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It's basically a corporate cubical.
"You looking at something, sunshine?" Dean asks.
"No." My gaze shifts to the desk. Computer. Printer. Two office chairs.
He steps in front of the computer. The insanely old computer. "Come here."
I do.
He fumbles with the printer. "You have your portfolio?"
"Not on me."
He taps the strap of my backpack. His finger slips. Brushes my shoulder. "You have anything?"
My stomach flutters.
My nipples tighten.
My heart rises in my throat. My nipples haven't done that in a long time. They're usually…
But he…
I swallow hard. I'm not reacting to him. Really.
"Chloe?" he asks.
"I have my sketchbook."
"Show me a tattoo mock-up."
"Of course." I bite my lip, but it does nothing to clear my mind. Dean is touching me. But he's being serious.
It's weird.
Which Dean is this—the goofball or the artist?
No. I'm delusional. There's one Dean and he lives to make my life difficult.
Even so. He's my boss. My teacher.
I need his help.
I set my backpack on the desk. Dig through it for my sketchbook.
But what the hell do I show him? I scan page after page of figure drawings, doodles, mock-ups. None are right. None are good enough. Or me enough.
There.
I settle on the design I drew for Gia. A pinup style Han Solo. He's lying on the Millennium Falcon, his legs splayed open, his shirt cut to his belly button.
Dean chuckles as he looks it over. "Different."
"It's a riff—"
"On a classic pinup."
"Yeah."
