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ON HIS FACE
CHAPTER 1
HEIDI
September
“This guy looks like a total prick.”
I glare with surprise at Jenna sitting at the easel beside me. “Shh!” I say. “He’ll hear you.”
“Well, he does,” she says, her strawberry blonde bob tickling her chin.
I quickly check the model standing still in the center of the classroom. His face points to the right, his expression dull and void since class began, but that’s his job. Stand still for an hour. Earn fifty bucks.
“No, he doesn’t,” I whisper.
“No, definitely an asshole,” she says at normal volume.
“Jenna.”
“Resting prick face alert.”
“Stop.”
She raises a brow at me. “What?”
“He’ll hear you,” I say.
“Oh, calm down.” She scoffs. “No, he won’t.”
“He might, though.”
“So what if he does? He probably already knows and if not, then I don’t mind being the one to tell him.”
I focus on my drawing again. Two dark charcoal eyes stare back at me from the easel, matching the ones on the model. Tonight’s assignment is drawing faces. Luckily, I’ve always been good at faces — and only faces. Hands? Nope. Clothes? Nada. But I can do faces.
I snap my head toward my elbow as I sneeze. Stupid allergies.
“Bless you,” Jenna mutters.
“Thanks.”
I glance up from my portrait as the model’s eyes flick away from me. Or maybe I just imagined it. Either way, my stomach turns somersaults. Did he hear Jenna call him an asshole? Or worse, did he think I said it? I hope I imagined it.
Please let me have imagined it.
I press charcoal to paper and add a little texture to the shadows beneath his nose. I blend it upward, following along the sharp cheekbone up to his ear, giving him a thin five o’clock shadow. I fill in the prominent cleft beneath his nose, then look at him again before outlining his lips.
I lean forward without thinking. I squint to focus on his lips across the classroom. They’re thick, but not too thick. They dip down on the edges, creating a slight scowl. That’s probably why Jenna thinks the way she does, but I disagree. I think it makes him look pensive and wise. He’s young, but older than us by a few years. A real college man.
His eyes flick in my direction. My hand jolts and I accidentally drag the pencil too far up his cheek.
“Shit,” I whisper.
Jenna leans over on her stool and chortles at my portrait. “Why so serious?” she says.
I groan before reaching for my rubber eraser.
