Chapter 15
Conrad
Aweek after the kiss I couldn’t stop replaying in my head, I was back to the scene of the crime.
I took a long sip from my glass of whiskey, standing next to my father and nodding politely at anyone who made a bid for his time.
“Looks like we’ll get that incomplete removed from your academic record.
” My father let out a long sigh, the glow from the delicate bronze chandelier at the center of the main atrium’s dome accentuating the lines in his forehead.
“And the Hastings astronomy tower will begin construction in two years.”
“All’s well that ends well,” I said, half baiting and half sincere.
He was being a little more patient than usual. It happened every time Mom kicked him out and threatened a divorce. It wouldn’t last; it never did.
But in the months between her empty threats and him going back to his philandering ways, he was relatively congenial.
“One day, when you grow the hell up, you’ll have responsibilities that extend beyond your team and your friends.” He tilted his glass of scotch back and forth. “You’re a Hastings, start acting like one. That incomplete is the last mess of yours I clean up.”
I wasn’t dumb, just highly unmotivated. But now that I had to keep an eye on my Monetary Policy grade, I would. And Malena would probably have that article written soon, since she was already halfway to getting what she wanted.
“Understood,” I said curtly, glancing around for a distraction.
And beyond the smile that was beginning to hurt my face and the polite one-upmanship that was common amongst society parents as it pertained to their children’s accomplishments, I found one.
Dressed in a black silk dress with blooming sleeves, a form-hugging bodice, and a flowing skirt, Malena pulled all of my attention.
Her long hair, curled at the ends, bounced as she made a determined stride away from the party.
I followed her line of sight and landed on a hallway that led down to some old art studios.
Chalking it up to boredom and nothing else, I followed.
She continued down the narrow hallway, oblivious to my presence, before stopping at a door marked with caution tape.
I propped a shoulder against a trophy cabinet and glanced behind me, confirming the space was deserted, before whispering, “Malena.”
She jolted in her skin and paused with her hand on the doorknob.
She whipped around to meet my gaze, and her tight frame loosened. “Conrad. Of course you’re here.”
I pushed off the wall and closed the distance between us, trying to suppress my grin. What was she up to?
She tipped her head back and muttered something I couldn’t decipher, then grabbed me by the lapel. Without thought or reason, consumed by her tantalizing citrus scent, I let her pull me into the art studio.
“I’d say I’m surprised, but breaking and entering seems to be a pattern.” I turned to the side and shuffled in, trying not to disturb the haphazardly placed tape.
The small studio smelled of paint and dust, and as I scoped out the place, I counted five easels, each draped with a heavy tarp, and one that stood uncovered in the center of the room in front of a singular arched window.
Without any additional lights, the room’s golden hue began to dwindle with the sunset.
Malena didn’t say anything. Rather, she took care to close the door silently, turning the knob all the way down to ensure even the lock wouldn’t sound. From there, she went straight to the rows of paint tubes that lined the side wall.
“For the record, I never broke into Scroll & Ivy’s parties. I was invited.” She began picking up each bottle of paint, reading the label before replacing it in its spot. “And this door wasn’t locked.”
“It was taped off,” I noted, choosing not to correct that she was only “invited” because she stole Sabrina’s invitation.
“Oh, that.” She waved her hand casually, still not giving me her full attention. “Everyone out there is a couple of drinks in, nobody is going to notice me here.”
“And if someone did? You’d need an alibi.”
It was probably reckless to remind her of the last time we got caught somewhere we weren’t supposed to be, but a part of me wanted to see her reaction.
She paused with a tube of paint in her hand. “Now that you’re here, I just might throw you under the bus.”
“How kind of you.”
“You’d be fine.” She threw a haughty look over her shoulder. “You’re Conrad Hastings”—she mimicked my shrug from a week ago, the irony that we were back in that same building not lost on me—“it’s not like the rules apply to you.”
Fair point, I was disciplinary Teflon.
“So, why are you in here? This studio is closed for repairs.” I pushed my hands into my pockets.
