that this particular art class I’d picked out simply to fulfill an arts requirement involves pencil drawing, charcoals, watercolors, oil paints, and even pottery—a sampling of everything the art department has to offer.
My eyes wander to the pottery wheels on the far side of the room, remembering a movie my mom and I used to watch together.Ghost.Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. I freaking loved the scenes with the two of them running their fingers through the clay together as the machine spun and spun. I really hope we get a shot at using those. I know this is only an intro to art class, though, so maybe we won’t.
Dr. Kinman claps his hands, catching my attention again. “So, we’re going to start off with simple drawings. You’ll choose someone to work with and sketch their likeness.”
A hand shoots up from a blonde on the other side of the room. “But you haven’t taught us anything yet.”
Dr. Kinman shoots her a condescending smirk. “There’s a lot I can learn about you by seeing where you’re starting from. Don’t worry about what you draw or how. It’s more what youseethat I care about. You can’t really make a mistake.” He holds up a finger. “There’s also a second part to the assignment that I’ll let you in on with about five minutes remaining. Now, pair up and get started.”
The entire class grumbles, but it seems kinda fun to me. I just need a partner. Sucking in a breath, I look around for a moment, watching the rest of the class pairing up before turning to the left. Emory’s gaze is locked on me, and he huffs out a chuckle. “You never had a choice. It’s you and me, Legacy.”
It’s not that I mind. I even had hoped he’d ask. But I can’t help messing with him a bit. “What do you mean I didn’t have a choice?”
“None of these people would argue with me.”
“No?”
“Nope. Not when I’d tell them to fuck off.” He works his jaw to the side, his brow arches again, and for a moment, I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or serious. I stare at him until he barks out a laugh. “Besides, you’re going to love being my partner.”
I bring my drawing pencil to the paper on my easel and squint at him, studying his facial features for a moment before I begin. He’s ridiculously good looking. “Is that so?”
“Well, yeah. We already have the same taste in clothes.” He nods toward the Metallica T-shirt I’m currently wearing. “I like that one, by the way.”
I glance down at it, as if I didn’t already know what I picked out to wear this morning. When I lift my gaze again, he’s staring at me with a funny look on his face. He’s also got his hand moving, supposedly drawing me, which is cracking me up because he’s not concentrating for shit. He narrows his eyes on the shirt, then gestures with a jut of his chiseled chin. “I think if you want to keep the Guns N’ Roses shirt, I’m going to need that one.”
My head jerks, and so does my pencil. “Shit.” I clench my teeth together. “You made me mess up.”
“Did not. Didn’t you hear him? Nothing you do in this exercise is a mistake.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s what he meant by the there-are-no-mistakes comment. And this shirt won’t even fit you,” I huff out with a wink. I sit up straighter, demonstrating how it barely stretches enough to allow room for my breasts, much less his muscle-bound chest.
He’d been sketching very quickly until I did that, but his hand is now frozen over the paper. I keep working, not sure what to make of it, because he’s not looking at me. His stare is off at the front of the room. It’s locked on our professor. Who is, coincidentally, watching me with interest.
A moment later, Emory’s drawing pencil snaps in his fingers. “He needs to keep his eyeballs to himself.”
