Chapter 8 #2
If everything goes according to plan, I’ll have my degree in no time. And hopefully a career I’ll love, even if my parents never will.
A heavy breath leaves my lungs as I pull out my sketchbook. Even though I suck at figure drawing and likely always will, this class was one of the last open electives when I transferred.
Miss Njay yanks out a filing cabinet drawer by her desk. Yes, Miss. Because, hypothetically speaking, if one were to accidentally call her Missus, they’d have a chunk of their soul ripped out and a grade dropped out of spite. She meets my eyes, and hers narrow into slits.
I wave sweetly.
It’s not my fault her marital status is a massive blinking red button that I accidentally pushed once.
Or twice.
Am I playing a precarious, grade-dropping game? Sure am. But something about her cold demeanor screams Vivian Rochester-Chen, and I can’t stand it.
Besides, all I need is a passing grade in this class. And if every human I draw keeps coming out looking like a rabbit, I can kiss my GPA goodbye anyway.
Liza finally texts me back.
LIZA: Say less! Three words: you, me, and sneaking snacks into Towne Theater.
KATE: That’s more than three words, but I’m so in!
Miss Njay tuts a disapproving sound, and I snap my head up. It’s clear that she’s been talking to the class for a hot minute because the circle of students already have their sketchbooks open, pencils poised, and are listening intently.
I fumble for a pencil and try to ignore deformed rabbit after deformed rabbit as I flip through my sketchbook for a fresh page.
Miss Njay’s voice is thick and deep, like a human bulldozer. “Today we study the male form. Since we have completed our unit on light, I expect the shading to be precise.” She waddles around the raised center platform in the middle of the room, flicking on an overhead lighting system.
The door to an adjoining classroom opens. A tall guy with broad shoulders shuffles out in a black bathrobe, stalling behind one of the lamps.
Miss Njay claps her hands and bulldozes on. “This is a breathing example of what extra credit opportunities look like in the fine arts department.” She snickers, giving me the evil eye like she’s already planned my half-naked humiliation to save my grade.
She prods the bathrobe guy from behind the lamp, and a pair of startling green eyes crash into mine.
My jaw drops two seconds before Brandon’s bathrobe does.
I fling my hands up to shield my eyes as I let out a tiny squeak.
Please don’t be naked.
I can’t stay in this class—sit in this seat—sketching the blocky abs of the guy I ghosted two weeks ago. The one I still can’t stop thinking about.
Please don’t be naked.
My fervent prayer continues as I duck my head behind my raised sketchbook, mind spinning for an escape. Of course the heater had to be farthest from the door. I curse. Maybe if I fake sick, I could bury my face behind my sketchbook and high-tail it out of here?
Can a person barf on demand?
I’ve got one finger poised and ready to gag right as Miss Njay ruins all chances of me escaping unnoticed.
“Katherine Chen,” she reprimands.
I clap my sketchbook to my desk as my face burns with the fire of a thousand suns.
“If you are uncomfortable witnessing the male form, then you may leave. With a demerit on your grade, of course.” Her smile is wry, practically goading me to leave so she can fail me.
I set my chin, ignoring what I thankfully see is a pair of black boxers in my peripheral vision.
“I have no problem with the male form,” I say.
Just this particular male.
Brandon’s lips twitch, his own initial shock ebbing away.
He’s now seeming to enjoy my discomfort.
He steps onto the circular riser, bare, muscular thighs flexing, and the class quiets.
Pencil scratches and tension—on my part—fills the air as Brandon settles into a sitting position, one arm looped around a propped knee.
Shadow and light fall over his bare torso, shoulder, collarbone, and neck inked with thorny roses. His somewhat-gaunt cheekbones only serve as a public reminder that this man’s body fat percentage is ridiculously low. Brandon turns his head at the last second, and his eyes lock onto mine.
I swallow.
He doesn’t look away. But why would he? He’d be a terrible form model if he kept moving. Which means the next forty-five minutes is going to be spent with way too much eye contact from a guy I honestly hoped I’d never see again.