I didn’t bother explaining that there was a much larger set of studios on the other side of campus, because I vaguely recalled her telling me her roommate Cora studied art. Which meant she’d be well aware.
“The paint that was on my sweater…” She paused again, tapping her finger on the paint bottle. “It was some homemade oil paint. It’s not commercially available.”
“How do you know?”
“I spent hours online searching for answers, and the only places to buy oil paint that doesn’t have a drying agent in it are artisanal paint stores.”
“Why would anyone make their own paint?”
“Right.” Her voice nearly squeaked with excitement. She held the small jar in her hand—it was the same vibrant blue that was on her sweater that night. “Who would go to the effort to make paint like Picasso used to?”
The enthusiasm practically poured out of her.
“Pretentious art student?” I supplied.
“Exactly.” She snapped her fingers and spun on her heels to face me.
“To what end?”
“No idea,” she admitted, her shoulders lowering half an inch. She dropped the paint back into its spot on the shelf. “But if I can place the paint from the basement to this studio…”
My lips curved up. “We may have a more interesting angle.”
Fuck, could we actually win this thing? The Keller Award was huge, and at first, Malena’s optimism had made her seem mildly delusional, but the more we found, the deeper I was pulled in.
I wanted to know more. I wanted to figure this out.
The tops of her cheeks rose with her grin.
“There’s a ton of art all around campus…” She lowered her voice. “Imagine an art student making their own versions of some of these paintings.” Her smile turned crooked and uncertain. “This is a story.”
A jitter ran down my sternum because she was right, there was something off about it all. And it was compelling.
She was compelling.
Just as I opened my mouth to tell her that we should probably hurry it up, a crinkling sound traveled our way from behind the closed door.
An exchange followed, and I homed in on a couple of irritated voices.
My smile dropped.
“Shit.” Malena’s head swiveled as she searched for places to hide in the abandoned studio. Wide eyes met mine.
Before I could react, she crowded my space and walked me back a few steps, the door behind me whooshing open before she pushed me through and shut it.
Inside the makeshift storage closet, we were sandwiched between the wall and easel stands. There was barely enough space for one person, let alone two.
“Shhh,” she said under her breath, her body flush against mine.
I could feel every inch of her. Her hands held onto me a little tighter as she stumbled over what looked like poster tubes littering the ground. I slid a palm along each of her hips to steady her, trying to focus on anything other than the warm prickle her breath left against my neck.
Malena raised her eyes to mine slowly. Beneath the thick sweep of her dark lashes, she held my attention there. For an extended breath, one I could feel my heart in my ears for, I let the static draw my head down, closer to her. Back against those pillowy lips I couldn’t stop thinking about.
No matter how hard I tried, every annoying part of her—her brashness, her flippant sarcasm, her haughty upturned nose when she bested me with some convoluted logic that I couldn’t fucking figure out—all of it was imprinted in my brain.
I leaned a little closer, my vision finally adjusting to the dark, and saw the delicate outlines of her face with clarity.
She let out a tiny sigh, opened her mouth, and—
“Workers will begin restoration tomorrow.” A woman’s voice, one I couldn’t quite place, resonated on the other side of the door. “Are the students still using this studio?”
Malena’s head whipped to the side, and I could see her eyeing the sliver of light on the tile floor, trying to place it too.
“Advanced composition students sometimes come in here…” a different voice answered, and the rest became inaudible because Malena turned her frame a bit. “…a case of senioritis making them bold.”
All it did was press her against me tighter.
Fuck.
She needed to stop moving.
“The Amherst endowment was very specific…” That part came through clear from the first voice, along with a frustrated sigh. The rest was once again lost, replaced by the blood roaring through my ears. “…have someone clear this out so we can begin construction.”
I hoped Malena couldn’t feel how fast my heart was racing.
It was the circumstances, that was all. A boring, predictable night turned into something noteworthy for once. A delightful phenomenon that always seemed to happen around her.