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Christopher glares at Elias but considering the size of Elias, he seems to reconsider protesting and he slides his easel to the left, making room for Elias to set up next to me.
“Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” I can’t quite keep the accusation out of my question. The last thing I need is…him. Here.
“I decided I needed to reconnect with my artistic side.” The deep huskiness of his voice does the strangest thing. It touches me like a physical force. There. In the most secret…soft, wet place imaginable. God. “I feel like I’ve been neglecting it for too long.”
Blue eyes watch me. Which isn’t helping me concentrate. “I hope—” I can’t bring myself to say it.
“You hope what?” That guilty mischief. “That I’m not stalking you?
“Exactly.” I put my paintbrush down. I’m actually kind of mad that he would do this. But then, he can’t be here just for me, can he? Maybe he’s failing one of his classes and needs an easy A. Not that this class would necessarily give him that. And I remember overhearing somewhere along the line in the football discussions that are constantly going on in my house that Elias O’Shea gets mostly straight A’s.
“I thought we agreed to…” What to say? Hey, star quarterback, I thought we agreed to stay away from each other. Which would imply that I’m suggesting that you somehow want to not stay away from me. Which would mean that I think you’re somehow interested in being around me.
Help. He’s flustering me. My mind is tripping over itself.
I try not to stare but it’s impossible not to.
It’s so strange to see him in this setting. He’s huge. And just so freaking beautifully…put together. His powerful thighs are filling out his jeans like nobody’s business. His lean hips taper up to that broad chest and those perfectly sculpted muscles. His neck is tanned and corded. His almost-black hair has that ridiculously sexy wave to it, curling around his ears and flicking softly against the back of his neck.
I’m grateful when Gwen distracts me. “I’m sorry to say that I’d arranged for a model to come sit for us during the second half of the class, but she just texted me to tell me she has a flat tire so she isn’t going to make it. So I’m going to let you work in your studios for the remainder of our time this morning. Unless…someone wants to volunteer? We’re going to be painting the shoulders, neck and head, so it’ll require the volunteer to be comfortable wearing something fitted enough for us to do that. A t-shirt is fine.”
I look around. Nobody volunteers, so I raise my hand. “I don’t mind. I can do it.”
Elias watches me as I take off my sweater. I’m wearing a white tank top underneath it. It’s hardly that revealing. I wear this kind of thing all summer.
“Wonderful.” Gwen is placing a chair in the middle of the circle. “Thank you, Zara.”
But Elias does something I’m not expecting. He takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. “No way in hell.”
9
So this is how I find myself sitting in a chair in the middle of an art class as thirty freshman paint me.
I honestly don’t give a fuck about that. Or them. Or what they’re doing.
There’s only one thing I care about.
Her.
The girl of my dreams.
She’s mad at me. Her face is pink and she’s shooting little daggers out of her green eyes at me that are edged with questions. What are you doing here? Are you here for me? Why? You absolutely can’t be. Are you crazy?
So I shoot a few back. Of course I’m here for you. Yes, I’m crazy. Crazy with relief because you’re perfect and now I know how it feels to know. To absolutely know.
I’m entranced, fixated, obsessed. Her hair is wild today, pulled up into a messy bun with strands escaping it, giving her a wavy, blond-tipped halo. She’s wearing skinny jeans that hug every insane curve and make me wonder not only how she got them on in the first place but also how I’m going to get them off her later.
No. I hear my teammates scolding me from afar. She’s forbidden to you.
I’ll take it slow, if I can.
She shrugged off my jacket and has put her sweater back on. Which is a very good thing because if she was sitting there in her little tank top with her nipples barely visible, I’d have had to scoop her into my arms like a caveman and carry her the fuck out of here.
I still might.
A few people are murmuring. They’re wondering what the quarterback is doing here. They’re probably also noticing that I’m staring at her. Of course I should do something about that. I should try to hide it. Make it less fucking obvious that I’m starstruck, so it doesn’t end up all over social media or, much worse, somehow getting back to Coach Fox.
I genuinely try to, but it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever tried to do.
