Page 30 of Royal
“I—” I stop, frowning. “Did I do something?”
“No. Don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head, mumbling, “He’ll be lucky if he can see out of his two black eyes if he keeps looking at you like that.”
Shit.Is my shirt indecent or something? I glance down at myself. No. It’s not. All I did was sit up straight and demonstrate that there was no way Emory’s chest was fitting in my shirt. I hadn’t meant to call attention to myself. I don’t even have anything up top worth looking at.In fact, that’s the last thing Ieverwant.
Emory’s voice comes out gruff and gravelly, catching my chin with his fingers. “Look at me. I said not to worry about him. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He clears his throat. “And for the record, I didn’t want to wear the shirt.” He drops his hand from my face, resting it on his thigh instead.
My brow quirks up. “Is there some other reason you want it?”
“Last night?” He clears his throat. “When you hugged me before you went into your house?”
“Yeah. What about it?” I did hug him in a grateful, flustered sort of way. It’d been nice. A quick, friendly gesture. I frown.
“You just smelled really good. That’s all.”
For several seconds, neither of us move. Then my mouth forms an O before I bite down on my lip. Scraping my teeth over the delicate skin, I shake my head at him, slowly, a hint of a smile curving my lips as my cheeks flame with heat. A moment later, he cocks his head to the side and smoothly picks up another pencil to get back to work.
My exhale is shaky, but I try to refocus. I study the cut of his jaw and cheekbones with bold intensity, but it’s difficult to settle back into drawing, knowing he’s observing me to the same disturbing degree. Looking at every nuance of my face. My hands become sweatier the longer we do this until holding the pencil becomes difficult.Shit.We probably don’t have much more time to work, and I only have half of his face sketched.
That’s enough to push me into action. I move the pencil smoothly over the paper, hoping what I’ve drawn won’t be too embarrassing to share. We’ve been working quietly for several minutes when I blurt, “You know, you look really… familiar.”
“I do?”
More heat hits my face, and I mumble with a shrug. “Um. I think it’s because you look a little like Superman.”Oh, wow. And here you thought it was the drawing itself that might be embarrassing. Nope. Just your runaway mouth.
He eyes me curiously while stroking his chin between fingers and thumb, as if he’s truly considering my revelation. “Well, which one? Because that’s kinda epically important.”
At his question, I can’t help but bring the pencil to my lips, tapping it there while I think. “Honestly? You look most like the animated version fromSuperman: Man of Tomorrow.” I huff out a laugh, ducking my head.
He’s silent, staring at me while I panic internally that I’ve let loose way too much of my inner nerd. “So… like a cartoon.” His brow arches high on his forehead in a way I find amusing.
I look away, trying to hold in more laughter that wants to burst free. Tipping my head to the side, I offer, “But you’re like ahandsomecartoon.”
He closes his eyes, his silent laughter making his shoulders and chest jerk. I cover my mouth as our eyes meet and hold, his dark ones to my green. I’m still lost in the connection when Dr. Kinman barks out, “Okay, now look at your drawing and write as many words as you can think of to describe your partner. The key here is that I don’t want to know what youknowabout this person. And I don’t want you to ask them questions. I only want you to write down what you see evidence of in your sketch. What did you manage to understand about your partner that ended up on the paper? Some of you might not have very much to go on.” The dick laughs. “Don’t cheat. And remember, this is acollegeart class. On Wednesday, I expect you to be willing to share the thought process for why you chose each word. You’ve got five minutes remaining.”
I shoot Emory a nervous look, then alternately stare at my sketch and steal peeks at him as he jots what I assume are words that somehow describe me—the likeness of me—on his paper. Clenching my teeth, I stare at my drawing so I can do the same for him. I release a steady breath as I write the wordprotectiveon the paper, thenstrong-willed.The altercation with the prof earlier tells me a bit, too, and I can see in his eyes much of the time he lives right on the edge of anger.Quick-tempered.I stare at him for a moment, biting my lip as I hesitate, but then finally decide thathero complexalso fits him to a T. I have, after all, drawn him with an open button-down shirt and an S on his chest. The bell for the end of our class session rings, and Emory immediately points at my sketchbook with his pencil. “Lemme see.”
“No way. Not until I see yours.”
He shrugs. “Have a look.”
At first, I don’t want to, but he sticks it right in front of my face.
Go figure, he can actually draw. Compared to his, mine looks like a little kid drew it. He’d writtenbold,fierce,resilient, anddetermined.
Ha.If only he knew it’s more likeoverwhelmed,constantly worried,on edge, andtraumatized. I glance back at my own drawing with a sigh. “Fine, you can look. But don’t make fun of me. It’s the first day of class.”
“I’m sure it looks great.” He winks at me, pointing at his face. “Hard to mess this up, right?”
I laugh. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” I glance at my drawing one more time before turning my sketchbook to show him.
He studies it, gaze roaming over both the sketch of his likeness and the words I’d chosen, and his brows snap together. A storm brews in his dark eyes that has my throat going dry. A moment later, he gets up and walks out of the studio without a word.
Okay. I know I’m no Picasso, but I’m notthatbad. It’s only a stupid assignment. What the fuck just happened?
FIFTEEN
ROYAL
