Chapter 8 Harper
Harper
I’ve never blackmailed anyone before, so I have no idea what to even do with Easton Westermann now that I have him in my clutches.
Er, did I say clutches?
What I mean is—I have no idea what to do with the guy now that he’s following me around, asking me questions, looking for direction, doing the tasks I’ve given him.
On one hand, I feel like he’s doing it to annoy the crap out of me. With hopes that I’ll get so frustrated I tell him to leave. On the other, perhaps he is this clueless?
I haven’t seen him wield a glue gun yet but I’m dreading it.
After our text negotiations, the rest of Friday evening went by in a blink.
Before the weekend, my art teacher, Mr. Graz, said he’s still finding us a space to use on campus and has his eye on the old high school woodshop.
The department got an overhaul and a brand-new building, so the shed, once it’s emptied, will be ours for the time being.
In the meantime I have to continue using my garage.
Surrounded by glue, glitter, paint, and cardboard, I have everything laid out when Easton Westermann walks through the door Saturday afternoon—I even brought snacks because I want him to forget that he’s reluctant to be here.
I am, above all else, a gracious hostess.
But the first twenty minutes are awkward as I show him around our space, his cologne or body spray or whatever that smell is messing with my brain. I’ve never noticed him wearing fragrance before and he decides to start today?!
Also. There’s a nick on his neck where he cut himself shaving and I try not to stare directly at it.
I clear my throat, explaining the prom theme yet again and what my job is as far as decorations go.
“Um. These knights are going to be displayed around the gym—that’s why there are so many of them,” I tell him, although the concept is pretty self-explanatory.
Easton nods, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his joggers. “Gotcha.” He raises an eyebrow. “So, why knights? I thought the prom theme was ‘A Night Under the Stars.’ And I thought themes were supposed to be romantic.”
I roll my eyes. He hasn’t connected ‘knights’ and ‘nights’—and he doesn’t find either romantic? “ ‘A Knight Under the Stars’? Night, knight? Get it? It’s a pun. You know what those are, right?”
Easton frowns at my sarcasm. “Yes, I get it. Very punny. I just hope no one thinks we’re supposed to come in full armor. I don’t think I can pull off the chain mail look.”
For the life of me, I can’t decide if he’s teasing. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Obviously I’m joking—the gym’s AC can’t handle that kind of heat.” He laughs, picking up a hammer. Inspects it. Sets it back on my dad’s workbench.
“Can you imagine trying to dance in chain mail?”
He pretends to think about it, then shakes his head. “Nope. And I’d probably knock someone out with my lance or something.” He props his hands on his hips, mirroring my pose. “So, what’s our agenda? When do I get snack privileges?”
I laugh, walking to a card table I set up that my mom uses for garage sales, grab a bag of chips. Grabbing a bag of chips, I hand it to him.
“Consider these your peace offering.” Not that I’m letting him off the hook—he does not get to stand here and look pretty. He is here to help. “But you do have to help me with these knights. Start by cutting out the shields. Just don’t hurt yourself.”
Easton takes the bag, tears it open, and shakes chips into his open mouth. Broken chips fall to the floor as he continues eating. He crushes the bag once he’s done, then does a basket toss into the trash can.
Grabbing a box cutter, he points it in my direction. “If I lose a finger, you’re responsible.”
“Don’t worry,” I say with a grin. “I’ve got Band-Aids and a first aid kit.”
At least, I think we do?
“Anyway. While you’re cutting out shields, I’m going to keep painting. Then when we’re done drying we can glue the shields on the knights’ bodies.”
He tilts his head. “Why not just draw a dude with a shield?”
“Because,” I say, exasperated. “This way it will be three-dimensional.”
“But it’s a cardboard cutout.”
What is his point? “Right.”
“So,” he counters, “it’s more work cutting out and tacking the shields on later than just doing it all at once.”
“It’s going to look more detailed if the shield is raised a few inches over the knight.”
Easton opens his mouth and I can see him wanting to continue arguing.
“Are you procrastinating?” I say quickly, before he can speak again.
“Pfft. No.”
Liar.
Ignoring him, I get down on the ground, on my knees, with the gray and white paints.
Once I’m set up, I get to work adding dimension with the brushes, shading and contouring like a professional trompe l’oeil artist. When I finish the metal breastplate, I stand and take a step back to admire my work.
I’m impressed with myself. It practically looks like the real thing. I think I did a good job.
Easton notices me and stops cutting disks. “Is it supposed to look all blotchy like that?”
“Blotchy?” I say, frowning down at my creation. “It’s not blotchy. That’s texture. Texture adds depth.”
Duh.
He stands next to me, squinting as if to imagine texture and depth. “If you say so. I’m just saying, it looks like you ran out of paint and started using mud.”
Mud? What the heck is he talking about? My gray shading looks like actual metal plating! If he knew anything about anything, he would know that.
I snort. “You’re an expert now?”
He grins. “I have eyes.”
“Just leave me alone. You do your thing and I’ll do mine.” I huff. “Try harder with those shields—we’ve got a deadline here.”
That deadline being prom night.
He laughs at me and goes back to cutting—though not without sighing and making a production out of it, which I find nearly impossible to ignore.
I continue painting with a more critical eye, careful with my shading so it doesn’t look like…mud.
I glare at his back.
Mud? What a dick.
I’m doing the best I can!
“You know,” Easton says after a few minutes, “this reminds me of that art class we had in grade school. The one where we had to make those clay sculptures and take them home as gifts for the holiday.”
He remembers that we had an art class together in elementary school?
“Um,” I manage. “Yeah, I remember. Yours ended up looking like a melted blob.”
“Hey, that was supposed to be my dog.” He laughs.
“Mine was a vase and looked like a toothpick holder.” I smile, recalling the memory of my “vase,” with its holes in the sides and no way to hold water. Or flowers.
So ugly.
Easton finishes cutting out the last shield and stretches his arms. My eyes track his movements, glued to his biceps.
“Okay, all done with that one. Now what? Do I make more?”
“No, I want them to all have a different vibe,” I say quickly, snapping my eyes away. “Why don’t you grab the red and paint the one you just finished.”
He frowns. “You want it all one color?”
“Use your imagination.” I watch him set to work, laying the shield next to my knight and squirting red and blue onto a paper plate, aka a palette. Then he dips a large brush into the water between us and adjusts it in his hands.
Big, strong hands.
I swallow, refocusing on my own project. “So. Um. Were you ever planning on explaining to me how you ended up in this situation? It’s not going to be the elephant in the room this entire time, is it?”
“What, about the mascot and shit? It’s a long story.” He keeps his head down and his eyes fixated on his precise brushstrokes.
“We’re here all night.”
Easton turns to stare at me, horrified. “All night?”
I shrug. “I mean. I live here, so…”
Ha ha.
Easton rolls his eyes, clearly fed up with my quick-witted humor, determined to scowl and be miserable even though he’s surrounded by paint and cardboard and fun.
It’s me. I’m the fun.