Just my luck.
As if reading my thoughts, Brandon smirks. Deep creases of laughter frame his mouth, though he stays still as stone and just as mute.
I scowl, and his smile deepens. Gripping my pencil like a knife, I rake it across my paper until a very loose interpretation of Brandon’s body starts to take form.
Flicking my eyes to him only when necessary, I catch sight of Brandon flexing his pecs, making each muscle rise and drop in a ridiculous rhythm.
I bite back a smile even as Brandon’s smirk splits into a gloriously sexy one. Shaking my head, I try to concentrate, but now he’s wiggling his toes at me. My grin betrays me, and I roll my eyes, considering adding devil horns to my sketch.
I mouth, “Will you stop?”
His head has just begun a tiny shake as Ms. Njay thunders out, “Mr. Roberts, do hold still.”
A laugh escapes on my breath, and he grins again.
An eternity later, the class begins to draw to a close. Ms. Njay jabbers on about midterms, Brandon yanks back on his robe, and students file out of the classroom.
I stand. Although I’m numb from embarrassment, I’m still exquisitely aware of the tall man approaching behind me.
“Katie. Good to see you again.”
I try to wet my tongue, tucking a stray strand back into my messy bun before circling to face him. “Likewise.”
“And thanks for that coffee recommendation. Roasted is one of my favorites. I didn’t realize I needed their number before, but now? Ordering’s gonna be so much faster. Thanks.”
I clap a hand to my forehead and pretend to be embarrassed. “Gosh, did I mix up my number again? I love that place so much that sometimes I forget which one is mine. Whoops! Silly me.”
“No problem, love. Could happen to anyone.” He tips a grin down like getting fake numbered was all part of his master plan. “But now that you’re here, maybe I'll get your real one and take you out?”
The roguish smile on his face does weird things to my heart, like it’s suddenly taken up jump-roping. The familiar sensation has haunted me since two weeks ago when I sat beside him at Promontory Point.
I shudder at my stupidity, pouring out sensitive information that no one should have ever heard.
And, unlike me, he isn’t as keen to keep promises, since he definitely did not take me back to his place that night.
So in an effort to prevent me from embarrassing myself again, I gave a fake number and insisted on calling a car to take me home.
Looking back, I’m grateful it happened this way. Because I don’t think my non-cling spray works on a guy like Brandon.
What’s more dangerous than a clingy guy with devastatingly good looks? One that has the power to make me cling.
“C’mon, scaredy Kate,” he murmurs, green eyes shimmering. “One date. How bad could I be?”
Bad. Very bad.
He ducks his head close and ruffles my ear with his breath.
“I dare you.” His words are grit and gravel, but in an exhilarating way.
Because small rocks are now exciting to me, apparently.
Something about the levity in his tone, the unbotheredness of his persona, intrigues me. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, otherwise his pride would have been wounded beyond repair over me fake numbering him. Brandon doesn’t scare easily, and for some reason, it kind of makes me feel… safe?
“Fine.”
He hands me his phone, and I poke my real number into it with a sigh.
“Awesome,” he says. “Now let me see it.”
“Huh?”
“Your drawing of me.”
I rear back, clutching my sketchbook like I’m getting robbed. “No way.”
With viper-like skills, Brandon maneuvers the sketchbook out of my hands and busts up laughing.
“Why the hell do I have bunny ears?”
“Those aren’t bunny ears, they’re your ears,” I say, blushing furiously.
“Are they really that big? Is that why I’m a great listener?”
“Shut up.”
Grinning, he hands the sketchbook back to me. His fingers brush mine as I take it, and that teensy bit of contact makes my face flush even hotter. What is wrong with me? I’ve literally made out with the guy already, and an accidental hand touch is what’s making my knees weak now?
“I’ve got to get to my next class,” I croak.
Brandon taps his phone screen with a crooked grin. “See ya around, Kate.” He shoots a wink over his shoulder and pads back to the adjacent door.
I slump back into my chair, close my eyes, and wonder what in the world I’ve just done.